Chapter Text
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“Soooo, Karkat. Karkat, Karkat, Karkat. My main man, my best bro. I was just, uh, thinking—hey, don’t give me that look, my mind is a damn fine steel trap full of thoughtful deliberation and reflection, thank you very much—that we’re about two years—or one sweep I guess—into our meteor trip. And in that time, we’ve grown, er, closer, where we’re now snug peas in a particularly prolific pod of broship. And like, I’m being 100% sincere here, that, well—fuck, okay, stay with me, but I kind of. Want to maybe be more than that? Not that being bros with you isn’t awesome, because hell fucking yeah it is, but just. Whenever my dumb metaphors make you smile, or your pointy ears twitch when you’re pretending to not smile, or hell, whenever you get super passionate about something and your eyes light up and you start talking until you’re red in the face, I uh. Get this pang in my chest? It makes me feel—you make me feel—like I’m an actual person, you know? Not just some ironic accessory. And I want to—shit, I don’t know, kiss you? Can I do that? I, uh. Well. Fuck.”
Smooth. You are the smoothest motherfucker around. It is you.
Not.
The mirror you’re currently wooing says nothing in return to that egregious display of word vomit. Rather, all it has to offer is your impromptu impression of Bob the Tomato as a steady blush rushes across your cheeks. Which, of course, would be fine if you were A) religious or B) ever attended Sunday school in the first place. Instead, your foremost exposure to Veggie Tales was watching the likely corrupted editions your Bro had on hand back in Texas, and that was, to say the least, not the most enriching cinematic experience of your childhood. Now all you feel like is a particularly flustered priest trying to indoctrinate the innocent masses into a gay cult.
Karkat’s verbose asshole of an ancestor would probably say you were participating in religious appropriation with all that nonsense, but hey. If Bob the Tomato wants to paint the world rainbow, Bob the Tomato is going to paint the world fucking rainbow. Hell, it’s not like they were exactly subtle in his relationship with Larry. It was basically vegetable laden propaganda, corrupting all the children with a flaming gay agenda and—
Yeah okay, you’re getting carried away again.
“Ugh, fuck this,” You groan, burying your face in your hands as the embarrassment catches up with you. Thinking all that was one thing, but actually saying it, even to your own reflection, was beyond mortifying. If Karkat were here, he’d probably fall flat on his ass laughing at that humiliating display of ‘genuine Strider’ soufflé. Or, more likely, just complain about how unromantic it was before rejecting you like week old grub loaf. Something like that. You sink back into bed, head flopping unceremoniously against the covers.
You guess you’re making some progress, relatively speaking. It hadn’t been all that long ago that you’d refused to even consider harboring feelings for your best bro, what with the whole ‘hey I’m a dude, he’s a dude, and two dudes don’t exactly make for a heterosexual relationship according to Earthly society’ last you’d checked. And boy howdy, had you checked. At the peak of what Rose has affectionately deemed your ‘sexuality crisis,’ you had scoured the Internet’s desolate depths for hours on end, only to come up empty handed with nada, zilch, zippo to show for it.
It wasn’t as if your hang ups drew from a religious background or the like. While Jewish, it’s not like your Bro ever lit a menorah for Hanukkah or broke matzah during Passover. You’re fairly certain he hadn’t believed in much of anything beyond swords, shades, and puppets, so it’s not too surprising you grew up atheist in the long run. But while you may not believe in any afterlife to speak of, hell, heaven, or otherwise, you do believe in Bro. Or, did. You’re still wrapping your head around that certified can of worms. And goddamn, two years ago, you would have done anything to be like Bro. He was the personification of all things masculine, the absolute definition of indomitable manliness. The modern Jack Churchill, the bespectacled Muhammad Ali, the goddamn Segata Sanshiro of ninjas. He was the manliest man to ever man, as far as you were concerned back then.
And wanting to kiss boys is about as unmanly as it gets. At least according to mainstream society’s now dead decorum, that is. If you crushed on a guy, there was no way you’d ever be like Bro, ever live up to his hyper masculinity and become the hero everyone expected you to be. The hero Bro demanded you be. So you suppressed those urges, burying them through untold levels of irony and witticisms that barely fooled John, much less Rose, and only ever succeeded in deluding yourself. But with Earth’s destruction and Bro’s subsequent death, you’ve had a lot more time to dwell on things you’d long neglected. It brought sexuality to the forefront of the conversation once you realized spending time with Karkat made you feel awful similar to how you’d felt around Jade and Terezi months prior. Sweaty palms, a speeding heart, and your guts throwing a goddamn quinceañera whenever Karkat so much as cracked a smile at your breathtakingly inane bullshit all began to clue you in that maybe, just maybe, your feelings for him ran just a tad deeper than friendship.
