Chapter Text
So if you're too school for cool
And you're treated like a fool
You can choose to let it go
We can always, we can always party on our own
"Do you have an appointment?" the receptionist repeats, not even bothering to look up from his screen. He can't possibly be doing work shit. He actually looks like he's paying attention to it.
You take a deep breath and don't think about frying the shit out of the computer. Not for more than two seconds, anyway. "Karkat. Vantas. Is expecting me," you grit out.
The receptionist shakes his head, and not a curl of his perfectly arranged hairdo moves. "I'm afraid he's not expecting you, pupa, or he wouldn't have gone out already."
"That arrogant little—" You cut yourself off at the withering stare the receptionist gives you. The details on his outfit are in one of those colors that you can't distinguish worth a damn, the green-blue range that covers everyone from you should be polite to this asshole through if this guy kills you it's your fault. Probably closer to the bottom of that range if the guy is riding a desk talking to kids like you, but it never hurts to be careful.
"Can you find your own way out?" the receptionist asks, smiling with even rows of perfectly pointed teeth. "Or should I call you some assistance?"
You show the guy your fangs in return. "I got it, thanks. It wasn't that complicated."
Your first impulse as you surl away from the reception counter is to troll Aradia, but you stop that thought in its tracks and terminate it with extreme prejudice. You've been way too conscious of things a moirail shouldn’t be conscious of, lately, between the way she's growing up and the way your hormones are reporting for duty—the last thing you want to do is go whining to her when you're feeling bulgeblocked already. And you wouldn't be the first kid in history to go from pale to flush with a wigglerhood sweetheart, but you just can't do it. It would wreck you. You might like her a little flush these nights but you need her pale, and if you fucked that up it would be a disaster.
You get out to the sidewalk—by the side door, because only fancy assholes get to clutter the front steps—and one of the house securippers has just finished tossing some other poor gutterblood out ahead of you. You dodge out of her way as she turns to head back inside, because you're pretty sure she wouldn't think twice about mowing you down.
Then you take a second look at the party's other unwelcome guest. The second look might go on a little longer than is really polite. The guy's almost as tall as you and a lot broader, with infantry-grade shoulders stretching his shirt tight and the kind of wide-set rack you usually only see photochopped onto recruiting posters. He's got the sides of his head shaved and there's a silver tag with his sign on it punched through his ear. He lights up a cigarette and paces away, three confident steps before he realizes he's headed back toward Zodiac's loading dock and turns around.
He stops then and winces like he was hoping nobody saw him fail at cool and now you know his secret. You ought to be annoyed. You don't want anything to do with anyone who wants anything to do with this shitty record label, right? Except you do honestly need a social circle that's bigger than just your moirail and your kismesis, so you might as well practice interacting like a real live troll while you’re out here. You find yourself attempting a smile that feels dumb as hell, and you try to think of something relatively not-obnoxious to say.
"Didn't go so well in there, huh?" you ask.
The guy shakes his head. His sign on his shirt is a lighter color than Aradia's but not as light as yours. Brown, you figure—that makes sense with the build and the horns. "Guess I shouldn't really, uh, have expected anything else," he says, and takes a drag on his cigarette. There's a ring in his nose, too, glittering when he moves.
"Were you looking to get signed?" you ask, sort of confused. You can't think of a single pop act lower than teal—and even the teal one was a novelty—and he must know that if he's interested enough to want to break in.
"I know it sounds dumb," he says. He sneers back at the closed doors, toothy and frustrated. "But I actually thought, I might have a chance, when they heard my demo and liked it."
You piece that together: he sent them a demo without letting them know what he looked like. "So they did like your sound, at least," you say, then bite your lip. That was really inappropriately sympathetic, but, hell, he’s hot and he looks so resentful, and basically fuck the system.
He doesn’t seem to mind, anyway. "Yeah, pretty much, they said, they could sell the music I made, but, they couldn't sell my face." He exhales through his nose, this long jet of smoke that gives him kind of a dragon look for a second there.
