Streetstuck Two: Why the Hell Am I Still Doing This Edition
So apparently this is a whole universe now lolwhoops. I think I'll do something with Dave and Terezi next, there's not enough of them in this part.
Title: Romance, East of the River
Fandom: MSPA (Homestuck)
Pairing: John/Karkat
Rating: M
Warnings: Prostitution, underage drinking bluh bluh previous warnings still apply. Except not in this chapter what am I even doing anymore you guys
Summary: John and Karkat have a date. It is exactly as awkward as can be expected.
~~~
April is the worst month, when the world can't decide if it wants to be cloudy or if it wants to shine, weak sunlight glinting off hubcaps and puddles of glistening rainbow turpentine in the street, off water that drip, drip, drips from the gutters and the ceiling, off brass knuckles and new plasma television sets passed out broken windows by clawed hands to a laughtrack of hyena cackling. May isn't better, when the rain really starts in earnest and the storm clouds hang thick as rolled cotton in the air, ominous and lingering, purple thunderheads spreading sick across the sky turning the air itself the color of a bruise on pale and pallid human skin-- and then it will be summer. Summer is the worst, hot and sticky and there's no air conditioning in your building and you sweat so much but it doesn't carry off the shame; you can't sweat out the hatred and the general malaise and sometimes you think you're going crazy, always did even when you were little and thought you knew better, thought you had the world figured out and locked up safe. Even then it was all red like the lights at the street corners and your blood and the damn oily lipstick you apply each night without fail, red behind your eyes and under your skin and burning boiling until you raked your claws down your arms just to let it out.
Summer.
But now it's April, the worst month, and you have a dollar twenty-five in small change in your pocket for the laundromat later and a phone call now, because your nerves have been eating you alive and this is stupid and your heart is beating like you're going through catastrophic withdrawal and about to collapse, one hand deep in your pocket jangling and feeling up the coins as you walk, making sure it's all there, enough for a short call at least. Two quarters, a nickel, six dimes and ten pennies exactly, plus three bus tokens and a Sacajawea dollar that no vending machine within a twelve block radius will be persuaded to accept. The pay phone is out in front of the local pharmacy, hanging off the hook due to carelessness or gross negligence, and the first of the quarters and two of the dimes go clink, clink as you push them through the slot with shaking, skin-cracked fingers. Then you cradle the receiver between your cheek and your shoulder, holding it in place as you roll up your shirt sleeve, holding your arm out before you.
"Hey!" Fuck. Ignore her, she'll go away. "Hey, Vantas!" Go away, go away, go away. "I know you can hear me, I can smell your waffling from over here. It's pathetic. Also: shower before coming outside next time, you smell like a whorehouse."
Or maybe she won't. Rolling your eyes, you slam the phone back down and turn to deal with her, ignoring the sound of your change being regurgitated back out of the machine behind you. "The fuck are you doing out here anyway, Pyrope?" you demand, crossing your arms over your chest and giving her your best scowl, which is, you remember, entirely lost on a blind girl. Fuck but you're an idiot. "Shouldn't you be off terrorizing small children or tying woofbeasts to bottle rockets or something?"
She cackles back at you, but there's an edge to it, hard and sharp but muffled by silk, waiting to lash out and cut you. "Maybe I just wanted to see your pretty face, huh?"
"Yeah, whatever. You looking for Gamzee? I think he's hanging out at River and Main today. Special sale on sopor, not that that'll do Strider any good."
Her face twitches, as though she's unsure whether to be angry or amused, and then breaks out in a predatory grin, all teeth and malice and heady spite. "I'm not his drug runner."
You snort derisively, returning to your deposited coins and the prospect of your phone call. The number on your arm is faded now, nearly washed away despite several reapplications that you didn't worry about because there was no need to cover something that no one would ever be looking at in the first place when there were so many more attention-grabbing points of interest on deliberate display, but you can still read it, and that's all that matters. 4, 1, 3, you begin to dial, the area code for the better part of town where the the river doesn't run slick and stained with a fine patina of despair, only half paying attention to the girl standing behind you on the curb, tapping her foot at you. "Yeah, you're right," you say, punching in a few more numbers. "You're his whore."
"You know what they say about sluts in glass houses, Vantas," she tells you in a sing-song voice that hides daggers. You just roll your shoulders, shrugging it off, but she makes that impossible by coming around to lean against the phone box, one shoulder in contact with tarnished chrome that reflects danger in deceptive packaging.
Feeling childish and boxed in and small, you stick your tongue out at her and wave her off, the phone ringing tinnily in the near distance as your palms sweat, your heart thumps. Your claws clack against the phone's scuffed black casing nervously, ignoring how she scoffs at you, flouncing off to make more mischief. Everything seems to slow down for a long moment, and you consider-- why is it, exactly, that you are doing this? You know why the kid wants you, of course, the same reason that any human man comes into the cramped and crumbling establishment that you've sold away your life to-- because rough gray skin under fingertips and sharp teeth wrapped under leathery black lips are a novelty, something new and different and exciting, a relatively tame thrill that, nine times out of ten, involves exactly no risk at all. To them you are exotic, wild, untouchable, barely more than an animal built for fighting and killing and fucking, tamed by circumstances and defanged for their pleasure.
That, you can understand. It makes you sick, but you understand, because you have the uncomfortable feeling sometimes in the middle of the night when the terrors come for you and you try not to let your convulsions wake whatever unfortunate is sharing your bed that you would be no different, if yours was the dominant species here. What you don't understand is why you didn't scrub his number off your arm the second you got home that day, wash and scrape at the skin until nothing was left but streaks of red and an aching pain to remind you that nothing is yours, nothing is good. Calling him is like admitting defeat, admitting that you have committed the cardinal sin of wanting, of suddenly giving a fuck about someone who isn't yourself and thereby putting your continued survival in jeopardy. Your heart pounds as the phone rings for a fourth time, swallowing thickly around a tongue as dry as bones in the desert, your free hand balled to a fist, sharp nails puncturing the meat of your palms. The sting is distracting, but not enough.
Finally, a click. A pause, then, "Hello?" A male voice, older, maybe around forty you'd say if forced to guess, the sort of voice that invites mental images of stately middle-management figures in striped ties and starched, pressed white shirts as stainless as their reputations, who take you out back at night and force you to your knees in the alley out back, kneeling in broken glass and cigarette butts because they don't have time for anything proper. Bile rises in your throat-- "Hello?" again, confusion evident in the man's tone, and you revise your opinion; he sounds befuddled, kindly, harmless. The sort of person who would bake cakes on a son's wriggling day and pat his friends on the head and return home to a loving wife whose doughy body three times a month would more than satisfy his needs.
You swallow again, and panic, trying to think of something, anything to say, some comforting lie to offer. 'I'm friends with your son,' you could tell him, but then he would ask where John knew you from, and why he'd never seen you before. Nor can you pretend to be a tutor, or working on a science project with him, or anything, anything that would convince this man to give you five minutes of his son's time.
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
No, you think to yourself, disgusted, as you set the receiver back in its cradle with shaking hands, revulsion at your own behavior tearing at you. No one is.
Terezi's sightless eyes are still on you, unseeing but knowing everything, as you walk away, feeling smaller and more filthy than ever before.
---
The phone rings for you one day in May, with flowers and sunshine giving way to torrential rains that pound the windows like bullet shells as Dave sprawls out on your bed, sucking down smoke, shades hiding his red and bloodshot eyes. You don't judge, you really don't, but the smell is choking, and you glare at him impotently before going to attend to your gentleman caller, one hand on the doorway. "Dude, come on, can you not do that when I can't open the window? Dad's going to smell that when he gets home."
Dave just shrugs and takes another puff, the cocky asshole. "Not like he'd give a fuck. 'Oh, son, your first joint venture, I'm so fucking proud I could just die'."
So you leave him there to his gratuitous substances and nearly skip down the stairs to the kitchen where the phone is vibrating practically off the hook. A month. It's been nearly a month and nothing, but you hold out hope every time the phone rings, blindly wishing that it might be for you. It never is, always telemarketers or wrong numbers or your father's business clients, and every time it isn't you suffer another tiny cut to the soul-- they're beginning to stack up. Hope burns eternal, though, and you are nearly breathless with anticipation by the time you wrestle the phone to your ear. "Hello?" For a moment silence greets you, and your heart sinks-- another hang-up call. But there is heavy breathing on the other line, and it occurs to you that he might be as nervous as you are, desperate indeed if he's sunk to the level of actually calling you. "Karkat?" you ask, tentatively, quietly, not wanting to be wrong again.
