Chapter Text
Friday, 6 March 2020
It isn’t as if Karkat Vantas is unaware of the fact that he lives in a supposedly haunted house. Likewise, he is fully cognizant of the fact that his home is, in every sense, a fucking dump. The place is a cheap rental, and his stick-in-the-mud landlord is very particular about what he can do to the home.
He is not allowed to repaint it. Instead, the façade must remain the same shade of peeling desiccated-dog-shit brown. His sole consolation is that it matches the consistently dried up yard and the severely warped light beige concrete walkway.
He is banned from replacing any of the slowly rotting door or window frames. This would, apparently, “lower the historic value of the home” or whatever. Never mind that it makes for drafty winters and opens his home to ladybug infestations, because he simply cannot lower the historic value.
The most he can do is place planters around the home. He hangs them from the windows and maintains a lovely collection of herbs on his front porch. This greenery does more than brighten the otherwise atrocious curb appeal, it also offers him an outlet for his lifelong anger issues.
Unfortunately for him, such issues are only exacerbated by his job. He is, as decreed by the twisted whims of an unloving omnipotent force, a call center agent. Every Monday through Friday, he dutifully attends to the complaints of Signless Cable’s television service. He signs on at 9:00 and signs off at 5:00. It’s a boring, terrible, emotionally draining slog, but it’s the only job he’s got.
Today, as a swarm of ladybugs clusters near the bottom left edge of his office window, he finds himself dealing with another of many annoying callers. According to Karkat’s notes, his name is George. He is a seventy-three-year-old widower, and he seems to be under the impression that Karkat is his free verbal punching bag for the day.
“Young man,” George says, “do you understand how terrible it is to be without cable television today? There is nothing happening outside, and my depression is worsening by the minute! Fix this, young man! FIX THIS!” A buzzing sense of jaded bitterness is buried in George’s hoarse vocal fry.
Karkat, however, does not comment on this observation. Instead, after pinching the bridge of his nose and performing a swift deep breathing exercise, he unmutes his side of the line. He puts on his most chipper customer service voice as he replies, “I’m so terribly sorry, sir. Please allow me to—”
“I DON’T WANT APOLOGIES!” screams George, and his voice is loud enough to elicit an electronic whine from Karkat’s headphones, “I WANT MY CABLE BACK!”
“I understand, George, but I am not the line repairman. I am only able to send the repairman to fix your cable line, which will take time. Thank you for your patience.”
“Are you mocking me, young man?”
“I am not.” Karkat chews on the end of an already tattered pen. “If you continue to antagonize me, sir, I will have to transfer you to another agent.”
“Me? Antagonizing you!? Oh! Oh ho-ho! No!” George’s anger is palpable through the phone and above the persistent hiss of electronic static. “You obviously just hate me! Why do you hate me!? Why can’t you just fix things when you are told to do so?”
After taking a sip of his now-cold coffee, Karkat heaves a deep sigh. He hits the transfer button, pulls his headphones off, and leans back in his office chair. The slotted plastic digs into his shoulders, rudely reminding him of his forgotten promise to himself to buy a new chair.
He spends the next few minutes breathing.
Once he is confident in his ability to move without immediately breaking the first thing he sees, he stands. He takes a moment to study himself in the mirror by the office’s door, though he isn’t sure why. It’s not as if he’s changed at all.
Same messy black hair, which curls slightly at the ends. Same medium brown skin. Same slightly crooked, sharp nose. Same thick, furrowed eyebrows.
The second he opens the door, a calico cat prances into the room. He rubs himself against Karkat’s leg before disappearing to his usual spot, which just so happens to be at the top of the bookshelf. He is not supposed to be in this room, but Karkat doesn’t exactly care enough to remove him right now. For now, it’s his lunch break, and he’s already figured out how to spend it.
He slips on a pair of sandals and grabs his monogrammed bronze watering can, which was a housewarming gift from his father. As he fills the vessel, he indulges in his terrible habit of singing off-tune Broadway to himself.
