Work Text:
The drive back to St. Lobaf’s is cold and rainy and you are in mortal danger of falling asleep at the wheel. Dad 2 has the heater running on full blast, for one, and that combined with the lulling rhythm of the windshield wipers would normally be enough to send you swerving gently into the nearest ditch if it weren’t for the Lady Gaga song pumping through the speakers.
Your eyelids flutter as you grip the wheel and try to keep an eye out for deer. Everything is gray and flat and there’s a pinched, anxious feeling in your chest at the idea that in less than an hour it’s going to be dark out. Wasn’t it only a little while ago that sunset was at 8:00 and the weather wasn’t complete ass?
But that’s depression induced timesinks for you. Your brain couldn’t decide to work in May or July or something, no, it had to wake up just in time for winter to shit all over you.
You are driving because Dad 1 has been swamped with deadlines ever since the last of the Thanksgiving pie disappeared and Dad 2 failed his last driver’s exam so spectacularly that they awarded him a certificate for it. You have seen it; Dad 1 keeps it in his office because he thinks it’s funny.
You are under instructions to drive the car to the shop for its biannual once-over. From there, you and Dad 2 will walk two blocks to HB’s place, where they will presumably drop you off at St. Lobaf’s after your godfather is through grilling you about your love life.
You wish you weren’t driving. You don’t want to think. The past two days are a blur of food comas and living room jazz and football games that you only watched because you were stuck between Dad 2 and DD and you were too full to get off the couch. You were quiet for the most part, and you could tell people noticed, but nobody asked. You were glad of it at the time, but now you’re not so sure.
For all you tried to shove all thoughts of that fucking chatlog out of your head and enjoy yourself with your family, of course you couldn’t. When the gnawing worry about the entire fucked-up situation wasn’t enough, you started to worry that NP forgot to close that chat window after all. You ended up sending her eight emails inside of an hour asking her to confirm, images of a humiliated and extremely pissed-off Vantas rampaging through your head.
These came to a prompt stop the moment you got a text from her reading:
XXO < Y333333333S I CLOSED THE WINDOW NOW STOP PAWTHERING ME ABOUT IT!!
From there your brain dwelled on the sickening possibilities of what Vriska said. Instead of sleeping your first night at home, you spent it pacing in your room until Dad 1 knocked on your door and said your footfalls were keeping him awake and was everything all right? You apologized and told him it was just insomnia. Then you spent the next hour and a half in the bathroom taking the hottest shower you could stand, as if by pummeling the top of your head with the power spray setting you could stop your brain from running in anxious circles.
By 3:00 AM you were finally worn out enough to rationalize the rumor away. It was silly to get worked up over a bunch of words anyway. St. Lobaf wouldn’t be any different when you returned. It wasn’t worth wondering what Karkat thought or what Gamzee thought—you would just talk to them and find out yourself when you got back and everything would be fine.
By morning the anxiety had abated for the most part and you managed to get through Thanksgiving without worrying anyone, which simultaneously left you relieved and a little bit lonely. You ate and smiled and let everyone’s conversations wash over you. There were even a few isolated moments where you were able to peek out from inside yourself and see everyone happy and relaxed, these people who loved you and put up with your bullshit and were glad to see you looking better, and for a brief while the feeling was contagious.
Contagious and fleeting. Now, back in the car, your thoughts are gnawing at you again. By now you’ve convinced yourself that Karkat won’t be a problem; he gives just as many shits about rumors as you do. It’s Gamzee that you’re worried about now—what the hell are you supposed to do about Gamzee.
You drum your fingertips on the wheel and try to think about something else. Dad 2 is singing tunelessly and for once it’s sort of cute instead of annoying. You’re starting to admit to yourself that this song is sort of catchy—I don’t speak German but I can if you like—when he clears his throat.
“Something on your mind, kiddo?”
“Nnnnhhhh.”
“Couldn’t help but notice you’ve been wearing a sour face ever since we left the house.”
“That ith my normal fathe.”
“Take it from me, you wouldn’t say that if you could see it.”
You glance in the rearview mirror and notice your brows are furrowed down and, yeah, he’s right, you definitely have a sulky lemon face going on.
