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“Shit, shit, shit,” you hear him whisper. His voice crackles and hisses over the transmission, so soft you barely hear it. You know without asking you were not meant to.
“Fuck, Vantas, get a hold of yourself---wriggler---crying mutant tears won’t hel—“
The talkie keeps cutting in and out, so you can’t really tell everything he’s saying, but you know he’s berating himself again. You know he’s upset.
And that shit won’t fly.
When you finally find him, he’s curled in on himself in his room. The shadows fall heavy and he is thrown into a dim, threatening lack of light you figure might be meant for comfort or secrecy, maybe, for concealment.
You frown. In any other situation, you would flick on the light, but Karkat’s shaking form, the unsteady line of his hunched-in shoulders, the haphazard state of his usually-ruffled hair---it forces you to stop in the doorway. You land quietly, carefully, and pad your way by foot to sit beside him.
“’Sup, bro.” You sound like you’re coaxing a wounded animal from its cage, like if you spoke any louder you might spook it away. Weak shit, a voice chides. Bro would be disappointed.
“Jesus Christ, Strider, what are you---get out of my block!” He borrows his face further into his knees and turns away from you. His tone is dripping with fake irritation to cover the embarrassment, but you weren’t born yesterday. You know what this is, you know what he’s doing, you know how he’s feeling.
And you know he doesn’t want you to leave.
“C’mon, Karkat. You don’t need to do this.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, nookshit, what am I doing? Nothing, thank you very much, get out of my block!” He’s trembling. His words are trembling and he’s trembling and you’ve got your hand on his shoulder.
“Karkat—“
“Fuck you.”
“Karkat. Would you just listen for a second? I mean, seriously, a guy might get the impression you don’t want him around.”
He huffs at you and moves his arms from around his legs to gesture. “Ha fucking ha, my sides are splitting, please stop, king of fucking comedy.” His head bobs around when he talks, and you can tell he has his chin on his knees even without him looking at you. You’d feel less awkward if he’d just turn around and talk to your fucking face, but you know if you ask he never will because he’s probably the most petulant dude you’ve ever met.
He’ll turn around on his own.
“I know, I know. Try and keep your panties dry, I know how the paparazzi can get when a celebrity like me’s around. Don’t tell the press I’m here, okay.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You’re an angel. We gonna talk about the fact you’re crying right now?”
He stiffens. You watch the back of his neck twitch as he holds himself entirely still like he’s trying to keep his cool, like he’s trying to prevent a meltdown. “What the fuck are you talking about, Strider.”
“Don’t worry, dude, I’m not gonna tell anyone. Pinky promise, it’s just you and me here.”
“What the bulgebanging fuck is a pinky—“
“Vantas.”
“Fine, whatever, keep your ugly pants on. I just----I’m scared, okay? You happy now?” He turns to look at you suddenly, eyes bulging and puffy, lips a beaten, bruised mess, faint pink tear tracks ghosting his cheeks and chin. His eyes shine bright and beautiful, bright and real, bright with tears and fear and self-doubt. He turns to look at you not like he wants to, but like he wants you to see the state he’s in and be repulsed enough to leave. There’s weird, alien snot on his weird, alien nose from the crying, and from the crying came a slightly off touch of pink to his grey, blotching on his skin in ways you’ve never seen it do, more persistent in places and not there in others. His sharp, jagged teeth are crowned in frustrated blood from where he bit his mouth too hard.
He looks at you expectantly and you stare back, unblinking. It is the most beautiful you’ve ever seen him.
“Yeah, I see that. What are you scared of?”
He’s frozen for a second before he breaks, and with the break comes a rush, everything a rush, ten thousand words he can’t get out fast enough and ten thousand anxieties bursting to life and fading, fading fast to be replaced with greater trepidation. He’s scared of losing Terezi to the Faygo, to Gamzee---fuck, he’s scared of losing everyone to Gamzee. He’s scared of Gamzee. He’s scared that when he sees John the first time, he’ll laugh in his ugly as shit face, turn around and walk out of his life. He’s scared he’s been replaced, but he doesn’t say by whom or who’s replacing him. He’s scared this meteor will crash like meteors are supposed to instead of land like they want it. He’s scared all his friends are drifting from him, are falling to pieces. He’s scared no one likes him but you.
