Chapter Text
Despite his reputation, his charisma, and his devotion to the industry, Dave Strider did not expect to see Karkat Vantas starring in any of his movies, let alone accepting the lead role in his latest film.
To someone on the outside observing in, it was a fluke. The world knew Karkat tended to stick to small-scale indie films with unknown directors and shitty budgets. Besides the very first film he starred in being an outlier, the rest of the movies he acted in were a fucking waste of his talents —of his voice, but it was the only reason Dave knew the other existed in the first place, so it was hard to hate moody forest scenes recorded in the fog with shit audio because the director slash producer hired his brother Tim as the recordist who only learned about the sound gear used in the filming industry a few months prior thanks to a school project. Actually, no. Fuck that movie in particular. Fuck it because Karkat looked great despite the blue light filter plaguing the screen for the entire two-hour duration and assaulting Dave’s sensitive eyes. Fuck it because, despite the overused sets where only minimal redecorating and rearranging of furniture occurred, Karkat grabbed Dave’s attention and didn’t let go. Fuck that movie for having someone who could add tension to the room with the inflection of his voice alone —raspy and punctured yet clear and boiling with emotion. Fuck it for having someone so effortlessly handsome while doing literally fuck all to change anything about his appearance.
Well, according to Dave, anyways. Most trolls and humans alike accused Karkat of modifying his body one way or another. Trolls claimed he was ashamed of their species and wore black contacts and filed down his horns into nubs to appear more human. Humans often spread rumors that he hid his blood color in order to get higher-ranking troll roles by skipping the hierarchical step on the hemospectrum ladder. Dave thinks it's neither, besides the contacts part. That was obvious since adult trolls' blood color would appear in their irises the moment they emerged from their adult molt. As far as he knew, black blood wasn’t a thing. Dave didn't know why Karkat hid it, but he couldn't really judge the guy given his own relationship with his eyes. No, Dave thinks Karkat is naturally a unique but attractive-looking troll, no modifications required.
Sure, there are famous highbloods most directors would die to have in their films, what with their large, muscular frames, thick and luxurious heads of hair always flowing past their elbows, and a wickedly sharp set of teeth and claws. To many, it was visually impactful. To Dave, it was the human blond-haired middle-aged white man with a 5 o'clock shadow equivalent.
Karkat wasn't rippling with muscles and walking around sporting huge horns sharp enough to be insured less he wanted to give up half his paycheck to cover damages on set. But he was still big. He was a head taller than Dave, which was saying something given that Dave was a solid six-foot-one. His teeth may look dull in comparison to other trolls, but they were still fucking sharp by human standards. His eye color may have been hidden behind contacts, but his gaze was intense. He had dark circles under his eyes and a permanent wrinkle between his brows from scowling at anything and anyone that presented itself as a minor inconvenience to him. Dave loved it. Artistically— of course. He was unique and unabashedly himself.
But more than anything, beyond his good looks, it was his presence that was commanding. Karkat Vantas was loud in everything he did, and not just in the literal sense. His expressions held nothing back. He was an incredible ugly crier. The tears were obviously either faked or edited to remove any pigment in post, but that snot was definitely all his. As were those wobbly plump lips and the creases along the bridge of his flat nose. The veins along his forehead and neck popped when he screamed. He'd run his fingers through his wavy hair and muss his meticulously styled raven locks to fit the scene, and it would get messier as the movie progressed —there were no continuity errors on his watch. No sir. While other cast would flounder around and fuck up scenes left and right; posing differently every time a camera changed angles or getting an obvious touch-up between scenes, Karkat remained consistent. He was more professional than the majority of the people Dave has worked with, including veteran actors. Karkat pulled you in and didn’t let go until the credits started to roll. It was incredible. It was raw and real and Dave ended up going to South by Southwest every year to watch every unironically shitty movie featuring Karkat Vantas just to study him.