You clue him in on the sad fuckup highlights of your life, expecting the same resigned, depressed tiredness to settle over you like it does all the other times you think about it. Instead you’re surprised to find yourself talking around a lump in your throat.
Your dad doesn’t say much, save for the occasional monosyllabic listening noise. You tell him everything, and not for the first time you are profoundly grateful that this guy is your dad—he doesn’t interrupt or flip out or make any judgments; he is just a quiet, supportive presence who looks at you with pity and squeezes your shoulder at one point when you get too choked up to find the right words. The CD randomizer has flipped over to Ke$ha and you’re gripping the steering wheel like you want to tear it off the dash by the time you struggle through it all.
“I jutht… I feel like an athhole. If you put me on daytime TV the audienthe would be throwing fucking chairth at me,” you finish, lamely.
“Nonsense! I’m under the impression they only throw chairs at twenty-somethings named Kevin who wear saggy trousers and refuse paternity tests.” You see him smiling out of the corner of your eye. “Everyone makes mistakes, my dear.”
“But—”
“Do you know what I did for your father’s fortieth birthday?”
You realize you don’t. Your father’s birthday was the week before, and when you called to ask him how it went Dad 1 had just sighed in that way you knew meant he was pinching the bridge of his nose and and said it was a birthday, and you hadn’t had the energy to pry any further.
You learn that, through some comedy of errors, there had been a mix-up regarding where Dad 1 wanted to go out for dinner, and apparently Dad 2 had registered a table at Tony’s Crabhouse instead of Tony’s Steakhouse.
You stare at him. “But he hateth theafood.”
“Yeeees. It made him a bit twitchy, as you can imagine! I still don’t know quite how it happened.”
You listen in horrified fascination as your father explains more. Since the other Tony’s was booked solid, the two of them claimed a booth as far away from the lobster tank as possible, where Dad 1 ordered steak with steamed vegetables and Dad 2 ordered jambalaya.
“Neither of us had ever had jambalaya before—it was delicious! I had him try a bite, but then he almost choked on it once he looked at my bowl saw there were tiny scallops in it.” He makes a pained laugh and adjusts his collar. “And, uh, did you know your father is allergic to shellfish?”
“Uh, no? Oh my god. No, I thought he jutht hated them.”
“Haha, yes, well, I didn’t either, poor man! Fortunately he spat it out and only ended up with a slight case of hives across his face and hands, but for a minute we were quite alarmed!”
“Wow. That. That’th amazing, dad.”
“Oh, it gets worse.”
“How. How could it pothibly get worthe.”
“I forgot I’d arranged for the waitstaff to wish him a happy birthday.”
“You didn’t.”
“Oh yes. They played music over the speakers, brought him out a flaming crème brulee, and took his picture.”
You take a moment to imagine your father ignoring the camera and glaring at Dad 2 instead, the beginnings of a rash across his cheeks as some poor underpaid waiter sets a flaming dessert in front of him. You shiver.
“I thought he might strangle me,” Dad 2 admits.
“I would have.”
“Well who doesn’t like to be sung to on their birthday!”
“People who aren’t you!” You grimace at him. “So is that the end of it?”
“I’m afraid not. You see, I was going to wait until we got home before I gave your father his present—”
You tug at the steering wheel and squirm. “Oh, no—”
“—but he looked so spectacularly livid I thought perhaps I might try and smooth things over while we were still at the restaurant. So I went to the car and got it out of the trunk…”
“Yeah?”
“Well, you see, I got him a hat. It was custom made from this company who specializes in eclectic top hats. Very chic. Since I got him that morning suit for our anniversary, I thought a nice hat would make it pop a little, you know? Lend it a bit of eccentricity. But then he opened the box and gave me that look he gives people, you know the one, where he looks like he wants to implode people’s brains?” He chuckles and you glance over at him as he continues the tale, amazed as always at how uncanny his impression of Dad 1 is. “’Deuce,’ he said. ‘You’ve known me for almost twenty-nine years. WHEN HAVE YOU EVER SEEN ME WEARING A HAT?’”
“Oh shit.”
“He didn’t talk to me for two days.”
“Wow.”
“But you know what I did?”
“What.”
