Chapter 1: Karkat: Be a nervous wreck.
You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to do this at all. You so desperately don’t want to do this, in fact, that the mere thought of moving from this very spot makes you want to vomit.
“You promised.” Sollux whines, sliding his shades down his face just enough that you can get a good look at his pout. And you feel like the worst best friend ever for even considering bailing on him because you did promise.
On the other hand, if you can manage to actually vomit in the next three minutes you’ll be able to get out of this with your Good Best Friend cred still intact. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the nausea to produce results. Come on gastrointestinal system, you think, don’t let me down.
Your gastrointestinal system lets you down. No puke is forthcoming.
“Karkat.” Sollux is making hardcore eye contact now. He’s speaking in that intense almost-whisper that lets you know how serious he’s being without letting anyone else overhear. It's the sort of intense person-to-person communication that makes you feel itchy down to your bones. The faint burning sensation of human connection. “Karkat please. I can’t walk into that room on my own.”
You don’t mention the lisp, even though it makes you feel like your ears are bleeding. That’s how good of a bro you are.
“Fuck it, Sollux.” You hiss, “Can I just point out that we could be doing something way less painful? I was considering maybe killing myself this afternoon.”
“Sollu- No! Fuck you, I’m not playing this game and I’m not going in that room!”
“Yes you are. You have to.”
“I don’t have to do any single nutsucking thing you stupid, drooling, meatsack of a human being. I could stand in this hallway until the heat death of the universe. I could literally never move from this spot and eventually die from hunger, and they’ll have to bronze my corpse because even after my death I will still not have to do a single fucking thing. This is so beyond the realm of 'required of me' that it might actually be necessary for me to not do this. In fact, fuck this whole stupid idea in its gaping, bacteria-infested mouthole. I’m not going to do it. I am going to stay right fucking here with my own pansy-ass self for the rest of time immemorial. I am going to sit on my god-fucking-damned hands and not make any friends at all and be a social pariah for the rest of my time at this school. I cannot do this and I’m too much of a wet fucking pussy to join a club because people might think I’m gay! So fuck you!”
You realize that you have grabbed the lapels of his stupid twee blazer and are about to shake him. You also, slowly, realize that you did that thing again. The word-spewing insecurity thing.
You hate that thing.
“Um, KK.” Sollux says as he carefully pries your hands, finger-by-finger, from his clothing, “You are gay. You're really gay. Really, really--”
“Shut up! Jesus, someone might hear you!” You do not slap a hand over his mouth only because the last time you tried that trick he licked you.
“So this is pretty much why I think we need to go to this meeting.” Sollux says with an eyeroll. He's feeling exasperated. How dare he.
“Listen up douchenozzle.” You hiss as quietly as you can (which, in all honesty, isn’t that quiet), “I’m not closeted, I’m discrete. And for good fucking reasons.” You and Sollux have had this conversation before, numerous times. He says that you’re denying your true self, and you argue that your true self would prefer not to get the shit beaten out of it, thanks very much. “And anyway, I thought we were going to this meeting so you could put something progressive on your college applications.”
Ugh. It’s pretty freaking obvious to you that college applications are the last thing on Sollux’s mind. Not that you can be sure what he reasons really are, but you’re betting it has something to do with the increased chances of scoring some hot twink ass.
“They’re going to think we’re together.” You point out. Because maybe the fear of looking like your boyfriend will knock some sense into the retard.
“Then we’ll tell them we aren’t.” No dice. You’ve only got one weapon left in your arsenal. It is the fucking atom-bomb of emotional manipulation. The grandest of all tearjerkers.
You put on your best kicked-puppy-face. It is surprisingly similar to the way you normally look. “So maybe I don’t want to put myself in a position to get the shit beat out of me. Again. Did you ever think that? High school is a physically violent and emotionally damaging place. I'm already damaged dude, I will have literal fucking shitfit panic attacks if you make me go. ”
Sollux droops a little you almost think you’ve convinced him, “I don’t want you to think I’m not being sympathetic, KK. Because I was really worried about you, and what happened was kind of scary-”
Yes. Score one for blatant emotional manipulation.