"Fuck." You're not surprised they'd make a call like that, but you always got the impression they dressed it up in prettier language. They sure do when the cameras are running, anyway. "They said that to you?"
"They offered, actually, to buy my songs, and, uh," he takes another agitated drag, "just have one of their existing acts, record them."
"Those bulgesores," you say. "What did you tell them?"
"I told them that I was declining their offer," he says, and smiles sheepishly. "With, possibly, a few more unnecessary expletives."
"Fuck those guys," you say, and, yeah, that’s you laying some truly smooth sympathy right out there. "Totally necessary expletives. Necessary and deserved."
You think he's grinning at your lisp but it's a really cute grin and that makes trying to actually talk to people slightly less embarrassing than usual. "So,” he says, “if you hate those guys, what are you doing here, then?"
"Well. I." You shrug. "There's one guy I hate in particular." It's still weird admitting that to people. "But he just stood me up for a laugh or something, so who fucking needs him. I'll just, I don't know, go home and hack his recuperacoon, set it to a low boil."
The brownblood laughs, and it sounds warm. "You can do that?"
You arch an eyebrow over your shades and smirk. "Who wants to know?'
"Oh, right." He stubs out his cigarette under one boot and offers you his hand. "Tavros. Tavros Nitram."
"Sollux Captor," you say, enunciating as carefully as you can, and clasp his big broad paw. It’s callused to the point it feels like a warm brick, holy shit. "Nice to meet you, Tavros Tavros Nitram."
He laughs again, and that makes you feel weirdly proud of yourself. You can hack lines of code better than a lot of adults, but hacking social situations is a huge pain in the ass. "Well, uh, if you can spare the time from your vengeance plans, maybe, we could get dinner somewhere?"
Holy shit. Very suavely, you say, “Only if you let me pay.”
“Only if you let me buy drinks.”
“You got yourself a deal. And a new best friend. What are you in the mood for?”
He grimaces thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he says, and gives this amazing aw shucks smile-and-kick-at-the-ground. Unreal. “I just came into the city, tonight, specially, so I don’t have much to do with urban settings, in general, or the cuisine, in particular. What would you say is good around here? Can we get pizza?”
“If you want shit food for shitheads,” you say. “If this is your first encounter with the kind of crap we like to call cuisine around here then we definitely need to take a tour of slumring food carts. Try something you can't get freeze-dried in a monthly ration with all the excitement and danger surgically removed, country boy.”
He beams. It takes a few seconds to remember how your feet work.
You lead the way out of the over-developed district where Zodiac's complex is, through the commercial area where midbloods buy shit they don't need and you can't afford, and down into the slumring where you start to be able to breathe a little easier. The first time somebody whistles as the two of you go by, you almost trip over yourself. You've never really been whistle-on-the-street material—you're pretty tall for your caste and you've got doubled horns, but even taking both sets into account they're not that big, and the rest of you, well. Aradia likes to say it’s just that your best attributes aren't the most visible kind.
The second time, though, somebody says, "Nice rack, honeygrub," and the world makes sense again. When you look over at Tavros his eyes have gone really wide.
"Not much of that out in the boonies, huh?" you ask. He shakes his head. You shrug. "If they're shitbloods like us, it doesn’t hurt to whistle back if you like what you’re seeing."
"And if they're, uh, not shitbloods," Tavros says, one eyebrow raised.
You shrug. You're playing this cool. "Depends on how literally you like being fucked over."
He snorts, his lips twisting up in this wry smile like he knows what a crappy deal the world is and why that means you have to laugh. You feel a moment of triumph, like when you figure out why you're stuck on a project—Karkat never got that, always bought the propaganda bullshit, and Aradia acts like the rules just can't touch her. But Tavros's crooked smile makes you think he gets it.
