Your name is Karkat Vantas, and at the moment, you would kill for a cup of coffee.
Well, you would kill for just about anything, really. You haven't eaten since yesterday morning, since you just couldn't find the time to between working double shifts at both your jobs, and collapsing on your ass to try and catch a little sleep before the cycle began again. But at the moment, coffee sounds like fucking heaven.
Instead of just curling back up into your comforter like you desperately want to, you haul yourself off the threadbare futon that was one of the few things you rescued from your childhood home. Ignoring the growling and sharp twisting in your stomach, you trudge over to the other side of the one-bedroom apartment to fulfil your duty as an alarm clock for your two roommates. You narrowly avoid tripping over several half-empty bottles of assorted liquors while making your way towards Sullivan's slumbering lump of a body. Sorry, you mean Sollux, as he prefers to be called. It's apparently his username on some hacker forum/internet dating/porn/blog website that's his life or something since no one on there knows how weird he is in real life.
"Move your ass, shithead." You grumble, kicking Sollux in the side to wake him up. "Strider'll throttle us both if you're late again,"
Strider, first name Dave, is of course your boss at the small grocery store where you and your best friends work (the better of your two jobs). He's normally a pretty chill guy, but he practically does a pirouette off the handle every time someone is late for their shift. You're honestly surprised that someone as habitually late as Sollux has managed to keep a job under him.
"Fuck, what time ith it?" Sollux croaks, his heterochromatic mahogany-and-blue eyes cracking open. The early-morning grogginess makes his already prominent lisp even thicker, something that never fails to make you smirk.
"Half past get your lazy obsessive-compulsive ass off the floor and get cleaned up. You look like a slob." You snap, kicking him once more in the spine for good measure. "I'm gonna go wake up Gavin-Gamzee, so get ready, 'cause there's an eighty percent chance of shitstorm if he fell asleep sober again."
Gavin, your other best friend, also has a weird-ass nickname. Though, this one isn't some stupid username. It's his title in the high juggalo fruity clown asshole society thing that he belongs to (and that freaks the fuck out of you). Sometimes you really hate your best friends. They got perfectly normal names, while your hippie treehugger of a mom (God rest her soul) stuck you with one like Karkat.
Sollux only rolls over onto his stomach, snatching up a bottle of peach schnapps that was still mostly full. He holds it up to you, jostling it so that the liquid inside makes a distinct sloshing noise.
"It'th dangerouth to go alone. Here, take thith with you." He quotes, a smirk on his face that plainly says 'I am the cleveretht fucker this thide of the Mithithippi, you better worthip me'.
But, instead of worthipping, you simply mutter a sarcastic "Har dee fuckin' har." and snatch up the bottle, continuing down the short hallway to the only bedroom in the apartment. It had been Gamzee's turn to use the bed last night, yours on the futon, and Sollux's on the floor. If there was one thing that none of you guys would do, it was share a sleeping arrangement with one another. Despite the fact that you were all somewhat pansexual and sort-of-friends-with-benefits, making the 'no homo' argument invalid, you were all horrible bedmates. You personally kicked and scratched at everything near you, while Sollux would pitch an absolute bitch fit if you 'got on his side', no matter what time it was and how early you had to wake up. And Gamzee... well, you'll just say that he doesn't exactly have a strict 'hands to yourself' policy while he's asleep. Not that he has much of one while he's awake.
You throw the door open, ignoring the overpowering scent of marajuana and vodka that washes over you, and take a swig from the bottle in your hand to wash the early-morning taste out. You take in the bedroom, complete with a small dresser,a few overstuffed beanbags thrown haphazardly into corners, and a nightstand with a small lamp and a broken alarm clock situated on the top. Oh, and the wheelchair by the door that you just ran into.
No. That's not usually there.
And neither is the second person in the bed that's situated smack-dab in the middle of the room. You take a second to try and identify said person, who happens to be male. It doesn't take too long, because as soon as you see that floppy black mohawk, the name 'Travis' pops in your head.