“-but this club is here to prevent that shit. They're pretty well established and this school is way better than that fucking shitheap you were at last year. And I think you could use the support. Also I really, really, need someone to show up with so they don’t think I’m a weird loser.”
No. You sigh.
“You are a weird loser and I hate you.” You say. You don’t add ‘platonically’ because obviously your hate would be platonic. Is there any other way to hate someone? You don’t think so.
“We’re doing this.” Sollux says, grabbing you by the sleeve of your hoodie, and it appears as though you are because he is dragging you towards the small room that is home to the Alternia High Gay-Straight-Alliance.
You're making it happen. And there is nothing you can do about it.
Chapter 2: Feferi: Be excited.
You are SO GLUBBING EXCITED. Class has finally let out and it’s time for the very first club meeting of the year! You practically skip to the club room, blowing past two confused-looking boys on your way there.
The door is already unlocked, and you’re a little disappointed to find that you’re not even close to being the first to arrive. Tavros is here and chatting with Rufio (which makes sense, seeing as the club advisor is his cousin), and Eridan has already set himself up in the corner, like usual. John and Vriska are joking around with the blackboard (they’re probably drawing something inappropriate, again ), Gamzee appears to be taking a nap on the floor, and Nepeta and Equius have already set themselves up in the beanbags against one wall. There’s a very pretty new girl standing against the wall. She looks a little uncomfortable, and you make a note to introduce yourself to her as soon as you can.
But first, you have very important Best Friend duties to complete.
Before he can even notice you entering the room, you’re jogging up to Eridan and tugging the earbuds out of his ears and giving him a great big hug. You give the best hugs.
“Fef!” He snaps, reaching up for the earbuds as you dangle them out of his reach, “Give those back!”
“Nope!” You say “It’s time for socializing now.”
He rolls his eyes and grumbles a bit but you can tell that he appreciates your efforts to draw him out. You are the best hag a-- a homosexual guy could have. The. Best. Hell, he’d never get any dates to screw up if you weren’t there to get him to talk to people first.
You’re about to run over to greet the new girl, but it looks like Rose has gotten the jump on her and jeez. You shore didn’t mean to make that sound so inappropriate in your head. It’s just that Rose moves a little fast and you don’t want her to scare away any new friends...
...And okay, maybe you’re a little annoyed that Rose has never bothered to flirt with you. But that has nofin to do with your concern for the new girl. Nofin at all.
You really have to stop it with the fish puns. Even in your own internal-monologue. Quitting cold-tuna is the only way. No. Turkey. Cold turkey.
Anyway, it’s been almost twenty minutes since the bell rang which means it’s time to get this show on the road. You nudge Eridan up and manage to get him to agree to help you set the room up for the meeting. There isn’t too much to do, and you know that Eridan likes to help.
“I hate this part.” He mutters as he drags the chairs from where they’ve scattered into a friendly circle around the carpet. It’s something of a chore to get everything situated properly, especially when there’s people in the way. Joking and talking and (in Gamzee’s case) sleeping.
Before being converted into the Alternia High Safe Space, the room had been a break room for the english teachers, and it was sized appropriately. Which is to say that there was barely enough room for everyone to sit comfortably.
You and your fellow students have done your best to make it comfortable. And you are actually quite pleased with been pleased with the result. A desk (containing the majority of Rufio’s work and most of their art supplies), takes up the majority of the room to one side, while the rest of the room is dominated by a violently green shag carpet(rescued from someone’s basement).
Most of the chairs were stolen from one classroom or another, but you managed to find a few that are comfortable enough for the sort of relaxed hanging out that happens in the space. You are particularly proud of the single, small armchair that you had personally carried back to the school from the curb outside someone’s house.
The room still has most of the decorations up from your decorating party at the end of last year, including a wall covered in the flags of various sexual minority groups and a large poster featuring queer people from history.