Once it’s full, he takes it to the front porch. He begins by watering the line of cheerfully sprouting mint plants by the eastern railing.
“Did you plan this route out first or…?” The mid-pitch, crackling voice draws Karkat’s gaze up and towards a dorky black-haired man. He holds a fancy-looking camera in his hands, and it’s pointed squarely at what just might be the most insufferable-looking person Karkat has ever seen.
He looks to be in his mid-twenties. His beyond-bleached-and-almost-white hair is neatly combed, and a pair of ridiculous aviator sunglasses hide his eyes. His pale skin clashes with the bandage on the back of his right hand, and his lips are pulled into a line of stubborn indifference.
“Oh, damn, Dave! Oh!” The other man, the one with the wild black hair, points the camera at himself. “HE’S AN ABSOLUTE MAD LAD!” he declares, adopting an objectively terrible fake British accent. Or, perhaps, it’s Australian? It’s bad enough that Karkat can’t be entirely sure of what it’s actually supposed to be mimicking, and he’s not interested enough in the whole affair to bother trying to figure it out.
Instead, he ignores the flagrant fools, who so profanely besmirch his sense of inner peace, and focuses on pulling some burgeoning weeds from his nearby lavender plant. Or, to be more precise, he makes a very, very, very focused effort to ignore the two men, and they are making it antagonistically difficult to do so.
“You know what? That old wall looks like a great place to do some running,” exclaims the unnamed cameraman. He gestures enthusiastically to a crumbling brick barrier, which is supposedly meant to keep motorists from toppling down the nearby hill.
Dave is more than happy to oblige. He calmly hops onto the wall and walks up and down its length a few times. His hands are in his pockets, and he exhibits the same apathetic lack of any expression.
“Yo! You want me to say the usual spiel, or are we just editing it in later?” the cameraman asks.
Dave shrugs.
Abandoning his planned plant maintenance, Karkat turns on his heel and storms back inside.
“Fucking idiots,” he growls. He pulls a gallon of iced tea from his fridge and chugs directly from the jug. When he’s done, he wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his Alternia University sweatshirt.
“Fucking stupid lousy assholes,” he says. When he slams the fridge closed, a roll of paper towels drops from its place on top of the appliance. He catches it and crams it into an already overcrowded cabinet of cleaning supplies.
A purring noise draws Karkat’s gaze to the ugly concrete countertop.
“You can’t be there, Jack,” he tuts as he shakes his head at his cat. When he picks the feline up, the creature lets forth a mewl of protest, which Karkat is quick to respond to, saying: “It’s a health hazard for you to casually waltz about on my kitchen counter.”
Once firmly on the floor, Jack offers a look akin to disdain. He raises his tail, proudly displaying his pink anus, and saunters away.
Karkat, meanwhile, checks his watch. He grudgingly returns to his office desk and sits.
“Hey, Dave, I really don’t think that’s a very stable spot.”
With a deep sense of dread, Karkat looks up. Through his window, he can see the two men from before. The cameraman is awkwardly loitering on the sidewalk, and Dave is poking at the rotten wooden railing on the western edge of the porch.
It’s almost Saturday, Karkat reminds himself. There’s no reason to bother with these—
A loud crash interrupts his positive affirmation.
“FUCK!” Karkat opens Slack, sends a message to his supervisor, and rushes back to his front door. Upon opening it, he’s greeted by a sight that serves as the final straw atop a severely overencumbered dromedary’s back.
Dave is sprawled on his porch, face down, in front of a broken clay planter. Formerly the happy home of Karkat’s prized parsley plants, it is now little more than a mass of crushed greenery and spilled soil. The detached head of a bright red hummingbird statue, which had been nestled in the dirt, has rolled its way to the welcome mat.
“IDIOT!” Karkat storms forward. He leans over, grabs Dave by the back of his shirt, and drags him to his feet. A pair of shades clatters to the scuffed wooden floor. Before any recovery can be attempted, he pins Dave to the front wall of the house. “YOU FUCKING IDIOT!”
