Chapter Text
1.
= = > Enjoy that liquid courage
You should use your phone. The one with John’s number in it, not this weird motel courtesy phone that smells like onions to confess your undying love to your best friend. You know you shouldn’t do this, but maybe it’s the beer Bro unwisely left unattended or the fact that you won’t be seeing John for three weeks regardless of your decision that you are going to do this.
It doesn’t fucking matter anyway. You can practically feel the late-night receptionist’s eyes bore through you. You’re hands shake as you painstakingly hit each digit for the number that you have come to love.
2-0-6 8-6-0 9-9-0-0
You’ve never been more ready or willing to blow up your life.
= = >
You are sitting in an anger management class that you’ve been muscled into by your boss ever since you knocked some asshole’s lights out for taking your lunch. The only reason you weren’t fired was because of the fact that you’re a Troll. Your temper is supposed to run high for survival purposes, so while it can’t excuse it, your DNA does all the justifying it can. Plus, for someone who hates advertising as much as you do, you’re damn good at it.
It’s not DNA, though, and no, sandwich guy did not deserve to have his teeth rearranged. You actually feel really bad about that.
At eight A.M. on the day that you sent an asshole to urgent care, the love of your life broke up with you. Terezi Pyrope, the troll who’d been in your life since high school decided to just end things, with no real reason. So yeah, you’d been a little on edge. A lot on edge.
You were honestly more lost than you had ever been. You had not only lost your matesprite, but the best friend you could ever have asked for, and you couldn’t decide which was worse.
A highblooded troll named Eridan who has been taking this class for longer than you have been at this shitty company interrupts your thoughts with his whining. You think he has to be related to someone important, because honestly while his work is pretty good, he gets into a lot of shit.
Currently he is telling the story of how he broke an employee’s windshield with a golf club because he cut him off during a meeting. It was pretty fucked up.
You want to interject, if just to stop the babbling chumbucket and force him to get to the fucking end of his spiel, but there is literally a “patience is a virtue” poster in the corner. Then there was the fact that Feferi Peixes could probably murder you. She was the fuschia blooded grandaughter of Her Imperial Condescention(the only troll that managed to keep their iron grip on society after Alternia was swallowed by a nearby supernova).You can feel the blood rushing to your face in frustration, and you try to swallow it, but it’s getting harder and harder. You just want to call Terezi for the fifty millionth time and ask her if you can work it out together, as a couple- you want to know what went wrong, but instead you’re going to watch a grown ass troll play with puppets.
You want to scream, and if Barney the troll keeps talking, you just might.
As if by the grace of some deity, your phone erupts into a sound that can only be described as infuriating. Generally you wouldn’t answer some number that you have no idea who it could belong to, but you’ll make an exception today. You need an excuse to leave.
“I need to take this,” you lie and the perpetually grinning group leader gives you a smiling nod and tells you to be back in five minutes.
Fuck that, you might never come back.
You contemplate the downside of answering the call when you step out into the hallway, but something tells you to do it anyway. So you hit the green button and accept whatever’s coming to you, and before you can even get out a firm ‘Vantas’ a smooth, and uncharacteristically quick southern drawl floods your ears.
“Hey, John? It’s Dave. Dave Strider. Well, fuck, you know that. You know me. I don’t know why I’m telling you this…I’m fucking it up, aren’t I?” You try to speak up, to say you’re don’t even know who this “John” fuck-head is, but the obviously southern asshole just keeps slurring his way through his sentences. “I wanted this to be perfect, I guess, but it’s 4 am and I’m drunk and I don’t think it’s going to get better than this. I love you man. I’ve always loved you. You’re just the most important thing to me, and I don’t think I could live without you. You make me whole and I just want to be with you like we already are, but I also want to be more than that. I can’t describe how much I need you and I’m so afraid you don’t feel the same way about me, and could you just say something, please.”
For once in your life you don’t know what to say and you realize the silence is deafening but you heard something you weren’t meant to, how the fuck do you deal with that?
“John, please. Anything.”
“I’m not John.” You growl. You don’t know why, but sympathy seems like the worst option. Had it been you, you would rather have confessed to a total stranger that didn’t give a shit than one that did. There is a beat of silence, and you wonder if he hung up.
