Note: Cross-posted from AO3 (works/9058354) and written for a 2016 Secret Santa exchange. The formatting, unfortunately, didn't transfer well here, but each in-story line break is supposed to be a HS-styled command arrow. The first is a jump backward in time, and the rest are jumps forward.
Rom-coms are your drug of choice. This is to everyone's surprise, including your own.
You've always been drawn to fossils and corpses, so perhaps it's only natural that your affinity for the deceased crossed over to the relics of the civilization you once called home. That which can be observed and speculated upon but not ultimately changed, what is it? Dead shit, that's what. That which involves a fuckton of dead shit? Earth, newly decided, and by extension its one hundred and seventy-three remaining rom-coms.
Maybe, in part, it's the tone that takes you; the humans interact with one another with endearing quirks, flirtatious smiles, and a positive attitude toward love, work, and life in general that so strongly conflicts with your own deterministic take on existence that it can only serve to fuel your curiosity. The trolls and Rose don't have that type of positivity, and John and Jade are gone, so you have to get it from somewhere, probably.
Or maybe you just want a way to connect to a society you were never a part of but still, somehow, miss. Because they're all there - still alive, damn it - connecting, touching, and talking with one another in a way that won't come to pass for you. (And, as Rose has shown after some wine, tears, and one too many glances at her old knitting needles, there are much worse ways to deal with the gnawing emptiness that entails.)
The common room is decked out in green banners, all velvet, torn up and stained by rainbow-colored bits of chalk. It's a kindergarten trainwreck, only crafted by teenagers, not kindergartners: the result, partly intentional, partly not, of a team-up between one fastidious and design-oriented troll and one decidedly neither. ("A party to celebrate our one and a half year anniversary," Rose had suggested. "Halfway there, halfway to go. It's not like there's much else to be excited about around here, so why not?")
Karkat lies contorted on a newly alchemized couch, legs propped over the right armrest and husktop on his chest. He's frowning and sort of baring his teeth, with one of his sharp nails picking at whatever the Alternian version of a DVD drive is.
You make a deliberate noise, and he freezes.
"You're here," he says, stupefied. And then he recovers: "I thought you weren't coming, after-"
"The party? What, no way, man. After we've solidified that we have such exquisite taste in common room decor? Look at this place. I could never let such downright delectable landmarks as Half a Green Banner no. 3, Dante's Infernal Purple and Yellow Ash Pile, and Holy Shit! It's a Red-ass Couch go unrecognized. Fuck, even Kanaya said the couch turned out nice, and you know she's supposedly some secret goddess of fabric and mundane interior design."
You brace for an instant retort and some choice over-exaggerated ranting about your stupid word choice. Or an abrupt subject change to the topic you know he really wants to chew you out on.
It doesn't come.
Karkat's eyes are still a little too wide and his brows a little too high. He's still in expression, oddly so, and he's examining you, picking you apart - the way he does his romance novels, maybe? Fuck, you hope not.
You sort of wish he would just -
"Don't look like such a sourpuss. You're the one who assumed I wouldn't be here."
His frown deepens. "Strider. I am trying to be the bigger man here by ignoring your last mind-numbingly transparent excuse to remove yourself from my clearly insufferable presence-"
What? No, no -
"And, oh, what was that excuse again? What was that ludicrous string of syllables that left a slathering of hoofbeast-droppings all over my thinkpan? Declaring Can Town in 'legislative distress' and in need of an 'emergency renovation' at ten-thirty at night-"
"Whoa, whoa, no. Okay." You lean against the red-ass couch mid-rant, and the jolt makes him both shut up and scramble to right himself before he falls. "Hold up. First off, whatever happened, it's not you. Have you been thinking it was your fault this whole time? God-damn. You know I don't have a problem calling you out on your troll BS. Just throw that thought away. Let that shit fly.
"And second," you continue before he can get a word in edgewise, "being a mayor is not a nine-to-five job, Karkat. It's a lifestyle, a commitment. If the city calls for assistance at ten-thirty at night, what sort of monster would I have to be to ignore it and let its citizens suffer? And what sort of ultra-monster would I have to be to leave the Mayor alone to deal with it?"
Karkat's characteristic 'I have 10 ways to respond to that and am currently getting a feel for the most vapid retort as we speak' look presents itself, but after a moment his eyes narrow and his mouth, after flickering to a subtle grimace, settles into a firm and neutral line.
He exhales, breathes in again, and looks down to the littered floor.
"The Mayor seems to need your help a lot lately."
You can't decide whether you're glad or angry he's not lashing out. Glad, because yeah, as much as you pretend otherwise, being insulted sort of sucks, particularly by someone you like, but angry because he should be pissed at you, and an underlying current of hatred is more comfortable than indecision, in a way. Easier to pass off.
Guilt wells within your chest.