You take him around to all your favorite food carts, because you’ve started taking the odd for-pay coding job here and there and have enough put by for some fun, and you know all the best places from Aradia’s trips in to visit you. But you’re not thinking about Aradia now, just your new friend, and all the cool shit you want to show him. There's the one with the bacon pancakes where you can get beetles in the batter for only a little bit extra. There's the one with chocolate-dipped grubloaf skewers. He buys you a round of drinks each place you stop, and you don't ask where he's getting the cash to splurge like that, because that would be stupidly pale and also not first-date material at all. If this is a date. The hope warms you up faster than the booze, and you find yourself drifting closer into his space, brushing elbows here and there.
After the cart where they smother the carne asada tacos with berry syrup and Tavros makes the most amazing sex face when he takes his first bite you think oh fuck this had better be a date. You want to hear him make the noises that go with that face, nngh. You take another drink of your current brew, a sweet dragonfly lager, and try not to stare.
"So, I thought, I was coming to the city for music stuff," he says when the tacos have been obliterated, "but I guess, actually, I was here for the food. And the company." He smiles—you're starting to think he smiles as much in one night as you do in a season, he smiles even more than Aradia—and licks cherry syrup off his fingers. Wow.
"Well, I hope you're still up for more, because we're not done," you say.
Tavros pounds the rest of his lager and licks his lips to chase the last of the foam. "What's next?"
You want to see him lick more things, damn. "Ever had a mad dog?"
"Not yet," he says. "So I guess, you'll have to take care of that?"
"Fuck yes, I will," you agree.
Mad dogs are sold by just one cart, because the proprietor is a crazy fuck who’s good with explosives. You put your money down and get a very small, very spicy sausage. Then you open your mouth and the kid at the counter leans out and sprays it full of whipped cream.
Then you eat the sausage as fast as you can and try not to get foam everywhere.
The whipped cream mostly balances out the spice. Mostly. Tavros does great for two bites and then it catches up to him and his eyes go wide. He attacks the rest of the sausage like it's an emergency and he'd better kill it before it kills him, cramming it into his mouth and bolting the thing almost without chewing. His cheeks go dark and he's sweating a little at the temples.
"Here, the whipped cream helps," you say, wiping a smear off his cheek and holding out your hand. He could just take the cream on his own fingers.
He doesn't, though. He leans forward and licks your fingers clean with slow warm swipes of his tongue.
“You’re trying to stuff me, aren’t you,” he murmurs, low and intimate, and your brain sort of goes fweeeeeee and locks up.
“Uh.”
“With food,” he clarifies, and there’s that smile of his again, his big, pretty lowblood fangs, nearly your own size. It’s a lot more wicked, close up, less aw shucks and more feral heat.
“Yes?” you venture. Your fingertips are resting against the corner of his mouth, of that smile. This close you can see his short, thick eyelashes are kind of saturated with his color—he must be some kind of psychic too. You desperately hope he’s not the kind that can tell how tight your bulge has gone in your sheath. Come on, Captor, get it together. Don’t you dare start dripping in public.
“I like it,” he says, like he’s deciding. “I appreciate how you’ve been, trying to, uh, take care of me. You’re sweet.”
Oh, god, this wasn’t just a date, this was a fucking test. And so far you haven’t failed it. You run your thumb over his lower lip. “Do you want to come over to my place after this?” you blurt out. You can feel your horns crackling a little with anxiety. You are the least suave guy in the history of the planet. You are a sad sack of thumbtacks and failure optimistically disguised as a troll and unleashed on an entirely unsuspecting populace.
“Sure,” he says, eyes flicking up to your horns. “Cool.”
You are a god.
“Cool,” you repeat, and take his hand. When you go to take him towards the last cart of the night he falls in step with you like it's second nature. You're giddy with success, with your own coolness.
“So, you’re a psionic?” he asks after a companionable quiet.
“One of the best,” you say, and flick one of your horns. It’s a dumb trick you’ve perfected: the horn gives off a sharp crackle and spits out a little skein of harmless red-blue power. You drag it off your head between thumb and index digit, hold it in front of your face for a moment, then flick your fingers and it pops. You mostly only do this kind of shit in the mirror while you’re brushing your fangs, but it makes Tavros bark out a surprised, appreciative laugh.