“Huh.” He says quietly, and it sounds like relief and disappointment all at once. “So this isn’t 2068609900?”
“9800,” You reply, rubbing at the skin of your face to keep the blush from pouring into your cheeks.
“Oh. Sorry.”
You grunt an acceptance, and nearly hang up before he speaks up again
“How was it?”
“What?” He takes a deep breath.
“My confession of undying love directed towards a certain nerd whom I’m assuming you have no idea exists. But whatever, I don’t really give a shit, so what if it ruins a friendship? I’ll just be left alone and very possibly in the rain like some baby in a dumpster after or before prom, depending on when the girl goes into labor. That being said, giving birth might put a damper on prom, and also, why the hell would you bring the baby to the prom just to dump it? That’s insane-“
“Please, please, shut the fuck up. The confession was okay, could have been planned better. C+ work, now please hang up the fucking phone so that I don’t have to.”
“Rage much? C’mon, my life fucking depends on this feedback, give me something I can work with.”
“Fine. Make a plan, don’t just spout shit off. If it matters so fucking much, put some effort into it.”
“Like…how?”
“Oh my fucking god, are you five? Just tell me if your five.”
“Okay, asking you for help was a mistake. You should invest in some anger management.”
“Haha, two steps ahead of you nooksniffer.”
“What are you in for? Kicking a puppy to death?”
“I gave the guy who ate my sandwich braces.”
“Now when you say that-“
“He can’t eat solid food.”
“Got you. You shouldn’t work in a place where people eat your food.”
“You shouldn’t think that someone else can make you whole.” He is silent and for a second so are you. It hits you that you can’t even take the advice that you’ve given. Terezi has always made you feel whole…how are you going to live on with just half of you?
“Some things just can’t be helped.”
“Agreed.”
“Bye, stranger.”
“Bye Strider. Good luck.” The phone clicks and you’re not sure if he got the last part. You angrily shove the phone into your pocket and head back into the class, thoroughly believing that you will never hear from Dave Strider and his strangely therapeutic stupidity again. You are wrong.
2.
The second time you hear from Strider is the Thursday after you quit your job. It has been nearly a year and a half since you last heard from him, so it's needless to say that it comes as a surprise. You are laying on the floor of your hive, looking up at the ceiling and wondering what the hell you are going to do now. The sun is just peeking into your curtains, and you are already stressed as fuck. You have no job, very little cash on hand, no references and your roommate is more interested in smoking pot and making pies than helping with your predicament. Or, you know, caring about it all together.
It’s not like you want to talk to him anyway. Not since he started dating Terezi.
It was hard to see her around, almost every day, with him. You ignore them both and yes, you’re acting like a petulant grub, but why the hell did she feel the need to start dating him? When would you get your happy ending? For fuck’s sake, you deserve it.
You can hear them laughing and it makes your chest ache.
And that’s when your phone rings. You never want to admit it, but there is a select few people on your contact list that doesn’t have their own personal ringtone(you stand firmly on the point that you are not a dork and Terezi did it to piss you off), so when you hear the generic ring of your Samsung, you are immediately confused.
You answer it anyway.
“Vantas.” You grind out.
“Okay, was not expecting Clint Eastwood and Jerry Lewis’s love child, but do you boo. Is John around?” Immediately you shoot upwards.
“ Strider?”
“…No fricken way. Stranger?”
“The one and only.”
“Well, that’s not- whatever. I’m assuming that you STILL don’t know who John is.” You scoff.
“I don’t know who you are, nookmunch.”
“Hey, cool it with the language! I could be a child for all you know. Holy shit, you might be a serial killer? I can’t believe I’m just realizing this shit. Is this how you choose your victims? Strikingly gorgeous man murdered via poor dialing will be the headline on every paper across the country like the presidential election. The nation will mourn me, stranger, and cry for my murderer-.”
“The only person who would miss you is ‘John’ and since you can’t seem to fucking call him the chances of that seem pretty damn low now don’t they.”
“I’ll have you know I have at least five friends, three of which aren’t related to me so kindly go fuck yourself.” There’s a moment of surprisingly comfortable silence. “I never told him, you know.”
“Oh.” You don’t know what else there is to say.