“I bought him sunflowers and cortisone cream and said I was very sorry. And he forgave me.” He catches your eye and his smile softens. “It was as simple as that.”
“Yeah, but you guyth are married. You’re thuppothed to forgive each other.”
“And you think this friend of yours wouldn’t?”
“I don’t know, maybe? It’th not like I detherve—”
“It doesn’t matter what you think you deserve, dear,” he says gently. “You owe that boy an apology regardless.”
Your shoulders slump. “Yeah. I guethh you’re right.”
“You’ll figure something out, I know you will. The hard part is going up to him and doing it.”
“Nnnnggh.”
“You have to promise me you will, though. Right here, in this car, with Nicki Minaj as our witness.”
“Ugh. Alright, fine.”
“Because you, sir, are the king of excuses.”
“Okay, okay—”
“The master of breezily brushing things aside—”
“Daaaaaad.”
“The grand poobah of procrastination.”
“I know, I know, chritht, I promise I’ll figure something out, okay?”
He grins and gives your shoulder a pat. “That’s my boy.”
* * * *
It takes you nearly two weeks. You tell yourself it’s not that you’re putting it off, it’s just that you still can’t think of what to do. Meanwhile, life at St. Lobaf passes by as it always does, with group therapy and journal assignments and a thousand other mundane things you have to catch up on now that your brain has resurfaced.
“Dude, you’re putting it off,” Egbert tells you one morning, while the two of you wash dishes after breakfast. “Just go talk to him, it’ll be okay!”
You suppose you had better, before Dad 2 starts asking about it in his emails.
You decide a cake might make this easier. If you’re lucky, maybe Gamzee will be too busy shoveling it in his face to notice how horrible the rest of your apology is. The more you think about it, the more it makes sense—this entire mess started with a cake, if it ends for whatever reason, you might as well bring it around full circle.
That thought hurts with unexpected intensity, a short, sharp stab just below your diaphragm.
You print out a list of ingredients and make arrangements to go to the store.
Your chaperone is a recent arrival whose name you can never remember. His red polo shirt, over-gelled black porcupine hair, and unfortunate scribble of a goatee are the only things that distinguish him from the rest of the orderlies as far as you’re concerned. He curls his upper lip at your list.
“Jesus chris… all that goes inside a CAKE? It’s like… who NEEDS this fucking bullshit.”
You wonder if he’s stoned.
Once inside, you start to panic a little as it occurs to you that this is Gamzee, the guy who baked awesome cakes professionally in an actual bakery. You’ve watched him go from his usual sleepy-eyed amusement at everything to alarming amounts of outrage at the slightest mention of cakes in mugs, cakes in jars, twinkies, Krispy Kreme donuts, and mass-produced cheesecakes.
One time you saw him slap a Hostess fruit pie out of Karkat’s hands like it was radioactive before wrapping him up in a horrified hug, all it’s okay, it’s okay, I got you, that nasty-ass shitpie can’t hurt you now, come on, I’ll bake you up something decent brother, that hateful thing you almost put in your mouth belongs in the motherfucking trash, man.
You remember the time he went on a rant that went on for almost twenty solid fucking minutes about canned German chocolate icing, and oh god, it’s all coming back, you can hear him in your head, keep that glop the fuck away from me, Solbro, that shit tastes like straight up sadness. Ain’t even worth my time unless somebody went and grated that motherfuckin’ coconut fresh.
Oh, you are doomed. He is going to take one look at your cake and he is going to hate it, you are certain.
You speed walk past the cake-mix-in-a-box aisle without looking at them, as if they were cursed.
The bakery aisle doesn’t show much promise either. None of the cakes on display have enough space for a hastily written “iim 2orry ii was an a22hole and yelled at you for no rea2on and took your godawful juggalo 2hiirt, have 2ome empty caloriie2” and even if they did, the icing looks old and dry.
Looking closer at some of the flavors cinches it. There is no chocolate, only vanilla, “temptation” spice, and carrot. You learn the carrot cake has raisins in it, which makes you furious.
“Who the hell thought it wath a good idea to put fucking raithinth in a carrot cake?! Who doeth that?!” You grimace incredulously at your chaperone. “That’th fucking bullshit ith what it ith, people should be arrethted for ruining cake like that.”
