Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Am I thinking too much? It’s just OCD mixed with bad luck.
Yeah I might be strange, and this heart is a spare, and I’m damaged and I’m scared.
But goddammit, I’ve got to be brave.
Disengage.

--

“OW FUCK!”

Contrary to popular belief, the safe darkness of one’s eyelids does not make for the perfect environment for macking. You dare say it’s rather flawed. Almost hazardous, even. This proves especially true when it involves two inexperienced boys springloaded up the ass on hysteria drugs attempting the long lost art of kissing.

You make contact alright, but puckered lips fail to reach their destinations as your forehead bangs against his nose like it’s your newfound punching bag. You barely have time to register what’s happening before pain bursts below your hairline, pulsing across your face. Dazed, you pull back with a start, almost falling over the armrest in your haste.

“Ouch, fuckin’ jesus,” you groan, palming the injury with caution. It throbs, heat radiating from the impact. You wince, but you don’t think you’re too bad off as the pain soon begins to abate into a dull twinge. You guess you should consider yourself lucky, but even the residual pain leaves much to be desired. Thankfully, your shades withstood the force of the impact, if somewhat askew in your hair.

Christ that hurt. There’s kissing, and then there’s Glasglow kissing, and that sure as shit wasn’t the smooch you had in mind when you shut your peepers and puckered up. Karkat always said you were thickheaded, but you never thought it’d—

Wait. Karkat. You forgot you’re not alone. Your eyes spring open.

“Oh, fuck. Karkat, are you okay?”

Karkat, as it would seem, is not okay. At least, he didn’t weather the blow as well as you did by the looks of things. His hands are instead flung over his nose, eyes pinched shut, and his mouth is firing off a series of curses that would make even the dirtiest sailor cringe.

“FUCK! MOTHERFUCK! FUCKING HELL! JESUS SHAME GLOBE SHITTING SEED FLAPS AND BONE BULGE BITING NOOKSUCKERS TOTING GODDAMN BARFPUPPETS ON ONE WHEEL DEVICES! RUMBLE SPHERE FONDLING CHUMBUCKETS AND SLURRY RIDDEN THROB STALKS, MY ACHING NUGBONE!”

Well, alright. He can’t be doing too badly if he has enough energy to spout off vulgarities like they’re MC slam poets rapping the dozens. You know only to worry about pain when Karkat’s not throwing his shit fests, increasingly vintage though they may be.

“Dude, look at me,” you say, grabbing his wrists with a gentle, albeit firm, grip. Karkat’s diatribe immediately tapers off into a string of much softer swears, which does wonders for your ears but little to tell you what’s wrong. You squeeze, and he reluctantly peels his hands away with a groan.

“Oh. Shit. Karkat, you’re bleeding.”

No wonder the troll was pitching such a fit. Scarlet blood dribbles down his nostrils and chin with fervor, and Karkat’s by all means none too happy about it. Neither are you, for that matter; you’ve always hated blood, hated its look and feel on your skin whenever Bro’s swipes made their mark during strifes. The tangy taste in your mouth when he landed hits on your jaw, against your torso and nose, the sticky texture as it caked your limbs and torso after particularly grueling matches… Fuck, this isn’t the time. It’s just a nose bleed and it isn’t even your own. You shake your head and will the thoughts away (fuck off fuck off fuck off), forcing yourself to focus on the present.

Karkat’s face is scrunched in discomfort, forehead wrinkled and mouth ajar. Now lacking the pressure his palms provided, he winces as his nose adjusts to the sudden lack thereof. It’s red, swollen, and throbbing, and somehow even rounder than usual in its inflamed state. It doesn’t look broken, but it sure as hell looks painful. Your stomach clenches with guilt as you spy translucent red tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“Fuck, I’m sorry Karkat. Like, shit. I didn’t mean—”

“What?” Karkat interrupts, brows furrowed as he refocuses on you. He replaces his palm on his nose, careful to avoid jostling it, then further wipes the tears away with his sleeve. The blood trail remains, bright and thick against his lips. “What are you talking about? The fuck do you have anything to be sorry for?” You blink, easing back against the armrest as you absorb his confusion.