“Yeah. I actually thought about it- weighed pro’s and con’s and fuck you know what? It wasn’t worth losing him just so I could tell him I wanted to fuck him.”
“I thought you said you loved him.”
“Yeah, same thing.”
“No, not the same thing. Sex does not equal love cranberry fucknugget.”
“Okay, contrary to popular belief, I am not actually five years old, I fucking get that. But in this situation-“
“Listen the fuck up you feculent heinous fuckjam, sex and love are two separate entities. If you solely want to fuck him, you don’t love him, you love his body.”
“Bro, I’m pretty sure I would know if I loved my best friend.”
“Just because you love him, and find him fuck-able does not mean you are in love with him, idiot.” You cut off the sentence quickly, not sure that your making sense anymore. It’s so fucking clear in your head- this idiot was just a fucking idiot.
“Okay, okay. I think I got you. You’re saying just because he’s hot like the fires of hell, and I love him, it might not be romantic.”
“Yes, exactly. It’s like a hot family member, I guess. You obviously love them and they’re indisputably hot, but fucking them would never even cross your mind- unless you are some deep south sister-fucker or something. In which case, go for the gold you incestuous freak.”
“Holy shit. I would totally be fucking my brother.” He glosses right past one of your weaker insults and heads straight to the epiphany. Good. “Once again, the stranger imparting his Socratic wisdom on little ol’ me”
“That’s not what Socratic wisdom is you batshit-shitrod.”
“Well damn. That’s just downright rude.”
“Don’t be so damn stupid and I won’t be so fucking rude.”
“Yeah sure. What the hell ever happened to anger management anyway? I thought we came to an agreement about that or something.”
“I quit my job instead shitstench.”
“Oh. No more stolen sandwiches.”
“You would remember that part.”
“Bruh. I told that story to anyone who would listen, I swear to god. I was too drunk to laugh then but it was the rawest shit I swear to Jesus.”
“Yeah well, I’m not generally that fucking ‘raw’.”
“Aww Stranger, whats up? What made you go ‘Dwayne the Rock Johnson’ on someone’s ass? Who broke your poor little heart?” You take a sharp breath, and you realize that no, you’re never going to be completely over Terezi. “Shit man. Did I hit a chord? My bad.”
“Yeah, your fucking bad.” You try to make it sound playfully furious, but in reality all it sounds like is an angry gargle-y mess.
“Well- fuck. Want to talk about it?”
“I don’t even fucking know you. Why, in the name of fuck would I tell you my life story.” It's not a question, but it should be.
“Because I am an impartial constant. I don’t know any of the fucking players, so I have to go on what you tell me. So get it out. Sounding board over here.”
You think about it for about ten seconds before it comes spilling out of you with like a river. From when you met Terezi, to when you broke up. You tell him about the good times, and the fucked up ones(and you think you realize at some point where your relationship took a sharp turn). You tell him about Gamzee, and his fucking addiction. You explain how you’re happy for your friends, but at the same time you’re broken hearted and can’t face either one of them for making you miserable like this. He doesn’t ask you questions, and barely comments on anything, and it helps. By the time you are finished, it’s dark outside and your throat is sore.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Holy SHIT man. You need to fucking get over it. If not for the fact that it's been almost two fucking years than for..fucks sake I don't know.”
“I thought you were fucking impartial.”
“I was. I have been tainted. Listen man, your ex is fucking rad as hell, and you need to forgive her. Then again, it’s not really her fault, is it?”
“She’s fucking broke up with me to date my best friend hOW IS THAT NOT HER FUCKING FAULT?!?!”
“Hey don’t fucking yell at me dickhead. It’s not her fucking fault that she fell out of love with you, and it’s not your fucking fault either but it IS your fault for being too wrapped up in your own shit to realize that she lost her best friend too. God, if anything, she is a fucking saint for ending it when she did, she could have fucking went behind your back, or worse- married you and then where the fuck would you be? In a fucked up, loveless relationship. I’ve seen those, and you don’t fucking want one. Get over your fucking self and make it right.”
“I…”
“I’m not attacking you dude. You’re pretty fucking nice, and shouty but mostly sweet and caring as fuck and you’re going to regret this if you don’t fix it.” You let out a shaky laugh. He’s right, you do feel like shit, but fixing things is a lot easier said than done.