And a poster-sized drawing of a condom with the words “No sombrero, no fiesta!” written in large, friendly letters underneath. You try not to comment on that one. Vriska has seemed so pleased.
All in all, it’s a good space. A safe, welcoming space. Which is exactly what you had hoped to create when you helped to found the club during your freshman years. Oh, how time flies.
But now is not the time for meandering walks down memory lane. Now is the time for meeting! You see a few new people slide through the door just as you call everyone to come and sit. It’s so wonderful to sea new faces in the clubroom.
To see them, you mean. That’s what you thought in the first place. Why would you think anything else?
Anyway, you have a very good feeling about this. You can tell it’s going to be an excellent year
Chapter 3: Karkat: Continue to be a nervous wreck
Nope. You are totally over whatever anxiety you may have had about attending this meeting and potentially OUTING YOURSELF TO THE ENTIRE FUCKING SCHOOL. You are so freaking chill that you have decided to pursue a career as a mindfulness guru. You will spend the next few decades of your life teaching others the mystical way of not giving any fucks. People will travel miles in order to learn from you. You will make millions on your self-help book, which will be titled “better living through not giving a single flying shit”. You will be so famous that Oprah will become your close, personal friend. You will own an island where you will spend the last years of your life being calmer than a coma-patient on xanax.
...Who are you kidding? You’re still anxious as hell. You’re sitting stiffly beside Sollux and wishing you had a reason to leave, even as the overly chipper girl calls the meeting to order. You can’t help but watch the other people in the room and judge them. Which in no way helps you with the feeling that they are watching (and judging) you.
“Hello everyone, and welcome to Buckets of Hope!”
Buckets of Hope? Buckets of Hope? That has to be the shittiest name for a queerclub in the history of saccharine, overly optimistic queerclub names. You might as well name the group ‘Please Beat Me on the Scrotum With a Rusty Lead Pipe’ because that’s probably what everyone in the school is going to try to do after they learn you’ve joined. Oh gog. You knew this was going to be the worst thing in the history of things that Sollux has made you do. Why did you let your stupid past-self agree to this magical adventure in moronland.
...And now everyone is looking at you with that collective dumbfounded expression that means you said that out loud. Sollux is giving you that look that says he wishes you’d died as an infant. Serves the bitch right for assuming that you would ever do anything but embarrass the shit out of him.
‘I wish I didn’t know you.’ Sollux mouths silently at you.
“Oh. Sorry.” You say while subtly giving him the finger below eye-level.
“Nah.” Says some douchebag from the corner, he’s wearing possibly the gayest scarf you have ever seen. Seriously. That scarf is gayer than you are. “We all agree that it’s the worst name ever.”
You’re waiting for someone to point out just how rude you are, like usual. Or at least to get some angry stares from the group. But it’s almost as if your furious outburst has gone unnoticed.
“I still think we should have gone with ‘The Gay Mafia.’” Says a girl with an eyepatch.
“And we all agreed that that name would exclude those of us with non-binary sexual identities.” Points out the girl who is sitting on the floor in front of her, knitting so fast while she talks that you can barely seen her fingers.
“...And, uh, also that it sounded militant.” Points out the kid who looks almost exactly like the faculty advisor.
This may be the first time in your life that you’ve managed to start a debate instead of getting people angry at you. The attention has shifted completely and you don’t understand your feelings at all.
“Can we maybe not have this discussion again?” Overly-friendly girl says, raising her voice over the ensuing conversation, “If everyone really wants to, we can put a potential name change down on the agenda for later in the semester. But I would like to remind you all of what happened last time.”
Groans and mutters of agreement all around.
“And seeing as how the only other name we could settle on was ‘True Colors’, and certain members of the group felt that that was--”
“--Booooooooring.” Eyepatch groans.
“--Tacky.” Says a ridiculously buff guy sitting by the far wall. There’s a tiny girl sitting in his lap and nodding furiously in agreement.