“Can I try?” he wants to know, and wow yes. You stop in your tracks, and he almost steps on your heels.
“Be gentle, big boy,” you tell him, grinning, and he snorts.
“How, uh, do I...?”
You concentrate, draw your power up, together, coherent. “Just flick one—hn!”
He twists his fingers, then wiggles them, watching the ball lightning cling to his skin. You could do more to show off, you could blast down a few walls, you could slag half the carts around you. But he looks so delighted by just this, full of a weirdly unguarded happiness, you’re breathless with tenderness. You want him to like you so much.
When he 'lets go' of the power and you let the energy dissipate, there's this moment of wistfulness on his face that flops your bloodpusher right over. "Let's," you say, and swallow hard. "Let's get a couple of ice planets for the walk home."
"Okay," he says, in this hushed voice like he's trying not to scare the moment off either.
They don't even have your favorite flavors in stock tonight at the ice planet stand but you couldn’t give a shit about anything that isn't Tavros right now so you just pick something at random. You get one with melon liqueur soaking the cake, showing through the coating of powdered sugar in dark spots like tiny edible topography. Tavros struggles to figure out how to eat his while it sways at the end of the string, and you entertain yourself by making some of the powdered sugar orbit your planet in a ring.
"Showoff," he says warmly when he notices.
You glance over at him. "You're impressed, right?" you say. If you make it that obvious then it'll seem like you don't really care. That's a thing that's true.
"Definitely," Tavros says, and everything is great. He clears his throat. "So, uh, how are you supposed to eat these?"
"Carefully," you say. "And with style." You bring yours to your mouth with your psionics, holding it in place so you can take a bite. Tavros snorts in amusement and gives his planet one more try before he just takes hold of the cake in one big hand and bites into it like it’s an apple. Okay. You're both cheating. That's fine, because cheating is delicious.
It's double fine, because he finishes in three big, toothy bites, then fastidiously goes about licking the powdered sugar off his hand. You think you might be developing some kind of fixation on his mouth. You think he might have noticed. No one needs to take that long to clean their claws. Not that you’re complaining.
“How much can you move, anyway?” he asks. “Just planets?” and you realize you’re still holding your the remains of your cake in neat orbit around its stick.
“Oh, sure planets are easy,” you agree airily. “I throw the occasional meteor for fun. Trunkbeasts on my off days.”
“Get out,” he says, elbowing you, and you elbow him back.
“Maybe I will,” you say, because you’re at your hivestem. You lift up off the ground and his eyes go wide. You get to about horn level before he grabs your ankle.
“That’s awesome," he says eagerly, and you can’t help a proud grin. Hell yeah, it’s awesome. Most lowbloods get some kind of talent. Not that many of them get the kind that gives physics a hard look and two middle fingers.
“So do you want a lift, then?” you ask.
“God yes,” he says, and puts his arms up. And, well. You could carry him without touching him, it’s just, why would you want to?
You take his hands and tug him up, a little bit with your arms but mostly with your powers. When you get him level with you, you lean into him and twine an arm around his waist. He feels so good, broad-shouldered and sturdy in a way that neither Aradia nor Karkat is, a wholly new and different kind of good.
And he's purring, oh fuck. He's purring at the fact that he's in your arms, or flying, or both. That's a great fucking sound. You laugh a little. "You like it, huh?"
"I've always wished I could fly," he confides against your bare throat.
"Hang on, then," you say, and his arms tighten around your waist and you feel giddy. "We'll take the scenic route."
There's nothing scenic about the area around your hivestem. Right now it doesn't matter. You sweep Tavros up and around the building in a wide spiral and then, as he whoops with delight, you blast straight past your blocks and haul ass for the stars. It’s harder, carrying someone, but not by much. You’ve got this shit. The city falls away beneath your feet and his arms go tighter and tighter around you the smaller it gets, till you can see the edges, till it’s the size of a table, then a hand, then a little green-gold bee.
