The restaurant Dave chose is some sort of upscale pizza place, something you'd never believe would exist. Now that you're here, though, you've once again been proven wrong. Posh Pizzas is the unwelcome lovechild of an Olive Garden and a Pizza Hut, and everything about it makes you want to throw yourself off a cliff.
The first thing you have to say about the place is that the pizza man outside is bothersome. His pepperoni eyes stare at you with the intensity of a thousand dying suns, and his mushroom-toothed smile crawls under your skin, feeling like ants skittering all over your body. You're certain that he will haunt your dreams tonight, stalking you in the night, a fork and knife ready to extract revenge for all his consumed kin. According to the flowery text on the base, his name is Peppy Pepper.
Murderous pizza aside, you've overdressed. You're walking into a mid-tier pizza joint wearing a suit, a tie, and bearing a whole gallon of apple juice. To say the least, you're uncomfortable. To be perfectly frank, you feel like a massive toad at a tadpole convention.
By the time you're inside, you've attracted confused stares from at least a dozen troll and human patrons of the establishment. When Dave whistles to draw your attention, the number of eyes on you triples. Perhaps it even quadruples. You wouldn't know, and it's not as if you're counting.
"From the thousand-mile stare, I'm guessing you didn't like Peppy Pepper outside." Dave offers an apologetic smile.
You, still feeling out of place and confused, simply nod. "He's going to strangle me in my sleep with a length of layered cheese," you say, matter-of-factly. It's more than a dig at a hideous affront to mankind (in the form of molded plastic), it's also an honest statement. As senseless as it sounds, a small part of you truly believes that you're on a plastic pizza-man's hitlist.
"I eat here at least three times a week, and I'm not dead yet." Dave shrugs. With the delicacy of a rampaging bull, he pulls off his left earpiece. After a few moments of fiddling with impossibly tiny controls, he sticks it back on and, in a complete non-sequitur, offers you a menu.
Naturally, you take it.
Dave, being who he is, waits until you've opened it to point out the entirety of the sandwich menu. "Don't get any of those," he signs. He grimaces as he rubs his stomach, using a circular motion, with a claw-like hand. "Disgusting."
"I could have figured that out from your fucking obtuse commentary," you mumble.
"I'm just trying to be helpful," Dave whines.
Around now, a disinterested waitress greets you. She asks what you want to drink. You order some water, while Dave orders a lemon-lime soda. He doesn't bother signing; rather ineloquently, he simply jabs a finger at what he wants to order.
Then, the two of you are left to wallow in awkward silence.
After a while, you speak up. Figuring that being uncomfortable while conversing is better than feeling like a complete loser, sitting across from someone at a restaurant and not even trying to make small talk, you open the floodgates on your filter. The first stupid, intrusive, and inappropriate question to come out of your mouth is something you've been itching to ask Dave for a while. "Can you speak?"
Dave shakes his head. "I already told you. I never learned how to. I'm not interested in it, either."
"But you could if you wanted to?" you press.
He nods. "Since you're so interested, I know how to say one word." Here, Dave punctuates his sentence with a long pause. A knowing smile spreads across his face, and you can already tell this isn't going anywhere meaningful. A deep breath in. Then, in a surprisingly quiet voice, Dave mutters forth a single, monosyllabic word. "Shit."
"That's it!? You goddamned piece of—. What the fuck?"
"It's fun to say." Dave nods solemnly, as if he has dropped some of the deepest truths you've ever heard from a human being. Unfortunately for both him and you, he has not. He's simply cussed aloud. He holds his left hand in front of him, the index finger pointing upwards, and moves forwards, towards you. As it moves, the finger bends, forming the shape for "X". The literal translation would be "I ask you," but you take it to mean something more akin to a smartass statement such as, "Hey! You've been asking me rude questions. I'm going to ask you rude questions!"
"Hm?" You quirk your brow, raising the left higher than the right. "What?"
"You understand sign language. Why don't you use it?" A question is indicated by the furrowing of his brows. He folds his arms across his chest, signaling that he wants you to answer, and leans his head back a bit. "Huh?" He prods you further.
You have nothing more to offer than a shrug. "I don't know?" you grunt, scrambling for some sort of answer. Knowing Dave, he won't leave you alone until you come up with an acceptable response or a reasonable excuse. "I don't like all the fucking inflection. And those facial expression things are weird. It's also a human thing, so I end up jabbing myself with my claws."