“Yeah sure whatever, don’t you have a nerd to call?”
“Huh? Yeah, I guess I should. Good luck with life and shit considering I’m probably never going to talk to you again. And if I may make a suggestion about the job thing-“
“Don’t start sentences with ‘and’.”
“Hush darling, don’t worry about the details. If it’s still up to you, you should find a cool job that's low on hours and work, and just chill the fuck out. You sound like you have a stick shoved up your ass.”
“How do you know I’m not in massive debt and need a good job?”
“Meh. Don’t know. If you quit though, obviously the pro’s don’t weigh out the cons. Make a plan.”
“Thanks, person who has obviously never had to pay a bill in his life.”
“Haha, I’m in college, okay, I get bills.” You roll your eyes.
“Sure you do. Go call your nerd.”
“On it chief. See you on the flipside asshole.”
“Never say that again.”
“Totally going to do it again. Bye, Stranger.”
“Bye Strider. Good Luck.” You hang up and you don’t know why, but you’re smiling. You’d never admit it to the asshole, if he ever called again, but the fucker was impossibly helpful. It almost soothes the gaping hole in your heart.
3.
= = >Fuck the common cold
You are tired and sick to your stomach when you call the Stranger for the third time. It has been a couple of months since you called him last and you think subconsciously you meant to call him instead of John. Still, you roll over in your distinctly lumpy bead and try not to throw up what little you have been able to swallow today to give John a call because you need to moan in someone’s ear about how sick you are. Of course, Rose was out of the question, as she turned off her phone. Something about you calling too much.
Plus, you haven’t called John in a while. You don’t like to think about it, but there might be even more distance growing between you. You grab at your phone, but when you realize it’s in your jacket pocket halfway across the room, you settle for the stupid dorm phone. You tap out the number you’ve had memorized since the first day you read it on a library desktop nearly eleven years ago. Then again, back then, you were 100 percent sure it connected you to the love of your life, and now….not so much.
2-0-6 8-6-0 9-9-0-0
Your fingers slip a little, but you shrug it off.
“Vantas.”
The word comes falling out of your mouth so quickly that you can’t even try to stop it.
“Stranger.”
“Oh my fucking god, you need to get a cell phone.” You chuckle. His voice is deep, scratchy, warm and honestly perfection-it makes you giddy like a schoolgirl at an OTP stand. Wait, what the hell. That’s gay. Oh. Right. You’re so fucking gay it’s not even funny.
“I have one. What do you think, I’m rolling around with a payphone super-glued to my back like a turtle or some shit.” There is a pause and you can almost feel him lifting an eyebrow in awe. “I’m sick,” You offer in explanation. You’re penchant for long metaphors takes a weirdly stupid turn whenever you can’t breathe through your nose. Or really anywhere, considering the fact that you have been throwing up like a fire hydrant. That-that right there was just fucking unbearable.
“Common cold?”
“Nah, I think it’s the flu or something. I keep throwing up. If I wasn’t both a man and sexually inactive, as surprising as that is, considering I am sexy as all fuck, I would totally believe it was morning sickness.”
“A douchebag college student not being able to get ANYONE to fuck him. So surprising. I’m absolutely stunned with shock. I’m not sure if I will ever move again. Help me, I’m going to be stuck in this fucked up apartment for the rest of my life in this spot because you couldn’t get your dick in someone’s greasy love crevasse.”
` “A little lengthy but a swift save on the landing with a wonderful asshole metaphor. 8.5,” you dole out, not even stopping to mull it over.
“Listen here you little pungent douchebagging fruity rumpus if ‘greasy love crevasse’ doesn’t deserve to get me to at least a solid nine I will personally go fuck myself.” You can’t explain why the thought of him jerking himself off fills your mind for a brief second and sends you into a coughing fit. Maybe it was the sharp intake of breath, or the sudden sitting up, or the fact that in your mind Shouty Mcserialkiller was built like a god. “Don’t die Strider, they’ll blame it all on me.”
“This was your plan all along wasn’t it? Fucking psycho,” You manage to ekk out between weezes. “God it sucks to move. Maybe you should kill me.”
“Drink some fucking soup and stop whining like bullshit idiotic footfucker.”