Dave wanted him so bad. In his movies, obviously. Up until this point, he had avoided changing his style. His films were niche —outrageous in what they mocked and satirical behind the veil of irony. Those who understood his vision didn’t really, but they defended him online and that counted for something. Those who didn’t understand jackshit about nothing kept his name alive. Dave Strider was the textbook definition of a PR nightmare. To the public, according to TMZ no less, (“That’s how you know you’ve made it,” Dirk would tell Dave every time an inconsequential person, paparazzi, or publisher made a negative remark towards Dave or his work); “Dave Strider is an achingly pompous, overrated millionaire with the same artistic tastes as a toddler barely capable of pushing itself to stand upright despite using the edge of a coffee table for leverage. Yet unlike the toddler, Strider shows no promise to grow or improve. His works are a mockery of the masterpieces preceding him. He stands on the shoulder of giants and spits in their face.”
It was hilarious. His claim to fame was his Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff series, a horrendous slapstick-styled set of films with gimmicks that put established comedians to shame. Take that Egbert. They were hard to watch, and even harder to purchase. With the help of his younger brother Dirk, Dave fucked with the shipments of their DVD sales. Ask for the first movie, you'll get the fourth. Sometimes he'd even splice movies and send those out. Make people think they were watching one film only to switch gears thirty minutes in and play the next. Most were outraged. Some thought it was art. There was profound symbolism behind the grating audio and indistinguishable shots covered in artifacts, yet in interviews and press releases, Dave made an effort to express that there was no meaning behind it all. His movies were nothing more than the curtains are blue situation. Only Dirk and a few others understood that there was meaning behind all the bullshit. Dirk had yet to uncover everything there was to it, but he was an incredibly intelligent young man. Dave is certain he’ll figure it out in record time.
It helped that Dave let him see how his commentary on certain topics was received. Going against the grain had its problems. Dave lifted the veil to show Dirk the capitalistic bullshit that plagued the industry; the red tape his movies barrelled through and the consequences he faced for the imaginary rules he broke. Dave was currently dealing with three different litigations because he had Sandra Bullock cameo in his latest film as the very famous and all-powerful [REDACTED], who in the movie would collect Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff’s feces as the secret ingredient for her chocolate cake. It seemed no one but Dirk appreciated Dave’s elaborate take on her corporate tyranny with some innocent li’l shit stirring, but hey. Target audience reached.
All this to say Dave was sort of a nightmare in the industry. Adored in small circles, hated by most, but more than anything, respected across the board for what he did and the large audience he garnered. That is, until he successfully recruited Karkat Vantas as his lead in his latest film.
Dave sits by his producer and watches the screen intently. It’s a minor scene that they’re recording. The intense stuff was already finished a while ago which left the easier, things-that-can-be-done-in-house stuff for last. They were in an abandoned hangar that Dave and a few fellow movie directors bought for ease of access to space, security and film equipment. Fuck moving to Hollywood. Fuck the traffic there and the ridiculous prices. He might be a rich, privileged asshole now, but he certainly wasn’t born into that life. And though he had grown accustomed to having money, it didn’t mean he lost all functioning brain cells.
Dave takes a step back when the producer calls cut. Karkat rolls his shoulder and Dave’s eyes immediately follow the line of back muscle beneath the black fabric of his t-shirt. He looks away just as quickly despite his eyes being hidden behind his shades. He can’t tell if Karkat is happy with his performance, but everyone else seems satisfied. The rest of the cast walk back towards the refreshments and seating, leaving only Karkat in the exact spot his character last stood. He turns to the producer, who sighs and gives Dave a look.
“You can move, Karkat,” Dave calls out on a whim. Karkat shoots him a glare and leaves to join the others without saying a word to Dave. Dave, of course, decides to follow him. “What? Were you unhappy with that last take?” He asks, trying his damnedest to be polite and professional. Karkat shrugs a shoulder and graces Dave with a side glance.
“Could be better, but everyone fucked off the set anyways, so it’s fine.”
“I was watching pretty closely, you did perfect to me.”