It’s cold up here, fucking cold as shit, but so clear. Every star is like a spear, and you can see just the faintest silver rim of sunlight creeping up the horizon to the east. Tavros is a mess of shivers in your arms, breathless and laughing and rubbing his cheek against your shoulder. You are the king of romance.
"This is amazing," he tells you. "I mean, I'd experienced it, second hand, but it's so much more intense, when I'm really here."
"Second hand?" you ask, and then you get wracked all over with a really hard shiver.
Tavros rubs your back. "We can head back down, where it's warmer, and I'll explain, or, I could show you?"
You get as far as opening your mouth to insist you're fine, and then you're shivering like a half-drowned squeakbeast again. Maybe heading back down to a lower altitude would be a good idea. "Okay, yeah, we can do that." You look down. You've always loved looking down. "You want to try freefall part of the way?"
"Wow," he says, and yeah, you know, that's a huge thing to ask. You'd mock Karkat at this point, needle him until he got over his fear and proved himself better than that. But Tavros doesn't make you feel anything like Karkat does.
"It's fine if you don't," you say. "I won't—I'm not going to get on your case or anything for having too much sense."
He shakes his head and almost beans you with one of those glorious horns. "Go ahead," he says. "You know what you're doing. You won't just let us fall."
Holy shit, wow. You nuzzle his cheek, just trying to hide your stupid smile. "Here we go, then."
You let your psionics go, and there's that one dizzy moment of panic when gravity first notices you again—you cling tighter to Tavros as you start to fall, and he lets out a little whoop that could be terror or delight.
The air whistles past your ears as you pick up speed, and the corners of your eyes sting with reflexive tears. It feels like your breath itself is being ripped away as you approach terminal velocity, and the city expands below you in a huge glittering sprawl. Adrenaline sings in your veins and you feel like an emperor, like a god, untouchable, unstoppable—any normal kid who tried this would wind up smeared to paste on the sidewalk, splattered on impact. But not you.
You let your power kick back in when you're still far enough up that you have time to brake slowly, bringing your speed down from complete freefall until it smooths into a glide. You feel the hitch in Tavros's breath where he's pressed up close against you, and you wheel slowly over the rooftops.
Then, like something out of a Vvallt Disney film, this completely ridiculous swarm of bats comes whirling up from the buildings to circle the pair of you. "What the fuck," you start, tensing up. You've never heard of the city bats going for prey as big as subadult trolls before, though now, looking at some of those wingspans, you’re wondering if it’s because they just don’t leave survivors. It's okay, though. You can probably blast enough of them to make the others go for easier prey. You've got this.
"It's okay," Tavros says, his voice dreamy and soft. "They're friendly."
"They're—" You get a closer look at him, and his eyes are glowing gently, not as bright as yours get but enough that it's obvious he's doing something. "You're a summoner?"
It takes a second before he nods, and then he's slow about it, like he's distracted and it takes a lot of effort to get his body to do things. That hits you like a sack of unreasonably sexy bricks: not only did he trust you enough to let you fly him up practically to the stratosphere, but he's okay with going halfway out of his body on his own psychic trip while he's still totally at your mercy. This is getting seriously intense for a random hookup, this is first night of the rest of your lives intense. This is like the kind of kid you take to meet your moirail intense.
You swoop and wheel with the bats, giddily diving through their formations as they break apart and re-form, turning spirals around you, Tavros laughing against your throat, urging you on. By the time you find your way back to your livingblock’s big window you can hardly work the catch, you’re so hopped up on the thrill of it all. You plow inside and trip over power cords the minute your feet hit carpet, keeling over in a mess of arms and knees and horns, and half a dozen big greasy bats flap inside after you.
“Oh, god, don’t let them at my apiculture servers—” you yelp, trying to get back upright, and Tavros doesn’t let you up. You freeze. The bats flutter back out the window like they want to give you two some time alone. Tavros splays his hands across your back and looks up at you, and you realize you’ve got your legs tangled together at the thigh and your own arms sort of clumsily around his face. You run a hand over his scalp, tentatively feeling at the shorn fuzz of it and the way it softens as it lengthens out, and he purrs again.
