Chapter Text
Karkat realized he was gay the second he heard Northern Downpour in eighth grade; one second of Ryan Ross and Brendon Urie harmonizing was all it took, and the rest is history. The band’s split hit him hard, but two years later he still loyally listens to Pretty Odd every night... or, walking home after the first day at his new school. He’s a junior and should be over this by now, but the songs nonetheless soothe an anxiety he does not want to admit he has.
Texas is hot. Karkat doesn’t mind. He likes the feeling of the sun on his neck, the sweat that rolls down his back. It roots him to the ground, makes him feel alive, whereas the cold is just miserable and dead.
“DUDE!”
Karkat doesn’t even have time to spin around before someone barrels into him. They fall down together against the cement, Karkat’s elbows scraping against the ground as the person grunts above him.
“Jesus,” Karkat groans.
“Shit.” The weight disappears from his chest and someone holds out their hand. “Sorry, man. Are you okay?”
Karkat stands on his own and dusts off his shorts. “Yeah.” He gingerly picks up his phone, which is blaring the lyrics to When the Day Met the Night, his earbuds lying dislodged a few inches away.
The boy is blonde and covered in freckles, hot pink skin evening out to a smooth tan. He puts on a pair of sunglasses and pulls his skateboard toward him by the toe of his shoe, flips it up into the air, and catches it. “You sure?”
Karkat nods. “You should probably practice riding more instead of cool show-off stuff.”
The boy’s eyes widen. He grins and shakes his head. “You’re that new kid, aren’t you? Hey, what is that?”
Karkat blushes and pauses the song. “Nothing.”
“No, seriously. It’s Panic at the Disco, right?”
“Uh...”
“Chill,” the boy snorts. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
“Right,” Karkat says, glancing at his sneakers.
“My name’s Dave.”
Karkat blinks at the bony hand proffered to him, palms skinned and prickling with blood. He takes it. “Karkat.”
“What a fuckin’ name.”
“Yeah, well.”
Dave falls instep beside him, hands shoved into his pockets. “Where’re you from?”
“Hawaii,” Karkat answers, “but I lived in Chicago since I was two.” He does not know why he’s holding a conversation. He hadn’t talked all day.
Dave’s voice is deep, laced with an accent he can’t quite hide. “No shit?”
“No shit,” Karkat confirms.
“Right on. Well, allow me to welcome you to Houston.” Dave bows and widely gestures around them. They are walking beneath an empty office building for sale across the street from a rundown car dealership.
“Thanks.”
“This is the finest city on the Earth.” Dave counts on his fingers. “We got cowboys, the Rockets, and the Mexican-American war.”
“And great skateboarding.”
Dave’s lips quirk. “That too. You’re funny, man.”
Karkat raises his eyebrows. “Really?”
Dave nods. “Seriously. Listen,” he pulls out something from the pocket of his cargo shorts and hands it over, “if you wanna hang out, come here.”
Karkat blinks down at a pamphlet emblazoned with a brick building and the words Reachout Youth. “Um, okay.”
“The people are real cool. I’m there every Thursday.” Dave drops his skateboard to the ground. “I’ll see ya at school.”
“Yeah,” Karkat says.
Dave pushes off and skates away with the lift of a hand, leaving as quick as he came.
Karkat’s new house is at the edge of town, where the streets melt into the suburbs. He jogs up the porch steps, bookbag bouncing against his back, and opens the front door. “I’m home, Dad,” he calls, tossing his bag onto the couch.
His older brother Kankri peeks out from the kitchen. “He’s not here.”
“It’s eighty degrees out,” Karkat frowns. “Take off the dumb sweater.”
“I have sensitive skin,” Kanrki defends. He is sitting at the table with a book..
“Sure.” Karkat opens the fridge and takes out a can of Coke.
“What is that?” Kankri asks.
“Oh.” Karkat leans against the counter and passes the brochure. “Someone from school gave it to me.”
Kankri hums. “This is an LGBTQ organization.”
“What!” Karkat snatches it back, flushing. “How could he...”
Kankri returns to his book. “This is a big city, Karkat. People don’t make assumptions either way.”
Karkat stuffs the paper into his pocket and gulps down soda, remembering how it felt when people finally figured out he and his brother were both major queers. “I guess.”
“Don’t worry about it. It won’t be like back home.”
“Ugh. I’m not talking about this.”
Kankri huffs. Karkat heads upstairs to his room, which as of now only has a bare bed and a bunch of boxes. He sits down, sets his soda atop the windowsill, and unfolds the pamphlet.
