AN: So, just something I wrote in my sketchbook when I was, uh . . . Gone? There's not a nice way to put it, haha. I'm not sure if I'll continue it; it really depends on the readers. Good luck to you all in all that you do and thanks for stopping by to read my story. :o)

You're not sure what to think anymore. You're too fucking stoned to even want to try to decipher your purpose. Even sober, though, you've lost interest in, well, everything. You remember the first time you got high. You were thirteen and you'd recently made new friends at the twentieth school you'd been to. Your mom was never mentioned around the house (if you tried to ask, your father would glare and tug at his goatee to keep from hitting you), and your dad moved around a lot for work. Of course, he had to take you with him for legal reasons, but he didn't really like you. You were raised by "the help" (that's what Dad called them because he was, well, an asshole), and they'd been fired when you were twelve because, fuck, you don't know why. Without them, you had nothing. So you fell into a bad crowd and took your first puff from one fine-ass bowl outside a convenience store. You coughed a lot, but didn't feel much of anything. Around your twelfth hit, however, you were baked out of your mind. Over the years, you figured out that some weed would be laced with various things like God knows what, and you would almost die from the shit that people put in it. Different bowls would yield different results as well. Eventually, you just grew it in your closets (you always had one at every house, it seemed) to ensure your safety as well as its quality. You didn't want to end up in a hospital again with IVs sticking out of your hands and charcoal shoved down your throat in those white paper cups. The worst part of that experience was that you were alone. Your caretakers – surrogate parents – were gone and your dad didn't even care enough to scold you, to tell you that drugs were wrong and that he loves you too much to see you like that and that you should stop immediately before you died. No one cared. Your "friends" just dumped your seizing body in front of the hospital and left you to be found by someone else. Because they didn't want to get busted. Who laces dope with arsenic, anyway? Fuckin' creeps.

But today is a fresh start at a new school – school number twenty-six. Your alarm goes off in a slurry of giddy beeping and you turn it off almost instantly with a gentleness no one would assume you had by looking at you. You smile at the clock and thank it in calm, barely-there awakeness for bestowing upon you a beautiful sunrise of a new day. You stretch and pull yourself out of bed, the sheets sticking to your slick body in an almost pleading way. You pat them and apologize for leaving, but assure them that the separation will only last for about eight or so hours, depending on the commute. They calm down a bit and allow you to go shower. You never use the cold water. Ever. It reminds you too much of death. You almost drowned in the ocean when you were seven, and the liquid from the IVs was so cold in your veins and your throat. You get out of the four glass walls of your boiling stew of cleanliness and shake a little, both from habit and from the cold. You dry yourself off as best as you can and blow-dry your thick, wavy, black hair so it doesn't freeze outside. It's done that before. You head back into your room and pack your pipe full of God's homegrown goodness, lighting it up and enjoying the almost searing heat of your personal concoction. After a small fit of coughing, you grin to yourself. That was a motherfucking good batch. You finish it off slowly, savoring it, until you hit the resin. You're not particularly fond of it. You'll save it for when you run out of the good shit.

The clock tells you to get your ass dressed and down to the stop. You put on a long-sleeved cotton shirt, black in color, and your favorite jacket – the black one with the purple stripes on the arms. Dark jeans go over the comedic heart-splattered boxers you enjoy so much and you slip on your purple Converse without even putting on socks. Before going down the two flights of stairs to get outside (you never stay in one place for too long, but Dad likes to splurge on "mansions" - mostly to get as far away from you as possible), you douse yourself in cologne to mask the herb smell that sticks to you like the strongest and sweetest of glue. You manage to find the time to put on a bit of eyeliner to look more attractive to yourself (you rather hate everything about you so this makes you look a little less like yourself), and head out the door on the first of three stories to get to the bus stop just in time. You have a license and a very nice, expensive car, but you prefer to get chauffeured everywhere instead because it's nice to enjoy the sights and not worry about getting lost or paying for gas and all that crank. The fog and tingly numbness sets in as you take your seat in the very back – the little seat is just so fucking cute.