“Dude, I am not turning on the light and frying myself like a turkey in Bro’s back yard in order to dig for possibly non-existent soup.”
“That is more dangerous than I could put into words.”
“It absolutely is. The blaze made for a memorable Thanksgiving, and got us a new couch. And a new house, really.”
“You lit your house on fire.”
“Not me, Bro. It was honestly wonderful, which, turning on the lights would not be.”
“Most humans aren’t sensitive to light. You’re not a fucking vampire, so go outside and buy some.”
“How about no, bossy person who doesn’t even know me. I might be a vampire. A male Tara Thornton, if you would.”
“I’m pretty sure no one’s that hot.”
“You’d be surprised.” You let out a small sigh as you lay gingerly back down, wincing slightly at the annoying stiffness in your neck. God, what have you done to deserve this?
“You live in a dorm, right?” He asks tentatively after a few seconds.
“Yeeeaaahhhhh, and?” You situate yourself and prepare to stay awake by the skin of your teeth.
“Hey, you were the fucker that said you were sensitive to light.” You cock an eyebrow, not one hundred percent sure of the significance of it.
“Yeah, well, I have a melanin disorder in my eyes that makes me very sensitive to light on a regular basis, so I have no idea what the hell that has to do with anything.” When he’s silent you add: “And yeah, maybe it’s worse than normal, but whatever man. It comes with the territory of being sick.” Yes, you’re being defensive. No, you don’t care. It’s a touchy subject for you.
“ Okay don’t get snippy with me Douchewhiff the Insipid Rainbow. Have you ever- even for a fucking millisecond- assumed that hey, maybe it’s not the flu, maybe it’s Menin-fucking-gitus.” You roll your eyes.
“So what if it is? I’ll get some Tylenol and soup and be better so quickly it will make your head spin.”
“Uh, ha, no way dipshit. You will die. I am being literal, here. Don’t take this as a joke. You. Will. Fucking. Die.”
“Oh.” You’re at a lost for words.
“Get off your ass and go to a doctor. Now. What the fuck is wrong with you, how do you not know what meningitis is in this day and age?!?!” You are slightly startled by his anger- he doesn’t even know you- why the hell would he care.
“Okay Shouty I’m on it, undo the calamities that are your mammaries.” You think he mumbles something along the lines of “useless humans”(and finally catching on that no, he’s not human), but you shrug it off. “Hey, I’m going to call a friend for a ride. Thanks for potentially saving my life.”
“You can show your thanks by never calling me again.” You smirk, and you’re pretty sure he is too.
“Sure. That’s not going to happen again.”
“Never.”
“Bye stranger.”
“Bye Strider. Good Luck.”
4.
You did indeed have meningitis. You have never been so close to dying in your life. By the time you got to the emergency room you had below a 50% chance of surviving, but luckily, the world needed Dave Elizabeth Strider a little bit too much.
Rose was so pissed with you that she hit you with a medical textbook. Repeatedly. Jade(who might just be the best thing to have ever created- a 6’3” babe built like a brick wall and sweeter than molasses) let her. It was bad. Very bad.
You were lucky though, you were always lucky. You scraped by with migraines every once in a while and a very, very mild form of tinnitus. As far as you were concerned, you made out like a bandit. It was like finding nearly mint condition red Converse’s in a Goodwill in your size. Yeah, someone might have worn them once, but hey, they’re yours now and it’s more than you ever expected to find so yeah you’ll fucking take them, please and thank you.
At least that’s what you convinced yourself to believe.
The migraines were few, and generally far between, but they were agony. It seemed like nothing could dull the pain. Combined with a faint ringing in your ears made that once every two week in a bad month occurrence seemed to last forever. You’d missed one and a half semesters(basically a fucking year) and now you were a 21 year old sophomore. People were graduating at your age, and you were struggling through psych 101 with a headache to kill a mammoth. It didn’t help that your new dorm-mate happened to be a snarky troll (because yeah, you were totally okay with an alien creature who towered over you and could dismember you with his teeth and without anyone around who could fucking stop him) prodigy who was ‘two sweeps’ younger than you, twice as smart, and so ready to shove it in your face. He also happened to be the first being you let fuck you.
