Chapter Text
“Bro?”
“Yeah?”
“Bro, do you hate me?”
You can't actually see him since your forehead is pressed against the car window as a physical display of your sour mood, but you're pretty sure his brow is pinched and his lips are pursed and his hands are gripping the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white in order to keep from reaching out and smacking you. You don't really care if you're irritating him, though, because you're upset and it's his fault.
“Dave,” He says, voice low, “This is the third time you've asked me that in the past fifteen minutes. The answer hasn't changed.”
You huff, “But see, I think you're probably lying. Because I don't think you would be dragging me to buttfuck nowhere Washington halfway through my high school career unless you hated me.”
“Dirk's not complaining.”
You groan dramatically and turn to look at your twin brother who's slouched in the back seat tinkering with another one of his fucking contraptions. Honestly, you're not sure which noise grates on you more—the hum of Bro's sewing machine or the clinking of Dirk's tools.
God, you hate your brothers.
“Dirk also builds walking robot rabbits and thinks that pony books that he edits with orange Sharpies are actually good birthday presents,” You grumble, “I don't think he's a good control in this experiment.”
Neither of them grace you with a response, so you slump down in your seat and sulk silently.
It really isn't fair. Dirk didn't have friends back in Texas. Dirk could sit in his bedroom and build his stupid robots no matter which state you guys lived in. This move wasn't snuffing out all chances Dirk had for a relationship with a pretty cool chick he'd been carrying a torch for since he was twelve.
Your phone chimes in your pocket, and you fish it out.
Speak of the devil.
-- gallowsCallibrator [GC] began trolling turntechGodhead [TG] at 18:12 –-
GC: D4V3.
GC: D4V3 HOW 1S YOUR C4R R1D3???
GC: PL34S3 DON'T T3LL M3 YOU'V3 4LR34DY K1LL3D YOURSELF.
TG: this is the car ride from hell
TG: my ipod is dead
TG: and dirks fucking building shit
TG: who the fuck builds robots on a fucking car ride
TG: oh yeah
TG: my asshole fucking brother
GC: H4H4H4H4H4
GC: YOUR BROTH3R 1S TH3 B3ST
TG: why the fuck would you say that
TG: where would you even get that idea
GC: B3C4USE H3 P1SS3S YOU OFF
GC: 4ND WH3N YOU G3T P1SS3D OFF YOU T4LK MOR3
GC: 1T'S 4MUS1NG
GC: >:]
TG: youre a cruel woman pyrope
TG: heartless
TG: can you hear my heart breaking
TG: because its shattering right now
TG: like glass
GC: TH4T'S SOM3TH1NG 1'D L1K3 TO S33
GC: S3ND M3 4 P1CTUR3 OF TH3 SH4TT3R3D P13C3S OF YOUR H34RT
GC: SO 1 C4N FR4M3 1T 4ND H4NG 1T ON MY W4LL
TG: youve got some gnarly tastes terezi
GC: 1 KNOW
GC: WH3N 4R3 YOU GO1NG TO G3T TO YOUR N3W HOUS3
GC: 1 W4NT TO S33 1T
TG: i dunno lemme ask
“Bro, when the fuck are we going to get there?”
“Dave, I swear to god, you say one more fucking word and I'll fucking gag you.”
TG: he doesnt know
GC: H3 THR34T3N3D TO G4G YOU R1GHT?
TG: how the fuck did you know that
TG: stop using your freaky mind powers
TG: i thought we both agreed those were bad for you
GC: >;]
TG: if youre going to use them would you at least use them for something useful
TG: like something thats not knowing how my bro decided to threaten me today
TG: cause thats pretty lame
GC: 1 DON'T KNOW D4V3
GC: YOUR BROTH3R S4YS SOM3 PR3TTY
GC:...
GC: 1NT3R3ST1NG TH1NGS
TG: jesus fucking christ
TG: no
TG: please god stop there
GC: YOU'R3 NO FUN
TG: oh yeah
TG: what would you do if i started talking about latula like that
TG: how would that make you feel
GC: L4TUL4'S HOT
GC: 1 WOULD UND3RST4ND
TG: right
TG: forgot how fucking creepy you are
GC: H4H4H4
GC: YOU LOV3 1T
TG: lies and slander
GC: SHUT UP
GC: OH I'V3 GOT TO GO
GC: K4RKL3S 1S D3M4ND1NG MY FULL 4TT3NT1ON FOR H1S SH1TTY ROMCOM
TG: roger
TG: talk to you later
GC: L4T3R
GC: >:]
-- gallowsCallibrator [GC] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 18:48 –-
You sigh loudly again because it's really not fair that Karkat and Terezi get to hang out and watch Karkat's shitty movies while you have to spend seemingly endless hours stuck in a car with your asshole brothers. Bro turns a toward you a little and makes an annoyed sound, but you don't really care.
