Chapter Text
So you're 23, on your third gap year, and you're sleeping on your sister's couch, which is less pathetic than moving back in with your parents (her words). You get what she's trying to do, but you wish you could tell her that tough love doesn't work on you. You feel bad, so you clean the apartment and do all the household chores and drive them around, in Rose's car, which is fine because she's a bad driver anyway. You buy groceries with your mom's money, and you don't pay rent.
Rose is very much in love with her girlfriend, very loudly in love, so at certain times of the night you like to do the laundry. You sit and dick around on your phone until the washer's done. The excuse you've rehearsed is that your laundry got stolen once and now you have to guard it, although nobody's ever actually asked. The place is not exactly poppin' in the wee hours of the night. But there is this guy, who you only ever see between the hours of 1-4 AM in the laundry room.
The main problem is that he takes your favorite washer and dryer. All the dryers in this apartment complex are set on top of the washers, for maximum inconvenience, except for one that sits on the ground. Like anyone reasonably would, you hate having to cross a vertical distance with a massive bundle of clothes that are likely to fall out of your hands. Something always does, usually socks, underwear if you're unlucky. You haven't actually figured out how other people do it without dropping stuff on the ground -- Dirk was never big on laundry, or teaching you how to do anything of use. You generally have better success with dryers that aren't at chest height, though.
The troll shows up one night, and at first you think he might be dead, because of the way he's slumped over the machine. You investigate. You poke him, and he grumbles. Tightens his arms around the machine. Okay, he's snuggling that thing like a massive cuboid plush toy. You thought trolls could only sleep in slime, but it's not like you're an expert. The only trolls you've ever met are June's freaky girlfriends. You're kind of worried about her, but if you're uncool about it, you'll just push her away. You'd be a hypocrite too, since you had a thing with Terezi, lowercase t, though you were really just a stop on the way to Vriska. You're over it, because you're an adult, and because you don't really like snorting K in club bathrooms.
They've stopped inviting you to their crazy bar crawls. Rose and Mame go sometimes, which you can't say anything about because they're adults who can do whatever they want. Your main problem is that there is literally no other way to hang out with June. She finally got her own identity, and then decided it was too much for her, so she decided to become Vriska instead. It's not like you even dislike Vriska, she is just so in need of... something. Help, or a hard knock to the skull. You wish June knew any other trans girl. One who is normal.
Oh hey, the troll guy's wash is done. The moment the machine dies, he startles awake like someone electrocuted him. He staggers up, and with a shocking fluidity, starts moving clothes into the dryer in a hand-over-hand stream. He's grumbling curses the entire time. The dryer starts up, and he collapses on it with a happy sigh. He turns his head to rest it on the soft pillow of his cheek. You lock eyes. Red on red.
He lets out this funny noise, halfway to a scream but a bit too breathy. "Urrhwaghh?!"
"Sorry," you say, putting your hands up, and looking away. Don't be weird.
"Sorry," he echoes, standing straight up, blushing extremely red. "I don't usually see others. At this time of night."
"Me neither," you say. "I just got to, um, watch my laundry. You know."
"Yeah."
This is the worst conversation you've ever had. He can tell you're lying. He probably thinks you're some kind of freak who was watching him sleep. "Or, not really. It's just that there's some activity in my apartment, that I didn't cosign. So I need to stay out until they're, like, done. If you get what I'm saying."
"Activity?" He blinks slowly. Long black eyelashes.
"My sister and her girlfriend having sex." That was the worst way you could have put it, but the train is continuing its roll. There's no stopping it now. "Not that I'm policing them, it's just that they're so loud that my noise-cancelling headphones don't even work. Actually, it wouldn't be that bad if I wasn't nocturnal, but I am, or I'm turning nocturnal, I guess."
"I'm nocturnal too." You made him smile. Sweet.
"You sure about that?" you say, nodding to the machine.
"Okay, alright, God forbid a guy fucking - look, I haven't gotten much sleep, okay? And I'm assimilating to your miserable nook-licking diurnal human society, I am a paragon of cultural fucking exchange! And I'm not bothering anyone." His teeth flash. His eyes are so red. He loves F-bombs, and you kind of love that.