Travis is Gamzee's friend/fuck buddy/sort of boyfriend/whatever you don't give two shits. The only thing you care about, is how the Hell Gamzee managed to sneak him in without you realizing it. You have a strict no-fucking policy on workdays, and he is completely screwing that up, figuratively and literally.
You toss the bottle onto the bed, making sure that it smacks against Gamzee's arm. Travis is caught in the crossfire, however, since that arm is wrapped securely around his midsection. The two begin to stir, Gamzee just a bit faster than Travis. You think that's a good thing, because the little guy would probably flip his shit if he knew that you had seen him while he was 'indecent'. That's just the kind of guy Travis is, someone who's way too nice to be hanging around a crew of assholes like your friends.
"Up and at 'em, daylight is burning, blah blah blah, some shit like that." You mutter, sick of being the human alarm clock. But, even so, you walk over to the window and throw open the dusty curtains, daylight showing you just how disgusting this room actually looks. There are dirty clothes strewn across the floor and beanbags, various pieces of food-encrusted silverware and plates, and you're pretty sure some of the stains on the carpet are the kind that would show up under blacklight in a Midnight Motel.
Gamzee blinks a few times, propping himself up on his elbow so he can see you over Travis.
"Good morning, motherfucker," he rasps in his gravelly smoker's voice, a lazy smile stetched across his lips. White stage makeup is smeared across his face, and you just know it got all over the pillows and sheets and it's going to be Hell to clean.
"You've got an hour, you useless fuck. Get your ass in gear or I'll do it for you," you grumble, swinging back around towards the kitchen. You hear a halfhearted 'Can-do, best friend!', and take that as all the confirmation that you need.
Fifty-five minutes later, you've managed to choke down some stale cereal and borderline-spoiled milk, showered, and gotten dressed with time to spare, as has Sollux. Gamzee, however, is nowhere to be seen.
"Think he went for round two with that amputee kid?" Sollux asked without looking up over his phone. You sneer, rolling your eyes even though that is a completely possible thing. If it is true, you will be sure to beat the shit out of both of them, regardless of whether or not Travis is in a wheelchair and doesn't have any legs below the knee. You don't discriminate with your hate.
You also flinch a little when Sollux uses the word 'kid' to describe Travis. Mostly because, really, that's what he is. He can't be more than nineteen, making all three of you at least six years his senior. You kind of feel sorry for him. He seems easily impressionable, and you wouldn't be surprised if Gamzee is just trying to seduce him into his freak-ass juggalo clown cult. The sad part is, you think Travis might actually really like Gamzee.
While you're mulling over the future of this kid, wondering why in the world you give a flying fuck, and deciding whether or not you're going to stomp in there and drag Gamzee out into the living room by his lip ring, the door to the bedroom opens. Then, careful not to bang against the walls of the hallway, Gamzee is wheeling Travis out into the living room, an almost loving smile on his freshly-painted face. You push down the surge of a feeling that's somewhat reminiscent to jealousy, reminding yourself that you and Gamzee's time as an actual item is long over.
'And good riddance to it,' you huff inwardly, before snarling, "If we get fired because of your retardedness, I'm going to shove my foot so far up your ass you'll vomit up my shoe!"
You, of course, say this while pushing your idiotic friends and the Legless Wonder out the door so you can haul ass to your place of employment before you're so late they'll have to invent a new kind of dive for Strider to take off the handle that he's so precariously perched on top of like some kind of feathery asshole.
.
Your name is Dave Strider, and you are about to do a beautifully executed swan-dive off the handle.
First, your bro calls to tell you that he's come down with a horrible case of tonsilitis and the flu at the same time, and needs you to 'take care of him in his time of need'. Which is code for 'I'm broke, hungry, and sick. Buy me shit, lil' man'. And, obviously, you can't just leave him hanging. The guy practically raised you. So, you have to find a temporary manager who wouldn't send everything to Hell in six minutes flat. Which is actually very hard to do, since nearly everyone you employ is some form of delinquent.