/
Karkat does not have any classes with Dave. Occasionally he sees him in the hallway, laughing and bumping shoulders with an indifferent blond girl whom appears to be his sister, but is too nervous to say anything. He is shaking in Kankri’s car when Thursday rolls around, hands clutched around his phone as he blasts Nine in the Afternoon.
Kankri gestures for him to pull out an earbud when they come to stop at the curb. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Karkat unconvincingly lies.
His brother rolls his eyes. “I told you. Calm down.”
“I am calm.”
“Are you ashamed of your identity?”
“Oh my god.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Nothing,” Karkat hisses.
Kankri drops it. Karkat awkwardly climbs out of the car.
He turns his head and grins at the sound of wheels bumping over the sidewalk. Dave stumbles to a stop before him, wearing a Rockets jersey and cheeky grin. “You came.”
“Duh,” Karkat says.
Dave leads him inside to a reception area with bright furniture and colorful bulletin boards. “This way,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. His ears are gauged, cartilage pierced with a silver ring, and a mole sits on his left cheekbone.
The corridor widens to another open room. Dave drops down onto a couch, setting his skateboard beside him on the rug. Karkat sits in the cushioned chair opposite of him.
“We’re early.” Dave pushes his sweaty bangs off his forehead, revealing pale, wiry armpit hair and the side of his binder peeking from the jersey. Karkat’s breath catches in his throat. He forces himself to stare at the coffee table between them, where an issue of FTM Magazine sits.
“Are you okay?” Dave asks, noticing Karkat’s jumpy eyes. “Sorry if I was being pushy.”
“No,” Karkat says a bit too loud. “I mean. You’re fine.”
“You don’t have to be nervous.”
Karkat falls back against the chair. “I lived in a suburb of Chicago. People were kind of shitty.”
Dave smiles. “I knew it.”
“What?” Karkat frowns.
“I have a top-notch radar.”
“Oh.”
“It’s not a bad thing.” Dave sits up; his clavicle peeks out from the collar of his jersey. “People are cool about it here. You don’t need to worry about shit like that. Not when you’re around me, at least.” He leans forward, elbows on the coffee table, and Karkat gravitates forward. “You see this?” Dave asks, lifting his fist. “Those scars on my knuckles?”
Karkat nods.
“Got ‘em in a fight!” Dave swings his arm forward, barely grazing Karkat’s stubby nose, and laughs brightly. His voice dips to an exaggerated drawl. “I have a reputation ‘round these parts.”
Karkat’s heart pace quickens. Is this what flirting feels like?
“I—Well, I didn’t just take crap sitting down.” Karkat taps the bridge of his nose. “Some kid called me a fag outside of Walmart. He broke my nose. I fucked up his arm, though. I have really sharp teeth.”
Dave chuckles again. “You’re a riot.”
Karkat’s heart melts.
“My big brother is gay,” Dave says, “and he taught me how to fight.”
“All my brother does is read. When he gets pissed off he sends argumentative essays.”
“The pen is mightier than the sword,” Dave surmises.
“If you’re a fucking wimp, sure.”
“Damn. I like you, dude.” Dave leans back in the couch, lacing his hands behind the nape of his neck. His armpit hair is oddly arousing.
“I, uh, like you too.” Karkat coughs. “Thanks for bringing me here. Especially since I’m new.”
Dave waves him off. “Don’t sweat it.”
Karkat sweats anyways. The whole night. More people begin filing in. Dave stays by his side the entire time, explaining they mostly just hang out until a serious talk starts where kids vent about the stuff that’s happened to them since last week. Dave doesn’t say much but listens intently, and offers weirdly insightful advice, though his vocabulary is limited to “chill,” “relax,” and “let it go, bro.”
It’s cooled down once they head back outside. Dave waits with Kakart, leaning against the wall of the building. “Did you have fun?” he asks.
Karkat nods. “It was nice.” He wants to add “especially with you there,” but doesn’t.
Dave lifts his hand to slide his shades up, which have been over his eyes all night. “Thats good, man.” His irises are candy red. Karkat does not comment, and Dave gives him a look that seems pleased.
Karkat opens his mouth to say something, anything about how much Dave has helped him in just a few days time. But before he can he sees Kankri’s car coming down the street.
“I like you,” he blurts. “I mean—fuck. You helped me out. A lot.” He fists his hands at his sides, burning with embarrassment.
Dave smiles. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “You too,” is all he says. And with a curt salute, he is skating out of sight yet again.
Karkat collapses into the passenger seat beside his brother, who looks at Dave’s retreating form over his shoulder. “Is that your new friend?” he asks.
Karkat watches the back of Dave’s jersey disappear in the right side mirror. “Oh, yeah.”