You turn and let your head thud against the window again.
Moving sucks.
–
The house is large.
It's also an actual house and not a tiny, cramped apartment with barely enough room for two people who get along let alone three guys who can barely stand to be in the same room as each other for extended periods of time. It's this ugly sort of greyish brown color with a wide deck and a cheesy, cliché swinging bench.
There's a nice curving path through the grass and a large tree growing in the yard.
It's so grossly picturesque that you think it might be pushing the limits of even Bro's ironic tastes.
“Do we really need this much room?” Dirk asks as he climbs out of the car, “I mean, I know apartment was a little small, but this is ridiculous.”
“Bro's overcompensating,” You mutter, and you receive a smack on the head for your troubles.
“Get your shit,” Bro snaps as he walks toward the house, “Moving guys'll be here tomorrow.”
You follow Dirk around to the back of the car and let him open the trunk. Slinging your duffel bag over your shoulder, you leave him to fend with his own bags of mechanical supplies and stroll up the walk and onto the porch. The boards squeak beneath your feet and make a hollow, echoing sound that makes you feel like too much pressure could send you crashing through them.
You dig your heel into the wood, wondering if falling through the porch would be enough to convince Bro that this house definitely isn't safe and you should go back to Texas.
Probably not. You'd probably just end up with a broken leg and then you'd have to be the one who fixed the porch again. Abandoning that—admittedly rather stupid—plan, you walk through the front door that Bro left wide open and into a large foyer.
The floor is wood-paneled and a little more secure sounding than the porch, thank god. You take a few steps inside and look around, shifting your bag so that it sits more comfortably on your shoulder.
There are three doors out of the room—the one to your left opens into a sitting room, the one to your right into a living room (you're not really sure why you need a sitting room and a living room; it's not like you guys do that much sitting) and the one in front of you into into a kitchen. A real kitchen, not that pathetic thing you called a kitchen back in Texas.
To the right of the kitchen door is a staircase leading up to a railed upper landing and a hall that probably has all the bedrooms and shit.
You hear Dirk's heavy footfalls behind you, and you turn to watch him struggle. He's stooped over under the weight of his bags, and you'd laugh at him but that would just result in him dumping his bags on your head. You don't really need the head trauma.
“Bro!” he shouts, “Where's the door to the fucking basement?”
“In the living room!”
Bro's voice is muffled and coming from somewhere upstairs.
“Wait,” You say as Dirk heads toward the living room, “Why do you get the basement?”
Dirk's lip curls in a sneer, “Because you're always bitching about how much noise I make with my 'bots. And I need more room to fit 'em all.”
“Well I need room for my turntables.'
“Too fucking bad.”
He's gone before you get the chance to punch him in his stupid face.
You really need to get rid of your bag, so you climb the stairs and wander down the hallway. Bro's opened a few of the doors to air out the rooms, and he's currently in what you assume is the master bedroom, dumping all his clothes on the floor like a three year-old.
You knock on the door frame and wait for him to notice. It takes him three minutes to finish separating his clothes into piles at the foot of his undressed bed then he looks up when you start tapping your foot impatiently.
“What?” He asks flatly.
“I need a room,” You say.
His upper lip curls up in a sort of sneer, “Just pick one. I don't give a shit.”
You huff irritably and stomp away from his bedroom.
God, he's such a douche.
There are two bedrooms besides Bro's. Two of them would be way too small to fit your turntables in along with your dresser and your desk and the third would be a tight squeeze—even worse than your room back home. Your last hope is the closed door at the end of the hall.
It's ominous and suspicious and you definitely shouldn't go in, but you open it anyway and you're met with a staircase. A dark staircase with steps that look older than Bro—and Bro's practically decrepit—and no handrail.
All signs are telling you to slam the goddamn door closed, suck it up and jam all your shit into one of the actual bedrooms. You don't, of course. You've seen enough horror movies that your sense of self preservation in situations such as this has been pretty much snuffed out.
The stairs groan under your feet all the way up onto a little landing. The stairs make a right turn and it's dark but you're pretty sure there's a door up there.
Well, duh there's a door up there. Why the fuck would there be a staircase to nowhere?
The door leads, quite obviously, to the attic.
The really spacious, high-ceilinged attic with plenty of room for all your shit and then some.
“Fuck yes,” You mutter, dumping your bag beside you. There's a light switch on the wall to your right and you flick it upwards. A light bulb flickers to life, dangling from the ceiling in the middle of the room in a really creepy and mysterious way. The room's empty except for a box you can see tucked into the corner.