Another shrug. Dave doesn’t frown, but he feels frustration bubble to the surface. The reason why Dave Strider did not expect to see Karkat Vantas starring in any of his movies, let alone accept the lead role in his latest film, was because Karkat made it clear that he hated him. They struggled to get along from day one. He doesn’t know why. He’s as charming as it gets. His father might have taught him jack shit about hospitality, but Dave was raised by TV and movies, and he knew he was as gracious as he was accommodating. The problem was that every time he opened his damn mouth, he pissed Karkat off. Likewise, every time Karkat said his usual dumb shit, Dave couldn’t help but take a quick jab at him. They were water and oil, and Dave seemed to be the one desperately shaking the contents hoping for homogeneity while Karkat snapped at him for rattling his brain.
“You know this was your last scene, right? Congratulations, by the way. You can unclench your jaw now.”
“Fuck off, Strider. This tension is because you won’t let me drink a cup of damn water in peace,” Karkat says while gesturing to his mouth with the cup in his hand. Dave takes the bait and stares at those gritted teeth as he continues to speak.
“I know some people can’t take a hint but I have blatantly told you not to talk to me after a scene. It pulls me out of character!”
“This is where the “this was your last scene” comment comes into play.”
Karkat is holding the cup to his lips but those teeth are still clenched as he glares at Dave.
“With the exception of today! Why don’t you ever go bother the rest of the cast, huh?”
“And miss these riveting conversations we have? I don’t think Pattinson has ever told me to suck a fat, throbbing bulge ‘til my asshole seeped its genmat.”
Karkat grumbles something to himself as he proceeds to drink his water, the plastic cup only a little crumpled under his grip. His claws are shorter than most trolls, and Dave has caught the other filing the tips so they aren’t as sharp. Most costume designers had their troll actors sharpen and paint their nails, but Dave asked that Karkat maintain his natural features and personal preferences as much as possible, including his contacts. Dave is certain it was a non-negotiable part of his contract anyways. One that he didn’t read. It didn’t matter. He liked the Karkat he saw in press and shitty posters. Karkat Vantas with minimal changes in appearance was the best kind. He wanted to elevate that in his movie, which was why he told Karkat to work with his costume designer to find outfits that worked best with him; his preference, his body type, but of course while keeping the context of each scene in mind. His current outfit was a casual one. Dave’s parameters for the scene were: man who cut himself on some broken glass at home and freaks out. Man who covers the injury so that not even a drop of blood is visible —not to the camera. Not even to himself. Man who looks over his shoulder in his own home knowing he’s alone and there are no repercussions for something as mundane as a little scratch. You know, really normal stuff. Karkat delivered the scene so well Dave felt like he had stepped into a time machine, wherein the past was only a few months ago. It was a constant battle, still to this day. On the bright side, Karkat looked good in his denim jeans and black t-shirt. Hot even, if he were to dignify his lead actor with the thoughts of his rapidly growing fanbase. With that said, Dave had a feeling the other didn’t like to expose his skin, but did so for the sake of this scene. The other’s discreet discomfort worked well on camera. It was just the right amount of paranoia and anxiety that had Dave questioning how much of it was an act.
He’s surprised Karkat wasn’t satisfied with the last take.
It finally hits him that it’s Karkat’s last. take.
“I’d like to treat you to dinner,” Dave blurts. Thoughts of how incredible Karkat is as an actor and his inability to bridge the gap between them spiral into his need to get along with him. The realization that they were at the tail end of the filming was starting to kick in. He couldn’t let things wrap up without getting any closer to this man. “Some of these last few scenes were tough, but you did great, dude.”
Maybe it’s the understanding that things were coming to an end that give Karkat pause. Maybe it’s the slight raised inflection in Dave, bringing some life to his regular monotone. If Karkat caught his slight desperation, he doesn’t say it. He also doesn’t brush him off claiming he’s busy as he rushes to his car either —which is how things usually play out.
“Listen. I know you guys have a knack for getting together to gossip and eat like you’re malnourished wigglers after every film session, but I have plans.” He crumples his cup and throws it in the trash. He doesn’t look at Dave as he starts heading to the opening of the hangar. He walks towards the cars parked around the corner until he’s almost out of earshot. Only then, as the afternoon sun melds him into a shadowy figure in contrast to the light spilling through the open doors, dust and dirt caught dancing in the rays and highlights outlining the props and film equipment in a cool-toned glow, does he look over his shoulder and say “Sorry.”