Needless to say, you had flipped your shit.
Two breakdowns and several sessions that you refuse to deem ‘therapy’ with Rose later, you came to accept that maybe liking guys wasn’t such a deal breaker—and that maybe manliness didn’t matter so much anymore to begin with, what with the apocalypse rendering gender dynamics rather moot.
And this is how you found yourself here, romancing a mirror with the ineptitude of a two star chef battling bankruptcy.
Shit is, by all accounts, fucked.
Lost in your romantic shortcomings, you fail to realize you’re not alone until you feel a tap tap tapping of small claws against your thigh. You blink, turning away from your ceiling bound staring contest, and—oh, you’d know that endearingly filthy bedsheet anywhere. A tiny Dersite stands before you, crinkling his even tinier eye in scrutiny from just above the mattress lining. Well, fuck. How long has he been there—wait. The shame returns full stop when you realize shit, the Mayor heard you and oh god can paradox space just kill you right now. Let Jack have his doggone way with you, dismembered Dave bits and all, so long as you don’t have to deal with the Mayor’s certain judgement. That shit would straight up kill you, god tier be damned; disappointing the little carapacian was as Just a death as any could be. Blood rushes to your face and nope, fuck that, you can’t do this. Without a second thought, you twist yourself over like a goddamn acrobat and dive beneath your pillow.
“Dave’s not here,” you cough, ignoring the Mayor’s panicked start at your ninja-like reflexes. “He’s, uh, mixing some sick beats up over in can town and he’s not accepting any calls. Too busy dropping ill numbers and all, you know how it is with celebrities. Come back any time that isn’t, like, now.” Or tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that… You’ve gotta put off the inevitable for as long as possible. Even if it means distancing yourself from the cutest carapacian this side of the galaxy. A cruel, but nevertheless necessary, fate.
But as it would seem, the Mayor’s not having any of your shit today. With a huff, he leans over to tug more insistently at your pajama sleeve, skewing the cables binding his mayoral sash in the process. When you fail to respond—and boy was that a challenge in of itself—he climbs atop the bed to continue tapping at your exposed hand. Still, you persist, the war weathered soldier that you are. After a minute or so, the Mayor decides to change tactics. Bless his democratic heart, he elects to clamber atop you and bounce like he’s in a goddamn boingalow on his sixth birthday. And, well. Fuck. That’s where you break, verbally and metaphorically. How can you ever resist the adorableness that is the Mayor? You can’t, that’s how. Also, that carapace skin is way heavier than it looks, holy crap. Sensing your newfound compliance, the Mayor pulls back with a satisfied nod, allowing you to reluctantly peel away the pillow and face the music. What music, you ask? Rap, cappella? The strangled chicken squawks Terezi so generously calls singing? Whatever asshole came up with that idiom really should have specified, because you’d rather not have shrill ass opera blasting at your interpersonal hearing.
The Mayor, patient saint that he is, allows your mind to wander into who-the-fuck-know’s-where as he makes himself comfortable. Patting his robes down and tucking his feet under stick-thin legs, he sits cross-legged from across the bed, exuding an air of frequent practice as he pulls some crayons and paper from their cable bound niche. Which, of course, makes sense—between yourself, Karkat, and the Mayor, your feeling jams have become a thing of legend. Hell, the little carapacian is so prepared nowadays that he’s fallen into the habit of pocketing spare supplies should the need ever arise. Because the Mayor can’t talk (or at least has never expressed any interest in doing so), your trio relies on shittier-than-thou art and haphazard gesticulations that would make any mime break down sobbing. You choose to think those tears derive from fellow pantomime pride; Karkat chooses instead to question, “what the blister-squawking fuck’s a ‘mime?’”
He still doesn’t believe you that people actually dressed in tacky stripes and clown makeup for the sole purpose of harassing the innocent masses with silent tomfoolery. His loss.
Speaking of mimicry, you cross your own legs to face the Mayor’s expectant gaze and ready purple crayon—one of the few colors left, actually. Between Terezi’s fixation with red utensils and the Mayor’s avid appetite for all things green, your coloring pack has dwindled down to a pathetic collection of blue, yellow, and purple over the past year and a half. Still, you pluck it from the Mayor’s outstretched hand without complaint and drag its misshapen form across the laid out paper.