“I dunno man, I think headbutting your schnoz in like I’m Zinedine Zidane is something apology worthy. I mean, I know you trolls are all about violence and crap, but surely you guys apologize sometimes.”

“Of course we apologize,” he retorts. He pauses, then adds, “sometimes, anyways. But fuck, that was my own goddamn fault. I’m the one who said ‘let’s go on three’ and fluttered my eyes shut like I’m the dumpy love interest in a troll Adam Sandler romcom. Don’t feel bad about that, for fuck’s sake.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, intelligible as always. “Still. That was, uh. Something.”

“Something,” Karkat repeats. He stares at you, a blank expression coloring his face.

You turn your head, embarrassment catching up with you nonetheless as red dusts across your cheeks. Well, fuck. No matter what he says, this is a disaster. And you hurt him, god. How the fuck did you screw this up so badly? Your ears burn in shame. Now that he’s realized what a loser you are (goddamn incredible he hadn’t earlier), why would he want to waste more time romancing your sorry ass? What the—

“Oh my god,” Karkat croaks. Startled, you whip back around to see his frame shaking. Oh, fuck. Your eyes widen. Is he okay? Is he having some bizarre ass delayed reaction to this failure of a stunt?

“This is so fucked up,” he says, wheezing. And then he breaks into laughter.

Uh. Rewind for a sec. What?

“Oh my god,” Karkat says, laughing harder. As his whole body racks with mirth, his arms abandon their post by his nose to worm their way around his heaving gut. Blood drips down his sweater in the process, but he pays it no mind. “Here I am, waiting fucking perigees to kiss you, and I end up banging my cartilaginous nub on your forehead like a bulgelicking tool the first chance I get. Crown me the king of fuck ups for I’ve revolted against the establishment, torn down the common order, and instated myself as the head asshole of a dumpster fire about to plunge off a cliff. Everyone watches in amazement, unable to look away from the train wreck that is my swan song!”

“Waiting months to kiss me? I’ve been waiting months to kiss you,” you say, his deprecating laughs beginning to turn infectious. A smile breaks across your face. “And like hell did you fuck up, I fucked up. I fucked up so bad I invaded Russia during winter. Like if you’re the king, I’m the banished prince come to dethrone your Soviet ass and take back what’s rightfully mine. Except I can’t, ‘cause I’m in a goddamn gulag freezing my balls off in Serbia. That’s how much of a fuck up I am. They’re waxing my asshole and fucking me over sideways, Karkat, there’s just no topping that amount of fuckery. Shit be hitting all kinds of critical levels and you’d best just accept it.”

“Screw that! I accept damn well nothing and will continue to accept nothing until you recognize the indisputable fact that I am, in fact, the most fucked up piece of shit this side of paradox space.”

“Naw, I’ve got my alternative facts right here and they say ‘yo Dave Strider is objectively the biggest fuck up in the history of ever, no ifs ands or buts about it.’” Giggles bubble in your chest, threatening to burst free. “Sorry Karkat, I don’t make the rules. Can’t argue with factuality, except when you can. Boosh.”

“What?! How are there alternatives to facts? That makes no sense!”

“Like I said bro, I don’t make the rules. Logic is illogical and insanity is sanity. Ladies and gentletrolls, we have entered the Twilight Zone. Get out your tinfoil hats and keep your hands inside the ride at all times, ‘cause we’re about to see some freaky ass shit.”

“The only freaky shit I see is you,” Karkat says with a snort, and that’s where you break.

You laugh, honest to god laugh. Not a half-choked wheeze, not some strangled chuckle, but outright guffaw as your torso rocks with involuntary glee. You collapse against him, shaking with giggles, and he wraps his arms around you doing the same. Howling with laughter, neither of you are quite sure what just happened, but are nevertheless unable to choke down the all-consuming chortles. Skin brushes fabric as you bury your face in his collarbone, enjoying the snug warmth of his sweater and presence. No wonder he wears this shit all the time, it’s comfy as fuck.