"This is stupid," the rough voice on the other end tells you immediately, and your knees go weak as you exhale a breath you hadn't known you were holding. And he's right, it is stupid, because you're not a homosexual and you have a prim, perfect, clean-cut life that doesn't involve trolls, and certainly doesn't involve prostitutes. You are going to attend a prestigious state university next fall and graduate in the upper quarter of your class in six weeks. You grew up on a street of little pink houses, where cheerful Stepford wives planted plastic gardens and dressed their darlings in Abercrombie&Fitch sports coats for a day at the park, where miles of white picket fences replaced red tape and no one ever drove up in a car that came used. All your life you have been separate, part of something better, connected only by the thin thread of Dave Strider, and you liked it that way, unaware that there are other options.
But the fact is that none of that feels real to you now. For the last month you've fallen asleep thinking of how nice it had been to have another warm body cuddled up against you, horns and claws and monster movie teeth and all, imagining the beat of the music through the floor and the vibrations of his chest against your hands. And the worst part is that you meant it, everything you said. You do believe in fate, even if you never would have expected it to lead you here, the duplicitous bitch. Fate is, in fact, probably the one aspect of troll culture you entirely subscribe to and approve of. Troll romance, with its emphasis on hatred and other such negative emotions, is both foreign and uncomfortable to you, but the idea of fated partners, one person you are destined to know and love, if only for a short time-- that is so painfully romantic that you cannot help but believe in its truth. The alternative is believing that everyone stumbles through life with the lights off, perhaps never knowing their soul mate, and you can't handle that, do not want it to be true.
"Don't hang up," you beg him, your voice quiet and broken, trying not to alert Dave to the contents of your conversation. He would never understand. None of them would. "Please. I... I wanted to talk to you."
"Yeah? About what?" his voice is begrudgingly curious now. You wonder where he is, if he has his own phone or is out on the corner in the rain somewhere, suffering to talk to you. There is thunder in the background, or that could be your own wildly palpitating heart.
You laugh, tonelessly, hopelessly, leaning back against the marble countertop, watching rain drench your backyard through the sliding glass door, the kitchen bathed in shadows save for the oven clock, blinking 12:00 perpetually like every VCR in the house because both you and your father are too clueless to figure out how to reset it. "I don't know."
"Well, figure it out. Christ, if I'd known you didn't have your shit together enough to figure out how to properly proposition someone, I never would have called in the first place." Now you can definitely hear rustling on the other end, like he's moving to hang up and walk out of your life again, and suddenly your blood turns to ice water in your veins.
"Wait!" you command, and he does, obedient, though you get the feeling you're sorely trying his patience. "I... I want to see you again. Is that okay?"
Karkat hesitates, but sighs and after a moment growls. "Yeah, fine, sure. Are you free tomorrow morning? Like, around ten?"
"Yes," you say immediately, even though today is a Wednesday in May and you almost certainly have school tomorrow. He snorts, knowing this, and you have the uncomfortable suspicion that you've just been tricked.
"Don't fucking lie to me, you have school."
Your eyes slip closed, shamefully, as your cheeks heat and you cling to the phone a bit harder, your stomach sinking. "I'm free tomorrow," you repeat, your voice half choked with a nameless emotion fast approaching desperation. "I'm free any day."
This time you cannot parse the tone of the silence that hangs heavy between you, a curtain, cutting him off from your mental sight. "Ten o'clock, corner of Castle and Lake. Don't be late." And then silence, the low hiss of dead air.
"Who was that?" Dave drawls, bored, as you come back up the stairs.
"No one," you tell him, looking away, unable to meet your own eye in the mirrored fronts of his glasses.
---
The number 42 crosstown bus is packed with all sorts of strange people at nine-thirty on a Thursday morning, and you've decided that if this is in any way an accurate cross-section of the sort of people who inhabit Dave's neighborhood, you are amazed that he managed to make it to legal adulthood without getting stabbed, shot, burned, beaten, kidnapped or eaten. Only half of them are trolls, some wearing their symbols on gold chains around their neck, strings of misplaced teeth like stolen crockery adorning their wrists-- the rest are humans, mostly older, wrapped in rags with medical bags in their purses and briefcases, one with a bottle of moonshine in a paper bag as though that would fool anybody. The driver's seat is behind a box of glass, separating him from the rest of the possibly dangerous and mentally disturbed passengers. One of the trolls, a greenblood if the curving symbol on his shirtsleeve is to be believed, leers at you when you get on raising a lip to reveal a row of shark's teeth, and you sink down into the first seat available, pressing yourself into the stained material to avoid his curious gaze.
You get off just as soon as you can, as soon as the bus crosses the river, and walk the ten blocks to Castle and Lake between buildings that do not stand on the street so much as crouch, all storefront windows with bars over them and disintegrating brick facades. It's exactly two minutes and thirty seconds after ten in the morning when you arrive at the small Alternian grocery at the corner of Castle Avenue and Lake Street, and no one is waiting for you there. The sidewalk is as empty as this part of the city is expected to be during the daytime, when all the good little trolls are safe abed and the humans are off working shitty jobs at whatever low-rent institutions will have them, and you feel more alone now than you ever have, and a little scared. You have a knife in your pocket, the slim folding kind that Dave gave you for your birthday last year, noting that you never know when having a dirty little secret could come in handy, but you have no idea how to use it or even what button to press to make the blade spring out, and this is legitimately frightening to you, as well it should be.
With nothing else to do, you take a seat on the curb, your face in your hands as you contemplate the wreckage of your life, horror bubbling up in your stomach. And then, behind you, a small ding sounds as the door swings open and a voice growls, "What did I fucking tell you about being late?"
"Just two minutes, man, cool your jets," you grump, getting up and bouncing over to him, but you can't hide your smile or your nervous energy at seeing him again, and you don't really want to, either. Karkat isn't hunched over this time, not slouching, trying to make himself smaller in your sight-- now he stands tall, black jean jacket over a white t-shirt, blue jeans and scuffed sneakers and hands shoved awkwardly in his pocket, like any other college-age kid off the street. He could have been anyone, anyone normal, could have been one of the few male trolls in your graduating class, for that matter, save that he isn't wearing his symbol anywhere on his person, and this time you can clearly identify the emotion you are feeling as joy, unfettered and only slightly tainted by circumstances. You hover close to him, grinning widely, and he watches you for a moment before turning on his heel again and marching back into the store, beckoning you with a careless toss of his head to follow.
"Yeah, well, I thought for a second there you weren't coming," he mutters, grabbing a twisted wire basket and taking off towards aisle three, recognizable only because Alternian numerals are more or less the same as yours. The sign is utterly incomprehensible, even with two years of elementary high school courses in trollish, but there are multicolored boxes all around; it looks like the candy aisle. Or the pasta aisle, maybe, you revise your opinion as he breaks open a box of something and sniffs it, revealing what look to be long, thin sticks of pressed and dried material. "Wouldn't be the first time I've been stood up."
You frown at him, pouting, and grab a plastic package off the shelf to distract yourself, one of those floppy, oblong bags that disappointment-size Halloween chocolate bars come in, with a cartoon of a smiling, happy grub on the front. The transparent viewing window shows a Technicolor variety of gummy worms, pressed and shaped into morbid effigies of baby trolls, perfectly formed and life-size for newly hatched grubs, as wriggly and slimy as anything else you'd find in the primordial caves Karkat's kind first crawled out of and into the daylight-- you're not sure whether they look delicious or vomit inducing. You pull a disconcerted face, putting the package back hastily. "Aw, come on, bro, that's not fair. Didn't I say I wanted to see you?"
"Let me tell you something fascinating about humans, Egbert," Karkat sighs, putting his own package back on the shelf, not looking at you. "Sometimes, they lie."
"I don't," you tell him, getting nothing but silence and static and the quiet elevator music emanating from the store's speaker system in return, and the both of you meander over to the produce section without another word exchanged. Karkat looks over the wares with disappointment and frustration in his eyes, sifting through piles of wilted and browning root vegetables with a look of soured concentration, and you don't bother him further, instead wandering a few feet beyond to poke at packages of saran-wrapped meat that bleeds more colors than just red, slabs of things that humans would never consider ingesting languishing on cardboard over chipped ice. Next to that is a wrack of beverages, some in clear glass bottles that reveal leaf powder suspended in muddy solution or water colored with red and green and black, others in space-age gel pouches with pictures of unidentifiable fruits in front. One bottle has advertising in English as well as Trollish, and you lean in close to read, pulling away with a look of utmost revulsion when the type is revealed to read "Grub Juice! 100% natural guaranteed!"