"Nah, I'm not tryin' to..." You backpedal at the sight of his face. "Do whatever you gotta do, man. I really don't care. I'll just be on my phone, until my laundry's done, I guess."
You go and sit in the little plastic chair in the corner. You continue not to make eye contact. Nonthreatening, normal human. Scroll on your phone, try to ignore the holes his eyes are drilling into your head. You are a chill guy. You did mushrooms one time. Nothing can scratch you.
He quietly lays himself back on the dryer. God, that is so weird, but you promised that you weren't going to care. You carefully walk past him when you have to transfer your stuff to the high-up dryer (casualties: three socks, somebody's sports bra), and he twitches so you know he's awake, but neither of you make commentary on it. He just lays there, and jumps up when the dryer's done, swearing like a sailor before he even opens the door. You think he's completely unaware of it. You pretend that you're smiling at your phone, because you can't help it. This guy is so ridiculous, it's a little precious.
You return to the apartment around when Mame starts getting ready for work. They must've been clubbing or something, because Mame still has her trad goth makeup on, and Rose looks like she wants to die more than usual. She unceremoniously throws up in the bathroom, while Mame (who's never had a hangover in her life) goes to town with the face wipes. She's got opening shift, so you have to leave by 5:30. Honestly, you find it easier to not go to sleep, at a certain level of early. You feel better on zero hours than four hours of sleep. Rose has no such excuse, school doesn't start for a few hours, but she hates teaching so much that she likes to give herself physical pain to focus on. Her words, not yours.
"Don't forget your 'glasses, DS," Mame says. Your sister's girlfriend has a special nickname for you, which you hope is normal. You like her, though. She only points at your sunglasses, she doesn't touch them. She never touches you or your stuff, because she can tell you're uncomfortable with it. It's nice, that she notices.
You drive her in Rose's Prius to the bank. She gets all her white foundation off, which turns grey as she wrestles with her nose-to-temple eyeliner. Her microbangs get gelled into her slickback bun, and she puts on gold disc earrings to hide her gauges. She wears a white button-down, black pencil skirt, black loafers. Mame might go normie for work, but she's never wearing colour.
"All good?" she asks.
You make a twisting motion under your nose. She tucks her septum piercing up into her nostrils.
"Transformation complete," you say. You can still see her tongue ring in the darkness of her mouth, if you look hard. "I've got no idea how you do it, and I see it every morning."
"We've all got our secrets," she replies, with a wink.
"Oh no. You can't just say that to me. What? What did you find out?" you say, and she starts laughing. Yes, still funny.
"Rose found your old demo," Mame warns you.
"Oh, God."
"I really liked it! We both did."
"She's going to hound me about it. I'm never going to get a moment of peace."
"Don't shoot the messenger!" Mame says, smiling. You don't really have an answer to that, because you live in her apartment, or more specifically on her couch, and mostly off your mom's money. You do have a little of your own saved up, from when you were a music teacher, in high school and then college. It was fine, but you only managed to keep so much because you didn't do anything. You used to sit there, and wonder when your real life would begin.
Mame steps out of the car, and becomes Emma Jansson, corporate professional. You watch her change. It's a sunny day, because it's always sunny in California. Sunny and dry, inhospitable to all life except human. You don't even see earthworms anymore. Here it is, the real life. Sick of it yet?
You call Roxy. You like calling people while driving, you like hearing their voices through the speakers, you like how much of an adult it makes you feel. You didn't get your driver's license until a year ago. For a while, you used it as evidence that you were able to accomplish things. You overused it, though, and now when you ask yourself what you've even done in your life, there is a resounding emptiness. Driving Rose and Mame around means you're kind of earning your keep, though, at least.
Roxy says, "Hi!"
"Hey, mom," you say. You never get sick of saying that word.
"What's up, Davey?"
You go through all of the depressing thoughts that you've had over the past 24 hours, and decide to keep your mouth shut about them. It's not that Roxy won't listen, it's just that you get sick of yourself. You could ask her what's going on in her life, as if you'd called for any reason other than loneliness, coming up like a bad case of acid reflux. But then she'd probably tell you more about her new infatuation from her dance class, who looks and acts exactly like June's dad. The dead one.
You say, "You'll never believe who I met in the laundry room at 3 AM this morning."