But comfort or no comfort, it isn’t enough to stop the sofa chair from tilting over under your combined weight. With a yelp, you’re both sent crashing to the floor when it gives out. He tumbles to the ground first, winded from the impact, and your own fall from grace buffets him further. Sprawled across his belly and legs entangled, you’re too busy laughing to feel embarrassed over the compromising position. Karkat, nose still bloody but undamaged (at least no more than it already was), seems to feel the same as he clutches you even tighter.

 “Fuck, okay. Yeah. Ouch,” he wheezes finally, warm and firm under your grasp. “How about we just agree to disagree? Seeing as we’re two stubborn pieces of shit and I’d like to keep some cells in my thinkpan today, thanks.” He’s grinning his toothy grin, staring up at you with a gaze that can only be described as tender, and you note how different it is from his usual frowns and grimaces. Your heart drums wildly, blood rushing in your ears.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll let you off just this once,” you say. Chest to chest, you feel his body shudder with each breath. Inhale, exhale. Rise, fall. It’s soothing, somehow. “Truce?”

“That’s what I just said, you dork,” he says with a roll of his eyes. You swear, one day he’s going to roll them so hard, they’ll fly into orbit. Just boom, gone, off to lambast innocent satellites. “And no, I’m not going to lose my ganderbulbs, for fuck’s sake.” Shit. Did you say that out loud? “Yes.” Fuck.

Choice muttering aside, you feel…bolder, almost. Confident. It’s less staged down here, where you’re comfortable atop his frame and warm in his arms. No expectations, no worries to concern yourself with; it’s just you and Karkat, like always, and the tangible tension lays abandoned atop the sofa chair. It floods you with determination. Wriggling for a better angle, you place your hands down on the ground and hold yourself up. Karkat shifts under you in turn, for once not protesting his role as makeshift furniture. (He’s had plenty of time to get used to it during movie nights, you suppose). Soon enough, your face is perched directly over his, lazy smiles mere inches apart. You feel the purrs pick up again, vibrating deep within his chest.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, curling his fingers in your hair. His hold tightens on you, arms pinned around your torso.

“Well damn, Karkat. You’re making me blush,” you say, voice teasing even as heat rises to your face.

“Compliment rescinded on fact of you being a patronizing prick,” he grumbles, but the purr strengthens nonetheless. “The moment is over, dead and buried in its grave. Bye-bye, moment! You were nice for the 0.009 nanoseconds you lasted.”

“You know you love me,” you say with a smirk. You’re not expecting a serious answer, but the way his eyes light up and ears prick knocks your breath away.

“Yeah,” he says, gaze softening. “Against my better judgement, I guess I do.”

You know it’s not ‘love’ love yet—neither of you are at that stage, and to assume otherwise would be jumping the gun from Tightwad, Missouri to planet fucking Jupiter. But there is love there, a love that’s spurring the warmth deep inside you whenever he laughs at your jokes or yowls with indignity at your slights. You love this troll first and foremost as your best friend, your closest confidant and strongest source of support. And you wouldn’t trade him for anything. Heart aflutter, you decide to seize hold of the confidence drumming inside you and go for it.

You lean down, careful to avoid further injuring his nose or bloodying yourself. Boyfriend or not, shit’s just unsanitary and you doubt Karkat would thank you for it anyways. Flyaway hair frames his face as you descend, and this time, you leave your eyes open. Only when your reach your destination will they close, and as you gently press your lips against his forehead, they flutter shut.

The purring increases tenfold, and you snort as it rumbles beneath you. You stay like that for a while, enjoying the blissful proximity and relative quiet. But all things have to come to an end, and eventually your arms tire out. Pulling back, you resituate yourself, lying atop Karkat’s chest with your hands snug against his shoulders. He scratches your head, and you yourself would purr if you could as his fingers comb through your hair.

Damn, no wonder animals love being scritch-scratched behind the ears. Shit feels amazing.

Content, you nearly doze off right there. Thoughts of the Mayor and duties have long left you, gone with the wind of your turbulent emotions. You almost wish you could stay like this forever, without worries of the future or anxieties from the past bogging you down. But far sooner than you’d like, Karkat breaks the silence, and the illusion vanishes.