“You make me feel so safe,” he says. “You’re a good guy.”
“Okay, thanks,” you say helplessly. You’re dizzy and flushed and have no idea what happens next. You think maybe the ice planets were stronger than usual, and you shouldn’t have had them on top of so many pints; you think you’re drunk. “Are you drunk?”
“On the contrary, your face is what is drunk, in this situation,” he says, laughing again, and paps you.
Oh.
“Uh,” you say, dodging his next pap. “I mean, yeah, yes, I am, I definitely am drunk. Can I kiss you, though, can I ask that?”
He gets you right on the cheek, his next attempt, and his palm is broad and rough and feels so fucking good that you think for one muddled moment okay wow hnnngh, and then before you can be an even worse moirail to Aradia than you already are he pauses, blinking owlishly.
“What, like, flush?” he asks. “This was flush?”
“Well, the thing is, not that you’re not nice and that this wasn’t nice and your hand is also really fucking nice, right there, I do like it, but I’ve got a moirail,” you say, stumbling over your own tongue. “And you are, the thing is, please don’t take this the wrong way, you are so hot.” Probably you are making the stupidest hopeful face in all of forever right now, looking down at Tavros and praying he doesn't have a matesprit already.
He gives you this radiant grin. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah, I am, I mean, I’m aware. Go for it, flush is cool too, I just, uh. You know, whatever. Let’s do it.”
"Wow, yes." You lean down, slow and giddy and prickling all over with delight—something's going right for you, for once, going so right and you like him so much—and your lips meet his so gently it almost could be pale, except for the way it makes a shiver thrum right down your spine and your bulge ache.
He slides that big hand around to cradle the nape of your neck and press you closer, his mouth opening under yours and his tongue teasing your lip. You don't mean to whimper, it just happens, and when he just shivers happily under you it starts to sink in that this is going to be really different from the blackrom experience you already have. It's okay to let your guard down. He's not going to be looking for ways to get the upper hand.
Instead he just traces softly at your ribs, letting you explore his mouth. You do your best to impress, working your split tongue tips against his, nipping at his lips, but every time you get too amped up he just strokes your neck, or squeezes your waist, and you feel yourself unwinding. Making out with Karkat is a study in vicious intensity, is an exercise in overkill. Tavros, by contrast, is languid and utterly unaggressive and you find yourself mellowing out to match, relaxing into him. You feel secure, being held like this, you feel grounded and content. It’s amazing to just lie on the floor with him, trading these soft warm kisses back and forth, tracing lines across each other’s skin.
He leaves your mouth in favor of licking his way down your neck, and the rush of heat and wanting that elicits has you grinding down against him for one heady, brainless, delicious moment. He huffs out a shaky laugh and you feel your ears burn—you try to move back a little from him but he’s still got you, and he slides a hand down to cup your butt firmly, keeping you pressed against him. You can feel his bulge pushing up against yours through way too many layers of fabric.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, and can’t help but roll your hips. “Oh my—Tavros, you’re wearing too many fucking clothes, come on, you’re killing me.”
Tavros laughs again, and this is the first time making out has ever been so damn happy, and fuck, you think you could get to like it. "You know what, I think," he says, taking hold of your shirt, “is that you’re overinvestimented,” and he goes pushing it up and off you while you moan at the atrocious pun. Then you’re bare to the waist and he’s just... looking at you.You're self-conscious for a second, sure you won't measure up to the broad-shouldered strength you can feel in him.
"Wow," he says then. "Wow, that's really nice. You shouldn't, ah, hide something this nice, under shirts that fit like that."
You roll your eyes. "God, not you, too. Aradia already gives me enough shit about that."
"Aradia?" he repeats. There's something weird about his tone.
"My moirail," you explain. He's frowning. "What, what's wrong?"