Red Polo Guy stares at you, and you instantly regret saying anything. Wow, you sounded stupid just then. Since when do you have opinions on cake anyway?
“Oh fuck thith. Okay, lookth like I’m baking a cake after all, letth jutht get the ingredienth and get out of here.”
“Whatever, stonklord, get your cook on wit your serious businmates cake.”
He has to be stoned.
* * * *
Ten minutes into baking the cake, you begin to think that maybe this was a bad idea.
The orderly watching you this time is a nice lady named Fran who has little ringlets of red hair and a cute beaky nose you would have smiled at were you not in such a horrible mood. She looks genuinely regretful that she knows next to nothing about baking, but she turns on the oven for you and looks very sympathetic while she stands in the doorway and watches you flail around like some idiot trapped in a black and white infomercial.
“It thayth to fold the eggs in. Fold them? I don’t remember folding eggth latht time. How the hell am I thuppothed to fold them they’re EGGS in GLOP. And why the fuck ith thour cream an ingredient. WHO PUTTH THOUR CREAM IN CAKE?”
“Oh, well, that’s how my grandmother always did it,” says your chaperone. “I guess it’s supposed to make the cake moist.”
“It thoundth completely grothh.”
You try to remember how Gamzee did it, but at the time your head had been packed to the brim with apiculture plans and icing fights and sloppy makeouts to the point where barely anything about the actual baking part sank in.
You get impatient with the butter and so it isn’t quite room temperature when you add it in with sugar, which makes creaming it approximately a zillion times more difficult. You get egg shell fragments in the batter and spend an agonizing amount of time picking them out. You stir until your arm is a heavy, burning weight, and yet every time you set the bowl down you find little ribbons of dry flour.
Your stomach clenches as you pour the batter into a circular pan. In spite of your best efforts, it doesn’t look quite right—yours looks all thick and wasn’t Gamzee’s thinner and smoother somehow? Fran has no advice to offer except to let her put it in the oven and hope for the best.
The baking time takes a small eternity. Cleaning up the cake mess and washing the dishes shaves off a whole eight minutes. You spend another five sitting on the floor across from the oven, scowling at it with palpable fury while you resist the urge to peek inside.
You are uncomfortably conscious of the fact that you’re sitting almost exactly on the spot where Gamzee took you on a magical jaunt to the land of Awkward Boners and Rainbow Sprinkle Shame. You wanna be pretty, Twitchy?I’ll make you so fuckin’ pretty. I’ll make you shine like the motherfuckin’ stars.
Oh god. You groan and bury your face in your arms, torn between laughing and beating your head against the fridge door. When did you turn into such a jerk? He’s only ever been 100% nice to you and you go and behave like the king of entitled assholes before avoiding him for a month. Beating your head against something is starting to look better and better with each passing second.
Fran pokes her head in the room and suggests you might want to go for a walk.
Between wandering the halls, tidying your half of your room, and writing an email to your dads, you manage to make the time pass. You run into Feferi on the way back to the kitchen and let her in on your cake baking plans.
“Aww, Sollux, that’s so sweet! I’m sure he’s going to love it.”
You eye the oven nervously. “God, I jutht hope it’th edible.”
She unlocks the oven for you, dons oven mitts, and puts the cake on the cooling rack.
Your heart sinks. It’s flat. It’s completely fucking flat, with a dry, crusty ring along the border before it dips down in a visible dent, as if the cake itself knew how pitiful it was and deflated out of sheer misery that you brought it into the world at all.
You can feel it happening. Your face is all pinched and tight and, yep, there go your eyes welling up. That’s perfect, the finishing touch, cry into your disastercake, you wreck, you failure—
Feferi’s voice breaks the silence, soft and pitying. “Oooh, Sollux, it’s not that bad.”
“Oh my god, it’th horrible.”
“It’s not horrible!”
“But look at it! It’th shit!
“No it’s not!”
You turn away from your horrible pastry and dig your nails into your scalp. “No you don’t underthtand, I followed that thtupid fucking rethipe to the letter, IT WATHN’T THUPPOTHED TO FAIL.”