“--Possibly the worst motherfucking song to ever flow from Cindi Lauper’s normally angelic fucking voice box.” adds a kid who you were absolutely certain was asleep just a minute ago.
“Well I liked it.” says a boy with thick-framed glasses and an overbite.
Just about everyone seems to find that hilarious, and you have the distinctly itchy feeling of being a stranger in a group of close friends. It’s not like this is the first time, the only successful friendship you’ve achieved in your sixteen years of life is the one you share with Sollux. And that is based almost entirely on a mutual fondness for nihilism and shitty computer games. Fuck, even Sollux would have given up on you years ago except you’re the only one who will pick up the phone at three in the morning when he’s feeling low and he thinks he owes you.
You are so fucking pathetic.
“Anyway.” The girl continues, glaring the rest of the group into silence “Welcome to Buckets of Hope. My name is Feferi and I am so thrilled to see so many new faces!”
You look around, trying to differentiate the 'new faces' from the old standards, but everyone looks equally fresh and chipper and engaged. It’s nauseating. You consider the potential for actual enthusiasm-induced sickness. Better late than never right?
You really do need to work on learning to puke on command, it would solve all of your problems. All of them.
“So before we get to introductions,” Feferi continues, “I need to make a few announcements and go over the club rules.”
She pulls a notebook out of her backpack and flips the cover open.
“First announcement!” She enthuses, “I’m taking a whale of a course load this semester as well as applying to colleges, so I am going to be stepping down as president before the end of the semester. Don’t worry, though, I’ll still be attending meetings and everything.”
You notice that no one seems particularly worried. You, of course, couldn't care less about who is or isn’t running this bigtop shitcircus. Just so long as it isn’t you. You might be roped into attending meetings for as long as Sollux stay interested, but that doesn’t mean you have to help run the thing. Nope. You are most definitely not a leader. You are the opposite of a leader. A follower. No, not a follower, you are a lone wolf. You have left the pack and will spend the rest of your short, miserable, frozen life trying to hide from larger predators.
“So that means that we’ll be holding elections a lot earlier this year.” Feferi continues, “You should all start thinking of people to nominate so we don’t have another fiasco like last time.”
Nods of agreement all around and it’s like there are whole series' of novels of history between these people. Sollux sends you a glance that might mean ‘haha, shitstain guess who’s getting nominated?’, or possibly ‘I am totally going to run this bitch just watch me’. You send him a glance that means ‘fuck you douchehole’. You’re sure he’ll get the gist of it.
“Second announcement!” She says, “Diversity Week is coming and we need to start planning right away. If you’re interested in being on the committee please let me know.”
More eye contact from Sollux. You feel your jaw creak with the pressure of resisting the urge to shout at him.
“And finally, Principal Scratch says that we’re not allowed to hand out prophylactics anymore. So if you’re looking for condoms, or dental dams, or whatever, they’ve been moved to the bottom drawer of Rufio’s desk and please don’t tell.”
“We live in the dark ages.” Scarf-douche moans.
“When I get pregnant I’m suing this school.” Says knitting chick. You can’t tell if she’s being serious or not.
“Like you’re goin’ to be gettin’ pregnant any time soon.” douchebag tells her and what the fuck is that accent? It’s awful, “I thought you were allergic to penis.” And ugh, he slurs his ws in the worst way imaginable.
“Well it’s not like you’re going to need a rubber anytime soon, Captain Virginal.” Lalonde shoots back.
“Any. Way.” Feferi hisses, before it can come to blows, “That’s all the announcements. So lets just go over the rules and get this party started.”
The rules, you learn, basically boil down to “Don’t out people, don’t be a dick.” while also being long and complicated enough that the message is a little hard to decipher. Feferi talks about confidentiality, (“don’t share other people’s stories, and please don’t use names”) and safety, (“respecting boundaries is important!”).