Dave, in return, responds with a look of wide-eyed shock. His eyes are a pale shade of blue that seems to turn red when the light hits at the right angle.
“WHAT DID YOU FUCKING DO!?” Karkat aims a punch at Dave’s face.
Somehow, Dave dodges. A strangled yelp of surprise escapes his throat.
As Karkat prepares to throw another punch, he feels someone grab him by the shoulder. He drops Dave and turns, only to find himself staring at the cameraman. “What the fuck do you want!?”
“Hey! Uh…” The cameraman lowers his camera to the ground. He rubs his hands together and, against all logic, offers a sheepish smile. “So… Uh… Hate to break up the bonding time, but we really didn’t mean to—”
“What are you, dumbass? You’ve got to be my age, right? Twenty-something? You’re way too old for this bullshit. And he,” Karkat gestures behind himself, towards the source of a series of muffled sobs, “is also way too fucking old to be running around chasing bullshit YouTube clout.”
“Oh.” The cameraman blinks. He adjusts his thick rectangular glasses. “I’m John. And I do have a job. I work up at Windsock Comics! I’m—”
By now, Karkat has lost interest in the discussion. He ignores John’s inane rambling and turns his attention back to Dave, who is currently in fetal position on his deck. In the back of his mind, beneath the roaring fires of his own ire, he recognizes that what he’s doing is wrong, but the momentum is too strong for him to stop.
“You trespass into my yard, break my porch, and demolish my fucking plants for what!? Internet clout!? The adoration of a bunch of underaged twits with parents who couldn’t care less about what their kids are watching?” Again, Karkat drags Dave to his feet.
And, in return, Dave reaches into the pockets of his jeans. He pulls out a wad of notecards. Shaking hands shuffle through the pile until a single card is anxiously pressed against Karkat’s chest.
He narrows his eyes, steps back, and looks at the note.
Penned in bright red ink against nicotine yellow paper is a singular word: “Sorry.”
“Sorry?” Karkat sneers. He rips the notecard in half and tosses the pieces aside. “Sorry isn’t going to pay for my fucking deck, dumbass! This is a rental! You think I have enough money to deal with your bullshit?”
Again, Dave shuffles through the cards. He holds out another.
Karkat snatches it away.
“Can I help?”
He prepares to rip this card in half, but he finds that he can’t. The anger has fizzled out, and he’s left with the simmering, slimy sensation of disgust. When he moves to return the notecard to Dave, he’s met with the perfect image of fear.
Dave’s back is pressed against the shoddy faux wood siding, and his breathing is fast and shallow.
“Sorry.” Karkat breathes in. Out. “I’m uh… Did I hurt you?”
Slowly, Dave shakes his head. He carefully retrieves the notecard before shoving the bundle back into his pocket.
“We’re really sorry,” John says. “I know it doesn’t mean much, but… uh.” He scrambles and begins trying to put dirt back into the broken planter, but it’s a lost cause. There’s no coming back from a lanky adult male smashing through terracotta. After a few more minutes, he seems to realize this. He stands, looks at Karkat, and flashes another sheepish grin. “Thanks for not killing Dave. He’s… uh… He doesn’t talk much. If you haven’t noticed.”
“I have.” Karkat folds his arms across his chest. When he swallows, he tries to push down his rising sense of self-hatred. The effort fails.
“He’s uh… Let me talk to him, okay? He trusts me, and he’ll talk to me.”
“And he wouldn’t talk to me?” Karkat asks, raising an eyebrow.
John rubs the back of his neck. “Well… you did just try to beat the shit out of him, and most people don’t really like that. So…”
Oh. Yeah. How could I forget that I’m a raging asshole.
With a long, bitter sigh, Karkat nods. He steps aside. “Fine. Talk to him. My door’s unlocked. We can talk about it when you’re ready.” With purposeful steps, he rushes to return to the safety of his home. However, before he closes the door, he forces himself to stop. He looks at Dave, whose trembling fingers are now grasping at light blond hair, and forces himself to speak: “I’m sorry for how I acted.”