He’s scared that you won’t, soon, either. That you’ll forget him. It’s eleven minutes, forty three and a quarter seconds before he finally stops, and when he does, he has to catch his breath. In a moment, he realizes what he’s said, what he’s let slip, all he’s confided in you, and he slams his hands into his face with a groan.
“Fuck me, let’s just---how about we forget I spewed forth any of that inane wriggler shit and you just turn around and drift out that door, okay?”
“What? Dude, no, back up a sec. What do you mean, I won’t like you anymore? Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Listen, man, I get you’re insecure and shit, but when are you gonna pull your head out of your ass and realize I’m in this for the long haul? I like you. Shit, I’ve always liked you. Us being bros isn’t ever gonna stop being a thing, you hear? It’s been three years and I like you, and we’ll get to where John and Jade and everyone are and I’ll like you, and we’ll go off to fight Lord Dipshit and I’ll still like you.” You pause and sigh. ”And whatever happens after that, if we get an after that? Are you seeing the pattern here, or do I have to draw it out?”
“Don’t patronize me,” he grumbles, but there’s no bite to it. He sounds sort of pacified, actually, like what you said is starting to ease his nerves. “Besides, you can’t talk for Future You. You don’t know what he wants. What if he realizes just how---how shitty I am, and he says, ‘Eh, fuck that guy, he was never worth my time anyway! Nice to know him, haha, not really,’ and he leaves like Present and Past You should’ve?” His voice is small and the air leaves the room all at once.
“You’re an idiot,” you whisper back, and suddenly your hand is under his jawbone, your mouth coming to press to his swollen one. It’s no time at all before you’re pulling away (five point three two seconds) and you freeze on your buckled knees an inch from his face. It’s starting to clear, part of you thinks absently.
You jerk back once you realize what you’ve done, spitting out apologizes and excuses faster than you can finish them and praying to every shitty clown god that never existed that that’s enough to keep him from ripping your throat out or ditching your friendship. You’ve ruined your friendship, fucking Christ, you’ve fucked up, you slipped up and finally did it, what is he going to think of you n---
He’s kissing you. Oh. It’s---he’s totally kissing you right now. You fist pump in your head and do a celebratory dance up there, too, for good measure, like you just scored the final homerun of the NFL’s final world cup of the year and the Stanley Trophy is yours. You’re MVP, VIP, you’re the greatest man alive, you’ve fucking done it---
“What the fuck, Strider, why aren’t you kissing me back? This was a shitty joke, wasn’t it? Wow, that's--that’s low, even for you. You chafing festering sack of grub vomit, I cannot believe you would—“
“Jesus, wait up a sec, okay? This isn’t one of your shitty troll movies, okay, I wasn’t prepared for that. I said I liked you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, asshole, like fifty ti—oh. Oh.”
“Yeah, ‘oh.’ So are we going to keep talking about it or can we get back to what we were just doing? I’m pretty sure I’ll kiss you back this time,” you say suavely. Totally suave. He rolls his eyes.
“Whatever.” Later on, he’ll murmur words of gratitude and apology, words like thank you and I’m sorry I was a stupid shit and are you sure? He’ll whisper to you in the dark and you’ll soothe him, say no problem, man and shut up, seriously, you know it’s fine and yes, idiot, I fucking told you but you’ll say it real soft and he’ll press kisses to the underside of your jaw and cuss fondly at you. For right now, though, you enjoy what you’re doing.
When the time comes, you don’t know what’ll happen. You couldn’t say what’ll happen when you see John and Jade (you would never admit you’re nervous) and when you formally meet teenage-not-Bro (fucking terrified). You’re not sure how the Final Showdown will go, if you’ll be strong enough, all of you, to actually beat Lord English. Maybe you’ll die for real, this time, become a doomed Dave and finally a dead Dave. You try not to think about it. What you do know, though, is when it happens, you’ll have Karkat at your side, and if you die, you’ll carry the thought of him to the grave with you. You like him now and will then, and when ‘then’ finally happens, you won’t forget him.
But ‘then’ hasn’t come yet. You kiss him while you can; you kiss him like you always wanted to.
That much is enough for now.