Technically you don’t have to draw—the Mayor can understand everything you say just fine—but like hell if you’re going to turn down any opportunity to scribble some half-assed dicks for your adoring public. Some celebrities signature their work with cursive; you make your mark with phallic imagery.
Everything’s relative.
“So, uh. I guess you heard me confess my love for—crap, attraction to Karkat, right?” You say as you scratch down two uneven circles. The Mayor bobs his head in affirmation. “And you won’t, like… well I hate to question the magnanimity vested in your authority, since that shit’s so uncool it’s melting the icecaps and drowning all the polar bears, but. You won’t tell him, will you?” The Mayor shakes his head in negative. To emphasize his reassurance, he pats his claws against your knee, drawing a huge sigh of relief from deep inside your chest. How could you ever question this little executive in chief? Actually, now that you think about it, this is the second time today you’ve questioned him. Damn, you need to step the fuck up. Not fair to the Mayor to do anything less than your best.
“Well, now that you know my deepest, darkest secret,”—the Mayor raises his brow—“I guess that’s about it for our feelings jam today. Like, look at the time—and I’m the God of Time okay so I know these things, I practically wrote the goddamn book on all things temporal—it’s getting way late. Or early, I guess, depending on your take. Mid-afternoon? Fuck, maybe I don’t know. You know, scratch what I said before, time’s an illusionary construct and we’re just the pitiful heathens employing it so we can try to make some sense of the bullshit that is paradox space. Which is none, because it’s still bullshit. It’s just an illusion, see, and we’re the suckers wrapped up in its wily ways. But not today, Mayor, not today or any other day from now on. Viva la fucking revolution. Time can kiss my ass, kiss it like in Karkat’s shitty Harlequin paperbacks. I’m no longer bound by its hourly constraints, fuck no. I’m free as a bird, unclipped and untamed, and this here messenger pigeon’s gotta spread his wings and fly to share this sagely wisdom with the rest of the world. Which is, like, seven people right now. Or eight, I guess, if you count the juggalo. But between you and me, I’m in the very profitable business of not counting the juggalo. Or even thinking of him. Guy can keep his clown ass-self ignorant of this hella rad insight for all I care. Either way, this banana’s gotta split, gotta win Olympic gold with these kickass mental gymnastics I’m brandishing. Step aside McKayla, this here vaulter’s about to impress your ass from now to sundown and ain’t nobody gonna stop him today. Which is still not a thing, btw. Later, Mayor.”
You move to abscond because mother of christ this is embarrassing, but the Mayor catches your arm before you can so much as roll your legs off the side—and you feel your resolve crumble the second those small black fingers wrap around your wrist. With anyone else, your walls are impenetrable, thick and solid and unrelenting to outside forces. Hell, Karkat himself struggles to breach them, even if his tools to do so have grown from a termite ridden stick to a rather hefty pickaxe packing steroids. But with the Mayor…your defenses might as well be a decrepit, long rusted through fence. You can weather almost any storm, practically any other situation, but there’s just no arguing with the Mayor. The Mayor gets what the Mayor wants, and if the Mayor wants you to spill your guts, that’s what he’s going to get.
You just hope he doesn’t think less of you for it.
Heaving a sigh, you re-cross your legs and turn back toward his expectant face. Fuck, you can’t believe you’re doing this, but. If anyone can help you, the Mayor can. Still, you’ll need your artistic distractions like a phallic lifeline. You pick up the crayon again.
“So… as you know, I’ve, uh. Got a teensy crush on Karkat,” you begin. “Tiny thing, so small it’s practically microscopic—Mayor don’t give me that look, this is hard enough as is—but it’s still a ‘thing.’ Not a thing like The Thing, we’re not some poor saps freezing our balls off in Antarctica waiting for a monster to gut us. We’re just some poor saps freezing our balls off in space waiting for a monster to gut us. Crucial difference. And I’m not sure what to do about it. The crush, I mean, not small dark and stab-happy. I know that relationship advice ain’t exactly part of your mayoral duties, but. If you could throw down any suggestions, any at all, I’d seriously appreciate it.” As the words tumble off your tongue, you feel your face heating up faster than one of those shitty hot pockets catching fire in the microwave. You duck your head in shame, pointedly prioritizing an oval for your lewd masterpiece to avoid the Mayor’s gaze. “’Cause, well. You saw that travesty of a confession. It was so shitty even the mirror turned me down—fuck, I’d turn me down. And if Karkat rejects me no matter what, I’d at least like to walk away with some dignity intact.” Not that you’re all that dignified these days anyways, what with your dick hop scotch and ring around the rosie games, but the principle still stands.