It was terrible, sloppy and painful- it stained your sheets yellow and you came screaming.
You’d fucked other people (an array of heights and weights most greater than your own)- yes, but none you’d never let a single one of them fuck you. It was too cliché. You were small, the smallest in your family by a large margin but you weren’t going to spend your life taking it up the ass just because you were height deficient. Recently, though, that desperate effort to preserve your masculinity seemed useless.
You are Dave Strider-better yet you were Dave Strider. You’ve lost control of who you are, and you don’t know what the hell you’re doing anymore. The only thing you knew was that you had a headache and you were smoking under the bleachers, procrastinating like a motherfucker. You didn’t want to go to the library, because then you would have to study, and you didn’t want to go back to your dorm because you’re going to want to fuck but you’re tired and sore and can’t handle the battery of insults you’re going to get if you do. You feel like you might break down and you’ve cried after/during sex too many times to be cool. To his credit, troll boy pretends like you aren’t, and never mentions it. You guess that makes him a good black-mate or whatever they call hate fucking.
So maybe it isn’t the pristine All Star’s. Maybe it’s a ratty pair of Adidas with one strip peeled off that seem to always make it back to this shelf-the dirt is holding them together and they’re a little too large for you, so you will always be tripping down the street , but it’s muddy outside, and all you have is a pair of socks because you’re poor as fuck, so for four ninety-nine you’ll buy them and you’ll wear them in the rain and when you get home, they’ll be soaked, and so will you, but you made it and you lived and and…
And nothing. You are a grown ass man whimpering under the bleachers and you don’t know what to do. You wonder if it would have been better if you had fucking died. If you hadn’t called the fucking stranger, and instead called John and just died there in that bed with a smile on your face and hope for tomorrow.
You flick the butt of the cigarette onto the field, and you head back to your dorm, resolved to no more tears, and a good fuck when you feel droplets against your forehead. You let out a groan at the thought of having to fry your hair again just because you were having a high-school breakdown in a football field. You scream, loud and angry, until your throat is sore and you have no more air in your lungs. You dash down the street, hands in your pockets as the light drizzle turns torrential you turn a block to see your saving grace.
A phone booth. Thank you Jesus.
You slip in with ease and are minimally drenched when the rain starts to really come down. You lean on the glass and let the soft plodding outside guide you.
Almost on instinct, you hit the numbers.
2-0-6 8-6-0 9-9-0-0
On some level-on most levels- you know it was wrong. It was an eight instead of a nine. You knew it wasn’t John’s number. It was some fucking guy you didn’t even know, but you needed to call anyway. He answers on the second ring.
“Vantas.” His voice is the greatest sound you have ever heard in your life. You never thought you would ever need to be saved, but if you did, somehow you knew this voice would be the one to do it for you.
“Stranger.” You croak out, your voice raw and weak.
“I was hoping you were still alive shitstain.” You’re not sure why, but that’s when the dam breaks.
= = > Whoops
You’re life is on track. You’re not sure where it’s going, but wherever that may be, you’re ready for it. You work in a diner for the fuchsia blooded anger management coach, Feferi. She’s a ball of fucking sunshine, and sometimes you catch yourself grinning uncontrollably around her. It's terrible. Terezi , Gamzee and you- you’re friends again. Yeah, she’s dating your best friend/roommate, but you figure so long as they’re both happy, you can put your feelings aside.
You make good money, and you have a side gig writing movie reviews for a magazine, and it is pretty great. Getting paid to watch movies is very possibly your dream job. Life’s a ball.
Still, in the back of your mind, you were wondering what exactly happened to Strider, first name forgotten. You’d talked to him three times, but it felt like you knew him. A month goes by, and then two, then four, then six and you know you should let it go, but what if he was sick? What if he died? You would never know. He would just be gone and you would never hear from him again.
You’d always been like this. You cared too much about people. Even with the surly attitude you developed to keep people away from you, you ended up letting these little shits into your heart. It was terrible(You said that already. It was horrible, then). There was something 100% wrong with your thinkpan.
So, a year later, when a number appears on your phone that you don’t know, you immediately pick it up. You don’t really care about who it is, just about who it might be. You know it’s improbable- there have been plenty of wrong numbers since you hung up on him last (not that you were counted them. Not 17. Some other less specific number) but hey, it could be. You get it on the second ring.
