Your name is Karkat Vantas, and there's a thousand and one places you'd rather be than standing in front of your parents and frantically religious half-brother in a parking lot outside of a church. Kankri gesticulates wildly as he speaks, monopolizing the conversation like an Italian priest giving a college lecture. At least you don't have to listen to this shit, you remind yourself, swiping your thumb over the volume control of your no-name knockoff mp3 player.
Kankri's voice becomes a distant rumble of gibberish as music replaces the space, filling your ears with a catchy tune and pained, emotional lyrics. It doesn't make any sense that when your own mother doesn't understand you, My Chemical Romance is there for you, filling the void and telling you it's okay to not be okay. Simple Plan cycles through shuffle next, and the song "Shut Up," could not be more appropriate for a montage of your life leading up this moment if you'd written the lyrics yourself.
Enamored with analyzing which parts of your life would flash dramatically before the audience and match the given tone and lyric perfectly, you don't see Kankri's hand coming towards you until it's too late. You cry out in complaint as Kankri rips the earbuds from your ears by the wire. You catch his wrist in your hand as he retracts it, startled by how much lighter his skin is compared to yours, three shades at least. Are you really even half-brothers?
A smile splits Kankri's face as he breaks free from your grasp, arms outstretched above his head as if reaching toward heaven itself. "Praise be the lord!" he shouts exuberantly. He grins down at you and you're infuriated by the height disparity. "Brother o' mine," he adds, sickly sweet.
"Go to hell," you tell him, unsmiling as you stare into his eyes. Fuck his hazel eyes that almost look green when they glitter under the sunlight. They might as well be baby blue. Where the hell are the chromosomes from your shared Dad, exactly?
"Language," your Dad mutters with a sidelong glance in your direction.
Kankri's mother looks horrified and your father equal shades awkward and uncomfortable. You can practically hear the excuse for your behavior forming in his head from here. Your brother is quick to pacify the situation with another movement that intrudes too much into your personal space. His fingers tighten around your shoulders.
"My most sincere apologies Karkat," Kankri says, eyes bearing into your own. There's something there you don't quite trust. "I made an unfair assumption regarding your lifestyle. Would a secular approach be less offensive to your sensibilities?"
You'd scoff if you didn't think it'd make you exactly like him. "I'm not secular and you don't give a shit about my sensibilities," you snarl with as much venom as your newly dropped voicebox can manage.
"Thank the Lord for miracles," Kankri says with too much excitement. "Which religious path do you seek, little brother?" he asks with unfeigned interest.
You shove his arms off you and smirk. "I'm a satanist," you say, grinning for the first time today.
When Kankri manages to save face, unperturbed, you want to scream. "Are you certain, Karkat? Experimentation during our youth is a perfectly normal behavior, but cults-not to suggest that is what you're involved in-can be extremely dangerous-"
You cut him off before he can attempt to convince you. "I've accepted Satan into my heart as my savior," you say solemnly.
Kankri sucks in a breath and the four of you spend several moments shifting weight and avoiding eye contact. "I now understand the gravity of this situation," Kankri announces. "I'm glad you asked for my help."
Confusion contorts in your brain as Kankri wraps his hand around your wrist and begins tugging you in the direction of the church. Your father passes him a suitcase that looks alarmingly familiar. It's all black but there are some faded white spots from a day when your school bus was late and you decided to get creative with a bottle of white-out. Before he turns away entirely you can see the guilt etched into his face.
"Dad?" you ask, and holy fucksucking little lord jesus, your voice cracks, making you sound infinitely more like a pathetic child being dropped off for his first day of kindergarten. Or Simba, cirqa Mufasa's death. You don't want to think much about either.
"It's just for seven days," your Dad says without looking at you. "We figured it'd be a good experience for you," he adds halfheartedly. You know your mother's words when you hear them. That crafty son of a bitch.
"I know what this is really about!" you shout, feelings bubbling in your gut.
You can go from zero to sixty in mere seconds, and you're already finding it difficult to breathe. You're beginning to inhale with shuddery breaths that wrack your rib cage and push you that much closer to producing actual tears.
"This isn't a punishment," your father tells you. If that's the case, then why does it feel so much like one? You open your mouth to speak but close it when your father continues. "And it isn't up for discussion."
Hands balled into fists, you resign. You're fourteen years old and you still aren't permitted to have an ounce of control of your personal life. Why do you even bother?
"Fine," you mutter, finally allowing your chest to fully expand. "Where's the bus?" you spit. No one bothers to correct you except for your brother. He squeezes your hand and smiles down at you.
"The bus won't be here for another hour," he explains, voice giddy with excitement. "But the opening ceremony started just a few minutes ago."
Your eyebrow twitches; Kankri's mother looks distantly hopeful; your father, helplessly apologetic. You can not believe the heavy, steamy, just freshly plopped pile of bullshit your life is steadily becoming. Kankri pulls you towards the church as you drag your feet, already wary of the increasingly close chorus of voices singing about the wonders of christianity.
The last time you were in a church was when you were baptized, supposedly. As the two of you approach the oversized wooden doors your heart stutters and then stalls like a broken locomotive. It sounds worse than a Disney sing-along in there and you're going to come waltzing in wearing a black Him t-shirt with a pentagram on it. It'd be funny in an ironic sort of way if you didn't already know what bullying your fellow peers are capable of.
Just as Kankri reaches towards the door handle, fear grips you. You can already hear your father starting up the car.
"Wait," you manage.
To his credit, Kankri stops immediately, hand still hovering in the air. His eyes are trained on you and you find great difficulty trying to gauge what he's thinking; whether he's entirely unsympathetic to your plight or still willing to offer you some form of small mercy.
"What is it, little brother?"
You can't stand the way he tacks that title onto the end of his sentences when he talks to you, like either of you need a constant reminder about how you share some of the same DNA. You grit your teeth.
"I can't go in," you tell him.
Your brother quirks an eyebrow. "You're scared," he says as the realization dawns on him. His eyes are suddenly full of so much sensitivity and empathy or whateverthefuck that it's disgusting.
"Why the hell would I be scared of a bunch of close-minded, bible-thumping, jesus worshiping pansies?"
You sniffle and wipe at your nose with your hand. These humid summer days are murder for your allergies. A moment passes where neither of you say anything. The noise coming from inside becomes that much more clear.
"That repulsive shitrumpus barely passes for singing," you tell him with a scowl.
Not that you believe in god, but if you did, you're certain he'd be offended by that blasphemous racket. Not that you care either way. You have to admit your mild surprise when your brother doesn't snap back with diatribe dissecting the faults in your psychology and listing the various ways in which you've offended nearly everybody.
"Isn't it about time you leave me alone to die?" you ask dryly.
You're already enough of a misfit without your older, religiously devout brother escorting you inside and attempting to help you make friends. It's like your first day of kindergarten all over again, but with less apple juice.
Kankri opens the door before you're really ready. "Don't be silly," he says with a laugh. It would be infectious if not for what comes next. "I'm one of the counselors."
Noise floods the sunlight as the towering doors open completely. It's definitely just as bad as it looks.
"Praise be the Lord," repeats your brother as he drags you inside.
You've never praised a single deity less.