"Just like John," Dave frowns. He rolls his eyes dramatically. Then, as if drawing the ire of the entire restaurant once wasn't enough, he does it again. "AH!" he exclaims, his sudden outburst causing you to jump. He points to you, then moves his hands—each with the index finger pointed inwards, towards one another—like feet pedaling a bicycle. As he does the latter motion, he puts the tip of his tongue between his teeth. "You sign lazily."
"Weren't we here to discuss a tattoo?" you practically yell, desperate for some sort of end to this nonsensical runaround.
Dave freezes.
The waitress arrives once more, and both of you place your orders.
Only after the waitress is gone does Dave continue. "This will be easier to explain in Pesterchum."
You nod.
- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] -
TG: the final design is finalized and i have a copy for you to take home with you
TG: but i won't actually be able to do it for another six months
CG: WELL, SHIT! IN THAT CASE, I COULD EASILY JUST DECIDE TO SAY "FUCK YOU, LOSER" AND CANCEL MY PLANS.
CG: WHAT'S WITH THE WAIT, ANYHOW?
TG: i am an amazingly popular dude. everyone wants me. artists want to be me.
TG: tattoo parlors fight tooth and fuckin nail to have me on their lineup of artists
Upon reading this explanation, you scoff. Nonetheless, you don't doubt it. If his tattoos are as good as his designs, you might even agree with such outlandish statements. He's got talent; that much is safe to say. On the other hand, you doubt tattoo places are actually clambering over one another to hire him. He's working at a relatively unknown place right now, and you can't exactly see him turning down bigger, busier, and higher-paying parlors to work for a place that just opened a year ago.
TG: don't scoff at me you rotten apple fucker i am skaia's premier tattoo artist
CG: REALLY? I'M TOO FUCKING HUNGRY TO QUESTION THIS OBVIOUS PILE OF STEAMING, ODIOUS BULLSHIT, SO I'LL AGREE. BEGUILE ME WITH YOUR VALIANT TALES OF USING AN ELECTRIC DEVICE TO REPEATEDLY STAB PIGMENT-LADEN NEEDLES INTO THE SKIN OF PAYING CONSUMERS OF ALL WALKS OF SKAIAN LIFE.
TG: you sure do type fast
Dave punctuates his statement with a laugh. You look up just in time to see a flash of his smile, and his stupidly perfect imperfect teeth.
For some reason—and a reason that that completely escapes any attempts you might have at a logical explanation—you want nothing more than to pap him on the cheek. You want to run your fingers through his hair, which looks damned soft, and inhale his stupid, lumberjack-hipster-tobacco-smoking-asshole scent. You want to know more about him, and, frankly, all of this terrifies you.
This isn't how the romance novels go. It's supposed to be that you meet the person, or troll, of your dreams. They sweep you off your feet and whisper sweet, protective incantations in your ear at night, their robes engulfing you, like swaddling, as you lay beside them in a magically summoned romantic windstorm. (Wait. No. That's the plot of the original Wizards in Heat: The Fuckening.)
Dave whistles, bringing the careening train wreck of your mind to a screeching halt. You look at the phone, which now bears a new message. it peers at you. The angry, red text.
TG: earth to karkat they've delivered dinner and you still haven't responded
TG: i'm giving you a copy of the design and you can keep it to make sure you're okay with it being permanently branded onto your weird grey troll skin for the rest of forever
Abandoning Pesterchum, you respond aloud. "How generous of you, to provide me a copy of the design I'll be paying you to put on my body. Perhaps, just to spite your vile, over-hyped douchebag personality, I'll get it tattooed on my ass."
Dave smirks. He licks his lips seductively and winks at you before sending his response.
TG: maybe i think that's hot
TG: you don't know my kinks you don't know me
"If that's a kink, then I will have to politely decline anything that involves you getting near any part of me with a needle," you mutter. You know he's not being serious, though you find yourself deriving pleasure from playing along with his charade.
Judging by the smile on his face, he also gets some sort of sick kick from it.
Thus, even as dinner is served, you continue in this manner. Back and forth bantering and pestering. You say something stupid, and he one-ups you. Thus, you must reciprocate his absolute batshit fuckery with some sort of bullshit of your own. This creates a seemingly endless cycle of bullshit, and, against all reason, you find it enjoyable. In fact you find that you're having fun. By the time the night is over, you've laughed more than you believe you have in the past two years.
And, while you can't speak for Dave, you have a hunch that he also enjoyed himself. At the very least, he was distracted. That much is made obvious when your phone rings at 11:59 pm, its screen displaying a simple message.
TG: shit i never stopped pestering you god fuckin dammit fuck shit damn
TG: later loser
- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] -
