It's been three days since Karkat went outside. He spent two days throwing up, and now a wracking cough has settled deep in his lungs. The cold air hurts his sore throat, and the smoke that lingers in the air burns. He feels a little better as the day goes on, so he decides it's time to head to his beloved library.

The night air is crisp and cool, the most recent cold snap a fading memory, although no one would call it warm. He pulls a scarf on, keeping his eyes on the paving stones. He's almost at the library when a half remembered voice says, "Hey. Got a light?"

He isn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't that.

Or maybe it was, because he pulls a lighter from his pocket, almost mesmerized by the motion. "Yeah," he croaks from behind the scarf, offering it to the blond guy, who leans down with casual grace and deftly lights the cigarette, the tip glowing red in the night.

"You haven't been around for a couple days."

The comment is so unexpected Karkat doesn't know how to reply. Has the guy been stalking him or something? "Fuck, man. I was sick," he manages after a minute. "How did you know? You fucking stalking me?"

The guy takes a long drag on his cigarette. "Strider," he says after a minute.

"…What?"

"Dave Strider." He sucks on the cigarette again, white smoke curling up from his mouth as he breathes into the chill night.

It takes Karkat a moment to remember he has a voice. Once he does, he introduces himself.

"Thanks for the light, Vantas," Dave says, turning back to his group that surround the oil drum.

The conversation is clearly over, and Karkat spends the rest of the night wondering what he should have said next.