And apparently you’re allowed to use the clubroom during the school day if you feel unsafe or have an emotional breakdown. “This is a really important resource for some people,” Feferi adds, “so please don’t use the space to skip class.”
You try really hard not to think about your old school, and your old town. And how there hadn’t been a special room there for when you needed to get the fuck away. That sort of shit does. not. come. to. mind.
“So now that that’s out of the way.” Feferi says, “Who’s ready for introductions?!”
You are so not ready for introductions.
You’ve got style, you’ve got grace, you’re a winner. You’re a lady. Woah-oh-oh you’re lady.
Ugh. That song has been in your head for days , and despite its appeal it is starting to get old. It doesn’t help that your mom was humming it this morning when she drove you to school.
You were nervous, and Mom was obviously trying to make you feel more comfortable. You suppose it worked, since you’ve been able to focus on the tune when things start to become overwhelming. It helps keep you from feeling like everyone is watching you and seeing... Someone other than who you are.
You know that your nervousness is just that. Even though being yourself at school for the first time is... stressful, not a single person would know that you were ever different.
Alternia High is a lot different from your old school. Far more anonymous, far more accepting (as far as you can tell in just a couple weeks) of different kinds of people. And no dress code means that you can wear your homemade clothes every day. It’s been like New York fashion week in your house ever since the semester began.
You smile a little and rub your fingers against the red suede of your skirt. Yes. You are a classy fucking lady. And you look amazing. If anyone stares, it is only because they are in awe of your poise and impeccable fashion sense.
If you keep thinking it, it will be true.
Attending the Buckets of Hope (honestly, it’s the most dreadful name) meeting had been something of an impulse, but you’re glad you decided to come. St. Michael’s hadn’t had any sort of support structure for students like you. You wanted to see what it was like.
Already you can tell that this will be a good place for you. You spent the time before the meeting chatting with a charming young lady who seems to share your fondness for fashion. She wears black lipstick with a level of class that you find almost alarming. Her hair is perfect.
You try to remind yourself that developing crushes is not why you’re here.
“Who’s ready for introductions?” Asks the club president. Just about everyone in the room seems equally lacking in enthusiasm about the idea, but you feel remarkably curious about these new people. They seem quite.... vibrant.
Feferi suggests (in a way that could only be construed as an order) that the group introduce themselves with their name and a strange fact about themselves or something they like. It’s the usual sort of get-to-know-you foolishness that happens in just about every class and club for the first few weeks of school. You find the ritual of it calming.
The girl with the eyepatch is called Vriska and, at Feferi’s cheerful prodding, admits to injuring her eye in an impromptu high-speed scooter race just a few weeks before school. You are relatively sure that she is lying. Her boyfriend (he must be her boyfriend, you think, as no mere “friend” would sit so comfortably between another friend’s legs) is named John, and he claims to have seen every single Nick Cage film in existence. You cannot see how this could be considered an accomplishment.
You learn that Tavros enjoys LARPing, Equius is the president of the robotics club, a boy named Gamzee is almost entirely unintelligible, and Nepeta really likes cats. The names fly by quickly, but you try to keep up. Remembering names is the first step to making friends. You are going to have friends here if it kills you.
The lovely girl you had been speaking with before introduces herself as Rose Lalonde and, in a nearly perfect monotone, admits to enjoying psychology and novels. You want to ask her which ones, maybe ask if she has some suggestions, but now isn’t the time for conversation and the metaphorical baton is being passed to you.
“My name is Kanaya Maryam and I...” You resist the urge to say ‘have a dick’, even though it would be both shocking and hilarious. The point of your transfer (partially) was to be able to pass, after all, “Um. I am not really sure what to say. I enjoy fashion. I made this skirt myself.”
You feel a little burst of pride when, from the other side of the circle, John chimes in with a “wow, cool!”. You only hope that certain other people in the room find it similarly impressive.