Roxy thinks it's hilarious, especially that both you and the troll refused to move. You tell her the laundry-getting-stolen excuse, because there is a line you will not cross, and that is discussing your sister's sex life with your mom. But will you discuss it with a stranger? Apparently. Well, the troll can't tell anyone, because then he'd have to explain the context, and you're pretty sure he should be more embarrassed than you about that. Boom. W for Dave.
Rose ambushes you once you get back, a feat of composure that you are impressed by until you realize that she is still drunk, somehow. She goes on and on about your future, or getting a job, and it's only when she drops "our father" that you shut her down. This is not even a good conversation to have with sober Rose. You give her a Red Bull that she downs on the ride to school, and a thermos of espresso for later in the day. She has to work 8 hours, Dave. What's wrong with a little buzz to get through 8 hours of stupid little snots that wouldn't recognize art if it was shoved up their nose. It's not strictly a cocaine metaphor, Dave, she doesn't even do coke. They wouldn't recognize art if it could pass through the blood-brain barrier, via the nasal mucous membrane. Better?
You go home and smoke a joint and forget all about everything, until the next Thursday night/Friday morning rolls around. You generally do laundry on the weekend, but there's nothing wrong with being a little early. Rose and Mame are staying with one of their 500 dear close friends, and they'll appreciate coming back to clean clothes. You're already nocturnal, so it doesn't mean that much when you stay up until 3 to go to the laundry room.
It's empty, which you're fine with. You put your clothes in your favorite washer, and you scroll Instagram reels on your phone, keeping one eye always on the door. You're careful not to react much, when you see the troll in the entryway. From the looks of his basket, his wardrobe seems to be entirely grey. Not even goth, or emo, or any of the other subtypes Rose has forced you to learn about. Layman's grey.
There is a moment where it seems like he will turn on his heel and leave the room. You desperately don't want him to. You actually can't remember the last time you talked to someone new.
"Like ships in the night," you say, for some reason. He snorts, and seems to realize that leaving would be infinitely weirder than just using a machine.
"You wish," he says. He crosses the threshold. You're in.
You lurch up and stick your hand out. "I'm Dave, by the way," you say. He is still holding his basket with both hands. "Oh, uh, I guess-"
He headbutts your hand. He gently lowers his head (not by much, he is so short) and gently presses his hair into your palm. Right between the horns. It feels very warm, for a second.
"I'm Karkat," he says.
"Is that a normal Alternian greeting?" you ask, your voice pitching higher.
"No, a normal Alternian greeting is trying to kill each other," Karkat says, and then laughs at his own joke, a real evil little cackle. God. "But in the interest of cultural sensitivity, I will let you forgo that part. Aren't I generous?"
"You're lucky I didn't spit into my hand first," you say. "That's Texas culture, and you have to respect it."
"Bullshit!" Karkat barks. He swerves past you, and he puts his clothes in one of the worse washers, with the dryers stacked on top. He looks at it forlornly. It must be difficult to sleep on those ones.
You hear yourself as you say, "You can sleep on mine, if you want."
"Excuse me?"
"Like, I just mean, it seems you like sleeping on the washing machines, and my favorite washing machine is the only good one to sleep on, and I really don't mind if you sit yourself on my machine," you wonder, distantly, why you're still talking, "I have to guard it anyway, my clothes I mean, and so really you'd be doing me a favour by providing a physical barrier to thieves. Uh. Not that you have to, or anything. I mean, I get not wanting to sleep in front of a guy you don't know. I won't do anything, but I also can't leave. Because."
Karkat holds out a hand, and lord of all things holy, you actually shut up.
"Somehow, your verbal diarrhoea has convinced me. If you had nefarious intentions towards me, I don't actually think you have enough of a filter to keep it a secret."
"Yeah, that's fair," you say. You can acknowledge your faults.
He pauses, and says quietly, "It's only because I need to sleep."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it, hierarchy of needs, it's like right at the bottom. Like literally will die without it. I think, especially for trolls?"
"Please shut up," Karkat says, and hugs your washing machine, filled with yours and Rose's and Mame's clothes. It looks really uncomfortable, but he relaxes. He's a little chubby, so that might provide some cushion. Not in a bad way, you like chubby. That sounds weird. You don't mean that in a weird way. You just... you like him.