“Hey Dave,” He says, shaking your shoulder gently. “As sweet as this is, I’m still bleeding. So let me up, you big oaf.”

“Aw, but Karkat,” you whine, rubbing your cheek in the folds of his sweater. “You’re so warm and comfortable. Five more minutes?”

“No,” he says, snorting. “Unlike you, I’m lying on solid steel. If your puny human brain can’t process the significance of that statement, it means I’m neither warm nor comfortable. In fact, I’m fucking uncomfortable. And my cartilaginous nub’s still bleeding.”

“You’re cold, Karkat. A stone cold fox. That’s what you are. I thought we were having a moment.”

“You’re the one who thought oinkbeasts and fart niblets passed as a romantic gesture!”

“Touché. Or should I say, douché.”

“How about you say ‘I’m going to move my ass off you now, Karkat?’

“Naw, too scripted.”

“Dave!” he laughs, blood bubbling in his nostrils. “Get off me, you ostentatious behemoth!”

“Don’t fault my height just because you’re a pipsqueak, son. That’s just foul play.”

“Oh screw you, I am perfectly average in height. You’re the skyscraper with shades!”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Karkat.”

“I don’t sleep at night.”

“Which just means you need to keep telling yourself that some more. Hop to it, dude. Embrace the delusion, make it your bitch.”

“Dave!”

“Fine,” you say, moving over with exaggerated effort. “And to think, you call yourself a connoisseur of romance.” You disentangle your legs from his—which truly does take more work than you thought—and stand up. Now that the moment’s good and over, you pull your shades back down to sit securely atop your nose, welcoming the ensuing darkness. After patting yourself down, you offer your hand as he works to follow. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

“Thank you,” Karkat huffs, pulling himself up. “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” To your delight, he continues to hold your hand, sweaty and moist as it may be.

“Hardest damn thing I’ve ever done,” you say, and he snorts with disbelief. But to some backwards extent, you think, it’s true; you’ve never felt more relaxed, laying in his arms with nothing but the drone of his purrs around you. But nothing lasts forever, and Karkat really does need to wash up if the bloody crust caking his chin is anything to go by.

Still, you hope many similar moments lay in your future. Your immediate future. Maybe on the couch this time though—the sofa chair just wasn’t cut out for the job. Fingers entwined, you both wring your hands under said furniture and heave, pulling until it’s straight once more. Karkat tosses his fallen book back on the seat, presumably to return for it later. He’s pretty much the only one who uses this mangy thing, after all.

There. Good as new.

You wonder what the others will think though, of you and Karkat. Rose, of course, will be insufferable; she’ll be smugger than the cat who got the cream. Even more so, she’ll be the cat who won the Powerball lottery and then spent the millions on a life time’s supply of dairy products. Kanaya won’t be too far behind, though again, you think it’ll be high talk for them to crack jokes. You know damn well they’ve their own problems (hey, it’s not called ‘eavesdropping’ when they’re right outside the room, alright? Not your fault they didn’t bother to look first and okay maybe you were a little worried after Rose’s drunken stupor and wanted to check up on her that one time, but who’s to say—not you, nope), and they were awkward as hell for ages before they finally tied the proverbial knot. Or, you guess it’s not a knot since they’re not actually engaged, but the point still stands. Awkward. As. Hell.

The Scourge Sisters, meanwhile, will either be completely disinterested or completely unbearable. It’s either one extreme or the other, never anything in-between.

As for John and Jade…your stomach twinges with unease at the thought. John ‘I Am Not a Homosexual’ Egbert—aka your knuckleheaded best friend for years, aka x2 the guy you kinda maybe sort of had a crush on as a kid and didn’t realize until your ass landed on the meteor—would he accept you? You’re not sure what you’d do if he didn’t. And hell, what about Jade? Growing up, you just assumed you two would get together in the end, like it was some preordained inevitability. You’d always felt something special with her, even now. But it’s been years since you’ve seen her—seen either of them—and what if they’ve changed? What if they don’t like how you’ve changed?

The more you think about this, the sicker you feel. The elation you felt with Karkat is still there, still snug and warm deep in your chest, but your nerves are determined to surmount it.