You have your headphones on (Audio-Technica, bitch), plugged into the ever-mainstream iPod "classic" that still has over one hundred forty gigs left of empty space, but you can still feel the stares of other teens boring into you. Perhaps it was the way you were dressed – goth, emo, scene, faggot – or the way you smelled? Or maybe it was the three giant-ass scars that were a permanent identifier since your dad threw a mirror at you three years ago? You don't even hate your dad for that; seven years of bad luck to him, you always say. But then, you don't really hate anything . . . Aside from you.

You just smile at your peers and give a little wink, receiving cringes and scoffs alike in return. Kids will be kids, you guess. The bus ride ends after thirty-five minutes (you counted via songs), and you're the last to get off. You wouldn't have it any other way. You hop a little to the soft ground below, wave to the bus driver and tell her thanks, to which she seems shocked, but waves back with a shy "you're welcome." You look ahead of you as she drives away to go park that big Twinkie monster, the cool October breeze caressing your entire body, twirling her fingers in your hair. You feel a little sad that you probably won't be here very long, but you agree with yourself that you'll certainly make the most of it. You unplug your headphones from your iPod, turning off the music device and tucking it away safely into your pocket. You turn off your fancy-shmancy smartphone and put it in your pocket as well. You don't really like it, you can't stand texting, and calling isn't your thing either. Even if you had friends. You mostly use it for internet capabilities, or telling Dad that you'll be late making dinner and to not hold up.

You take your headphones off your ears and put them around your neck instead, nuzzling into the warmth with a tender love that no one should really have for inanimate objects. Your therapist suggests getting a pet, but you're afraid you'll fuck that up, too. So for now, sheets, headphones, and clocks hold your heart. You pat your other pocket to make sure your supplies are still there and let out a little sigh of contentment when you realize that yes, your pencil and palm-sized notepad are still there. You never bring very much in the ways of school supplies. You're never there long enough to really get stuff situated in a locker or desk, you do homework at school instead of home, and your writing is too small to really require an abundance of paper. Stretching a little, you head to the main office with high hopes for this new place. The secretary, a short, plump lady that smells of brown sugar and love, looks at you with shock and horror as you walk into the warm, pretty room. She forces a smile after giving off expressions that say, "Oh dear God, I'm going to die today." You don't blame her. You're six-foot-three, lanky, dressed in dark colors, have your lip and tongue pierced, and, oh yeah, scary scars – instant bad guy.

You smile apologetically and ask if you could have another schedule if it wasn't too much of a bother. Dad used the first one to start up the fireplace, but you keep that tidbit of information to yourself. She asks for your name in a quiet, nervous voice and you chuckle and say, "Gamzee Makara, miss," in your deep, slightly-gravelly voice, showing your ID to prove it.

She nods after inspecting the card to make sure it isn't a fake, slightly more at ease with your politeness and truthfulness, and rolls her chair back from her desk to search in the cabinets behind her. She finds what she's looking for quickly and efficiently and gasps a little, putting a hand through her shiny brown hair. Yeah, that was the usual reaction. She brightens up considerably and the smile is no longer forced. She makes another copy of your paper of school fate (a fate that'll last for God knows how long) and hands it to you, giggling a little when you thank her for all her help and wish her a good day as you turn out into the long hallway.

"Calculus, Chemistry, Biology Two, AP English Four, Art, Music Theory, Computer Animation, and Physical Edjumacation," you mutter to yourself as you find your locker on the second floor. "Not too many dick around classes, huh? Oh, well. This motherfucker can still all up and get his chill on. No big deal." You certainly don't give off that aura of straight-A student, but the fact remains; looks can be deceiving. You only keep your marks so high so you can see the look on authority figures' faces when they realize you're not a total douche and are actually a pretty decent fellow. You want people to know that they should get to know somebody before assuming the worst of them.