Karkat's biting laughter brings you back to reality, makes you flush, and he grins at you only half mockingly, arms folded over his chest; "See anything you like?" The clinical fluorescent lighting of the store bathes his face in chiaroscuro, glinting off teeth and claws, bringing him out of the shadow and into your sight, and for a minute all you can think to say is You, Karkat. You recover enough to shake your head hard, and then, before you know it, his hand is on your arm, gripping you just above the elbow, tugging you insistently towards the cashier's desk. "Well, come on, then. It's getting late and I have to work tonight."
You frown again, allowing yourself to be obediently lead up to the line, where Karkat nods at the brown-blooded cashier and unloads his basket, ignoring you. "You work tonight?" you ask dumbly, repeating, because that... hadn't occurred to you. You'd thought he'd suggested this time so that you would be awake when he was, trolls being nocturnal, but this makes more sense; Karkat is working you into his schedule, and the thought is both touching that he would stay up so late to see you, and uncomfortable that he would have to do that at all. You're not ashamed of him, you tell yourself-- of course not, you can't find it in yourself to be ashamed of someone so beautiful, who you instinctively know that you love already. You just wish things could be better for him, that you were the rich fairy tale prince who could buy back his freedom and set him loose, save him from dirty, diseased men with fumbling fingers who beat him down, use him, throw him away. Karkat deserves better than that.
Better than you, if you are being perfectly honest.
"I work every night," Karkat tells you, offhandedly, like it's not a big thing-- and maybe for him it isn't, on the outside. Maybe he can delude himself into thinking that it doesn't matter, that sex without emotion isn't even really sex at all, only a service provided. But he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, quick and fleeting, so fast you easily could have missed it, searching for any hint or trace of condemnation in you, daring you to look down on him, to spit on him for it like everyone else. The total rings up to twenty-five dollars even, and as he reaches for his wallet you rest your hand on his arm, comforting, the best show of solidarity you think he'd be comfortable with in a public space.
It's hard to recognize the neighborhood in the light of day, but after Karkat has taken his flimsy paper bag of goods that may or may not be fit for human consumption, he takes your hand and pulls you outside, around the corner, and down a street you think you know. Two blocks pass in emptiness, awkward silence compensated for with the touch of his skin against yours, and then you can smell the river up ahead, walking into the cool wind. It tousles Karkat's already messy hair and you giggle, moreso when he gives you a nonplussed look, and he doesn't seem to know what to do with the grin you give him right back, all happiness and buckteeth. You feel like any other young man in love, at that moment, coming home for lunch with your boyfriend, which is silly because you don't even know what he is to you, yet. This feels like a good and promising start, though.
At least until you reach the bordello. This building, you can readily identify, the only cultural landmark of the slums that sticks in your mind, looming on the skyline, a sinister presence. "Karkat...?" you begin, cautiously, not wanting to put him off or make him snap. "Do you... live here?"
The corners of his mouth tug down as the two of you cross the street to the big building, heading for the same service door you left from all those days ago. "Yeah, so what if I do? I can't exactly afford the Taj Mahal over here, okay? He lets me live here for free."
"Who--" you start, lips forming the words, but suddenly he's in front of you and deadly close, his forehead pressed up against yours, and those passionate eyes are so close and you can feel his hot breath against your lips and you realize that still, even now, you have never been kissed.
"Let's not fucking talk about that right now," he hisses, a whine of desperation buried in there somewhere deep. "Okay?" You nod and lean forward a fraction, aching for some other touch, some other warm and heavy pressure against your skin, but he pulls back and continues on. The building is quiet, and deserted, no music bleeding through the floor this time as you ascend through a damp, dimly lit stairwell, onto the landing. Karkat unlocks the door and pushes you into his room, which by light of day (and without a hangover to beat the band) you notice is rather... nice. Homey. Clean, not a lot of personal touches, but not as grimy as you would have expected either; there's an alarm clock on the counter and a framed picture of Will Smith on the bedside table, a small refrigerator designed for use in a dorm room humming gently in the corner. Karkat sets his groceries on a somewhat larger table with one chair pushed into it and removes a hot plate from where it rests atop the refrigerator, setting it next to the bag and plugging it in to charge.
While it heats up, he removes a pot from the cupboard and presses it into your hands, gesturing back towards the door. "Bathroom's down the hall. Fill that halfway up with water."
You make a face at him, disgusted. "Ugh. That's not sanitary, dude."
He shrugs. "I'm going to boil it, that'll kill the germs. Anyway, do you want lunch or not?" The last bit is snapped, as though he finds your questioning to be a touch ungrateful, and not wanting to seem unappreciative you duck out of the room. The bathroom is at the end of the hall, as directed, and this room is exactly what you would expect, every appliance and fixture caked in brown residue. The tap squeaks as you twist the nob and the pipes groan and protest for a full minute before spitting out a rush of water tinted with rust, drops of which spatter on your forearms as you rush to jam the pot into the sink. The resulting fluid is capped with froth in a really very suspect way, and you are very unsure about the prospect of eating anything cooked in this, but you are trying hard to appreciate Karkat's hospitality, even if you've never eaten troll food before and the whole endeavor seems mightily suspect.
Karkat is busy chopping vegetables and shredding hunks of meat when you return, and takes the pot without a word, setting it on the hot plate and dumping in all manner of unusual foodstuffs, talking quietly under his breath as you pull up the chair and watch, fascinated. He tells you what the vegetables are, mostly, all words you haven't a hope of pronouncing, and laughs lowly when you try, amused by your awful accent. The meat bleeds yellow, and when prompted Karkat tells you that trolls will eat any kind of animal ("beasts", he calls them), no matter how strange or squishy, but that anything with teal blood or higher is off limits, a symbol of the troll hierarchy. Their meal tonight is identified as rat'chnar, which he repeats for you upon request until you get it right-- a kind of spicy, salty, savory stew. As you watch he stirs in half a carton of something that looks like curdled milk, the scent of delicious food wafting up and expanding to fill the room.
And the hallway, apparently, because as the thick liquid in the pot begins to bubble and steam in earnest, someone knocks on the door that you, whoops, may have accidentally left open a crack. A voice calls out in sibilant Alternian when Karkat valiantly ignores the gesture-- the only word you can pick out is the troll's name.
"Watch this and make sure it doesn't boil over," Karkat growls at you, thrusting the spoon into your hand, and before you can open your mouth to tell him that you don't know a single goddamn thing about cooking and have, in fact, burned water on two separate occasions, he's up and at the door, flinging it open to reveal a tall, spectacled troll with bifurcated horns. Your lessons in the language usually leave you up the creek without a paddle in real conversational situations, but it's obvious to tell that Karkat is angry, and this troll finds that hilarious. Karkat's voice rises as the intruder laughs, Karkat pointing back into the room and jabbing a finger in your direction, vitriol infusing his tone.
The new troll seems entirely unfazed by that, though, pushing into the room and switching to lisping English, for which you are grateful-- "Ah, come off it, KK. I jutht want thome food, that'th all. Anyway, how the fuck wath I thuppothed to know you had a guest over?"
"I don't know," Karkat snarls, hands on hips as his friend (enemy? acquaintance?) comes over to sniff at the pot and tease the spoon from your unresisting fingers, stirring the mixture. "Maybe because it's the middle of the goddamn day and I'm still awake?"
The troll sniggers, bringing the spoon up to his mouth to lick and taste, yellow tongue running over black lips. "Yeah, why are you, anyway? You should be getting your beauty retht about now-- god knowth you need it."
"Hey, fuckass, didn't I just say I had company? Anyway, he's sitting right there, asshole, you can at least pretend to have a moderate scrap of decorum and introduce yourself."
"Mmm?" the troll makes an interested little noise in the back of his throat and turns to you again, as though seeing you for the first time, one eyebrow raised. "A human, huh? Buthineth hourth don't thtart till theven, kid. That'th PM, not AM." Karkat smacks him on the shoulder, flushing bright red on his cheeks, and the troll snickers again, brushing him off. "Jutht kidding. I'm Tholluckth Captor, and I'm pretty much thith worthleth nookthtain'th betht-- and only --friend."
"I'm John, John Egbert. Do you, um, work here too?" you hear yourself ask before you can stop yourself, but it's a fair question and oddly the only person who looks mortified by this faux pas is you.