“What are you thinking about?” Karkat asks, breaking your train of thought like he’s the ringmaster of an Amtrak robbery. “You’ve been quiet for a while.” Curiosity flashes in his eyes, and their expressiveness contrasts with the ugly puffiness of the nose beneath them. It remains red and swollen, but you hope it’s nothing serious.

“Thinking about that one time I saw a picture of a drawing of Ryan Reynolds as a turkey,” you say without missing a beat. You tug him forward, making your way back to the transporter pad. “Shit’s just fucking unreal. Like, why draw him as a turkey? The man’s obviously a gun toting rooster. I ain’t no furry, but godfuckingdamn, that fandom needs to get its crap together.”

Karkat stops in his tracks. Because you like the feel of his hand in yours (and okay maybe it’s a little more comforting right now than you’d ever admit), you stop too. You look back at him, and Karkat is, as usual, unimpressed with your antics. But you note the underlying concern in his toothy frown and flattened ears, and gulp. How does he always see through you?

“Dave,” he says. Exasperation’s thick on his tongue, but there’s worry there, too. “What’s wrong?”

“Cutting right to the chase, huh?” you say, tugging at your collar. “Not even gonna throw me a bone with a Karkat-certified vintage shitfit?”

“You’re stalling enough as is,” Karkat retorts. “You don’t need further distractions. Now seriously, what’s wrong? Spit it out.”

“I…it’s just—”

You’re not quite sure how to explain this to him. He comes from a predominantly bisexual culture, for god’s sake. How can you make him understand?

“I’m just…worried about how the others will react is all,” you sigh. “Y’know, to us. Specifically, John and Jade. They don’t, uh. They don’t know that I, well. That I like girls and guys.” You shrug, as if this means nothing to you (it means everything to you). Karkat looks on, thoughtful.

“So what? Are you scared of how they’ll react?”

“Something like that,” you say, using your free hand to scratch your neck. “I guess.”

“Huh. Well, I won’t pretend to understand your backwards ass human society,” he says, cocking his head left. “But fuck, I only talked to them for a couple hours at a time and even I know those bucktoothed nincompoops don’t have a single judgmental bone in their bodies. Hell, there’s little chance of Egbert conjuring enough brain cells to produce a coherent thought, much less an angry one.”

You must look unconvinced as Karkat’s gaze softens, and he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze.

“But it’s okay if you don’t want to tell anyone,” he says, rubbing the pad of his thumb over your palm. “Seriously, I don’t mind. Besides, lord fucking knows I’m in no hurry to give Terezi and Vriska even more ammunition to work with.”

“Flighty broads,” you say, almost automatically. A heartbeat passes, then you pull Karkat in for a hug, crushing him in your grasp like you had earlier. He yelps at the unexpected embrace, but nevertheless returns it as he wraps his arms around you again. “Thanks, Karkat.”

“No problem,” he says, rapping his claws against your back. “But if our feeling jam’s over now, can we please get back to scrubbing this shit off my face already?”

“Dude, you’re the one who stopped us,” you say, pulling away with a snort. “Don’t pin this on me.”

“Well excuse me for giving a crap!” Karkat huffs. He follows you to the transporter pad, fingers still entwined.

“You’re excused,” you say. Stepping aboard the pad, it enshrouds you both in white light. With a loud buzz, it begins the process of transporting your particles back to the hallway. “Professor Strider hereby grants you a permission slip from this verbal evisceration of truth-telling. But be forewarned, young padawan. You may ignore the truth for now, but remember—oh shit.”

“What?” Karkat asks. He’s standing behind you, unable to see what got your attention. “If you’re going to blither on and on about bullshit, at least have the decency of finishing it!”

Well, fuck. You can’t even grill him on how he actually likes your rambling spiels. You’re too busy burying your face in your free hand, groaning loudly at the tiny Dersite before you. He’s sporting a shit eating grin, toothy and green stained, and holding up the third picture he’d drawn you this morning. He must’ve stashed it away in his robes earlier, waiting to pull it on you when you returned. Nodding at Karkat, he gives you a thumbs up.

“I forgot about the Mayor.”

Karkat laughs so hard he nearly falls over.

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