With that much said and a conscience now drowning in his own mistakes, Karkat steps inside. He closes the door and sits on the sofa.
Twenty minutes later, Karkat prepares to return to work. He figures that the two buffoons from before have left.
And, against his expectations, the door opens. The pair enter.
Dave stands behind John, clearly angling himself to expose as little as possible. Though his gaze is hidden, his body language is wary.
“Okay. I’ve talked it out, and Dave feels super shitty about what just happened. We both admit that we shouldn’t have been here and that we’re far too old to have done something this stupid.” John’s explanation is underpinned by a fuzzy, static-like anxiety. Given Karkat’s first impression, it’s wholly understandable. “So, here’s the deal: Dave’s pretty much dirt poor. Dude can’t hold a job down to save his life.”
“Oh. Joyous day for me,” Karkat deadpans.
Dave winces.
John, undeterred, continues, “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to make up for what he’s done. He’s offered to help you out for as long as you’d like, and he’ll even help you pick out new plants.”
“Really?” Karkat makes no attempt to hide his skepticism. He furrows his brows and props his feet atop his already beaten-down coffee table.
“Yes. Really. In fact, he’d like to start tomorrow.” An expectant glance punctuates John’s statement.
And, against his better judgment, Karkat relents. “Fine. Come over at 9:00 tomorrow.” He stands. “Now, get out of my house. I have to clean up my fucking porch.”
Neither of the two men need further prompting. They’re quick to scramble away, leaving Karkat to stew in his bitter self-loathing.
KV: Break out the chalk and reset the “Days Since Karkat Let His Anger Overpower Every Other Sensible Thought in His Stupid Fucking Head” count back to zero.
KM: Oh. How disappointing. You have been doing so well! Very well. We have broken the thirty day streak. Was anyone harmed?
KV: No.
KM: Splendid!
KV: Unfortunately, it seems I have a new butler of some sort, though.
KM: Elaborate?
KV: Some raging douche-nozzle came smashing through my front porch today. He broke my parsley planter, decapitated Horatio, and ripped the entire western railing off of its tenuous bearings.
KV: Admittedly, the railing was entirely predictable. If I sneeze too hard, the railings come undone. At least I get to fix them now.
KM: That’s the spirit! Think positively!
KM: Who was this vandal, anyhow?
KV: Some idiot named Dave. He apparently runs a YouTube channel.
KM: Huh. Okay.
KM: My apologies. I must get ready for a date with my wife.
KV: Go ahead. Have fun! 😊
KM: I will. In case I am unable to respond until later: please do not kill the parsley slayer. I do not want to see my dear friend’s face on the news as a murder suspect.
KV: I’ll do my best not to. No promises.
Saturday, 7 March 2020
The sky is overcast, but the weather app seems insistent upon there being no rain today. It’s not as if Karkat really trusts this, but the current need to fix his front porch railing overrides a slight chance of a sudden downpour.
So, clad in an old shirt and a pair of jeans he’s had since high school, he stands above the portable table saw that his friend, Sollux, had dropped off earlier this morning. He slides lengths of the cheapest Lowe’s wood he could get his hands on down the slick surface. He cuts. And cuts. And cuts some more.
Twelve. He needs twelve of these stupid balusters, and he only stops when all of them are ready. He throws them into a pile by the western edge of the porch before walking to the front steps, where he finds a familiar man.
Dave, clad in a stained sweatshirt, sits upon the front step. When he notices Karkat, he looks up. He cocks his head to the side. Sup? he seems to say, though he doesn’t speak. Instead, he offers out another of his notecards: “Hello.” The word seems too formal for him, but the sloppy red writing is undoubtedly his.
Unsure of what more to say, Karkat opts to take a break. He sits next to Dave and speaks, though he never makes an attempt to establish eye contact. “Sorry about yesterday,” he says. He flexes his fingers. “I… I’ve been working on my anger issues, and I was having a shitty day. When you and your friend showed up, I ended up taking all of my problems out on you.”