"It's just-"
And you pause because you have nothing to say.
"Do you want to watch a movie?" Karkat asks bluntly.
It's a direct invitation to avoid scrounging up whatever it is that's been driving you away from him, even if you know he has questions to ask.
And you want to say something to stop the subject change and fix the problem, really, you do. But you don't have some grand excuse speech planned for this. You didn't even expect to talk to him today. You were just passing by after some exhausting party, doing fuck-all, as usual, and your self-control up and left when you saw him lying there on that couch and looking even half as out-of-it as you felt, and it just happened.
"...Yeah. 'Swhy I'm here, dude."
Karkat gives a shrug. "Fine then. Was there a film you had in mind? And I'm not watching that infuriating Dane Cook movie again, so you can shove it with that one."
You bring your hand to your chest and speak in deadpan. "Dane Cook's acting is the pinnacle of human filmography. A creative endeavor of the highest caliber that is worthy of respect and admiration." That better sound more convincing than it did in your head.
"Strider, the more you talk about that movie, the more I get the distinct feeling that you're fucking with me."
"Karkat, Karkat. Have you gained no perspective from our twenty-first viewing of Good Luck Chuck? If you continue to insist Dane Cook can't act, then troll Dane Cook - who is way worse - must have his very own particularly horrendous reputation, dedicated cultural hatebase and all."
"Human Dane Cook is passable," Karkat concedes, and crosses his arms. "Passable, but lacking. His lack of understanding and application of the romantic subtleties present in the quadrants does give a certain charm to the way he interacts with his co-star-"
"So you admit the movie's good."
"No. I'm saying there's a certain charm in the way he doesn't understand-" Karkat stops himself mid-sentence, as if realizing he was about to say something he didn't want to follow through on.
You grin. "Get the mother-fucking town herald up in here, everybody. Karkat has, after 547 days on Meteor Middle-of-nowhere, admitted that human filmography has highpoints that troll filmography does not."
You don't laugh, but you're smirking almost obnoxiously now, and Karkat, judging by the dirty look he's giving you, is not amused.
"You are infuriating. As is your entire species."
"Then why we watch something that my poor human mind can take in despite our oh, so wide cultural divide."
"Fine!" Karkat's shoulders finally, finally loosen all the way, and whatever form of awkwardness that was there before evaporates with the calm atmosphere, leaving only a familiar, prickly troll with the temper of an overcompensating chihuahua.
"May I suggest," he says, "An Auspitice Relationship Forms Between a High-blood and Two Low-bloods with the High-blood as the Auspice; This Unconventional Scenario Leads the Three to Agree to Keep It a Secret, but the Second Low-blood has Connections with the Best Friend of the High Blood's First–-"
"Nah," you say easily, touching his arm and taking the opportunity to move closer, to enjoy what has gradually become natural to you. "I'm talking something completely different. Genre-breaking, even. Or do you only have a hoard of rom-coms stashed and nothing else?"
"As in drama?" He looks cautious.
"Action, man. Or thriller. Preferably something intense and dead serious." Something with no window for sexual tension.
He makes an odd 'hm' noise. "It's possible I have a few from what I torrented from your planet. I've seen exactly one that you might classify as 'action', but for the record it was excruciatingly obnoxious. I'd sooner watch paint dry than spend further hours watching idiotic creatures with an inability to imagine scenarios and cosmological effects beyond that of their immediate social circle."
"Hello, Pot," you say, but of course he has no idea what you're talking about.
You choose a film unfamiliar to the both of you - some cult flick from the '70s that looks cool and stylish - and you remain quiet as Karkat slowly draws closer to you.
His hand is resting near your own, and the silence between you isn't as cutting as you thought it'd be.
It's right in the middle of a rom-com that you reach the inevitable conclusion, and all your fascination is gutted and skewered all at once as you desperately try to separate yourself from everything rom-coms have ever shown about your world.
It's four months after the dream bubble that brought you face-to-face with a dead version of yourself who barely entered the game. Four months after you drew a jarring contrast between a partially emaciated, stone-faced thirteen-year-old and your then-current self, wearing, thanks to Rose of all people, a god-damn flower in your hair and the aftereffects of laughter on your face.
Three months, after countless hours soul-searching, that you concluded that life on Meteor Middle-of-nowhere was doing you a lot better than life with your Bro ever did, even if the thought still nicks at you and makes you want to yell at nothing half the time.
One week after you fell asleep against Karkat's leg, waking to an unexpected pressure on your shoulder that, instead of filling you with cold panic and triggering an instantaneous reaction like it would have a year and a half ago, made you feel relaxed and drowsy. Protected.