"He does the lights and music for the shows," Karkat explains, snatching the spoon away and using it to ladle stew out into a waiting bowl. "And his name is Sollux, by the way, in case that wasn't imminently clear from his retarded speech impediment."
"Well, it's nice to meet you!" you tell Karkat's friend, quite a bit less uncomfortable now but not appreciating the curious look he's giving you, like you're a new animal on display at the zoo. An oddity, something altogether unexpected.
"Yeah, yeah," Karkat grumps, pressing the bowl and another, smaller spoon at Sollux. "Just take your dinner and get the fuck out before this car crash of a situation starts attracting gawkers, alright?"
Sollux accepts the food but doesn't move to leave, still watching you intently; for a moment you almost fear that he's about to deliver some cliched romance movie ultimatum, something along the lines of If you hurt Karkat I'll hunt you down and wear your thkin like an overcoat, human. The kind of classy one-liner that Nic Cage would have before leaving his woman in the care of the enemy. But Sollux just shakes his head and claps a hand over your shoulder, muttering, "Hope you like dealing with conthtant bitch-fethtth, John. Maybe you can take his bellyaching off my plate for awhile, huh?"
Karkat fumes silently from a few paces away and then practically chases him out, shouting, "Yeah, well your sound system sucks shit, bulgelicker!" after him, slamming the door shut hard enough that the whole wall shakes. Then he runs a trembling hand through his untidy hair and turns back to you, looking embarrassed, and also angry. "Fuck, I'm sorry about him, I forgot that some people can't keep their damn crooked noses out of everybody else's private business."
"That's okay," you tell him, earnestly, as he dishes out stew for the two of you, unplugs the hot plate again, and pinches a dusting of some violently red spice or another over the top of each bowl before passing you yours. "I don't mind at all." Not wanting to take up space, you move your operation to the foot of Karkat's bed, which groans and sinks a foot and a half under your weight, letting Karkat take the chair; without looking up at him, you take a bite of meat and vegetable and thick orangish liquid. You want to get to know this man, his friends and his foods and his culture, and this is a good way to start. The stew is almost creamy in texture, the meat tender enough to fall apart on your spoon and in your mouth, the vegetables retaining just enough firmness, everything infused with a hint of spice. It makes your mouth water, and you have just enough time to regret not getting something proper to drink when a silver and gold can of something is tossed down next to you like a grenade into a foxhole.
"It's not grub juice," Karkat grunts by way of explanation when you look up, curiously; he's in the middle of popping the tab on his own can, so you figure it must be safe and set the bowl on your lap while you open it, chugging half of it in one go. It's carbonated, and the fizz goes to your head and tickles your throat as you gulp it down; the aftertaste is something fruity but substantial, with hints of what is very recognizably bacon.
Troll food sure is fucking weird.
But good, you amend, going back to your stew and setting the mystery can on the floor. Within minutes your portion is gone and Karkat is doling out another, and within minutes the whole thing is gone, utterly devoured. You toe the bowl, and the empty can inside it, away from you on the floor and flop back on the bed, arms spread out, eyes closed. You feel full and warm and utterly satisfied, and while it's still early for you, you feel like you could easily curl up in bed with Karkat and just fall asleep, content with everything. "Are you coming to bed?" you ask after a bit, lethargic, looking up to see that Karkat's eyes have been on you; he looks away the second he realizes you've seen, but the damage is done, because you know that look, too, the look of longing and unfathomable, baffling hunger, impossible to define. You felt it that night, when you first saw him-- not just desire, or lust, or arousal, but a hunger to be held, kept safe and warm, to have someone to share things with and tell your secrets to who will understand and love you for it.
"Yes," he tells you, and for all those reasons it shouldn't be altogether surprising when instead of moving next to you, he slides down, down, kneeling where your spread knees are hooked over the edge of the bed and reaching up, flicking the button of your jeans out of its hole and slowly, almost sensually tugging down your zipper. Horrified, you sit up in a flash, taking in his mildly surprised expression and the sight of him leaning over the bed, ready to stroke you to hardness and take you into his mouth again, this time without the hindrance of alcohol in your system.
"What are you doing?" you ask, feeling despair rising, and his surprise is turning to awkward, reflexive anger, face collapsing into a scowl that looks all too practiced.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he demands, voice choked with emotion that he's trying to suppress. "It's what they all want. You're not even the first to go through this whole song and dance dinner-and-a-show charade with me, so cut the shit and let me get you off so I can go to sleep."
You look at him softly, sadly, and surprise him again by gently threading your fingers through his hair, urging him away. It's coarse, like sheep's wool, and you stroke his hair almost reverently, teasing out the knots and tangles as he swallows visibly, eyes wide as he stares up at you. You wonder if he's ever been touched this way before, without desperate, hateful lust or wanting. If he's ever had a tender moment all his own. It makes your heart swell and burst and bleed with secondhand pain, and you move your hand to his cheek, tilting up his jaw and leaning down to press your lips against his.
This is it. This is what you wanted, and you show him that with pressure that is firm but light, holding him in place even as he stands again and then pushes you back on the bed, his body covering yours and pinning you there. His warm weight is heart enough that you can feel both your pulse and his, racing, his fingers trembling as he copies your gesture, claws resting just under your eye socket, making small indents in your skin as they press down. You're not good at this, though, not good at breathing through your nose and multitasking, and eventually it breaks down, you pulling away and gasping in air that you needed badly.
"That's what I want," you tell him quietly, as he reaches over to turn off the bedside light; even with the drapes, it doesn't really make a difference. "Just that."
And as you pull him in back close again, face pressed into the crook of his neck enough to feel the beat of his heart against your lips, he murmurs, "Alright."
---
The clock blinks six thirty when you wake up and the sun isn't even properly down yet, but the bed is empty save for you and Karkat's closet is open, revealing wracks of skimpy clothing in red and darker red, racks of boots and skirts and stockings. Karkat stands before his mirror as you rub the sleep out of your eyes, half dressed and half naked, a pair of pink satin panties clinging to his backside and fishnet stockings up to his thighs, but not much else to cover. He steps into another skirt, as you watch, this one more low cut than the article you first saw him in, then buckles on another pair of heels. He can see you through your reflection in the mirror, but if he cares he's not showing it. Instead he pulls a lacy camisole over his head, not long enough to cover his belly, and dusts his cheeks with pink powder. The last step is the application of thick eyeshadow, and then bright scarlet lipstick that you're sure you'd remember him having worn last time, smacking his lips reflexively. Carefully, he cleans up his make up utensils and other assorted articles, the lunch bowls having been put away apparently while you still slept, and leans against the chest of drawers heavily, his eyes closed.
Then, finally, the ultimate step. You were too drunk to notice it, the last time, but he'd been wearing a collar then, and he applies it now, black leather that pulls tight around his neck and must all but choke him, with a silver buckle and tag. Silent, you move up behind him and embrace him, arms meeting around his middle, and he unconsciously leans back into you, letting you take some of the weight it carries. "Is that your symbol?" you ask, looking at the reflection of the tag in the polished glass; the stylized image of two waves, in purple. Immediately you feel stupid when he shakes his head; you might not know what color Karkat bleeds, but elementary understanding of politics tells you that if he were a highblood, practically royalty, he would be sitting in the senator's mansion on the hill right now, sipping wine and not dolled up about to go trolling for customers.
"You have to go," he tells you, a hint of sadness lingering there, and you nod. Your father must be getting worried, after all, even if Dave probably knows enough to feed him some cover story or another by phone, regardless of whether or not he knew the reason behind your absence from school today.
"I wish I didn't," you sigh, face pressed into the contours of his back, now, feeling the muscle shift under skin as he reaches back to touch your shoulder, holding you for a moment before lightly pushing you away. You do not resist the unspoken command, stumbling backward a bit, but you regret that, too. "How much would it be? You know, for the night?" You swallow, hard. "Even if we didn't do anything?"
"Nightly fee is usually two hundred," he tells you, morose. "Give it up, John. Go home."
"Nope," you tell him, leaning up to give him one more kiss, careful not to smear his make up. "Not giving up. Do you remember what I told you last time?"
"Yeah?" he sounds suspicious, you think. Of your motives, or perhaps just of you in general.
"Still stands, bro. I'll talk to you later, okay? And that's a promise. You'd better not forget." You leave him there, staring stunned after you, with a song in your heart as the music begins blasting below; Sollux's handiwork at sound check. It doesn't matter, though, that you can only see him in a place like this. What matters is that you can see him at all.