Dave nods. He hands over another notecard: “What’s your phone number?”
“What would you need that for?” Karkat counters, his voice sharper than he means for it to be. He takes a deep breath and tries again. This time, he consciously flattens the sharp edges of his voice. “Why do you want my number?”
Dave reaches out and flips the card over, so that it now displays the text on the back: “It makes talking easier.”
“You’re not talking at all, dumbass,” Karkat mumbles. He unlocks his old Android phone, complete with a massive crack across its screen, and hands it over.
A flicker of a smirk flashes across Dave’s face, but it disappears quickly. After a few seconds, he returns Karkat’s phone.
A ringing chime alerts Karkat to a new message.
DS: i’m sorry for killing your parsley i didn’t mean to i just…
DS: i don’t actually have a job my only income is youtube and i get a little cocky about shit sometimes which is entirely my fault and i know that but it doesn’t excuse it.
DS: anyhow the point i’m trying to make is that i’m super fucking sorry about your plants and i’m ready to help you out.
DS: also it’s okay about yesterday i’m pretty sure that’s a sorta reasonable reaction to some idiot destroying your front porch for his piddly little youtube video. ✌
When Karkat is finished reading, he glances at Dave.
There’s no trace of emotion on his face, but the slight slope of his shoulders just might betray a sense of remorse.
“Fine.” Karkat stands. He reaches into a nearby toolbox and hands over a jar of nails and a hammer. “I’m fixing up the deck. We’ll start there, and I’ll see what I can salvage of my parsley afterwards.” Once Dave has taken his supplies, Karkat gets his own. As he passes by the pile of balusters, he gathers them into his arms.
“There’s a slot in the wood,” Karkat explains, and Dave watches him intently. “Slot the baluster in the hole, hit it down a few times, and smack a nail in from the side for good measure.” In theory, the nails are unnecessary, but he’s not about to risk another batch of parsley on stupid theory. “Make sure it’s in all the way before you nail, though. Got it?”
Dave nods.
After watching the first baluster installation, Karkat decides to let Dave work. He goes to cut the top railing. It’s a straightforward process, and the most difficult part is making sure that the measurements are perfect. Afterwards, he marks where the nails should go.
It’s nothing fancy. His father could whip up a properly sculpted railing in half the time it takes Karkat to finish his haphazard replacement, but the house can’t exactly get any uglier. So, once he’s satisfied with his work, he goes to check on Dave.
By now, six balusters have been carefully secured in place. Dave is in the process of working on the seventh when Karkat arrives, and when he notices Karkat’s approach, he stops. A single brow rises above the edge of his reflective lenses. What’s up? demands his loose body language.
“I’m getting a drink,” Karkat says, assuming that his mental voice for Dave is correct. “Do you want something?”
Dave cocks his head to the side and presses his lips together. He shrugs. What do you have?
“Iced tea, beer, Coca Cola, expired lemonade, and some shitty peach tea.” Karkat leans against his trash can.
Dave mimes the act of popping the cap off of a glass bottle.
“Beer?”
A nod.
Karkat turns. He enters the house. When he closes the door, it takes conscious effort to avoid slamming it, and it isn’t because he’s angry. The stupid thing is just so light that even the slightest swing makes it sound like thunder.
At the edge of his visual field, Karkat notices Jack perched on the console table by the door. “You can’t go outside,” he explains. “We’ve gone over this a dozen times.” After opening the fridge, he rummages through its contents. He shoves aside a jar of pickles and moves a pack of Kraft singles. “You are a menace to the environment,” he says as he grabs two bottles of Carapacian Cooler. “We simply cannot have you ravaging the ecological stability of Skaia.” Before returning outside, he rubs Jack’s head, drawing a pleasant purr from the feline.
DS: hey i kind of assumed we’re taking a break so i’m on the front step.
DS: thanks for the beer.