Then, three of the eleven employees at the small grocery store you manage decide that today is a good day to show up twenty minutes late, Gavin high off his ass (something you're almost used to by now, sadly), with an unfamiliar cripple in tow. Oh, and Gavin is also wearing that white stage makeup that you explicitly ordered him never to come into work with ever again, after he scared an elderly woman so badly she had a mild heart attack.
But, you don't have time to deal with them at the moment. Instead of brutally murdering them with one of the several shitty swords you have mounted on the wall of your office, you just dismiss them to their posts with your pokerface and dignity still somewhat intact.
Then, as if you're trying to assassinate the small amount of self-respect you still have, you do the one thing you swore that you would never do, ever again.
You call your ex for help.
.
Your name is John Egbert, and you just got a call from one of your favorite people in the world.
Even though Dave is your ex-boyfriend, you like to think that you two are still best bros. You stayed friends through unbelievable shit when you were kids. Dave's dad walking out on him and his brother, your own father's bout with cancer, his half-sister Rose (who lived across-state) going off the deep end when her mom was institutionalized, and almost killing the mailman... You should be able to get through something like that.
Even though the two of you haven't hung out or even spoken much since the breakup a year ago, the connection was evident during your short conversation. At least, it was to you.
And, you would like to point out that you are most definitely not a homosexual. Dave is just so intense with his attractiveness and charm that he transcends gender, so you can call complete no-homo on your relationship. Shut your mouth, asshole, yes you can.
But, putting all that emotional crap aside, you're more than happy to help with the management of Dave's store while he's away. You're not exactly sure that you're qualified for something like that, but you figure a few days wouldn't hurt anything. Plus, it's Dave's store, so he can do with it as he pleases. And if that involves trusting it to you, well, you think you're alright with that.
As long as nothing too out of the ordinary takes place, everything should be fine.
.
Your name is Karkat Vantas, and right now you really wish strangling stupid people was in your job description.
Some jerk-off is currently bitching at Sollux for the way he rings things up (by twos, part of some OCD shit), and you can hardly keep yourself from beaning the fucker with one of the cans of sliced peaches you're currently restocking the shelves with. You can see Sollux getting visibly upset, scrambling to fix whatever problem he had created. You just know he's going to be beating himself up about this later, like he does every time he's criticized in any way. You know these things are delicate as fuck with him and it only takes one thing to tip his scale from normal to batshit depressed off his ass.
You can feel heated anger (more than usual, at least) blossom inside your stomach like blood from an open wound, and bubble up into your throat, threatening to burst out in the form of a curse-laden threat involving a sickle and two crabs. But, for the sake of your friend and your job, you swallow the thick bile rising in your throat, and go back to shelving as calmly as you possibly can, while still keeping an eye on the situation.
It's only when you hear the word 'freak' tumble from the man's mouth that you can't stand to sit idly by anymore. You know it's in reference to Sollux's eyes and his habits and sure, he's a weird-ass fuck, but he's your best friend and you know he can not take being called a freak, not after everything that's happened. You are overcome by a blind rage, and find yourself stomping over to the cash register with your lips pulled into a deep scowl.
"Just who the fuck do you think you are?" you snarl, not even waiting for a reply from the incredulous-looking shithead before both of your hands are on his chest and you're shoving him back, partly out of violent anger and partly because you just want him to get the fuck away from Sollux.
He's saying something to you that's probably offensive and maybe racist since you think you heard some slur for Mexicans, even though you're Brazilian, but you don't expect him to know that. Instead you just get angrier, because now he's bringing skin color into the matter and that almost makes you more upset than his berating of Sollux.
Then, the next thing you know, you hear a loud crack and your knuckles are stinging and sticky and you can't see the racist bastard anymore because holy shit he's on the ground. Sollux, who you assume was frozen in some obsessive-compulsive-stress-coma until that very moment, finally jumps into action.
If jumping into action can be described as him muttering what you believe to be, "Holy thit, KK."
And then time does that weird jumpy thing again, because some guy with fluffy black hair, square glasses, and an almost ridiculous overbite is standing next to you with this horrified look on his face, and you never even saw him walk over.