And that someday, if you have anything to say about it, he won't have to wear chains.
Title: Romance, East of the River
Fandom: MSPA (Homestuck)
Pairing: John/Karkat
Rating: M
Warnings: Prostitution, underage drinking bluh bluh previous warnings still apply. Except not in this chapter what am I even doing anymore you guys
Summary: John and Karkat have a date. It is exactly as awkward as can be expected.
~~~
April is the worst month, when the world can't decide if it wants to be cloudy or if it wants to shine, weak sunlight glinting off hubcaps and puddles of glistening rainbow turpentine in the street, off water that drip, drip, drips from the gutters and the ceiling, off brass knuckles and new plasma television sets passed out broken windows by clawed hands to a laughtrack of hyena cackling. May isn't better, when the rain really starts in earnest and the storm clouds hang thick as rolled cotton in the air, ominous and lingering, purple thunderheads spreading sick across the sky turning the air itself the color of a bruise on pale and pallid human skin-- and then it will be summer. Summer is the worst, hot and sticky and there's no air conditioning in your building and you sweat so much but it doesn't carry off the shame; you can't sweat out the hatred and the general malaise and sometimes you think you're going crazy, always did even when you were little and thought you knew better, thought you had the world figured out and locked up safe. Even then it was all red like the lights at the street corners and your blood and the damn oily lipstick you apply each night without fail, red behind your eyes and under your skin and burning boiling until you raked your claws down your arms just to let it out.
Summer.
But now it's April, the worst month, and you have a dollar twenty-five in small change in your pocket for the laundromat later and a phone call now, because your nerves have been eating you alive and this is stupid and your heart is beating like you're going through catastrophic withdrawal and about to collapse, one hand deep in your pocket jangling and feeling up the coins as you walk, making sure it's all there, enough for a short call at least. Two quarters, a nickel, six dimes and ten pennies exactly, plus three bus tokens and a Sacajawea dollar that no vending machine within a twelve block radius will be persuaded to accept. The pay phone is out in front of the local pharmacy, hanging off the hook due to carelessness or gross negligence, and the first of the quarters and two of the dimes go clink, clink as you push them through the slot with shaking, skin-cracked fingers. Then you cradle the receiver between your cheek and your shoulder, holding it in place as you roll up your shirt sleeve, holding your arm out before you.
"Hey!" Fuck. Ignore her, she'll go away. "Hey, Vantas!" Go away, go away, go away. "I know you can hear me, I can smell your waffling from over here. It's pathetic. Also: shower before coming outside next time, you smell like a whorehouse."
Or maybe she won't. Rolling your eyes, you slam the phone back down and turn to deal with her, ignoring the sound of your change being regurgitated back out of the machine behind you. "The fuck are you doing out here anyway, Pyrope?" you demand, crossing your arms over your chest and giving her your best scowl, which is, you remember, entirely lost on a blind girl. Fuck but you're an idiot. "Shouldn't you be off terrorizing small children or tying woofbeasts to bottle rockets or something?"
She cackles back at you, but there's an edge to it, hard and sharp but muffled by silk, waiting to lash out and cut you. "Maybe I just wanted to see your pretty face, huh?"
"Yeah, whatever. You looking for Gamzee? I think he's hanging out at River and Main today. Special sale on sopor, not that that'll do Strider any good."
Her face twitches, as though she's unsure whether to be angry or amused, and then breaks out in a predatory grin, all teeth and malice and heady spite. "I'm not his drug runner."
You snort derisively, returning to your deposited coins and the prospect of your phone call. The number on your arm is faded now, nearly washed away despite several reapplications that you didn't worry about because there was no need to cover something that no one would ever be looking at in the first place when there were so many more attention-grabbing points of interest on deliberate display, but you can still read it, and that's all that matters. 4, 1, 3, you begin to dial, the area code for the better part of town where the the river doesn't run slick and stained with a fine patina of despair, only half paying attention to the girl standing behind you on the curb, tapping her foot at you. "Yeah, you're right," you say, punching in a few more numbers. "You're his whore."
"You know what they say about sluts in glass houses, Vantas," she tells you in a sing-song voice that hides daggers. You just roll your shoulders, shrugging it off, but she makes that impossible by coming around to lean against the phone box, one shoulder in contact with tarnished chrome that reflects danger in deceptive packaging.
Feeling childish and boxed in and small, you stick your tongue out at her and wave her off, the phone ringing tinnily in the near distance as your palms sweat, your heart thumps. Your claws clack against the phone's scuffed black casing nervously, ignoring how she scoffs at you, flouncing off to make more mischief. Everything seems to slow down for a long moment, and you consider-- why is it, exactly, that you are doing this? You know why the kid wants you, of course, the same reason that any human man comes into the cramped and crumbling establishment that you've sold away your life to-- because rough gray skin under fingertips and sharp teeth wrapped under leathery black lips are a novelty, something new and different and exciting, a relatively tame thrill that, nine times out of ten, involves exactly no risk at all. To them you are exotic, wild, untouchable, barely more than an animal built for fighting and killing and fucking, tamed by circumstances and defanged for their pleasure.
That, you can understand. It makes you sick, but you understand, because you have the uncomfortable feeling sometimes in the middle of the night when the terrors come for you and you try not to let your convulsions wake whatever unfortunate is sharing your bed that you would be no different, if yours was the dominant species here. What you don't understand is why you didn't scrub his number off your arm the second you got home that day, wash and scrape at the skin until nothing was left but streaks of red and an aching pain to remind you that nothing is yours, nothing is good. Calling him is like admitting defeat, admitting that you have committed the cardinal sin of wanting, of suddenly giving a fuck about someone who isn't yourself and thereby putting your continued survival in jeopardy. Your heart pounds as the phone rings for a fourth time, swallowing thickly around a tongue as dry as bones in the desert, your free hand balled to a fist, sharp nails puncturing the meat of your palms. The sting is distracting, but not enough.
Finally, a click. A pause, then, "Hello?" A male voice, older, maybe around forty you'd say if forced to guess, the sort of voice that invites mental images of stately middle-management figures in striped ties and starched, pressed white shirts as stainless as their reputations, who take you out back at night and force you to your knees in the alley out back, kneeling in broken glass and cigarette butts because they don't have time for anything proper. Bile rises in your throat-- "Hello?" again, confusion evident in the man's tone, and you revise your opinion; he sounds befuddled, kindly, harmless. The sort of person who would bake cakes on a son's wriggling day and pat his friends on the head and return home to a loving wife whose doughy body three times a month would more than satisfy his needs.
You swallow again, and panic, trying to think of something, anything to say, some comforting lie to offer. 'I'm friends with your son,' you could tell him, but then he would ask where John knew you from, and why he'd never seen you before. Nor can you pretend to be a tutor, or working on a science project with him, or anything, anything that would convince this man to give you five minutes of his son's time.
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
No, you think to yourself, disgusted, as you set the receiver back in its cradle with shaking hands, revulsion at your own behavior tearing at you. No one is.
Terezi's sightless eyes are still on you, unseeing but knowing everything, as you walk away, feeling smaller and more filthy than ever before.
---
The phone rings for you one day in May, with flowers and sunshine giving way to torrential rains that pound the windows like bullet shells as Dave sprawls out on your bed, sucking down smoke, shades hiding his red and bloodshot eyes. You don't judge, you really don't, but the smell is choking, and you glare at him impotently before going to attend to your gentleman caller, one hand on the doorway. "Dude, come on, can you not do that when I can't open the window? Dad's going to smell that when he gets home."
Dave just shrugs and takes another puff, the cocky asshole. "Not like he'd give a fuck. 'Oh, son, your first joint venture, I'm so fucking proud I could just die'."
So you leave him there to his gratuitous substances and nearly skip down the stairs to the kitchen where the phone is vibrating practically off the hook. A month. It's been nearly a month and nothing, but you hold out hope every time the phone rings, blindly wishing that it might be for you. It never is, always telemarketers or wrong numbers or your father's business clients, and every time it isn't you suffer another tiny cut to the soul-- they're beginning to stack up. Hope burns eternal, though, and you are nearly breathless with anticipation by the time you wrestle the phone to your ear. "Hello?" For a moment silence greets you, and your heart sinks-- another hang-up call. But there is heavy breathing on the other line, and it occurs to you that he might be as nervous as you are, desperate indeed if he's sunk to the level of actually calling you. "Karkat?" you ask, tentatively, quietly, not wanting to be wrong again.