Karkat sighs. He slips his phone into his pocket and wanders back outside. When he sits beside Dave, he hands over one of the bottles and removes the cap, which Dave is quick to pocket. “You’re a halfway decent helper, you know.”
Dave shrugs. Try as he might, Karkat can’t really guess what he’s trying to say.
So, he doesn’t. Instead, Karkat keeps rambling, feeling a whole lot like he’s just talking to himself. “You run a YouTube channel?”
From Dave, a nod. He shuffles through his notecards. (Because of course this douchebag would have something written down about his own channel.) After a few seconds, he holds up the appropriate response: “StriderStunts.”
“Strider?” Karkat pops open his own beer. He takes a sip. The taste is a bit flatter than usual, but it’s not as if this is top shelf quality. Moreover, having come from the back of his fridge, it’s probably a tad out of date. Not that it matters to him; he’s not a beer snob. “Is that your last name?”
Another nod. Dave carefully straightens the notecards, but he doesn’t put them back into his pocket. Instead, he holds them in his free hand as he drinks. Even with his indifferent expression, there’s something off about him. It’s a sort of implacable, insatiable energy that swarms around him like angry bees.
“You know,” Karkat says as he drinks some more beer, “when John said you were quiet, I assumed he meant you were shy. You don’t really talk much at all, do you?”
Dave shakes his head. After setting aside his bottle, he finds another card: “Bad anxiety.”
“Understandable.” Karkat shrugs. For someone who destroyed some of his best plants, Dave is vaguely bearable. Or, he reasons, a silent person is a novelty to a call center agent.
DS: it’s easier to text than it is to talk.
DS: i’ve got this shitty double combo of soul-crushing social anxiety and severe untreated apraxia.
After reading the message, Karkat raises an eyebrow. It seems that this is all of the prompting that Dave needs.
DS: second thing basically means i sound like a drunk when i talk.
DS: my brain doesn’t quite hook up right to my mouth. everything just comes out painfully slow and ridiculously garbled.
“Hmph.” After finishing the last of his beer, Karkat stands. “That would fucking do it, I guess. You want to finish putting in these shitty balusters?”
Dave nods. He pockets his phone and leaves behind a half finished beer.
For the next hour, the two men work on their individual projects. Karkat smooths out the edges of the railing and Dave finishes his baluster installation. Afterwards, topping the whole thing off is simple. Mounting the final railing takes no more than twenty minutes, and the pair returns to the porch’s front step.
DS: you gonna paint that banister?
Karkat, having returned from claiming another beer, sits and shrugs. “Nope. Landlord says I can’t paint, but anything that actually breaks is mine to fix. Just. Not paint.”
Dave responds with a perplexed expression.
“Yeah. It’s stupid as fuck.” After downing some more alcohol, Karkat wipes some sweat from his brow. “You’re free to go. I was only planning on fixing the railing. It’s a safety hazard, and I really don’t need for the old man down the block to have another reason to complain about my house.”
For a moment, Dave looks almost disappointed. The edges of his lips rapidly flicker into a frown, but he swiftly regains his usual look of apathy.
DS: no problem. when do you want me back?
“I’m not doing anything else until at least Monday. Sunday is my self-proclaimed day of rest, as per the Christian text. Am I Christian? Abso-fucking-lutely not, but that doesn’t stop me from viciously appropriating it for my own selfish gains.” Halfway through his second bottle, Karkat finally feels the soft warmth of a burgeoning buzz. His usually tense shoulders begin to relax, as does his tongue. “You’ll basically be watching my cat for the day. Am I abusing your offer to help me? Yes. But you offered, and I’m taking you to task on it.”
DS: i sort of destroyed your property so it sort of evens out.
DS: you sure you’re chill with me leaving?
Karkat waves his hand in the air. “Go! Get out of here!” he mutters. “I’ll see you on Monday. Same time.”
To this, Dave responds with a nod. He polishes off his one and only bottle of beer, then retrieves a faded red bicycle from the side alley. After strapping on a scratched helmet, he departs.