The Mayor seems to consider this as he taps a blue crayon to his temple. After a moment, he claps both hands together and brings the utensil to paper, shielding it from sight with his other arm. Anxiety eats at your stomach as you watch him work, but you know better than to sneak a peek and see whatever he’s piecing together. Not long into your journey, the Mayor had informed you through frantic arm waving that no, you are not allowed to see what he’s drawing until after he’s finished. At least when it comes to important things, anyways. Which in of itself is comforting in a sense, that the Mayor’s gracious enough to consider your relationship bullshit important. You fight back a smile; the Mayor really is the best, and if there was ever an election, you bet your bottom boonbuck you’d vote for him. Hell, you’d commit voter fraud for this little guy. Fuck the guys in blue, those ballot boxes would be so stuffed in his favor they’d make Thanksgiving turkeys blush. GW himself would be like ‘oh, shit, that’s some fucking unanimity there, I gotta get me some of that.’
If anyone deserves to be in charge of the new world, it’s the Mayor.
Several minutes pass as the Mayor works, leaving you to finish your prick laden piece in silence. You’re in the midst of finessing it, making that shit something da Vinci himself would envy, when he taps your knee again. Blinking, you pick your head up to watch as the Mayor gives one last overview of his assured masterpiece. Seemingly satisfied with it, he nods and pushes it toward you for inspection.
It’s a simple comic, only three pages to its name, and drawn with the skill of a five year old. Still, like hell if it doesn’t make your heart swell with even more affection for the Mayor, which at this point should be a goddamn impossibility with how much you already love—yes, 100% genuinely and unironically love, everybody and their mother can fuck off—him.
The first panel’s just a picture of you and Karkat with little speech bubbles drawn overhead, standing together in what appears to be the common room. You smirk when you realize Karkat’s bubble is exclusively comprised of exclamation marks, with big fat strokes breaking through the designated lines; yours is comparatively uninteresting in its incomprehensible squiggles. Despite lacking the appropriate colors, the Mayor had decided to go all out, shading the stick figures blue and yellow to bring a little liveliness to the art. You’re struck with a sudden understanding why parents on TV are so fussy over their children’s art, because if this wasn’t top secret confidentiality material, you’d pin it to the kitchen’s refrigerator in a goddamn heartbeat.
You turn the page. The next panel is essentially the same drawing, but with a small heart replacing your bubble’s speech. For what feels like the umpteenth time today, your face warms as you look up to the Mayor again. He nods in silent encouragement, and yeah, you know he’s right. If you want this relationship to go anywhere, you’re going to have to talk to Karkat himself instead of trying to romance your reflection. Which, while is quality irony in its own right, doesn’t help boost your non-existent dating life. The Mayor pats down the paper as an urge for you to continue. You comply, turning the second page over and oh good god what have you done to deserve this.
The third and final piece is fairly similar to the two before, but with one important difference. Crude as the stickmen are, you’d recognize those nubby horns and kickass shades anywhere. And right here, right now, those two circles are unmistakably sucking face.
Yeah, can Jack come get you now? Like is that still a thing or has that boat already shipped sail?
“Uh, Mayor. I, uh, well. Um. Much as I appreciate your hella rad support—like seriously, you’re the best thing since sliced bread, no fucking contest—don’t you think that’s a bit…forward?” At least, in your humble opinion it is. Take a lady to dinner first before macking on her like a syrup laden pancake on buffet day, for fuck’s sake.
Said carapacian appears to think otherwise, for he gives his head a vigorous shake. For good measure, he taps the drawing with stronger insistence, giving you a knowing look from beneath his shabby robes. Why is he so sure of himself? For that matter, how does the Mayor know this is going to work? Has the Mayor actually dated anyone before? Do carapacians even date? What the hell have you gotten yourself into?
You have so many questions and so few answers.
Godfuckingdammit you did not sign up for this shit. Or, okay maybe you did the second you decided hanging with the grumpy troll was more fun than sitting by yourself all day, but still. The principle still stands and oh fucking hell the Mayor’s not going to budge on this is he.
Indeed, although the Mayor long ago elected to grace you with infinite patience, you can tell he’s not going to leave you alone on this matter. Which is probably for the best, since you’re not sure you can level the stones necessary to tell Karkat without a bit of a push. Well, more like a rocket fired propelled shove off a canyon in your case. Same difference, in the end.
You take a deep breath. You hate yourself for not closing your door like any normal goddamn person would.
“Alright.”
Let’s get this shit show on the road.