As you humorously put your whole two items into your locker, you notice that you painted your nails last night. All of them but the ring finger on your left hand were a bright yellow, the aforementioned finger being a shiny black. You don't remember doing it, but you were pretty fuckin' blazed last night. You rub them and laugh a little; you didn't even go outside the lines. You also don't remember getting your vertical labret pierced, but you've had it for three years now and you still like it. You like clacking your tongue's barbell against the ring's inner metal inside your mouth. And you like clacking both piercings' jewelry against your teeth – its become a quirk nowadays whenever you're nervous or thinking. You're still surprised that no school has made you take them out yet, though you're not complaining. Maybe the next one will.

You close your locker door and click back the lock that was mandatory and, in fact, built into the locker itself and notice a kid about your age looking up at you. He comes up to around your collarbone, has amber-colored eyes and light tan skin (black against your porcelain ivory flesh), and his mohawk is slicked back and looks so soft that you want to touch it.

"Hey, motherfucker," you say cheerily, waving a little bit too flamboyantly.

The kid looks down and coughs a little before speaking. "Y-you're, uh, in front of my locker," he says quietly, a hand hovering over his mouth.

You blink and side-step out of the way quickly, saying, "Oh, shit. I'm sorry, bro." You zone out while watching him take supplies out of his full, organized locker that is inconveniently placed right beneath yours. The top rows of the shitton of lockers are a dark violet color while the bottom rows are a deep, almost blue shade of green – the school colors. Go, Rams, go!

You're thinking that it really doesn't make sense to have the lockers aligned as such, but you write it off as it's a big school and they need space to do some school shit and stuff because the little guy is done doing what he was doing and he's just sort of staring at you like a lost puppy. You smile a little and say, "Hey, I'm Gamzee, by the way. Who're you, locker-bro?"

His nervous line of a mouth curls up a little with the faintest smile. "I'm, uh, Tavros. Tavros Nitram. Are you . . . Makara?"

His question is followed on your part by slow blinking and rolling your barbell against your teeth as you wonder how the fuck he knows who you are. You look back down at him after you realize you zoned out again and ask, "What? How did you motherfucking know? I'm as new to this spacious learning facility as a prude is to anal."

He lets out a little snort at your, uh, colorful language and says, "You're the guy that turned down the Academic Team. Why'd you, uh, do that, if you're so smart?"

You lean against your, and his, locker and stare out into the hall. So many damn rooms. "Smarts ain't about the grades a motherfucker makes, Tavbro. It's about what's in your thinkpan and what's in your metaphorical heart. This motherfucker is not smart. I just get all up in the groove of doing work so the teachers will feel all shitty for thinking so little of me just 'cause I look the part of a criminal."

Tavros looks at you and you can see his eyebrows knit together from your peripheral vision as he processes what you said. "Uh, w-wow. That's . . . Pretty heavy, Gamzee."

You look over at him and grin, the scars crinkling up with the expression. "Ya think so? Maybe I should all up and become some sort of motherfucking philosopher."

He laughs at you and shakes his head slowly, holding his books to himself tighter. "I don't think people would take you very seriously, uh, bro."

You stare at him until you zone out again. Shit, that bowl was stronger than you thought. You start laughing and put a hand on his shoulder, mostly to hold yourself up. "Aw, shit, bro. You're a funny little motherfucker. What classes are you gettin' your swag on in?"

The two of you exchange schedules and you're saddened to find that you only have two classes with him: fifth and sixth hour. At least you got to dick around with him in art and theory. You really like this kid. Now a bittersweet taste fills your mouth as you wonder how long it will take before Dad takes you away from your new friend.

You get your shit out of your locker as the bells ring and he shows you where all the rooms are on a little map. Bros part ways with simple waves and head on to your Calculus and his English Three. You're the only junior in the class and the seniors stare at you in a particularly funny way. Since you're younger, they're both jealous of you, and are eager to butter you up so they can cheat off of you because you had to have some Goddamn brains to get in here. You smile at them all and give them a brief history of Gamzee that one Mr. Jake English suggests you do because "you're new here and all the other teachers do it."

