"Of all the insufferably idiotic and just plain stupid ideas you've ever had, Dirk Strider, this one just takes the fucking cake!"
"Karkat-"
"I don't even know what you're planning, but guess fucking what! I don't have to! I can already tell it's fucking stupid!"
"Karkat-"
"You know what I woke up thinking this morning? I woke up thinking 'hey, it would be really fucking great if my piece of shit boyfriend and my piece of shit best friend teamed up to handcuff and blindfold me and then stick me in my piece of shit boyfriend's piece of shit truck!'"
"Vantas, listen-"
"When you finally let me out of these, I am going to gut you, Strider. Do you hear me? I'm going to slit your belly, feed you your own pathetic excuse for a heart, and then strangle you with your small intestine!"
"…"
"Oh, what, now you've got nothing to say? That fucking figures. Just you wait until I get my hands on you, you goddamn fuckass bitch!"
"Karkat."
"What?!"
Dirk shuts the engine off, killing his shitty music along with it. "We're here."
"Great. Fantastic. Get these stupid cuffs off so I can murder your sorry, ungrateful ass."
"Ungrateful? That's harsh. Why you gotta be like that, baby?"
Any response you might cook up-and there are many-is thwarted by the slamming of the car door. Blind and unable to move to reach the door, you fume in silence, imagining a variety of creative ways to make sure Dirk's body is never found. It kills you to be waiting on him to let you out, but you grit your teeth-yelling about it now would be pointless-and try to count the seconds. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Forty, Jesus Christ, what the fuck is Dirk doing?
"Dirk?"
Silence.
"Strider, this isn't a fucking joke."
More silence.
"DIRK, LET ME OUT OR I'LL CASTRATE YOU, I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL."
"No, you won't," and his voice is way too close, tickling your ear, does he have to move so quietly, and how the fucking hell did he get the door open without you noticing? "You love my dick, and you know it."
You grumble in response and try hard to ignore the heat you can feel in your cheeks, but it's too late. The smug bastard knows he won, the low chuckle by your head confirming those fears.
"Just get me out of here, you jackass. Your car smells like a foot had rough sex with week-old roadkill and then vomited."
"Again, harsh." You feel him lean over you and hear the click of the seatbelt releasing a second later. He presses a kiss to your cheek before you can squirm away. "You're lucky I love you so much, or I might just leave you here for being so damn rude all the time."
"I wouldn't have to be rude all the time if people weren't such fucking morons all the time."
"Touché. I'm gonna take the cuffs off, okay? Don't run away."
You start to ask why the fuck you would run away, and then the blindfold comes off and you actually do have to fight every instinct you have to stay put, though probably not for the reasons Dirk thinks. You're up the mountain about halfway, standing in the middle of a flat spot known locally as Lovers' Leap. The rock extends high above you and out, creating a natural ceiling, and the view is absolutely breathtaking. If you're into that sort of thing, and you definitely are, this is the romantic spot.
The location is not the problem.
The problem is that several feet in front of you there is a candlelit dinner set up. A white tablecloth, a bottle of wine, a centerpiece of roses, real goddamn candles, the whole fucking nine yards. Dirk climbs back into his truck and fiddles with something, and when he comes back out soft classical music floats into the air after him. It's incredibly cheesy and supremely romantic, and that is why it takes all you have not to run.
Because as much as you love romance, as many paper-back novels you read or romcoms you watch, you are utterly and hopelessly incompetent at being romantic yourself.
For once, you're silent. You know anything you say will ruin this. Anything you do will fuck it right up the ass and Dirk will never forgive you. He asks what you think of it and your mouth works up and down like a brain-dead fish's. Apparently he takes that as a good sign, judging by the way he nuzzles your cheek-sometimes you think he must have been a fucking cat in another life-and with a hand at the small of your back he guides you forward. You blush like a schoolgirl when he pulls a chair out for you and sit with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. He spreads his arms wide and raises his eyebrows.
"So?"
You force yourself to choke out an answer, though what comes out isn't what you were hoping for. "Why?"
His arms fall to his sides, but his expression doesn't change. "You told me last week that I'm too predictable. Video game dates aren't cuttin' it for you anymore. So I figured I'd switch things up, treat you to a nice dinner and a sweet view." He lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck, something he only does when he's nervous, and shrugs. "I know I'm not the greatest at all that typical couple shit. I thought this might make up for it a little."