Dramatic asshole.
Dave does something he has never done before in his life. He very briefly drops his cool demeanor. There isn’t a trace of nonchalance in his stride as he rushes toward Karkat. He ignores the few casting him curious glances as he rounds the corner, spotting the black four-door and the messy mop of black hair of the troll who owns it.
“Karkat, wait!” He calls out as the other opens the door. It’s rare for him to raise his voice. Rare enough that Karkat startles and whips around.
Dave isn’t the slightest bit winded, but he does let out an exasperated sigh and droop his shoulders. “I get that these impromptu get-togethers aren’t your thing—”
“Like I said, I’m just bus—”
“—but what about a properly planned wrap party? You’ve attended one of those before, right? I know the budgets were tight back then but hey, you’re in a different playing field now.”
“Are you inviting me out or insulting me, Strider? Pick one.”
Shit. He was far more frustrated with Karkat’s relentless dismissal than he realized.
“Inviting you. Jesus dude, but it’s like pulling teeth with you. You realize a famous director reaching out is a good thing, right?”
Karkat scrutinizes Dave, hand resting on the top of the open car door despite the intense Texas heat undoubtedly turning his vehicle into a death trap. If it were a human mimicking his stance, you’d hear a sizzle.
“I don’t need to network with you. You handed me the script in person. I have reason to believe you already knew everything you needed to hire me. I don’t appreciate you flaunting your position of power over my head. I didn’t accept the role to get in your good graces.”
“This isn’t about job opportunities you obtuse dunderhead,” Dave pokes Karkat in his chest as he says this. “Fuck me, do I have to spell it out for you? Everyone in there worked hard for this movie. I do what I do to show my appreciation because it’s my story that they’re bringing to life, which includes you. It’s mainly because of you. I chose you as the lead for a reason. I can accept that you’re busy. Fine. Maybe those shitty indie films didn’t cut a big enough check to cover your mortgage and you’re trying to climb out of a loan with an insane interest rate by having a secret side gig at your local Troll Denny’s, I get it.”
Karkat practically growls at Dave and takes a seat in his car. He moves to slam his door shut but Dave grabs it and yeah, no. There’s that sizzle. Great. Dave swings the door backward and yanks his hand off from the metal, shaking away the pain. Karkat has the decency to look concerned about the first-degree burn his vehicle wrought on his employer.
“But the least you can do…” Dave continues as he steps between the open door and Karkat, stuffing his hand in his pocket and leaning down so he is at Karkat’s eye level, attempting to regain what little poise he had when he first initiated the conversation. “...is tell me a day you are available for one god damn evening.”
“Strider, Jesus Christ. Why don’t you let this go? Why are you trying so hard to get me to come to one of your insipid, shallow human parties?”
“So you can properly show your appreciation to all the people in there who worked tirelessly to elevate your role.” Dave punctuates while pointing in the direction of the hangar. He has a foot in the car now, and Karkat’s complete attention. He had only ever been treated this seriously during rehearsals, script readings, and shootings. Karkat is glowering at him, but his prolonged silence and unblinking eyes say plenty. He knows Dave is right. Finally. Finally! Dave takes the other’s hesitation as a good sign. He takes Karkat’s eye twitching as hilarious, but for once in his life keeps his thoughts to himself.
“Tell me what day and time works, alright? I’ll fucking plan around your schedule if I have to.”
“I don’t know what you want from me,” Karkat grumbles. Dave opens his mouth to interject but Karkat slams his hand over Dave’s mouth, effectively shutting him up. “I only have time this Saturday. The closer the venue is to me the better. My thing ends at seven.”
“Do you want me to pick you up from the Troll Denny’s?” Dave asks against the palm of Karkat’s calloused hand, trying and failing not to think about how big it is.
Karkat pushes Dave away from his car and slams the door shut.
“My people will call your people!” Dave calls out, barely containing his giddiness.