You don't mind it at all, and everything is just so fucking funny to you anyway. Some girls wink at you, one mouths "I fuck on the first date," some mouth much less humorous and much more rude things, but you just chuckle at it all, taking none of it seriously. You take your seat and time flies as you leisurely do what's asked of you, zoning out here and there. Mr. English is quite impressed with you, but holds his tongue when you deny his request to join the Academic Team. It's not like you're going to be here for very long, anyway. Your only regret is that he's not your English teacher.

There are a few juniors in the next class, but still mostly seniors. Ms. Jane Crocker teaches the science classes as well as the home economics classes. She's a pretty sweet lady. Again, you give a short autobiography, and you take a seat next to the only person who sits alone. He glares at you and you think that maybe he was alone for a reason, but you don't take it to heart. If people want to be mean to you so they can feel better, then so be it. You don't mind. You only listen to half of what they say, anyway. Most of the time.

"Hey, assnugget," the guy says in a low hiss. "Why don't you scoot the fuck over and quit pining for my love gun?"

A smile creeps on your face slowly at his snarky retorts and you can't help but chuckle a little. "You're pretty motherfucking fiery for a little guy, huh?" you ask with a expression is one of disbelief and his face turns red. He can so not believe you just said that. Whatever it was that triggered him. "You fucking fuckass! I am not little!" Oh. That was it.

You pat his head affectionately and go back to taking notes with your tiny notepad that an ex-girlfriend of yours put unicorn and rainbow stickers on. You don't dislike her and never would. You're not one to hold grudges. She just couldn't stand the moving all the time thing. Not her fault. So it's a nice reminder of what you had, and also a bitter one in that you probably wouldn't have anything like it again. Your hand is faster than a dude losing his virginity and the smallfry on your left has simmered down a little and stares in awe at the graceful, flowing cursive letters you manage to make with a towering frame such as yours. It's pretty Goddamned beautiful. But you'll probably never see anything about you like that.

"How . . . How the fuck do you do that?"

You look over at your tablemate and permanent lab partner and raise an eyebrow. "Do what?" you ask groggily. You're glad you're still fucked up or maybe this wouldn't be so amusing. "Write? Motherfuckin' preschool, bro. Got my learning on all up in all sorts of shit."

"Don't be a smartass," the angry dude replies, narrowing his mahogany eyes slightly. You stare at them for a while, wondering how anyone's eyes could be so red. Maybe he's an albino? His skin is paler than yours, but it isn't pink and his hair and eyebrows are nightsky black. There's always makeup and hair dye, but- "ANSWER ME, DOUCHENOZZLE."

"Your eyes are all sorts of beautiful, bro," you say, continuing to write without even looking at your notepad.

He blinks at you, unsure of what the fuck to say to that. That certainly got him to shut up, because he didn't say another word for the rest of the hour, even when you had to partner up and work on a few worksheets together.

Both of you stay in the same place when the bell rings and you stare at him quizzically. You pull out your schedule and slide it over to him on the smooth black surface of the table. He begrudgingly takes a look at it and immediately groans.

"Ah, great," he says, putting his face in his arms. "I had that hour with you, now I have this one with you, and the next one, and the last one. Fuck my ass with a sauntering iron . . ."

"That's pretty motherfucking kinky, little bro," you say with a grin, honestly happy that you get to have so many hours with him. He's pleasantly unpleasant and his quips are more than enough comic relief to last you a lifetime.

"Oh, shut up. I'm Karkat Vantas, you creepy twat."

"Gamzee Makara."

"Shit, really? You're the 'secret genius' all the teachers are creaming their jeans over?"

You sigh and shake your head. "I told Tavbro earlier that smarts ain't determined by grades and all that yack, but I'm too motherfucking tired to go over all of that again. I just wanna all up and get my sleep on."

You let your head fall to the table with a soft thud as the remainder of the class comes in with movements that all seem like one whole entity. You shoulda eaten something, idiot.

Angry munchkin dude sighs and puts his head on the table, too, staring at you with a tired expression. He can't be any older than you, but he has some serious dark circles and bags under his pretty eyes. "You know Tavros?" he asks, closing his eyes in slow flutters, like his anger is the only thing keeping him awake.