Something warm and fuzzy lodges uncomfortably in your chest, and you really think it might be love, and that scares you to death. "I never said you weren't a great boyfriend, dumbass. It's just a testament to your low intelligence that you'd ever think something like that."
You stop there, partly because you know if you keep going you'll end up in a battle of wits that Dirk will win because holy fuck that guy is a genius, but mostly because you really, really fucking appreciate this whole thing and you want to let him know. Too bad you're total shit at expressing positive emotions.
"Are you going to pour the wine or not?" you end up saying. "Maybe if you get me drunk enough I'll tell you that this is really sweet of you and that I really appreciate it." He's grinning and you're blushing again, so you look away and scowl. "But I wouldn't count on it."
He leans across the table for the bottle, brushing his fingertips along your jaw as he goes. On a normal day, you might've tried to take a bite out of his hand, but instead you just kind of…smile. God, you are a sap. The sappiest fuck who ever did sap, that's you. You're distracted from your stupid thoughts by the sound of a cork popping free. Dirk pours the wine like he would a bottle of soda-carelessly, sloshing a little onto the table, and filling the glasses too high-and it reminds you that he's nervous, Dirk too-cool-for-school Strider is nervous, and he's nervous about what you think, and you think you're going to die. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you use the valuable energy such a gesture would have wasted to toss back half your drink.
"Hey." Dirk's face is suddenly right in front of yours, and you gulp. You can see how fucking nervous you look in the reflection of his stupid shades before he kisses you. "Relax, kitty. It's just dinner."
"Yeah," you concede, releasing a breath. "Okay."
He kisses you again, sweet and slow and tasting of chapstick, and you rethink your plan to get tipsy on wine because the last thing you need to do is tear his clothes off in the middle of the woods, but you swear to god you'll do it if he gives you the chance. He pulls away and lifts his glass.
"To us," he toasts with a teasing smile.
Your roll your eyes as hard as you can but hold your glass up nonetheless. "To us," you repeat, only somewhat sarcastically, and you both drink after clinking the glasses together.
You wonder briefly where he got the time to set all this up and where he even got the dishes from in the first place. You know for a fact he only owns paper plates and plastic cups. He always has had connections, though. If he can procure last-minute tickets to see some underground band that you've never fucking heard of, he can find a couple of plates to borrow for an evening.
Dirk swallows another mouthful of fermented grape juice and brings his lips to yours again. This time he tastes like wine, sweet and heady, and it makes your head spin. Your fingers manage to find their way up under his shirt, but he pulls away before either of you get too into it. Your whine of protest sticks in your throat-you are not going to be the needy one tonight, you fucking refuse-but you don't manage to corral your pout in time. Dirk's hand rests against your cheek and he brushes his thumb along that traitor lip.
"Patience," he admonishes. You try to look bored. "I don't know about you, but I'm starvin'."
With a flourish, he removes the covers from your plates, and you just about fall out of your god damn chair. Spaghetti. It's spaghetti, for fuck's sake, with garlic bread and all. It's perfect. Dirk might as well have hired a movie director to set this up. Tell your mother you love her and call the funeral home because you are fucking dead.
And then he ruins it.
"So there's a teeny, tiny, little problem," he says as he sits, conversationally as if discussing the fucking weather. "It didn't exactly occur to me that cutlery would be needed, so we don't have any."
"Are you fucking serious."
"Yeah, but it's cool."
You throw your hands up. "Oh, god, this should be good. I am fucking excited to hear what sort of 'smooth recovery' you have planned for this. Go on, Strider, blow my mind."
Dirk just laughs, the infuriating fucker. "I got this tablecloth from the thrift shop for two bucks, it's like the world's biggest napkin. We can just eat with our hands, it'll be great."
"I bet you don't even realize how disgusting that is, and you know why? It's because you're a disgusting person."
"I am not a disgustin' person," Dirk argues, and then he drops his face down into his plate.
