Disclaimer: Don't own Homestuck, never will. :(
Sweet Tea
Your name is Tavros Nitram, and you are busy cursing the entire East Coast. Hailing from North Carolina, you never really wrapped your brain around what it meant when you decided to go to school up here. But the weather is a strict teacher, and you its unwilling, if not fast learning pupil. Though it seems to have pulled a fast one on you today as winds both fast and ice cold dodge the warmth of your many layers to goose your skin and make the edges of your stumps sing with pain.
Today though, even the wind can't really dampen your mood as you clutch the prize wrapped against your chest: an entire gallon of sweet tea. You barely contain a squee of joy as you round the next block and make your way to the door of your apartment, fumbling slightly with the keys while barely holding on to your precious beverage.
You make it inside post-haste, shoving the door against the gale outside. Inside it's dead silent, neither your roommate nor his brother being home at the moment. You smirk in glee. Perfect. You make a beeline for the kitchen, and place your prize on the counter. A quick stop to the cabinet for a glass, the freezer for ice, and your masterpiece is almost complete. Now comes the most important part. Uncapping the jug with a quick snap, you stop a second to breathe in its warm, sunshiny aroma. Memories start to flood in, but you hold them at bay, pouring the tea into your glass carefully watching it flow. Perfect. You cap the jug and abscond to your room, locking the door behind you.
Slumping into your desk chair, you spin around a few times, feeling a bit like a Bond villain as your chair makes a perfect stop. You spin back around and log on to your computer, pausing to finally take a sip of your prized drink. Ah, bliss. Now the memories return and you let them: lazy weekend mornings watching the sun slant through windows, catching crawdads in the creek by your house, chasing fireflies at night, camping in your backyard with friends, a glimpse of messy curls and a sheepish smile- that last memory jolts you back to reality. You don't even have to open your eyes to know you're blushing like an idiot. Gamzee Makara. You glance at your screen and flinch. Your screensaver is filled with pictures of the two of you, with parents and friends and family and each other.
The last picture you see before you start typing up your paper for Vertebrate Biology is from the summer before you started school. Gamzee, his brother Kurloz, and you, arms around each other and grinning like fools. You wince as you take another sip of tea and the feelings resurface. You met when you and Gamzee were 6, Kurloz, 9. His family moved from Louisiana to your close-knit small Northern Carolina town and quickly became the subject of much gossip and derision, for a family that was possibly into voodoo, devil worship, and ritual sacrifice was much more ripe for gossip than a family that had a child that was born without legs. Your parents were relieved. You were just hoping to make some friends for a change. And surprisingly, you did. You and Gamzee Makara became thick as thieves around the neighborhood, with even Kurloz joining in from time to time, when he could stand to be seen with "babies" like you and his brother.
Not that your friendship didn't come with its fair share of trouble. Like the time the bullies from your elementary school threw your legs into a dumpster, or the time they beat Gamzee up during recess, or spray painted curse words on his dad's car. But the worst by far is when a bunch of high school kids made Kurloz french kiss a gator they'd found, and the gator bit off part of his tongue. It was eventually reattached, but Kurloz still spoke with a bit of a slur, when he even spoke at all, that was.
And now you had these…feelings for the youngest Makara. Feelings that made you both elated and flushed and seriously uncomfortable. Not that Gamzee wasn't…flexible in his choice of partners. He had dated guys before, but dating your supposed "best bro for life" was another thing entirely. And he was a million miles away, away from curly, nag-champa scented locks and dusky, perpetually tanned skin, and stupid infectious grins, and…DAMMIT! Fuck this, fuck memories, and FUCK GAMZEE MAKARA.
And with that last unruly, wildly unexpected thought, you resigned yourself to powering through the last bits of your paper until a chorus of voices yelling meant your roommates were calling you to dinner. And the only hint of your previous reminiscing was an empty glass and the taste of sweet tea in your mouth.