"Mmhm," you say back with a voice that's just as tired. "His locker's under mine and we all up and had nice chats. It was like a motherfucking miracle."

"Why do you talk like that? Are you stoned off your rocker or some shit?"

The series of tired giggles you exert are enough of an answer for him and he sighs again, muttering, "And you, of all of these cockgoblins, are the kid who's balls-deep in straight As. I don't believe this."

Ms. Crocker alerts the class that there's a new student, you, and you wave to them all like Miss fucking Universe. You've waved a lot today. You're not sure if you should stop or do another gesture. The bird is too obscure for a friendly greeting of strangers. Maybe a peace sign? Or how about a-

"Dildo Baggins, fucking help me here!" Karkat's voice chainsaws your ass right out of that thought bubble and you realize you've been zoning for quite a while. Class is almost half-over and he's only gotten three out of thirty group problems done.

"Oh, hey," you say back sheepishly. "Sorry, bro. I was thinking that I wave way too fuckin' much. Do you think I do?"

"I don't care about your homo acts of flamboyance, Gandalf the Gay. I can't do all examinations and all the notes and all the 'What if' bullshit fartbox questions they throw at us by myself and not have homework."

You nod and scoot a little closer, putting the tip of your bedazzled pencil on the next problem. "Here, you tell me what this motherfucker needs to be up and knowing and I'll do my damnedest."

The gnome of fury nods regretfully and gives you a bitchtits load of information and you just roll with it. It isn't very hard, but he looks like he has a lot of other issues to worry about and you're kite-flying your way through life with no worries, so you can't blame him. In fact, you like him. A lot. And you consider him a friend, even if he wants to rip your dick off and use it as a needle to play old vinyl records of love songs on the world's smoothest phonograph.

With a quarter of classtime left, you finish to his befuddlement. He looks over all of the answers and then stares back at you. "Holy shit, dude. I just . . . Wow."

You smile and nod once, taking the paper from his hand and walking the journey of a thousand miles to the front desk. You can feel kids, about half-and-half of juniors and seniors, staring at you as you hand Ms. Crocker the paper with a cheeky motion.

"Are you sure you're done, Gamzee?" she asks softly, reluctant to take the holy scripture from your decorated hand. "Is Karkat okay with this?"

"Yes!"

You turn around, as does everyone else, at your lab partner and laugh. "I guess he's okay with it, miss," you say, giving a sly wink to him, getting a sly finger in return.

"Oookay, then." She takes the paper and looks it over quickly, raises her eyebrows and nods, and then puts it in the Bio II folder for further looking-over when there isn't a load of grubby children surrounding her and haunting her dreams.

On your way back to your desk, you see a foot in the middle of the aisle. Yes, it is attached to a leg, and the leg is attached to a very mean-looking girl with light skin and blue eyeshadow and lipstick. She's kinda hot, actually. You tiptoe past said hot girl foot, much to her dismay and silent rage, and make it back to your seat safely. Karkat stares at you, mouth open just a little, and then looks back at meansexylady, and then back at you. "Dude," he exhales. "You managed to piss off Vriska by moving. New record."

You look up in her direction and she looks back at you in the middle of talking to a girl with short hair, green lipstick, and a very stylish outfit, and glares the glariest of glares. You wink at her and she bares her teeth like a rabid animal, the fashion lady turning and scoffing like she's the bee's knees or something. You gotta admit though, you'd hit it. Both of 'em.

You chuckle lightly and turn to VehicleFeline, wiggling your eyebrows in a motion similar to The Worm. "I think they dig me, bro," you say, tilting your head in their direction so they know you're talking about them.

"Doubt it, Frodo Teabaggins," he replies with a smirk. "They're kinda, hm, gay? Lezbehonest here, Gamzee. Even if they weren't, who'd want a loser like you?"

"I dunno, man. So far, I'm three pretty motherfucking important characters in the Lord of the Rings play-up. Who wouldn't want a motherfucker who can beat up orcs and get magic rings of the utmost miracle-making prowess?"

