Causalgia Chapter 3: Accursed Glasses

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Hours later, you find yourself laughing it up with your new bespectacled acquaintance over a beer or a dozen in a different, cleaner bar, and you don't remember how you got there. All you know is you're finally drunk enough to let go of a modicum of your rage and really look over the guy sitting next to you.

He's got brown hair that some might call plain, but looks warm to you, a long, elegant nose positioned over thin lips, and, unfortunately, you can't see his eyes from behind those ridiculous glasses, but you're positive they'd have a slight slant to them after you discover he's part-Japanese through your menial conversation. You want to see them though, and that leaves you irritated at the multi-colored frames hiding them.

"What's the fucking deal with those glasses?" you pry, hoping to get a glimpse of what lies behind them, "Are you color blind or what?"

"No, they're a distraction." he explains after downing the rest of his current glass, "My eyes freak people out sometimes."

You hesitate before reaching out and snatching the shades off his face, earning a protest and a grab for your hand, both of which you immediately ignore when you finally see what he was referring to.

They do indeed present a slight slant, but that's not even close to the strangest thing about them. One eye, the right, is a deep, bright blue, while its counterpart is brown edging on the oddity of red. They're disconcertingly enthralling, a pair of distracting, yet fitting shapes above his sharper cheekbones, and horribly attractive in combination with the rest of his facial attributes. So much so, in fact, that you don't even notice he's somehow gotten his ocular devices back from your clutches until he slides them back onto his face, effectively blocking your view of the rare mutation he harbors.

"See? They're weird." He states shortly, "I've been hiding them for as long as I can remember."

You try to steal those accursed glasses again, and he swats your hands away for a few moments before he gets a grip on your wrists, "Dude, what's your fucking problem? Didn't I already say that I didn't like them?"

You huff in frustration and snap back without thinking, "God, It's not like they're ugly or anything, cockmunch."

He kind of freezes, trying not to choke on his latest swallow of alcohol, "Huh?"

You roll your eyes and smack the side of his head, "They're fucking attractive, you moron. I'm not repeating myself again, so open your fucking ears."

"Oh. Oh. Uh, thanks man." He slumps against the counter and you desperately hope he's not a sad drunk, "Sorry, I'm not exactly accustomed to receiving compliments."

"Dude, calm down, it's not like I proposed to you or anything, geez…" you mumble, coloring slightly, to your chagrin, when he smiles, "And congrats on actually being able to put together a sentence with the words 'accustomed' and 'receiving' while this drunk."

He laughs, "Nah, my visions not blurring yet, I'm not far gone enough to be considered properly sauced." The bartender comes up and refills both of your glasses for what might be the fiftieth time and you both nod your thanks before he continues, "And clearly, you're not that drunk either, since you're actually participating in a decent conversation. Also, are you serious about my eyes?" He pushes out all these words in an extremely short amount of time as if he's afraid they'll burn him.

"Yeah, I guess not." You pause and consider his question, "Well, yeah, do I fucking look like the type to just throw words around like confetti?"

He gives a small grin that makes something in your chest flutter oddly, "I guess not."

Sollux:

After the short, short-tempered kid (that's practically what he is, nobody over 18 could have that much enthusiasm or energy) gets over his obsession with your eyes, your conversation drifts down the same vein of many similarly shallow ones, the same bland questions being asked, until Karkat eyes you suspiciously, well into the range between 'sort-of blazed' and 'barely bipedal', and asks you something you did not expect:

"Why the fuck are you still talking to me, anyways?"

You pause, glass at your lips, and blink, probably looking at least a little slow. It's not that you're slow; you're just thinking about so much more than that at the moment, like how the bags under his eyes make you worry that he's not getting nearly enough sleep, due to a number of possible variables, and how he seems to be practically hiding in his baggy, overly large clothing. There's also this weird kind of nagging feeling at the back of your mind that makes you feel like you're forgetting something important. He clears his throat and you snap your eyes back up to his and realize that you are indeed a bit slow tonight, though whether it's because of the alcohol you're both consuming or your companion himself, you're not sure.

"Why the fuck are you still talking to me?" you retort, not exactly used to such directness in words. You were raised in a family full of careful, cryptic people, leaving messages in between breaths and leaving legacies buried like treasure.

He shrugs, disarmed, and answers, "I was bored and you were more interesting than the sidewalk." He thinks for a moment and his eyes flick away for a modicum of time, then back, "I also kinda feel like I know you from somewhere. Do I?"

Ah. That nagging notion that's been bothering you since you set eyes on him desists and you're extremely glad for it, "Oh, okay, that's why I feel like I've met you before." He sighs in what you think is relief and continues in the same, much more interesting vein, "Now, the only question is where and when we met. Any ideas?" Now it's your turn to shrug, and the rest of your evening is spent discussing possible times and places to have met. By the time the lights of your favorite place flicker on and the collective sigh of the weekly inhabitants reaches the ceiling, your once-serious conversation has dissipated into an exchange of the worst jokes you know.

And that's the last thing you remember before you wake up in your penthouse suite with Karkat snoring into your shoulder.