“But Sollux—”
“But I guetth thith ith jutht another shining exthample of how I always manage to fuck everything up! Thith ith tho thtupid, why did I even think this wath going to work—”
“SOLLUX.” Feferi is wearing that look that means she’d rather like to take you by the shoulders and shake you until you see sense, but that would go against regulations. “You seariously need to stop carping! You minnow better than to put yourshellf down pike that!”
Wow, five puns in a row; you must have really pissed her off. But she’s right. You purse your lips shut and her eyes soften.
“It’s just fine. It’s only fallen a little. It’ll still taste good, and I bet after you put the icing on it you won’t notice a thing.”
“You think so?”
She nods with utter certainty. “Really.”
Reel-y.It makes you snort so suddenly it hurts your nose. She smiles at you and your chest aches a little less. “Listen, I need to go check up on some things, but don’t get discouraged, okay?”
“Okay.” You take a deep breath in, square your shoulders, and face the cake. “Let’th make thith monthrothity beautiful.”
* * * *
Putting on the icing doesn’t help in the slightest.
The cake is still too warm when you start, which melts your fluffy vanilla buttercream to a gross runny consistency, and you end up smearing chocolate crumbs into it trying to spread it out. You use up the last of the yellow food coloring trying to recreate your frosting roses. They turn out even worse than you remember them being before. You mix together some red frosting and attempt a border, but it turns out making that wavy pattern that Gamzee used on Tavros’s cake is harder than it looks—you try to hold the piping bag like you were taught, but you keep bumping the back of your wrist against the side of the cake, and the end result looks messy and uneven.
When you finish, your cake looks as flat as ever, but this time it has a layer of sloppy icing and lopsided flowers, the word “2orry” written slightly off center in blue icing.
That sure was some turd polishing you just did. By now you’re too exhausted to care. The longer you look at it, the more you think it might exude an awful sort of charm, like a homely puppy in a World’s Ugliest Dog competition.
Rolling your eyes at yourself, you wipe off the counter, grab the cake, and go off in search of your clown.
You hear him before you see him, just when you’re entertaining the possibility of retreating back to the kitchen, sticking the cake in the fridge, and hoping he’ll find it and get the message. He’s tuning the guitar he keeps swiping from the comfort room, humming a little to find the note, and you know before you turn the corner that he’s sitting on the stairs just outside the rec room.
You hesitate and feel your stomach and heart both lurch. Oh god, this the worst. You’re the worst. But there’s no hiding from this—you owe this to him, and if you don’t move you’re going to end up hovering here with this failcake forever, so you make yourself poke your head around the corner and clear your throat.
“Um. Hi.”
Gamzee blinks out of his little music reverie. “Oh, hey bro,” he smiles at you as if you hadn’t acted like a complete horse’s ass, as if the two of you had spoken only yesterday instead of weeks ago. “What are you doing all hiding behind that wall for?”
“Oh, uh. Well.” You’re starting to sound worse than Tavros. Sighing through your nose, you move into full view and brace yourself for the worst. “This is for you.”
There is a beat of silence where he just stares at it, all bewildered surprise, and you think, this is it, this is the part where shit gets awkward because now he has to pretend to like your cake while you spew out worthless apologies—
Then his eyes mist up, and you see his lips curving into an unmistakably touched smile before he covers his mouth.
“Holy shit, you went and did this all on your lonesome?” He actually dabs his eyes, goddamn everything, and waves you over. “Get over here and sit with me, man. Fuck, you did the flowers and everything!”
“Yeah,” You sit next to him and fight the urge to squirm while he leans his shoulder against yours and peers at the cake closer. You sigh. “I wath a giant dick to you earlier, tho have a shitty cake, I guethh.”
“You shut your mouth, bro, ain’t nothin’ shitty about this piece of wicked confection.”
“Yeah, well. I really am thorry, it wathn’t anything you did or anything.”
His smile softens, and you melt a little. “Naaah, I know, I know. It ain’t no thing. But, uh, there’s some things I gotta be talking at you about.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. See, all that noise what went down before, it made me realize we don’t know shit about shit.”
You stare at him blankly. “Would you care to clarify that.”