"This is stupid," the rough voice on the other end tells you immediately, and your knees go weak as you exhale a breath you hadn't known you were holding. And he's right, it is stupid, because you're not a homosexual and you have a prim, perfect, clean-cut life that doesn't involve trolls, and certainly doesn't involve prostitutes. You are going to attend a prestigious state university next fall and graduate in the upper quarter of your class in six weeks. You grew up on a street of little pink houses, where cheerful Stepford wives planted plastic gardens and dressed their darlings in Abercrombie&Fitch sports coats for a day at the park, where miles of white picket fences replaced red tape and no one ever drove up in a car that came used. All your life you have been separate, part of something better, connected only by the thin thread of Dave Strider, and you liked it that way, unaware that there are other options.
But the fact is that none of that feels real to you now. For the last month you've fallen asleep thinking of how nice it had been to have another warm body cuddled up against you, horns and claws and monster movie teeth and all, imagining the beat of the music through the floor and the vibrations of his chest against your hands. And the worst part is that you meant it, everything you said. You do believe in fate, even if you never would have expected it to lead you here, the duplicitous bitch. Fate is, in fact, probably the one aspect of troll culture you entirely subscribe to and approve of. Troll romance, with its emphasis on hatred and other such negative emotions, is both foreign and uncomfortable to you, but the idea of fated partners, one person you are destined to know and love, if only for a short time-- that is so painfully romantic that you cannot help but believe in its truth. The alternative is believing that everyone stumbles through life with the lights off, perhaps never knowing their soul mate, and you can't handle that, do not want it to be true.
"Don't hang up," you beg him, your voice quiet and broken, trying not to alert Dave to the contents of your conversation. He would never understand. None of them would. "Please. I... I wanted to talk to you."
"Yeah? About what?" his voice is begrudgingly curious now. You wonder where he is, if he has his own phone or is out on the corner in the rain somewhere, suffering to talk to you. There is thunder in the background, or that could be your own wildly palpitating heart.
You laugh, tonelessly, hopelessly, leaning back against the marble countertop, watching rain drench your backyard through the sliding glass door, the kitchen bathed in shadows save for the oven clock, blinking 12:00 perpetually like every VCR in the house because both you and your father are too clueless to figure out how to reset it. "I don't know."
"Well, figure it out. Christ, if I'd known you didn't have your shit together enough to figure out how to properly proposition someone, I never would have called in the first place." Now you can definitely hear rustling on the other end, like he's moving to hang up and walk out of your life again, and suddenly your blood turns to ice water in your veins.
"Wait!" you command, and he does, obedient, though you get the feeling you're sorely trying his patience. "I... I want to see you again. Is that okay?"
Karkat hesitates, but sighs and after a moment growls. "Yeah, fine, sure. Are you free tomorrow morning? Like, around ten?"
"Yes," you say immediately, even though today is a Wednesday in May and you almost certainly have school tomorrow. He snorts, knowing this, and you have the uncomfortable suspicion that you've just been tricked.
"Don't fucking lie to me, you have school."
Your eyes slip closed, shamefully, as your cheeks heat and you cling to the phone a bit harder, your stomach sinking. "I'm free tomorrow," you repeat, your voice half choked with a nameless emotion fast approaching desperation. "I'm free any day."
This time you cannot parse the tone of the silence that hangs heavy between you, a curtain, cutting him off from your mental sight. "Ten o'clock, corner of Castle and Lake. Don't be late." And then silence, the low hiss of dead air.
"Who was that?" Dave drawls, bored, as you come back up the stairs.
"No one," you tell him, looking away, unable to meet your own eye in the mirrored fronts of his glasses.
---
The number 42 crosstown bus is packed with all sorts of strange people at nine-thirty on a Thursday morning, and you've decided that if this is in any way an accurate cross-section of the sort of people who inhabit Dave's neighborhood, you are amazed that he managed to make it to legal adulthood without getting stabbed, shot, burned, beaten, kidnapped or eaten. Only half of them are trolls, some wearing their symbols on gold chains around their neck, strings of misplaced teeth like stolen crockery adorning their wrists-- the rest are humans, mostly older, wrapped in rags with medical bags in their purses and briefcases, one with a bottle of moonshine in a paper bag as though that would fool anybody. The driver's seat is behind a box of glass, separating him from the rest of the possibly dangerous and mentally disturbed passengers. One of the trolls, a greenblood if the curving symbol on his shirtsleeve is to be believed, leers at you when you get on raising a lip to reveal a row of shark's teeth, and you sink down into the first seat available, pressing yourself into the stained material to avoid his curious gaze.
You get off just as soon as you can, as soon as the bus crosses the river, and walk the ten blocks to Castle and Lake between buildings that do not stand on the street so much as crouch, all storefront windows with bars over them and disintegrating brick facades. It's exactly two minutes and thirty seconds after ten in the morning when you arrive at the small Alternian grocery at the corner of Castle Avenue and Lake Street, and no one is waiting for you there. The sidewalk is as empty as this part of the city is expected to be during the daytime, when all the good little trolls are safe abed and the humans are off working shitty jobs at whatever low-rent institutions will have them, and you feel more alone now than you ever have, and a little scared. You have a knife in your pocket, the slim folding kind that Dave gave you for your birthday last year, noting that you never know when having a dirty little secret could come in handy, but you have no idea how to use it or even what button to press to make the blade spring out, and this is legitimately frightening to you, as well it should be.
With nothing else to do, you take a seat on the curb, your face in your hands as you contemplate the wreckage of your life, horror bubbling up in your stomach. And then, behind you, a small ding sounds as the door swings open and a voice growls, "What did I fucking tell you about being late?"
"Just two minutes, man, cool your jets," you grump, getting up and bouncing over to him, but you can't hide your smile or your nervous energy at seeing him again, and you don't really want to, either. Karkat isn't hunched over this time, not slouching, trying to make himself smaller in your sight-- now he stands tall, black jean jacket over a white t-shirt, blue jeans and scuffed sneakers and hands shoved awkwardly in his pocket, like any other college-age kid off the street. He could have been anyone, anyone normal, could have been one of the few male trolls in your graduating class, for that matter, save that he isn't wearing his symbol anywhere on his person, and this time you can clearly identify the emotion you are feeling as joy, unfettered and only slightly tainted by circumstances. You hover close to him, grinning widely, and he watches you for a moment before turning on his heel again and marching back into the store, beckoning you with a careless toss of his head to follow.
"Yeah, well, I thought for a second there you weren't coming," he mutters, grabbing a twisted wire basket and taking off towards aisle three, recognizable only because Alternian numerals are more or less the same as yours. The sign is utterly incomprehensible, even with two years of elementary high school courses in trollish, but there are multicolored boxes all around; it looks like the candy aisle. Or the pasta aisle, maybe, you revise your opinion as he breaks open a box of something and sniffs it, revealing what look to be long, thin sticks of pressed and dried material. "Wouldn't be the first time I've been stood up."
You frown at him, pouting, and grab a plastic package off the shelf to distract yourself, one of those floppy, oblong bags that disappointment-size Halloween chocolate bars come in, with a cartoon of a smiling, happy grub on the front. The transparent viewing window shows a Technicolor variety of gummy worms, pressed and shaped into morbid effigies of baby trolls, perfectly formed and life-size for newly hatched grubs, as wriggly and slimy as anything else you'd find in the primordial caves Karkat's kind first crawled out of and into the daylight-- you're not sure whether they look delicious or vomit inducing. You pull a disconcerted face, putting the package back hastily. "Aw, come on, bro, that's not fair. Didn't I say I wanted to see you?"
"Let me tell you something fascinating about humans, Egbert," Karkat sighs, putting his own package back on the shelf, not looking at you. "Sometimes, they lie."
"I don't," you tell him, getting nothing but silence and static and the quiet elevator music emanating from the store's speaker system in return, and the both of you meander over to the produce section without another word exchanged. Karkat looks over the wares with disappointment and frustration in his eyes, sifting through piles of wilted and browning root vegetables with a look of soured concentration, and you don't bother him further, instead wandering a few feet beyond to poke at packages of saran-wrapped meat that bleeds more colors than just red, slabs of things that humans would never consider ingesting languishing on cardboard over chipped ice. Next to that is a wrack of beverages, some in clear glass bottles that reveal leaf powder suspended in muddy solution or water colored with red and green and black, others in space-age gel pouches with pictures of unidentifiable fruits in front. One bottle has advertising in English as well as Trollish, and you lean in close to read, pulling away with a look of utmost revulsion when the type is revealed to read "Grub Juice! 100% natural guaranteed!"