A frown curves on your lips and you walk over, tugging the box out of the shadows. It's not small but not particularly large, and it's only sealed with a couple strips of scotch tape. You hook your fingers under them and tug them off easily before prying the box open.
You're...not really sure what's inside.
They're a pair of weird, bronzy, steam-punk tubes that look like they were pried from an organ and twisted into unrecognizable knots of metal, and they're set into hunks of a purplish blue rock. You reach inside and pull one out. It's pretty heavy—duh, it's made of metal and rock, why wouldn't it be heavy—and you can't really see a purpose for it. You think they might be some sort of weird modern art sculpture or some shit like that.
“Hey! Those are mine; hands off!”
There's a snappy retort on your tongue but it doesn't make it much farther than that because that voice definitely did not come from either of your brothers. Your first thought is that there's an intruder, but how would they have gotten in without you noticing?
You turn a little and—yep, that's a ghost.
Because why the fuck not.
She's pretty for a dead chick, with long dark hair and coffee-brown skin. Her clothes are kind of tattered, but you don't really pay much attention because she's floating and you can sort of see through her and her eyes are this weird kind of opaque white color that reminds you of watered down milk. She's scowling at you like you offended her and, dumbfounded, you hold the box out to her.
She scoffs, and she'd probably be rolling her eyes if she had irises or pupils to actually make it visible, “I can't take it. I'm dead. Just put it back in the box and don't touch it again.”
It's stupid, but you've always been bad at taking orders, so you find yourself saying, “Why don't you make me?”
She makes another disgruntled noise and swoops around behind you, her hands melding into yours. Your hands feel cold, right down to the bone, and you find yourself turning back and placing the weird hunk of junk right back in the box. Okay sweet. The ghost girl living (dying? whatever) in your attic can possess you.
Good to know.
“Can you do that to entire bodies?” You ask.
She shrugs, “Nah, not without totally wearing myself out.”
“Good,” you nod, “It'd be weird having some dead chick fuckin' around in my body. And my dick.”
She wrinkles her nose and her lips purse. “You're weird. Aren't you freaked out? I'm a ghost.”
You shrug, “I was expecting this. I mean, it's all pretty cliché. The creepy attic, the dangling light, the box hiding in the shadowy corner. A ghost showing up was pretty predictable.”
She floats back around in front of you, crossing her legs beneath the tattered remains of her skirt. Her head tilts a little and she stares at you with her creepy eyes for a while before speaking again.
“Huh. I'm Aradia. I was murdered in this attic.”
“Nice to meetcha. I'm Dave. I wasn't murdered anywhere and I'm hoping that it stays that way.”
She snorts and you're kind of glad she's not offended because that was actually a really shitty thing for you to say. What's the proper etiquette when talking to a ghost? Is there a politically correct term to use for ghost? Dead American or some shit?
Nah, you don't really care.
“Where are you from, Dave?” She asks as you stand.
You head for the door because you need to haul a mattress up here to sleep on tonight. You really hope she can leave the attic and you're not making an ass of yourself again.
“Texas,” You say, walking down the stairs. She's floating along behind you, so she's not attached to the attic. Awesome.
“Oh, cool,” She follows you across the hall and into one of the bedrooms, “I was from New York originally, but we moved out here because my sister Damara was causing trouble.”
You grab the mattress and tug it off the bed, tipping it on its side so you can drag it out of the room and up into the attic, “Trouble, huh? What kind?”
“She paralyzed her ex boyfriend from the neck down for cheating on her.”
“Sounds like a fun gal.”
“Oh, she was.”
You're halfway across the hall again when Bro pokes his head out of his own bedroom.
“Who the fuck are you talking to?” He asks.
“Aradia,” You grunt, heaving the mattress across the floor, “Dead girl from the attic.”
Bro stares for another minute before shrugging and going back to his room. He should probably be more worried about that, but you're totally okay with not having him sign you up to see a counselor.
Aradia is zero help in getting the mattress up. You ask if she could imbue your hands with ghostly super strength and she calls you a loser. Eventually you manage, though, and you shove the mattress to the far end of the room before going back to get the blankets from your duffel bag.
“Are those ponies?” Aradia asks as you spread the blanket on the naked mattress, “They're cute.”
“Bro's idea of a good birthday present. Hey, why couldn't he see you?”
Aradia shrugs, “Some people can see me, some people can't. I'm not an expert on ghosts.”
You can't really argue with that. You barely scraped by in biology, yourself.
You're about to pull your notebooks out and do some writing when the doorbell rings.
“Dave!” Bro calls, “Get the door!”