Your new friend snorts and smiles, actually fucking SMILES, and laughs quietly, covering his mouth with his hand. "Fuck, dude. I didn't know you actually read those books."

"And watched all the fucking movies, brother."

"Shiiiit."

As the day progresses, you find yourself feeling down. Like, straight-up sad. Two friends in such a short time. And you really don't want to lose them, however loose and forgettable these ties with you can be. You don't know if you're losing your high or if you really feel like shit over this, but either way . . . It sucks.

English goes by fast, the fastest of all of them so far. It's always been your favorite subject and you have a fondness for writing and a creativity that never ceases. Karkat is your partner in this class as well, and he tells you that he always requested to be alone because he hates these "cum-guzzling bonewhores" almost as much as he hates himself. He was in anger management for a while, passed it (somehow), but it's been a year and these kids just get dumber and dumber. The teachers acknowledged this, and his mentor in not losing one's shit recommended he be solo until he says otherwise. They also now acknowledge that even though he does have other friends, you're the only person he's willing to work with. Makes you feel all warm and fuzzballs inside, eh? Yeah, it does.

During lunch time, one can go off campus and you choose to get a ride to your place with Karkat. He doesn't mind driving you (at least, inside he doesn't, despite his flat-out rude protests), but his group of buddies notice his friendliness toward you and they gather around like African animals at a waterhole.

"Okay, okay, OKAY! Shut the FUCK up!" he yells, and you find it funny because he only comes up to just under your chest, and yet he's the most feisty person you've ever met. "His name is Gamzee Makara—YES THAT GAMZEE MAKARA, SHUT THE FUCK UP—and he's pretty smart and makes perfect fucking grades, and he's a little gay but that's okay because we're for equality and that shit doesn't have a price. Unlike your nose job, Aradia."

"H-hey! It was for medical reasons!"

Your chuckles turn to full-blown laughter and the group stares at you like you're a lunatic. Which, hey, you might be, but that's fine. It's all fine.

A girl slightly smaller than Karkat donning a hat with cat ears and a fake tail giggles against your stomach in a hug and says, "I like him very much! He's furrendly and funny."

Karkat sighs and pulls the girl off of you, to which both you and the girl frown and make sad puppy-kitty?-faces. "Alright, skidmarks," he says roughly. "Introduction time. The little cat one is Nepeta, that beefcake beside her is Equius (and he's only here because we like Nepeta and for some reason, she likes him but he's kinda a creepy cocknot and we don't really like him at all), the nerdy fuck is Sollux, nose job girl is his girlfriend and her name's Aradia, the princess-looking one is Feferi but she doesn't hang out with us all the time because her boyfriend, Eridan, is a controlling douche and we never hang out with him but he thinks he's better than us so whatever. The blind girl over there is Terezi (she smells things like a dog and it's fucking weird), and you already know Tavros. So, ta-fucking-da! Lemme give this nutsack a ride to his house and I'll get you all some food, too. What do you assbags want?"

As everyone begins shouting their orders from various restaurants (much to Karkat's displeasure), you walk over to Tavros and smile like a dolphin in heat. Because they do that now. "Hey, Tavbro! Long time, no see."

He smiles up at you in that cute insecure way of his. "Uh, hi, Gamzee. How's your day been s-so far?"

"It's been pretty motherfucking sweet. 'Bout to go to my house to get my chill on again, so it'll be even better."

"Your, uh, chill?"

It just occurs to you that not everyone partakes in the ritual that has saved your sorry ass, and not everyone approves and they might even hate you for it. And for some reason, you really don't want him to hate you. Stuck in your mental dilemma, you forget about everything else and obnoxiously clack your facial jewelry together in the world's most annoying symphony of surgical steel.

"Goddammit, Gamzee!" Karkat yells, unknowingly saving you from yourself. "Let's go to your place and get you stoned again so you quit fidgeting like someone with Tourette's." Oh, way to go and throw you back into the dilemma.

You look back at Tavros with fear and all the anxiety in the world and he looks back at you confused as ever. "Uh, yeah, bro. I get my chill on by smoking weed. I grow it myself and everything. Is that a problem?" Why the fuck do you care so much? You won't stop unless there's no more left in the world, anyway.