“Vantas.” You say curtly, trying not to sound too eager- too excited.
“Stranger.” His voice doesn’t sound surprised the way it usually does. It’s thicker, sicker, and more exhausted. It sounds too broken to be flippant, to thin for long metaphors about payphone turtles. It doesn’t sound like Strider, and yeah, you can’t be sure what that sounds like but this isn’t it. You gesture to Feferi that you need to take this, and she gives you a good-natured thumbs up.
“I was hoping you were alive shitstain.” The reaction you get almost causes you to trip down the stairs in the back.
It’s a wet cough that makes you think he’s sick again, but is then followed cold, emotionless laughter. It’s sickening and terrifying.
“You were totally right about the meningitis, by the way. 100% meningitis. If I hadn’t called you by accident I would have died, and what the hell would this planet be without me? Not cool at all, that’s what.” From then on, it’s incomprehensible. You can barely make out anything between sobbing chuckles and buckling whimpers, it sounds like he’s drunk on his own misery, and it makes your heart drop.
“Calm the fuck down Strider!” You say it so excruciatingly loud that you can hear the clattering in the dining area as your voice echoes. “What the hell happened to you?” He lets out an uneasy breath, and you can practically feel him shaking.
“I don’t know, bro. I think I- I feel like I’m dying you know? My head hurts and my ears are ringing like the liberty bell has taken a massive shit on my life. I’m fucking 21 man- I’m four years behind where I’m supposed to be, and it’s all my fault…” You sigh. At twelve and a half sweeps, you can feel for the asshole, even if your fucked up shit is mostly behind you.
“Okay, look nookjerk. It’s going to be okay.”
“It’s really not. Nothing is going to be okay.” You take a deep breath.
“Listen Strider. It will all get better. Nothing that has happened can’t be made better, and even if there is some outside thing that can’t get better, than just fucking get past it.”
“Yeah. You’re right. I know. I just- I fucked up okay?” You roll your eyes.
“Did you murder someone? Are you a killer Strider?”
“No-“
“Then it’s fixable.”
“I…yeah, okay. It’s really just my roommate. He’s a troll- you know what those are, right? I mean, you don’t live under a rock presumably so yeah you should, but yeah-“ It then again hits you that you've never seen Strider, and he's never seen you, so even with all of the subtle hints you dropped, he still doesn't even know if your human. “I kinda’ started fucking him and now there’s this hate relationship thing that is happening, and it kind of makes everything in life harder. I can barely handle school and this headache shit, but then there’s this asshole who’s only point in my life is to fight me, win, and then fuck me and insult me the entire way through. I get that turns people on, but I don’t think I can handle it, and I should be able to.” He sighs into the receiver, and you are snapped out of your thought process, which, of course is that the idea of him fucking anyone doesn’t sit well with you. You brush it off. It means nothing.
“Then break it off. A kismesistude isn’t supposed to be abusive shitlicker, and obviously it is.”
“Okay. Okay. Got it.”
“And don’t get so fucking mad about being behind. You’ll get there at your own pace, wherever the hell your going.”
“I got you. Thanks.”
“You could show your thanks-“
“By never calling you again, sure thing buddy.” You let out a breathy chuckle, that is also a relief. You want him to call again, if only to assure you he’s okay. “I’ll make sure to do that. Bye Stranger.”
“Bye Strider. Good luck. And by the way-“ The phone clicks, and you realize he’s been gone for more than a few seconds. “It’s Karkat.”
You’re saying it to the wind, but you know one day it will be to him.
5.
“Vantas-“
“Stranger. It’s Strider.” You immediately tense up. “Well, Dave. My name is Dave-not David, Dave. I’m a 21 year old 5’4” African American human, if you haven't guessed by now, hailing from Austin, Texas that goes to school in Minneapolis and majors in communication. I specifically like rap, apple juice and dick. Not the person, the attachment that comes prepackaged for biologically male babies. My number is 5-1-2 4-4-7 0-4-0-4. Call me sometime. Bye Stranger.”
And that was it.
You’re left holding your phone, dumbfounded.
You don’t know what to do.
So you follow your gut. You call him back.
+1