Gamzee snickers, and you realize he’s nervous as hell. He also hasn’t so much as hugged you, or even set his guitar aside. It dawns on you that he’s clinging to it, and for some reason it strikes you as ridiculously cute. “Haha I’m getting to it, don’t worry. See, I wanted to tell you sooner, but you were kinda out of it being on your downswing and everything, and Karkat said I should sit tight and wait until you were all being up for this first—”
You stiffen and nearly drop the plate. “You told Karkat?!”
He blanches, broad shoulders hunching up to his ears as he holds his hands up calmingly, palms out. “Heeey, hey, be chill, it’s good. All that brother even said was that I should be talking serious at you. Be flat out honest, so you know and I know and I know that you know.”
“Know what?”
“Us.” he says simply. “You and me. We ain’t never really talked for real about it, did we?”
Oh. The bottom drops out of your stomach and you feel all the color drain from your face. Fuck. You aren’t ready for this conversation. You don’t think you’ll ever be ready for this conversation.
Gamzee blathers on, rushing to fill in your silence. “I mean, it ain’t your fault or anything. This shit’s confusing as hell. Me, I always ever just rode that fuckin’ mystery train and enjoyed hookin’ up while it was all lasting, but I guess that ain’t always working, is it? Bro?”
You want to crawl out of your own skin. Your tongue is dry and you’ve forgotten to breathe and you are absolutely terrified of what the next words out of his mouth will be. You’re about to learn something huge and overwhelming, you can sense it approaching like a Hollywood explosion in slow motion, and all you can do is watch it happen.
But for all you’re terrified, for all Gamzee is dragging you into this topic like a leashed Great Dane who’s just spotted a bunny, the longer you stay quiet the more miserable he looks. You wonder if he thinks you’re going to blow up at him again and instantly feel like an asshole.
“Okay, okay, yeah.” Your voice comes out strangled and you swallow hard. “Let’th talk.”
He licks his lips and adjusts the guitar in his arms, and you can hear the strings thrumming faintly. You watch his eyes slide away from yours until he’s staring at one of his flip-flops, talking to it instead of you.
“Truth is, I still don’t know what the fuck.” He huffs a laugh. He is jittering, fidgeting, and it is painful to watch. “I’m not understanding how everyone ain’t falling in love every single fuckin’ day, Twitchy, ‘cause it sure as hell feels like that for me.”
“Mating fondneth. Pon farr. Thexth pollen.” You side-eye him. “Are you twitterpated, Gamthee?” He cracks up and you find yourself grinning back. “Alright, tho, yeah, I get it, you’re a giant hippie in love with the world. In other newth, water ith wet.”
“Well, I don’t wanna bone everybody I see. I ain’t some kinda Energizer bunny that way.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Heheh, never heard your fine ass complainin’ any. And don’t even talk like you don’t try and climb inside my pants just as much.”
“What, have you been keeping thcore all thith time?” He gives you this look, long and knowing, and you clear your throat and pretend your cheeks aren’t stinging. “Okay point taken.” You roll your eyes at his triumphant little smirk. “Tho, what doeth all thith have to do with uth.”
“Well, there’s shit about practically everybody that’s something to love about ‘em, and I just can’t all be ignoring that when it hits me up, you know? But that don’t mean what we got ain’t special or nothin’.”
“… Thpecial.” You grimace. Oh god, if he starts waxing vapid bullshit about how miraculous you are, you can’t guarantee that you won’t end up vomiting all over your apology cake. Christ. “Really?”
“Well, yeah, Twitchy.” He spreads his hands and shrugs. “I mean, fuck, what we all get up to doing together, those bitching memories are all gonna up and be living in my pan for, like, ages to come, man, you have no idea. Even if we all up and stopped right now.”
Oh.
“I don’t know what we even are, but I do know you are seriously straight up fucktits awesome, my brother. I’m glad as shit that we’re bros together, and as far as I’m concerned we can keep doing this thing we’re doing as long as it lasts, if that’s what you’re all wanting at too. Just as long as you and me are all to be existing on the same page, like.”
You feel the urge to laugh bubbling up in your chest. You stare at him, smiling, floating in a funny sort of daze, because this is one of the sweetest, most painfully earnest confessions you’ve ever heard and it contains the word “fucktits.”