The little guy raises an eyebrow and asks, "Why would it be? It's, uh, not my life, and it would be wrong for me to tell you how to live yours. Haha, are you scared I'll, uh, judge you or something?"

You get a different kind of numb feeling and you feel like you want to cry with happiness and gratitude and fuck! You lean down and wrap your arms around his tiny body (which is actually pretty damn firm, huh) and take him up with you in the world's best motherfucking hug. He gasps at takeoff and pulls back at first, but he realizes you aren't gonna hurt him at all and manages to hug you back.

The girls "aw" and Karkat and Sollux don't judge and Equius doesn't really say much of anything. You put the kid down and smile at him. "Thanks, Tavbro. Do you partake?"

He plays with his fingers for a bit and says, "Uh, no, but it's just that, right? You're not seriously, um, seriously hurting yourself, right?"

You shudder and shake your head, memories of hospitals and bloodstains filling your mind. "Motherfuck no. I don't play that shit, bro."

Tavros smiles and laughs. "Okay, okay. Calm down . . . Bro."

The hash is as sweet as you remember and the first day of school can't be going any better than it is. Karkat's sitting on your bed, admiring the paintjob of deep purple and electric green splatter that you did yourself. You feel a twinge of embarrassment at not making the bed and not doing the laundry, but he doesn't seem to mind it. All the furniture in your room that is clearly big enough to be two rooms combined (and you even have a bedroom-sized bathroom, too) was made by you, a feat that impresses even sourcarpuss here. He doesn't take up on your offer of a hit or two, but doesn't seem to mind you doing it. You smoke in the bathroom, though, so he won't get unwanted smoke or stench on his person. He doesn't even mind you doing the laundry and even going so far as to wash your sheets, pillow cases, and blankets. You're suddenly very anal retentive and you don't know if it's because you want to impress or just be clean. You spray yourself down again with some fine man perfume and playfully spray some on Karkat, receiving a harsh smack to the face.

Only then does he really notice your scars. "Oh, um . . . Sor-"

"It's okay, bro. These wounds have been long healed. Won't cause this motherfucker no harm. Don't worry about it. Buy me some McDonald's, if you wanna make it up to me."

He rolls his eyes, but brings a hand up to your face. You sigh and tell him the whole story, about how your dad didn't like your face one day and threw the last piece of your mother at you. The mirror was a full body one, and you didn't think he was strong enough to lift it, but you didn't move even when he threw it because any touch by him felt, and feels, like love. No matter how rough.

"Wow, that's . . ."

"Dramatic?" You smile and chuckle a little, wrapping your arm over his shoulders. "I know, bro. Let's get going. I don't want to be all up and arriving late on day one."

"We're going to Popeye's, anyway, fuckass."

"Even. Fucking. Better."

The rest of the day was normal and fun. You and Tavros got to know each other better. You found out that he likes video games and roleplaying and Disney movies about fairies and never growing up and stuff. He was kind of a nerd. But it was endearing and, well, cute. You and Karkat teamed up in PE and threw giant red balls at everybody during the last ten minutes of class. It was fun. It was good for you. You forgot what friends were like. Karkat offered to drive you back home, but you declined, taking the bus instead. He looked somewhat disappointed, but that quickly changed when he had to drive everyone else home. You hugged him good-bye, and he instantly froze as if he'd been turned to stone.

"Thanks for being my bro, motherfucker," you said quietly, placing the side of your face atop of his.

He eased up a little and hugged you back in an awkward, nervous way. "Don't be so gay, dude."

You laughed and that was that. End of day one. You wondered what the rest of the year would be like. If you actually got to have it with them.

You take one last puff before calling it a night, wrapping yourself up in your freshly-cleaned everything.

"Please be there when I wake up. Don't make this all a motherfucking dream."

Der Clown wird seinen Sinn für Humor und Geist verlieren.

Er wird wissen, die harte Wahrheit.

Nicht alles kann lustig sein die ganze Zeit.