Your attention turns to the final two members of the group. They are sitting far close enough together that you wonder if, perhaps, they are in a relationship. The taller of the two is wearing a pair of darkly tinted sunglasses and a red-and-blue blazer that walks the line between daring and awful . His friend (boyfriend?) is sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, frowning at the carpet as though it had insulted his mother. Or something similarly infuriating. The only time he’s spoken so far has been his bizarre outburst during Feferi’s introduction. You honestly don’t know what to think of him.
You do notice that the boy has a typical teenage male approach to clothing, which is to say that you have no doubt he picked today’s outfit out of a pile on his bedroom floor. The graphic on his t-shirt is so worn that you cannot make it out, and his red plaid overshirt is... well, it’s a red plaid overshirt. It speaks volumes. And the volumes don’t care what they look like.
The first boy introduces himself as Sollux Captor and says something about computer programming before nudging the other boy in the shoulder. They have a quick, whispered conversation which ends in an explosive sigh and and eyeroll before the other boy turns to the group and says, “I’m Karkat Vantas and I like not being forced to participate in the momentously cliche circlejerk that is this little introduction.”
The silence that follows is appropriately awkward, and Karkat looks like he might run out of the room, or apologize, or something equally drastic.
“Right.” Says Feferi, obviously ready to move on, “We’ve got quite a lot of stuff to go over today, so I hope no-one minds if we do check-in last...”
You tune Feferi out for a moment, focusing instead on the sensation of being part of a group and yourself. You feel safe, and the novelty of that feeling surprises you.
Your eyes catch with Rose’s and the two of you share a smile.
You’re a lady. Woah-oh-oh you’re a lady.
I don't know how to Kanaya.
You are Dave Strider and you are not participating in the magical circle of homosexual feelings that is the Alternia High Gay-Straight Alliance. You would not even consider such a thing. Not even if you had walked past one of their heinously colored flyers on the wall of the lunchroom last Tuesday and taken down the time and place of the meetings. You would not do such a thing because you have a reputation to uphold. A reputation as a person who isn’t gay. That shit takes effort.
Wait. Did you just allude to the fact that you had to make an effort to not look gay in your own internal monologue?
You did. You have just mentally implied that you are a self-hating closet-case who goes out of his own way to draw attention to just how heterosexual he is in the vain hopes that he will eventually grow out of this phase and start getting boners for the lady-bits. Until, like a character in a critically acclaimed FOX dramedy, you are forced to see the true extent of your hypocrisy, culminating in your coming out of the closet during an intricately choreographed but poorly explained musical number. Television executives pat themselves on the back for pushing the envelope by portraying gay teenagers while actual gay people roll their eyes at just how cliche that entire subplot is.
Meanwhile, the television executives in charge of that same program funnel millions of dollars into right wing politics focused on limiting the civil rights of the very people they are portraying while simultaneously broadcasting anti-gay propaganda disguised as “news” to homes across the country. Undoing what little good they could have done in portraying queer characters in the first place.
What were you thinking about?
Oh yeah. You are not attending the Buckets of Hope meeting because you aren’t in any way a sexual minority and Buckets of Hope is a stupid fucking name for a club. And because if your Bro found out he would never shut up about it and it would be just like the year you decided to join the poetry club and you promised yourself you would never think about that again. That memory is dead to you. Like Bro should be.
What you are doing, at the moment, is hanging out with your best bro Terezi and making some fine fucking art on the large concrete slab that is the front of the school. You’re trying to enjoy your time with TZ while you’ve got it since she’s going to be starting Mock Trial next week.
Mock Trial, you have been informed, is serious fucking business. That shit has practice almost every single day. Little nerdlings are chained to their desks like ecuadorean toddlers, sweating away at their sewing machines. Not all of them will make it out alive. The intricacies of fake criminal law eats child laborers for breakfast. You’re pretty sure Terezi has scars that will never heal.
She invited you to join all of once, and you turned her down flat. No way are you going to spend the whole semester memorizing pretend facts so as to prove your pretend case to a pretend judge. You are far too legit for that bull. Not to mention you can’t stand the smell of panicked nerd.