"Um. Rustblood, really pretty, long hair, horns that sort of...?" He sketches curves in the air, the sweeping first-round-of-a-spiral shapes you know so well.
"Yeah, that's her. ...Wait, how do you know AA?" you ask. Something isn't lining up here. Or it is lining up when it shouldn't.
Tavros ducks his head in this awkwardly adorable embarrassed gesture. "She's, uh, in my FLARP league," he says.
"Oh god," you moan, as all the pieces fall together and make terrible amounts of sense. "You're the one! You're the cute brownblood that she has a crush on! I am the worst moirail, Tavros, it is me. I should have known, fuck, the universe never gives me anything this nice unless it's trying to fuck with me."
"Okay, I think, I'm going to take that as a compliment, the part about being this nice, but also, maybe, you should not be so hard on yourself," Tavros says gently, his hand on your bare upper back and that still feels good. "You didn't know, that it was me, and I didn't know, that she actually liked me back, that way, so, I don't think, you did anything bad?"
You slump against him. This is a tragedy. "I'm still the worst," you say. "The. Worst. I can't help it, that's just what I do. But you're so hot. And she's so hot. Oh my god, listen to me, she's pale for me, I’m awful. I’m fucking reprehensible."
Tavros chews on his lip nervously. "Well, she seems pretty reasonable, to me, so, if you feel like you need to, um, you could explain? And tell her you're sorry?"
"You're right," you say resolutely. Your bulge is going to hate you for this, and you'll kind of deserve it. "I should do that. I should do that right now. Let's do that. Let's call her up and I'll tell her I'm sorry for being the worst and you two can have my blessing to go and be hot as a matched set."
"Right now?" Tavros asks. "Are you sure, in your particularly intoxicated situation, you are ready to explain things?" But you're already floating your husktop over so you can call her.
“Look, you’re drunk too,” you reassure him. “So together we’re like, I don’t know, probably something like a functional troll who can get shit done and dusted. We’re gonna dust this shit like it hasn’t been cleaned in sweeps.”
“Uh,” he says, biting his lower lip, and you have to hang on to your husktop really hard to keep from kissing him again.
You try to connect and then worry that she's not going to be around—what time is it? did she have a game tonight? is she going to be out at another ruin site?—but before you can work yourself into a fit of despair over not being able to properly apologize, you get the connection chime from her end.
"Hey, Sollux!" Aradia says cheerfully as the picture starts to resolve. "What's tonight's emergency?"
"AA, you're the prettiest," you start, and you're already doing it wrong. "You're the prettiest and the most patient and I'm absolutely the most terrible, the worst, you don't even know."
"I think, maybe, you are overstating the case," Tavros contributes.
"Oh! Hey, Tavros," Aradia says, waving into the camera. He waves back. Neither of them is taking this situation seriously enough. "I didn't know you guys knew each other!"
"We didn't," you say helplessly. "We didn't and now we do and I kissed him and I think he's great but you're great and I'm horrible and I'm fucking everything up forever."
"Really, this would probably be better, to talk about, when you're less drunk?" Tavros says. “And not as, um, self-hatey.”
"Oh, honeybee," Aradia says. Tavros makes a little squeaking noise at that and you blush hot. "You're a mess, aren't you? This is why you should be careful with depressants."
"I know," you wail. "That’s why I'm the worst, AA, I do everything wrong!"
Aradia sighs. "Tavros, can you do me a really big favor?" You're watching her face on the screen but you see the reflection of him nodding. "Can you give Sollux a hug for me?"
"Um," Tavros says.
"I can trust you, right?" she adds. "And you're there right now, and I'm not. So give him a hug for me. He needs one."
"You should be mad," you try to explain, before Tavros can get his big warm comforting arms around you. "You should be mad at me, AA, because I keep thinking about you in ways that really aren't pale at all, and," you have to struggle to keep hold of your train of thought, because Tavros does feel really solid and nice against your back, "and, and, when I went to go find someone else I wound up making out with your flush crush, I’m so sorry—."