Karkat's biting laughter brings you back to reality, makes you flush, and he grins at you only half mockingly, arms folded over his chest; "See anything you like?" The clinical fluorescent lighting of the store bathes his face in chiaroscuro, glinting off teeth and claws, bringing him out of the shadow and into your sight, and for a minute all you can think to say is You, Karkat. You recover enough to shake your head hard, and then, before you know it, his hand is on your arm, gripping you just above the elbow, tugging you insistently towards the cashier's desk. "Well, come on, then. It's getting late and I have to work tonight."
You frown again, allowing yourself to be obediently lead up to the line, where Karkat nods at the brown-blooded cashier and unloads his basket, ignoring you. "You work tonight?" you ask dumbly, repeating, because that... hadn't occurred to you. You'd thought he'd suggested this time so that you would be awake when he was, trolls being nocturnal, but this makes more sense; Karkat is working you into his schedule, and the thought is both touching that he would stay up so late to see you, and uncomfortable that he would have to do that at all. You're not ashamed of him, you tell yourself-- of course not, you can't find it in yourself to be ashamed of someone so beautiful, who you instinctively know that you love already. You just wish things could be better for him, that you were the rich fairy tale prince who could buy back his freedom and set him loose, save him from dirty, diseased men with fumbling fingers who beat him down, use him, throw him away. Karkat deserves better than that.
Better than you, if you are being perfectly honest.
"I work every night," Karkat tells you, offhandedly, like it's not a big thing-- and maybe for him it isn't, on the outside. Maybe he can delude himself into thinking that it doesn't matter, that sex without emotion isn't even really sex at all, only a service provided. But he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, quick and fleeting, so fast you easily could have missed it, searching for any hint or trace of condemnation in you, daring you to look down on him, to spit on him for it like everyone else. The total rings up to twenty-five dollars even, and as he reaches for his wallet you rest your hand on his arm, comforting, the best show of solidarity you think he'd be comfortable with in a public space.
It's hard to recognize the neighborhood in the light of day, but after Karkat has taken his flimsy paper bag of goods that may or may not be fit for human consumption, he takes your hand and pulls you outside, around the corner, and down a street you think you know. Two blocks pass in emptiness, awkward silence compensated for with the touch of his skin against yours, and then you can smell the river up ahead, walking into the cool wind. It tousles Karkat's already messy hair and you giggle, moreso when he gives you a nonplussed look, and he doesn't seem to know what to do with the grin you give him right back, all happiness and buckteeth. You feel like any other young man in love, at that moment, coming home for lunch with your boyfriend, which is silly because you don't even know what he is to you, yet. This feels like a good and promising start, though.
At least until you reach the bordello. This building, you can readily identify, the only cultural landmark of the slums that sticks in your mind, looming on the skyline, a sinister presence. "Karkat...?" you begin, cautiously, not wanting to put him off or make him snap. "Do you... live here?"
The corners of his mouth tug down as the two of you cross the street to the big building, heading for the same service door you left from all those days ago. "Yeah, so what if I do? I can't exactly afford the Taj Mahal over here, okay? He lets me live here for free."
"Who--" you start, lips forming the words, but suddenly he's in front of you and deadly close, his forehead pressed up against yours, and those passionate eyes are so close and you can feel his hot breath against your lips and you realize that still, even now, you have never been kissed.
"Let's not fucking talk about that right now," he hisses, a whine of desperation buried in there somewhere deep. "Okay?" You nod and lean forward a fraction, aching for some other touch, some other warm and heavy pressure against your skin, but he pulls back and continues on. The building is quiet, and deserted, no music bleeding through the floor this time as you ascend through a damp, dimly lit stairwell, onto the landing. Karkat unlocks the door and pushes you into his room, which by light of day (and without a hangover to beat the band) you notice is rather... nice. Homey. Clean, not a lot of personal touches, but not as grimy as you would have expected either; there's an alarm clock on the counter and a framed picture of Will Smith on the bedside table, a small refrigerator designed for use in a dorm room humming gently in the corner. Karkat sets his groceries on a somewhat larger table with one chair pushed into it and removes a hot plate from where it rests atop the refrigerator, setting it next to the bag and plugging it in to charge.
While it heats up, he removes a pot from the cupboard and presses it into your hands, gesturing back towards the door. "Bathroom's down the hall. Fill that halfway up with water."
You make a face at him, disgusted. "Ugh. That's not sanitary, dude."
He shrugs. "I'm going to boil it, that'll kill the germs. Anyway, do you want lunch or not?" The last bit is snapped, as though he finds your questioning to be a touch ungrateful, and not wanting to seem unappreciative you duck out of the room. The bathroom is at the end of the hall, as directed, and this room is exactly what you would expect, every appliance and fixture caked in brown residue. The tap squeaks as you twist the nob and the pipes groan and protest for a full minute before spitting out a rush of water tinted with rust, drops of which spatter on your forearms as you rush to jam the pot into the sink. The resulting fluid is capped with froth in a really very suspect way, and you are very unsure about the prospect of eating anything cooked in this, but you are trying hard to appreciate Karkat's hospitality, even if you've never eaten troll food before and the whole endeavor seems mightily suspect.
Karkat is busy chopping vegetables and shredding hunks of meat when you return, and takes the pot without a word, setting it on the hot plate and dumping in all manner of unusual foodstuffs, talking quietly under his breath as you pull up the chair and watch, fascinated. He tells you what the vegetables are, mostly, all words you haven't a hope of pronouncing, and laughs lowly when you try, amused by your awful accent. The meat bleeds yellow, and when prompted Karkat tells you that trolls will eat any kind of animal ("beasts", he calls them), no matter how strange or squishy, but that anything with teal blood or higher is off limits, a symbol of the troll hierarchy. Their meal tonight is identified as rat'chnar, which he repeats for you upon request until you get it right-- a kind of spicy, salty, savory stew. As you watch he stirs in half a carton of something that looks like curdled milk, the scent of delicious food wafting up and expanding to fill the room.
And the hallway, apparently, because as the thick liquid in the pot begins to bubble and steam in earnest, someone knocks on the door that you, whoops, may have accidentally left open a crack. A voice calls out in sibilant Alternian when Karkat valiantly ignores the gesture-- the only word you can pick out is the troll's name.
"Watch this and make sure it doesn't boil over," Karkat growls at you, thrusting the spoon into your hand, and before you can open your mouth to tell him that you don't know a single goddamn thing about cooking and have, in fact, burned water on two separate occasions, he's up and at the door, flinging it open to reveal a tall, spectacled troll with bifurcated horns. Your lessons in the language usually leave you up the creek without a paddle in real conversational situations, but it's obvious to tell that Karkat is angry, and this troll finds that hilarious. Karkat's voice rises as the intruder laughs, Karkat pointing back into the room and jabbing a finger in your direction, vitriol infusing his tone.
The new troll seems entirely unfazed by that, though, pushing into the room and switching to lisping English, for which you are grateful-- "Ah, come off it, KK. I jutht want thome food, that'th all. Anyway, how the fuck wath I thuppothed to know you had a guest over?"
"I don't know," Karkat snarls, hands on hips as his friend (enemy? acquaintance?) comes over to sniff at the pot and tease the spoon from your unresisting fingers, stirring the mixture. "Maybe because it's the middle of the goddamn day and I'm still awake?"
The troll sniggers, bringing the spoon up to his mouth to lick and taste, yellow tongue running over black lips. "Yeah, why are you, anyway? You should be getting your beauty retht about now-- god knowth you need it."
"Hey, fuckass, didn't I just say I had company? Anyway, he's sitting right there, asshole, you can at least pretend to have a moderate scrap of decorum and introduce yourself."
"Mmm?" the troll makes an interested little noise in the back of his throat and turns to you again, as though seeing you for the first time, one eyebrow raised. "A human, huh? Buthineth hourth don't thtart till theven, kid. That'th PM, not AM." Karkat smacks him on the shoulder, flushing bright red on his cheeks, and the troll snickers again, brushing him off. "Jutht kidding. I'm Tholluckth Captor, and I'm pretty much thith worthleth nookthtain'th betht-- and only --friend."
"I'm John, John Egbert. Do you, um, work here too?" you hear yourself ask before you can stop yourself, but it's a fair question and oddly the only person who looks mortified by this faux pas is you.