Terezi, on the other hand, thrives on the scent of highly intelligent fear-juice. It probably tastes like steak or something. You guess that’s pretty cool, and you do show up to every one of her trials with a different sparkle-and-hearts-encrusted poster proclaiming “I <3 Terezi Pyrope” or “TZ for President” or, on one occasion “Go Eagles!”. Because you support the fuck out of your friends.
Well, you support the fuck out of your friend. Singular. Because you never really bothered to make any more after you and Terezi first formed your freaky symbiotic alien bromarriage back in the third grade.
You realize that you’ve been staring at the chalk in your hand for way longer than is required, even for ironic “I am an artist searching for inspiration” purposes.
“You’re doing it again.” Terezi sing-songs as she draws a bright red line directly through the spot you were about to draw on. How does she always know?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You say, putting your chalk against the wall (slightly to the left) without any real plan, “The only thing I am doing is drawing on the blank fucking canvas that is this fine institution of learning, like some kind of italian chalk guru. Like the Michelangelo of chalk. Behold my masterpiece.”
You draw a dick. You can’t help it, it just comes out. All lumpy and blue because Terezi always hoards the red.
“You’re moping because I won’t be free to hang out this semester.
You give in to the inevitable and give your dick a face.
“Nope. You must be thinking of some other fantastic artist-rapper-genius-playboy-philanthropist because I. Do not. Mope.”
“Moping.” Terezi cackles as she puts a great big line right through Mr. Dick’s left nut. Aw man, now he’s some kind of cripple. “You’re moping you big moper.”
“Wow. You called me a moper. I'm going to need some serious first-aid for that sick burn. How am I ever going to feel pretty and confident again?” You give Mr. Dick a cane so that he’ll be able to get around without his nut. And so he’ll look dapper.
You also give him a hat. Yeah. Dapper as fuck.
“It’s cool. I know that you’ll pine away without me.” Terezi says, “If only you had something useful to do with your time. Like a hobby. Or some other friends. Or a dog or something.”
Terezi doesn’t often give you shit about how she’s the only one you really hang out with, but when she does she goes all out. She’s probably worried about you being lonely or some stupid shit.
There’s a moment of silence while you try to think of something not-defensive to say and Terezi scribbles a cherry monstrosity over Mr. Dick’s head.
She puts her chalk down after one final flourish and solemnly turns her face in the direction of your right knee.
“I think you’re really cool, Dave.” She says.
“Well duh, princess.”
“No, I mean-- Ugh!” She runs a hand through her hair, leaving streaks of pink dust behind, “I mean, I think you’re really cool and so will all the other people you will definitely be hanging out with while I’m indisposed. Don’t just sit in your room looking at ironic porn sites all semester because I’m too busy ripping the intestines out of my competition to hang.”
“Sure.” You say, “I’ve been thinking about maybe joining the macrame club. Or a sport... I would totally get all the motherfucking baskets in soccer."
“You don’t get baskets in soccer.” Terezi cackles, giving you a shoulder punch that lands squarely in your solar plexus.
“I would get all the baskets. Bitches would be following me through the halls asking me how I did and I’d be like ‘it’s all on account of my having so much swag my balls have swelled to the size of a grapefruit.’ and the bitches will be like--”
“DAVE! You're disgusting.” But she’s laughing so hard you seriously think she’s about to produce her own milk. Which she will be shooting out of her nose. Because you are just that hilarious.
You’re about to tell her more about your cancerous swag glands when her head perks right up and she grabs you by the wrist.
“Security guard.” She says with a tilt of her head that tells you she’s hearing something you don’t, “Lets get out of here before they figure out that you’ve drawn dicks all over the building.”
“How the fuck do you always know what I’ve drawn?”
“Because you always draw dicks, Dave! Always!” She says with another cackled laugh and you’re grabbing her hand and running for it like beautiful fugitive gazelles across the serengeti of the law.
This semester is going to suck without her around.
Wow that took forever I blame Dave.