You are in shock; you cannot fucking believe what you are seeing. Sauce flies into the air in a graceful arc, spotting his immaculate blonde hair with little bits of tomato, splattering the tablecloth like the most dramatic of cinematic blood sprays, and it would almost be poetry if it wasn't Dirk's fucking face in a plate full of spaghetti. You make a disgruntled noise and shove away from the table, barely escaping the splash zone-correction, there is sauce on your brand new high-tops and Strider is fucking dead. Before you can stop yourself, you toss your drink in his face in retaliation. You are the epitome of maturity and this could not possibly get any more like a romcom if you tried. Every possible cliché has been hit upon. There simply are no more.
Dirk takes it in stride, and you hate yourself for making that pun. He laughs, purple liquid dripping from his chin, and leans across the table, reaching for you. "Sorry, sorry. C'mere, let me fix it."
You can only assume that he means to kiss it better, which is stupid, but you're just glad he's not mad that you drenched him in hopefully cheap wine. Keeping that firmly in mind, you lift your ass out of the chair and lean forward to accept his affections.
In hindsight you really should have expected it.
Dirk has never laughed so hard in front of you before, cackling in his seat as you cough and sputter and bury your face in the tablecloth to wipe off the sauce covering your face. There is an imprint in the mush that passes for spaghetti on your plate that vaguely resembles the shape of your face and…well…fuck if you aren't laughing your ass off.
"You piece of shit!" you yell, wiping sauce from your cheeks and flinging it across the table. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"
"A lot, babe. Just so much." Dirk slumps back against his chair, wiping what you think might be an actual tear from his eye.
As your laughter dies down, and his as well, the mood seems to shift to something…something. You're not really sure what it is. Something sweeter? More serious, at least, you know that for sure. Dirk leans his elbow on the table, chin in the palm of his hand, and gives you a soft smile, one side of his mouth quirking up just how you like it. Just how he knows you like it. For a change of pace you smile back, a genuine smile and not one of your awkward grins or sarcastic show of teeth.
"Hey," Dirk says quietly, and you lean forward, tilting your head in question. "I like you a lot."
"I like you a lot, too," you reply, feeling something tight in your chest as the meaning of that phrase seems to change in the candlelight. "Even if you're an asshole," you mutter. Can't have too much sap in one day, you have a reputation to keep up.
"Good to know." Dirk reaches across the table to ruffle your hair. "Come here, I wanna show you somethin'."
You take his offered hand and stand, rubbing the corner of the tablecloth over your face one last time just in case you missed any sauce. He leads you back over to his truck and climbs up into the bed. Bemused, you follow, and you were wrong, there was another cliché to hit and here it is: a lovely nest of blankets and pillows covering the bottom of the truck bed. Dirk flops down and gets comfortable, wriggling around in the blankets until only his face is exposed.
"Care to join me?" he asks, freeing a hand to push his shades up, his hair sticking up in hilarious directions. Of course you care to join him, sliding yourself in between the blankets and up against his side. He closes the cocoon around you both and sighs contentedly. "I just figured, stars and shit, that's romantic, right?"
He's trying so hard and you love hi—it so much, and you really just can't say a word. You nod into his shoulder, watching the stars flicker above you. Sollux would be quick to point out that the flickering ones are actually planets, but Sollux can kiss your ass right now. You're so very and completely happy to be a fucking romantic right now.
You aren't sure when you fall asleep. Can anyone blame you, really? You're warm, comfortable, safe in the arms of your boyfriend and feeling that stupid emotion that you refuse to name. Of course you fall asleep. But that doesn't stop you from being annoyed with yourself when Dirk nudges you awake and you realize you missed it.
"It's late, kitty, wanna get home?"
You mumble something vaguely affirmative and force yourself to sit up, rubbing the back of your hand across your eyes. Dirk hops out of the truck and you follow suit, dragging a blanket behind you. You lean up against the door and watch him scamper around in that impossibly fast way of his, folding up chairs and blowing out candles.
"Hey, Karkat!" His voice wakes you up a bit more and you blearily focus your eyes on him.
"What, fuckass?"
Dirk grins at the insult—term of endearment?—and gestures at the table. "Watch this! I bet I can yank the tablecloth off without moving any of the plates and shit."
You roll your eyes. "Amaze me."
It comes as a surprise to no one when every single glass dish hits the ground, and it's a long, long time before either of you can breathe again.