Dave can hear the profanities behind the windowpane, and can’t fight his satisfied smirk as Karkat drives off. He’d call this a resounding success. Every misstep was calculated and graceful. Yup. Now all there was left was to address the elephant in the room. Or more specifically, the spiked blonde hair peeking behind a truck three cars over.
“You can come out now.”
The blonde twitches, ducks down a little further, then concedes. Dave watches his little brother pop up from behind the line of parked vehicles, skateboard under his arm and hands stuffed in his pockets as he walks toward him with the disposition of a swanky fifteen-year-old who likes to pretend he’s not. Dirk Strider was tall for his age, but still had a ways to go to catch up to Dave. At 5'7", Dirk tended to wear baggy pants that hid the lean muscles of his legs and a loose-fitted black tank top to combat the Houston heat. Dave masks his disappointment in the other skipping school. He’s glad, at the very least, that in doing so, Dirk chose to come to him instead of going elsewhere, so he holds his tongue. He loves his younger brother. He wants Dirk to have the upbringing he never had, and an aspect of that was experiencing a regular high school life. His insistence was a battle. A push and pull between brothers with enough give that both were content in instances of compromise.
Dirk nods at his brother, then towards the empty spot next to Dave.
“Good talk.”
“He’s a pretentious asshole,” Dave mumbles. He throws an arm around Dirk’s shoulders and pulls him close. “But at least he finally agreed to come out with us.”
“Are you extending that invite to any younger brothers you might have or is this what you insultingly call an adult party.”
“Dunno yet. There’ll be alcohol, and people drinking that alcohol. Do you think you can go several hours without lecturing one of my staff for getting a little tipsy?”
“If the line to cross is a little tipsy, sure. ”
Dave exhales through his nose, feeling sorry for those Dirk had silently declared war on for daring to get shitfaced at his brother’s event.
Dirk makes a face behind his pointed shades when Dave ruffles his hair. They were similar to his brother’s only in that they covered his eyes. Dave’s aviators were a gift from Ben Stiller himself, and he wore it with pride after replacing his old pair. Dirk’s, however, were a gift from Dave after the other had expressed his frustration in losing his identity to his famous older brother. Ever since that conversation, Dave put extra care into giving Dirk a say in matters that involved him instead of just deciding for him. He always felt better having Dirk by his side, but he had to respect that that other was growing into a young man and needed space to figure himself out. He squeezes Dirk a little closer as they head to Dave’s car. He’s glad the other expressed interest in attending, even if he wasn’t particularly fond of some of the activities that occurred in these spaces.
Frankly, Dave wasn’t a fan either. He’d have a drink from time to time, but anything beyond that was very much out of his wheelhouse. The Striders would just have to stick together, as they always did.
“I’m surprised you went to such lengths for him.”
Dave fumbles with his keys and glances at the teen circling the car to wait at the passenger door. “I’ll be honest, Bro. He seems like a dick.”
Dave unlocks the car and immediately turns the air conditioning to the highest setting. They both take a seat and keep the doors open to allow most of the stuffy heat to escape its confinements.
“He’s not that bad once you get to know him,” Dave lies. He assumes that’s the case. He’s observed it through the cast and crew who initially complained about Karkat utterly warming up to him. He doesn’t know how or why. He’d fucking love to get to know the guy more, but the other was as stubborn as a troll horn stuck in a metal grate (true story, expensive to remove).
“Doubt it. I heard how he spoke to you. He doesn’t seem anything like the roles you obsessively watch him play over and over back home."
Dave closes the door and waits for Dirk to follow suit before speaking. “I’m not obsessive.”
“Well, I'm convinced,” Dirk mocks.
Dave decidedly ruins his hair just a tad for being cheeky.
“Karkat isn’t different from those roles,” Dave mulls out loud. Especially in his featured movie. He was a stiff actor when he first started, but where he lacked in professional experience, he made up for with life experience. Dave was sure of it. “He’s just—” Dave grips the steering wheel and feels the sharp pain from his burnt hand shoot up his arm. “He’s just like this with me.”
And he was determined to figure out why.