"He does the lights and music for the shows," Karkat explains, snatching the spoon away and using it to ladle stew out into a waiting bowl. "And his name is Sollux, by the way, in case that wasn't imminently clear from his retarded speech impediment."
"Well, it's nice to meet you!" you tell Karkat's friend, quite a bit less uncomfortable now but not appreciating the curious look he's giving you, like you're a new animal on display at the zoo. An oddity, something altogether unexpected.
"Yeah, yeah," Karkat grumps, pressing the bowl and another, smaller spoon at Sollux. "Just take your dinner and get the fuck out before this car crash of a situation starts attracting gawkers, alright?"
Sollux accepts the food but doesn't move to leave, still watching you intently; for a moment you almost fear that he's about to deliver some cliched romance movie ultimatum, something along the lines of If you hurt Karkat I'll hunt you down and wear your thkin like an overcoat, human. The kind of classy one-liner that Nic Cage would have before leaving his woman in the care of the enemy. But Sollux just shakes his head and claps a hand over your shoulder, muttering, "Hope you like dealing with conthtant bitch-fethtth, John. Maybe you can take his bellyaching off my plate for awhile, huh?"
Karkat fumes silently from a few paces away and then practically chases him out, shouting, "Yeah, well your sound system sucks shit, bulgelicker!" after him, slamming the door shut hard enough that the whole wall shakes. Then he runs a trembling hand through his untidy hair and turns back to you, looking embarrassed, and also angry. "Fuck, I'm sorry about him, I forgot that some people can't keep their damn crooked noses out of everybody else's private business."
"That's okay," you tell him, earnestly, as he dishes out stew for the two of you, unplugs the hot plate again, and pinches a dusting of some violently red spice or another over the top of each bowl before passing you yours. "I don't mind at all." Not wanting to take up space, you move your operation to the foot of Karkat's bed, which groans and sinks a foot and a half under your weight, letting Karkat take the chair; without looking up at him, you take a bite of meat and vegetable and thick orangish liquid. You want to get to know this man, his friends and his foods and his culture, and this is a good way to start. The stew is almost creamy in texture, the meat tender enough to fall apart on your spoon and in your mouth, the vegetables retaining just enough firmness, everything infused with a hint of spice. It makes your mouth water, and you have just enough time to regret not getting something proper to drink when a silver and gold can of something is tossed down next to you like a grenade into a foxhole.
"It's not grub juice," Karkat grunts by way of explanation when you look up, curiously; he's in the middle of popping the tab on his own can, so you figure it must be safe and set the bowl on your lap while you open it, chugging half of it in one go. It's carbonated, and the fizz goes to your head and tickles your throat as you gulp it down; the aftertaste is something fruity but substantial, with hints of what is very recognizably bacon.
Troll food sure is fucking weird.
But good, you amend, going back to your stew and setting the mystery can on the floor. Within minutes your portion is gone and Karkat is doling out another, and within minutes the whole thing is gone, utterly devoured. You toe the bowl, and the empty can inside it, away from you on the floor and flop back on the bed, arms spread out, eyes closed. You feel full and warm and utterly satisfied, and while it's still early for you, you feel like you could easily curl up in bed with Karkat and just fall asleep, content with everything. "Are you coming to bed?" you ask after a bit, lethargic, looking up to see that Karkat's eyes have been on you; he looks away the second he realizes you've seen, but the damage is done, because you know that look, too, the look of longing and unfathomable, baffling hunger, impossible to define. You felt it that night, when you first saw him-- not just desire, or lust, or arousal, but a hunger to be held, kept safe and warm, to have someone to share things with and tell your secrets to who will understand and love you for it.
"Yes," he tells you, and for all those reasons it shouldn't be altogether surprising when instead of moving next to you, he slides down, down, kneeling where your spread knees are hooked over the edge of the bed and reaching up, flicking the button of your jeans out of its hole and slowly, almost sensually tugging down your zipper. Horrified, you sit up in a flash, taking in his mildly surprised expression and the sight of him leaning over the bed, ready to stroke you to hardness and take you into his mouth again, this time without the hindrance of alcohol in your system.
"What are you doing?" you ask, feeling despair rising, and his surprise is turning to awkward, reflexive anger, face collapsing into a scowl that looks all too practiced.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he demands, voice choked with emotion that he's trying to suppress. "It's what they all want. You're not even the first to go through this whole song and dance dinner-and-a-show charade with me, so cut the shit and let me get you off so I can go to sleep."
You look at him softly, sadly, and surprise him again by gently threading your fingers through his hair, urging him away. It's coarse, like sheep's wool, and you stroke his hair almost reverently, teasing out the knots and tangles as he swallows visibly, eyes wide as he stares up at you. You wonder if he's ever been touched this way before, without desperate, hateful lust or wanting. If he's ever had a tender moment all his own. It makes your heart swell and burst and bleed with secondhand pain, and you move your hand to his cheek, tilting up his jaw and leaning down to press your lips against his.
This is it. This is what you wanted, and you show him that with pressure that is firm but light, holding him in place even as he stands again and then pushes you back on the bed, his body covering yours and pinning you there. His warm weight is heart enough that you can feel both your pulse and his, racing, his fingers trembling as he copies your gesture, claws resting just under your eye socket, making small indents in your skin as they press down. You're not good at this, though, not good at breathing through your nose and multitasking, and eventually it breaks down, you pulling away and gasping in air that you needed badly.
"That's what I want," you tell him quietly, as he reaches over to turn off the bedside light; even with the drapes, it doesn't really make a difference. "Just that."
And as you pull him in back close again, face pressed into the crook of his neck enough to feel the beat of his heart against your lips, he murmurs, "Alright."
---
The clock blinks six thirty when you wake up and the sun isn't even properly down yet, but the bed is empty save for you and Karkat's closet is open, revealing wracks of skimpy clothing in red and darker red, racks of boots and skirts and stockings. Karkat stands before his mirror as you rub the sleep out of your eyes, half dressed and half naked, a pair of pink satin panties clinging to his backside and fishnet stockings up to his thighs, but not much else to cover. He steps into another skirt, as you watch, this one more low cut than the article you first saw him in, then buckles on another pair of heels. He can see you through your reflection in the mirror, but if he cares he's not showing it. Instead he pulls a lacy camisole over his head, not long enough to cover his belly, and dusts his cheeks with pink powder. The last step is the application of thick eyeshadow, and then bright scarlet lipstick that you're sure you'd remember him having worn last time, smacking his lips reflexively. Carefully, he cleans up his make up utensils and other assorted articles, the lunch bowls having been put away apparently while you still slept, and leans against the chest of drawers heavily, his eyes closed.
Then, finally, the ultimate step. You were too drunk to notice it, the last time, but he'd been wearing a collar then, and he applies it now, black leather that pulls tight around his neck and must all but choke him, with a silver buckle and tag. Silent, you move up behind him and embrace him, arms meeting around his middle, and he unconsciously leans back into you, letting you take some of the weight it carries. "Is that your symbol?" you ask, looking at the reflection of the tag in the polished glass; the stylized image of two waves, in purple. Immediately you feel stupid when he shakes his head; you might not know what color Karkat bleeds, but elementary understanding of politics tells you that if he were a highblood, practically royalty, he would be sitting in the senator's mansion on the hill right now, sipping wine and not dolled up about to go trolling for customers.
"You have to go," he tells you, a hint of sadness lingering there, and you nod. Your father must be getting worried, after all, even if Dave probably knows enough to feed him some cover story or another by phone, regardless of whether or not he knew the reason behind your absence from school today.
"I wish I didn't," you sigh, face pressed into the contours of his back, now, feeling the muscle shift under skin as he reaches back to touch your shoulder, holding you for a moment before lightly pushing you away. You do not resist the unspoken command, stumbling backward a bit, but you regret that, too. "How much would it be? You know, for the night?" You swallow, hard. "Even if we didn't do anything?"
"Nightly fee is usually two hundred," he tells you, morose. "Give it up, John. Go home."
"Nope," you tell him, leaning up to give him one more kiss, careful not to smear his make up. "Not giving up. Do you remember what I told you last time?"
"Yeah?" he sounds suspicious, you think. Of your motives, or perhaps just of you in general.
"Still stands, bro. I'll talk to you later, okay? And that's a promise. You'd better not forget." You leave him there, staring stunned after you, with a song in your heart as the music begins blasting below; Sollux's handiwork at sound check. It doesn't matter, though, that you can only see him in a place like this. What matters is that you can see him at all.
And that someday, if you have anything to say about it, he won't have to wear chains.