"Ssshh," Tavros says, and paps your cheek. "Shoosh, be calm."
Your mouth falls open and you feel your argument melting, too drunk and too strung out on your own ridiculous brain's excess to keep your composure. You whimper.
"Yeah, just like that," Aradia says. "Just like that, Tavros, you got him."
"Oh," Tavros says shakily. You trill reflexively and lean into his hand, waiting to feel embarrassed while the feeling just doesn't come. Instead you just want more of everything. "Oh," he says again. "You, uh, you like this?"
"Well. I'm pretty sure I'd like it more if I were there to play along," Aradia grins. "But yeah, you put on a pretty good show."
"Oh my god," Tavros whispers. You'd try to say something reassuring but he's still got you, one arm snug around your waist and the other hand stroking your cheek, and you just... You need this all the time, you're such a mess, and it feels so good.
“Soooooo,” Aradia says. “Can I come over or what?”
“Yes,” you and Tavros both blurt out, and then Aradia and Tavros start laughing and you want to dissolve through the floor slats. You’re a big sloppy mess and you want your damn moirail to come and kiss you. Okay, then. Okay.
"Awesome," she says. "It's pretty late—I'm not sure I can make it there tonight before sunrise. But I'll head out that way first thing in the evening."
"Wow," Tavros says. He's right.
"So in the meantime, you guys need to take care of each other, okay? Make sure you drink some water before you crash, and get a good day's sleep." Her smile turns into an outright leer. "You're going to need it."
You stare at the screen for a good thirty seconds after she closes the connection, just trying to get your head around this. You're curled up right now with a hot guy you just met, who's done both flushed and pale things with you tonight, and the plan is to do more of those things once Aradia can get here to join you. "This isn't real life," you say as Tavros helps you up. "This is a porn."
Tavros laughs. "Oh good," he says, steering you into the nutrition block for water. "I was afraid, it was just me, having that suspicion."
Your phone buzzes with an incoming message as you're following Tavros into your recuperacoon. You ignore it. You ignore it again. You'd probably keep ignoring it, as many times as it took, except that Tavros frowns in this worried sort of way and says, "Uh, your shellphone?"
"Yeah," you say, "I guess I should get that." There's a chance it could be Aradia, you figure. You levitate your phone over and flip it on. You have almost four full screens of capslock text waiting for you, starting with a where the fuck were you theme—he thinks you were the one who stood him up? asshole—and moving on to some jeering about your presumed lack of a life before turning to just tell me you're okay sort of stuff. According to the timestamps, the first messages probably came in right around the time you were introducing Tavros to the wonders of cherry-glazed carne asada. Whoops.
"It's my kismesis," you tell Tavros. "He's pale for me too."
Tavros laughs. "Everybody wants to pap that."
"You know it," you say, and you actually feel like it might be true, like you might be desirable after all and not just an embarrassment to everyone who’s ever had to breathe your air. You concentrate on the keypad long enough to write you're not my lu2u2, kk, 2top wiith the mother cluckbea2t iimpre22iion. ii diidn't feel liike waiitiing around for you all niight, 2o ii found a date.
WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT DID YOU DO WITH MY KISMESIS? SOLLUX "MY ONLY FRIEND IS MY COMPUTER" CAPTOR DOES NOT GO ON DATES.
You switch to cam mode. "Smile for the camera a second," you say to Tavros, and snap some shots. You have to lean back some to get his whole rack in the frame, and after just a few takes he’s grinning sincerely and doing show-offy flexing poses with his arms. You send the best one off and then he catches you up again, nuzzling ticklishly at your neck. You’re not even sure if he knows what color this is.
don't waiit up, ii'll troll you niight after twomorrow.
You shut off your phone before Karkat can reply, and send it floating back to its regular spot on your desk.
The 'cupe is a tight fit for the two of you, and his horns don't fit in it right, but it's still good. You drape yourself over him like an inebriated psionic blanket, petting his broad chest lazily, and purr yourself right to sleep.