You make a disgruntled noise, “I'm upstairs, asshole; get it yourself!”
“I'm busy!”
You grown and slump down the stairs. Aradia goes before you, and you're at the railing overlooking the foyer when she jams her head through the door. When she pulls it back in, she swoops over to the bottom of the stairs and waits.
“It's the cute boy from across the street!” She says, grinning, “Oh, you'll love him!”
You make another irritated noise and slink to the door, swinging it open. You're trying to say hello, but what actually comes out of your mouth is,
“Boy?”
Because the kid on your porch doesn't look much like a boy. They've got a shaggy mop of black hair and they're wearing a beagle puss of all fucking things and maybe they're pretty boyish from the neck up but they're definitely not dressed like a boy.
Well, not like any boys you've seen anyway. No dude in his right mind would walk around Texas with an off the shoudler sweater and a skirt and leggings. Nope, dressing like that in Texas would probably get you killed.
The kid doesn't seem particularly perturbed—they're grinning behind the ridiculous mask and holding a cake out toward you.
“That's a really common greeting, but I suppose things might be different where you're from.”
“Uh, no,” You say, “My friend...you know what, never mind. What do you need?”
They look down at the cake in their hand then back up at you, “My dad wanted me to bring this over. Welcome you to the neighborhood.”
The cake does have the word WELCOME printed on it in swooping swirls of frosting which you probably should've been looking at instead of the curve of the kid's shoulder that you really really wanted to put your mouth on. And that's not something you should be thinking because you have literally known the dude for a minute and you're not even sure whether they are a dude.
“People actually do that?” You ask, politely taking the cake from him because you are a southern gentleman, thanks, “Thought that shit was just a cliché in crappy romcoms to get the main characters to meet.”
The kid's smile turns a little sheepish and they laugh a little, “Caught on already, huh? I actually just came here to spy and make sure you aren't creepy child molesters who need to be chased off with pitchforks and torches.”
“No child molesters here, I don't think,” You say, “Uh, I'm Dave.”
“John!” The kid says brightly, “I'm – oh my god, is that a robot rabbit?”
John shoves right past you and into the house like he wasn't totally intruding. You turn and, indeed, Lil' Seb had wandered fortuitously into the foyer. John crouches down next to him, cooing and gushing and asking 'wow dave did you make this?' and 'oh god does it talk?'.
“Isn't he cute?” Aradia asks, “His dad used to send him over to clean when no one was living here.”
“And you watched him? You're creepy.”
John lifts his head, brow furrowing, “Creepy?”
“Not you,” You assure him, “My...imaginary friend.”
His lips purse and you can practically see him growing uncomfortable. The new guy across the street might not be molesting children but he's a total loon. Great first impression, Dave.
He stands, mouth opening, and you can read people well enough to know he's about to make an excuse to leave, but then Dirk's standing in the doorway to the living room.
“Oh hey, you found Lil' Seb,” He says, “I was wonderin' where he wandered off to.”
John squeaks in surprise, “His name's Lil' Seb?”
“Yeah,” Dirk says, dropping into a crouch and crooking his finger. Seb wanders over obediently, “My friend Jane named 'im. He actually belongs to her but she sent him back for a routine checkup.”
“Whoa, did you make him?” John's practically bouncing, “That's so cool.”
“Yeah. Robots are my thing. I've got s'more in the basement. Wanna see?”
John agrees way too fast and then they're gone and you totally want to punch Dirk in the face because Seb did not wander in accidentally. You think you might have to reevaluate your conclusion that there were no child molesters in the house because Dirk was a Grade A creep.
“Aw,” Aradia croons, “Swept right out from under you.”
You scoff, walking the cake into the kitchen to put it on the counter, “No way, dude. Kid was wearing a fucking beagle puss. Not worth my time.”
Aradia still snickers, “I saw the way you were eying his shoulder. Either you're a vampire or you've got a crush on cute little John.”
“You should see the way I sparkle in the sunlight.”
John seems to be staying in the basement, so you shut the front door and head back up to your attic. Terezi's probably asleep by now, but you pester her anyway
so she can have the honor of waking to your glorious red text.
-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering gallowsCallibrator [GC] at 20:11 –-
TG: fuck washington
TG: theres a ghost in my attic
TG: and dirks got the hots for this dude who dresses like a girl
TG: also this house is way too big for three of us
TG: but i mean at least im as far away from dirk as physically possible
TG: dont need to hear him creeping on kids in his creepy basement
TG: message me when you get up
TG: ps kick karkat in the knee for me
TG: for shits and giggles
-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering gallowsCallibrator [GC] at 20:13 –-
Washington, you decide, is weird as fuck.