The angry ringing in your ears has quieted down enough for you to understand what he's saying to you, though now it's probably pointless because whatever he was talking about is almost over with. Now he's kneeling down beside Racist Bastard, whose nose is bent at an awkward angle, and gushing dark red blood.
You swear there are time vortexes lurking around the shop, because they seem to be opening up and swallowing you left and right. It keeps happening, and you don't know why. Something you do know, however, is that the last one decided to dump you in Strider's office, half an hour later.
It takes you a few seconds, but you eventually realize that the person chewing you out is doing it a lot less violently than Strider. By now, there should be a shitty sword about two inches from your chest, and a poetically worded threat hanging in the air. Instead, the only thing you hear is a soft, yet somehow still firm voice telling you that what you did was wrong. You also realize that the person speaking doesn't have Strider's platinum blond hair, or trademark shades. No, this is the same guy who ninja-d his way over to you after you knocked that racist bastard off his feet. The one with the fluffy hair and awful teeth.
"Are you even listening to me?" he askes, leaning over until your noses are almost touching and, well, you forget to answer him because, fuck, his eyes are so goddamned /blue/, it should be illegal. He should get ticketed simply for walking amongst normal people with eyes that insanely, deeply blue. The ticket will read, 'reckless endangerment of those around him for having distractingly beautiful eyes', and the little fucker better take that ticket like a man or you'll have to punish him-
"Karkat?" he says, probably to get your attention. You wonder briefly why he knows your name, before you remembee that it's stated quite plainly on your nametag. Then, you realize you don't know who this guy is. You don't even know what the hell he's doing here. He could be some insane homeless guy for all you know.
"Who are you?" you decide to ask. Short, simple, and curse-free. You figure you're already walking on thin ice here, and you really don't want to lose this job.
At first, the look on his face is one of confusion. Then, as it dawns on him that he hasn't introduced himself, an almost sheepish one replaces that.
"Sorry! My name is John Egbert, I'm going to be managing the store temporarily while Dave is away," he explains, perching on the edge of Strider's desk. You nod absentmindedly, and vaguely remember him saying something about going to take care of his 'deadbeat dadbro'. You hadn't understood but also hadn't questioned him, since he had let you off the hook for all the shit you pulled that morning (for which you make a mental note to yank out Gamzee's nose ring).
"But that's beside the point. The point is, you probably broke that guy's nose. And, based on the story I gathered from some observers, he deserved it." John spoke, his eyebrows furrowing so that little creases formed on his forehead, and his overbite got even more intense as he chewed on his lip.
"Damn right he did." you mutter, folding your arms over your chest and scowling. You hope that idiot has to have his jaw wired shut so he can't talk shit anymore. But, you know your right hook isn't that good. You're surprised it did as much damage as it did, honestly.
"But that doesn't give you the right to just punch him! You're lucky he decided not to charge you for assault. He probably would have if he hadn't been handing out racial slurs like Star Wars copies at a sci-fi convention." John's frown deepens. "If Dave were here, he would probably fire you."
"Like hell he would! I've gotten away with more scandalous shit than you can shake a phallic-nosed puppet at, this is a limp-wristed flamer compared to the macho star quarterback that is my track record!" you object, practically jumping out of your chair, half from rage and half from fear. You can't afford to lose this job, you really fucking can't.
Even though John looks like the kind of person to just back away from a challenge, he doesn't. He stands right up as well, and you can't help but notice that he's at least two or three inches taller than you. What an asshole.
"Then maybe it's high time you were let go." he speaks in a voice so low and serious, you almost think he's Dave for a second. Which is why you can't stop the twisted look of fear and regret that covers your face when you hear this.
John can't help but grin. A trickster's smile, something you'd associate with child's pranks, like buckets of water atop doors. And then, he burst out laughing, hand on his stomach and tears in his eyes.
"Oh gosh, you should've seen your face!" he howls placing a hand on Strider's desk to support himself.
You can't believe this guy. He's been here less than an hour, and he's threatening to fire you as a joke? He is without a doubt the most ridiculous, insufferable asshole you have ever met.
And you don't think anyone else has ever been able to make you more aroused.