(Not that you need to be protected, but damn does it feel sort of good to just have someone there looking out for you for no reason. Like when Rose checked in on you the day after the anniversary of your guardians' deaths just because she suspected her own fall in mood would be mirrored in you. Like how Kanaya decided not to use mushrooms during her day to cook last week because she had gleamed that you have an aversion to them.)
You're watching videos on your laptop with future movie sporkings in mind. Current focus: this asinine, barely-existent conflict in a generic rom-com about how there might not be a cake for one of the character's birthdays this year.
Thoughts of Bro, the meteor, and the first thirteen years of your life weave in and out of the fringes of your mind, just out of consideration.
Instead, you're thinking about how great it is that, much like the characters in the rom-com, you don't feel like shit for once, or if you do it's over bullshit cake and party conflicts and not something deadly.
The characters are in the middle of doing some cliched 'ohhh, do you like him or like-like him?' conversation concerning the birthday girl, the generic protagonist, and her coworker, the generic love interest, and the girl is getting flustered and point-blank refusing to answer increasingly provocative questions.
You create a list of preposterously inequivalent third-world problems to compare this situation to when you and Karkat inevitably end up watching this together.
(And if you purposely redirected the conversation whenever Rose and Vriska heckle you about Karkat, then well, that's not really the same thing, because unlike in the rom-com, there's nothing between you and him to talk about.)
The mysterious coworker arrives at the birthday girl's tragically cakeless party, and it takes three minutes for them to begin to flirt. The girl keeps shifting further from Mr. Coworker, trying to hide an embarrassing orange juice stain on her pants, and the guy keeps trying to close the distance between them, seemingly oblivious to the girl's juice fiasco.
It sort of reminds you of Karkat, actually, and that time when he tore his sweater by unceremoniously tripping against the lab alchemizer. He tried to hide it as you walked up, but you, having been near enough to see the fall, decided that that moment - and not a second beyond - was the ideal time for a discussion about the amazing fit and durability of god-tier pajamas.
Karkat's just a funny guy with that stuff, so of course you like to provoke him like that. When throwing a tantrum, he practically froths at the mouth. His teeth settle into that doofy, crooked overbite and his uneven nails tear into his black sweater. When he's happy, he lights up like a Christmas tree, and those weird-ass red tears of his build in his eyes, becoming overcome with so much emotion that he makes you wonder if you yourself have ever really felt anything of significance.
And your mind wanders between a mental picture of his unamused, flustered face to the screen, where the girl remains red-faced from her encounter with her love interest.
A cascade of recent memories plays out, then, all at once: time spent alone on the meteor; nighttime insomnia driving you and Karkat to run into one another repeatedly; time passing; an 11:30 PM Karkat claiming himself the victim of a fever-induced hallucination for willingly putting up with your late-night escapades; you, laughing, saying that damn, you better make sure he's alright, and touching his cheek because while of course he wasn't going to have a fever, it's funny to -
And it all clicks.
You caressed Karkat's fucking cheek.
You purposely dropped innuendos that made others suspicious of you two in the first place. You cuddle with him on the couch. You purposely try to get emotional rises from him and get him to be happy and relaxed around you. You touch him a lot and for no reason. (You caressed his cheek, holy shit.) There's a line between banter and flirting, and you're pretty sure caressing another guy's cheek is an action planted pretty firmly on the rainbow-colored side of that emotional pasture.
You stop focusing on the movie at all because you feel a sudden sickness.
You weren't even out-of-it enough to blame some level of ironic humor and detachment; it had been something you genuinely wanted to do.
Knock knock, it's Captain Fucking Obvious, come to break down your door and offer you these unequivocal truths: Vriska likes spiders, paradox space is vast, and you've been acting like a love-struck teenager for months and haven't even noticed.
You take all of two seconds to slam your laptop close.
Everything is stupid, and time doesn't exist right here, but if you wanted to play along with the idea that linear time did exist here, it'd be 3:44 PM local meteor time, and you have a movie night scheduled with Karkat in 5 hours and 21 minutes, and you just need a break to process this shit.
You need some time before barreling headlong into quadrant-yelling and innuendo-driven conversations with the usual company now that you know what it's been implying.
Does Karkat even know what it's been implying? Fuck.
You just need a moment of stagnation, and as much as that shit's your expertise, your no-time-travel vow is throwing a monkey wrench into your otherwise finely oiled Dave Strider problem-avoidance machine.
You open your laptop again.
turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 3:47 PM.
TG: gotta talk with rose can't make it today man
TG: see you later
Given your grasp on the subject, it's odd how quickly time turns one day into two weeks
In the end, it's not even a rom-com that causes you to finally lose it, making all your avoidance for naught.
You're holding the remote tightly because digging at your own arms in front of company would be weird and because Karkat has gradually moved against you. His left arm is pressing against your right, and that's important now: distracting in a way it hasn't been in a long, long time, and more meaningful now that you know there's a chance it's physical on purpose - on purpose even though he knows about your meandering, emotionally-distant personality, and even though you know about the insecurity behind his theatrical antics.