The doofus. He sets your teeth on edge with how nice he is sometimes. He is guileless and honest with what he thinks and feels in a way that is incredibly refreshing; when he pulls you into a hug like you’re something special, you feel unjudged and cherished and wanted and the voices in your head don’t mean shit.
“I’m glad we’re friendth too, you’re pretty amathing. And that whole entire thtatement you jutht thaid, I agree with that too, that can definitely be a thing.” He beams at you, happy and relieved, and you grin back. “And if one or both of uth tranthferth or findth thomeone elthe or whatever?”
“As long as it lasts,” he repeats, smiling still. He hitches a shoulder. “Though if I’m to get my honest opinion on, I never minded sharing a motherfucker if everyone’s all being chill with it that way. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Your brows arch.“Really?” This was not an option you considered, though the more you think of it the better the possibilities seem. “Heheh. Okay. Tho it’th all thettled then.”
“As settled can be.”
“Fuck yeth.”
“Heheh, aw, motherfucker, come here.”
He nudges the guitar out of his lap and pulls you close, and you have to work to set the cake on a higher step so it doesn’t topple to the floor. He is warm and smells like clean laundry and honey-orange scented shampoo. (Eridan’s, you’re guessing.) You hug back, all the tension draining from you, and god, you’re so glad you did this.
Through the bliss of your relief, a thought occurs to you.
“Heh, thpeaking of double dating, ith’th kind of funny,” you say to his collarbones. “There’th talk floating around that you and Karkat are, uh…”
“Fucking?”
“Ehehe, yeah.”
One big hand rubs up and down your back lingeringly. “That make you hot, bro?”
You stiffen and draw back with a strangled noise, because yes, yes it does. “Wait, what—”
He bursts out laughing. “Shiiiiit. Oh fuck, I’m sorry Twitchy, it’s just, your face, I couldn’t even resist playing with you. Nah, we ain’t together like that. I mean, he’s cute as fuck, don’t get me wrong, but it’s more like… you ever meet some fucker what just knows you?”
Your roommate flickers to mind: Egbert nudging you out of bed, Egbert nagging you into taking a shower, Egbert bringing you snacks, Egbert doing lewd impressions until the Gilbert Gottfried one gets you to crack up—
“Yeah, I think tho.”
“That’s how him and me are, we get each other.”
It’s the maddening sort of statement that would normally annoy you in its simplicity. But this time, watching his face, for once it makes perfect sense. All he has to do is say Karkat’s name and something in his eyes goes all soft and devoted and grateful. There’s an intimacy there that would make you uncomfortable if you saw it in anyone else, but in Gamzee it fits, in Gamzee it looks like he’s found something that was always lost to him.
You feel an irrational twinge of jealousy even as you’re quietly relieved for him.
“I’m glad,” you mumble, and it sounds moronic to you even before it’s all the way out of your mouth, but he just smiles and pulls you into another hug.
You curl your fingers into the back of his shirt and rest your head on his shoulder. He sighs. Any moment now, someone is going to show up and remind you about the rule regarding PDAs or tell you to stop blocking the stairway or wonder why there’s a random cake on the steps, but after this entire trainwreck of a conversation, you feel you’ve both earned a few minutes’ respite from everything.
Eventually he draws back and reaches back to grab the cake so the two of you can look at it. You make a face, but he only puts one lanky arm around your shoulder and tugs you close, resting his temple against yours as he beams down at it.
“God, pleathe eat that thing quickly, I don’t even want to look at it anymore.”
“Aw, naw, it looks just fine. But I got one question for you, Solbro.”
There is something sharp and amused in his tone that makes you instantly wary. “Oh, god. What.”
“When you were all to be baking this bitty bitchtits thing, what’d you use. Baking soda or baking powder?”
Your shoulders hunch. “Uh. Baking thoda. What, wath that wrong?”
He chuckles, but it’s a fond, sympathetic sound without a trace of mockery in it. “It’s funny how those things are all sounding the same, ain’t it?”
“Ugh. Thorry, I—”
“You hush.” Confused, you furrow your brows at him as he checks first over his shoulder, then glances furtively down the hall before moving close and giving your lips a lingering kiss. Your thoughts scramble. “What’s say you and me find somewhere to go and get our chow on?”
“… Right. Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
Your cake ends up not being all that bad after all.