You're on the couch, the new red one, and the movie isn't in black and white, but it might as well be. It's got smooth jazz, hard-boiled detectives, and the general badassery that is inherently embodied by the smooth noir iconography of 1920s New York City. The phony transatlantic accents of half the cast color the film surreal, and the lights from the highly contrasting on-screen shots rebound against the remnants of Terezi's purple and yellow scalemate plushies in just the right way to set the stage for a multicolor breakdown.
The hero of the film is a family-man, trapped into utilizing his ace sleuthing powers for the Mafia.
The hero's not important.
Warning bells probably should have gone off the second you saw that second guy, the Mafia hitman who got just a little too close to the main character and touched him in ways that are just a little too friendly for a 1920s New York City gang, but it slipped you by. Possibly due to how accustomed you've become at those types of casual touches, possibly because those types of things play in the comedies you watch all the time, possibly both.
But they didn't go off, and when there is a literal beat-down of the character during the second act of the film that is directly caused by the hitman getting too close and vulnerable in his emotions for the hardened gang's comfort, you would almost prefer to have never lowered that guard at all.
The narrow alleyway setting makes the movie battle one of brute strength rather than strategy. There is simply no space for anything but chaos. One character slams a fist into the hitman's stomach, and another rounds back on him from behind, knocking over a trashcan that rings metallic when it crashes against an apartment window.
You lean back ever so slightly and close your eyes behind dark shades.
(Breath. Dude's emotional. It's the Mafia. That shit don't fit. It's not even directly stated the guy's gay. You're projecting. There's nothing there. Just fuck off and watch the movie.)
There is another cry from the screen.
And try as you might to counter it, your pulse quicken.
"Dave," says Karkat neutrally, "why are they beating him up?"
You say nothing. Karkat continues to watch the screen.
"Do they not realize it would be in their benefit to manipulate Craig's attempted matespritship with Jones to optimize their tactical leverage against the cops? This is supposedly their strongest hitman, and to take him out over a flushed crush is a bafflingly stupid-"
Your face goes blank and you zone out because, fuck, he sees it too. A cold sweat breaks out at how fast your heart is pumping, and this is completely ridiculous because you've seen this shit - this type of shit - a lot before, and it doesn't fucking mean anything, but -
But you see a part of yourself within the movie. A part that you've only recently become aware of and you don't fucking like.
(But that's wrong, isn't it? Up until two weeks ago, before you labeled it, it seemed to be just fine.)
It never applied to you. It still doesn't apply to you, this stupid situation. It's some stupid throwaway character from some stupid detective movie with some stupid, obnoxious hitman who's flamboyant and doesn't act anything like you at all -
You open your eyes, and though you feel your vision sway, you keep them open.
Two of Vriska's light-player coffee mugs, half-full of cheap prune juice and half full of what may or may not be some of Rose's wine, lie abandoned on the table, and if Rose's actions hadn't given you firm reason to avoid all alcohol for the rest of your life, you might be tempted to down one about now.
"Dave?" Karkat prompts.
He's looking at you in that intense examining way that you don't like again. Dread creeps up on you and you try to quash it down.
"Uh," you choke out, forcefully, to get him to look away, to get him to stop talking and leave you alone, "they're beating him up. Because. They don't like the way he. Acts."
Karkat doesn't even respond to your comment, eyes too locked on the fact that you're rigid and still and sweating and (just slightly) shaking. His mind is probably too locked on the fact that you are, for once in your god-damn life, not rambling on like a maniac, and that makes it even worse.
"Dave, are you okay?"
He puts a hand to your cheek, his nails lightly papping against your warm skin in what you know to be a troll soothing gesture.
Well, if that didn't just make it a fuckton weirder, you don't know what could.
You're still high on adrenaline, but you've never in your life willfully sobbed in front of someone else, let alone an alien troll, and you don't want to start now.
"Stop touching me."
He does.
The movie continues to play, and after a while your pulse returns to normal and you start to pay attention to the room again. Karkat sits inches away from your side, and by the time the credits roll and your awkward conversation has long died, the guilt of avoiding him, and not talking to him, and doing nothing about anything consumes you once more.
The silence between you this time is heavy, and it presses down on you.
Everything is really fucking stupid.
That movie was stupid.
Karkat's small and prickly and emotional and stupid. He's incredibly alien in every way.
But even now, you like sitting next to him.
Gingerly, you press your fingers against his hand and make a conscious effort to not notice his reaction, to not look in his eyes, to not make a big deal about anything.
You've been avoiding this for too long. Him for too long.
You don't want to talk about it.
You should.
You swallow to keep the aching feeling in your throat down.
"Do you want to watch a rom-com?"