Chapter Text
Dave wakes with the worst headache he's ever experienced, and it takes him a few seconds to realize where he is. His throbbing head is immediately forgotten when that information penetrates the hangover fuzz: he's in Karkat's room, in Karkat's bed, and both of them are naked. Dave's thighs are practically welded together with something disturbingly sticky and bright-goddamn-red. His next thought is simply 'oh shit'. He feels sick, mostly from the sheer amount of alcohol he consumed last night, but also from the knowledge that he probably just lost his virginity with his best (male) friend in a drunken haze, and he doesn't remember diddly-fuck. Karkat is facing the wall, still snoring loudly, so Dave slips out of the bed as gently as he can. It's the coward's way out, he thinks as he dresses hurriedly, but he's not up for having a earnest discussion about whatever just happened with his head feeling like someone turned it inside out and used it as an ashtray. Time to abscond at the speed of sound; he can deal with the Karkat situation later. Much later. Maybe after they've reached the new session and been pummeled into oblivion by one of the team of gigantic assholes that infest it. Post mortem might be a good time to talk about accidental gay sex with Karkat.
Wandering aimlessly through the meteor, Dave heads for the less inhabited areas in the hope that no-one will try to talk to him. Hiding in the dark, creepy labs seems like a grade-A plan right now. As he walks, he tries to remember what the fuck happened yesterday, how he torpedoed his life and his only decent friendship in the space of 24 hours. So far, being 16 sucks a huge pile of ass.
Dave's birthdays have never been happy occasions. More often than not Bro forgot them entirely, leaving him unable to tell if he was supposed to be too cool and grown up for cake and candles, or if Bro was simply fucking with him. Sometimes little things would show up unannounced; a new rucksack, some film for his camera, a preserved animal in a jar. Those birthdays were better, but still made him feel hollow jealousy for the parties and gifts lavished on his friends. One year Rose had gotten a fucking pony, for chrissakes, and had complained non-stop about the infantilising implications of her mother buying her, at age twelve, the pony she had asked for at age six. Dave can only remember one truly happy birthday; his tenth, when Bro had shown him how to use his old decks and then lovingly placed them into Dave's room afterward. It was the only time he remembers seeing Bro smile.
Yesterday had been no exception to the shitty birthday pattern, even though Rose, Kanaya and Karkat had tried to make it one. There had been cake and candles and thoughtful little gifts and everyone had expected him to be happy and grateful and he'd tried goddamn it, he really had. Although he forced himself to make stupid jokes and maybe even smile a little, Karkat's frown had let him know that he was doing a sub-par job of hiding the hollow numbness inside him.
The simple truth was that it had been difficult to pretend to have a happy 16th birthday when Dave knew that in just over four months he'd probably be dead. He'd have to fight and kill and time-travel again, and the shake in his hands when he thought of a sword clasped between them made it clear that he wasn't ready. He'd never be ready. Being sixteen didn't mean shit. He was still as scared as he'd been at thirteen. He couldn't save anyone.
So, when he'd excused himself in the middle of one of Rose's silly party games and gone to the alchemiter to dial up some of the Lalonde Estate's finest frankenwine, he hadn't been amazed when no-one had followed him. They could all guess what was wrong, most likely, but equally they knew there was nothing they could do. All of them had tried, over the past almost-three years, to get him to open up about what was eating away at him. The only person who'd gotten close to the truth of things was Karkat, and Dave could practically feel the frustration rolling off the little troll every time he ollied outie mid-conversation in order to avoid discussing why he seemed so fucking miserable these days. It had surprised him, then, when a nubby head had popped around the door of the alchemy room mid-way through his first bottle.
Karkat had been frowning again, the annoyed expression reserved exclusively for times when Dave was being an inscrutable ass. For some reason, it had seemed incredibly funny. Dave remembers laughing until tears ran down his face at Karkat's loud, indignant inquiries as to what the fuck he thought he was doing. He'd meant to respond with something smooth, something glib and funny and just a little bit irritating - the signature Strider blend. But nothing had come out, and suddenly the tears weren't tears of laughter and Karkat had an arm wrapped around him and words were falling out of his mouth before he could stop them.
Dave vaguely remembers telling Karkat that he doesn't want to die but it's going to happen anyway; that he's going to fuck everything up and let them all down because he can't even hold a sword without shaking. That birthdays are bullshit because all of the cake in the world won't make up for the time he turned 11 and Bro decided he was old enough to strife with real weapons. A dislocated shoulder and months of nightmares were his presents that year.
Dave remembers Karkat hugging him, remembers his face going slack with shock and sympathy. He remembers Karkat stroking his hair. It had felt so good to be held like that. To be cradled in the warm arms of someone who cared about him.
After he'd calmed down, Dave had reluctantly pulled himself away from Karkat and had told the troll that this wasn't the Dave Strider Emotion Hour; if Karkat wanted to stay he had to drink too. Karkat had wrinkled his nose at the idea, but had relented when Dave had told him that it was a human sixteenth birthday custom to get hammered with your best friend. Dave is pretty sure that it was the 'best friend' part that had persuaded Karkat to pick up the bottle.
After that, Dave's memories start to fragment. He remembers bits and pieces: calling Karkat a lightweight after he starts swaying during his fourth swig, Karkat drinking as much as he can in a single gulp with a middle finger raised, laughing as they both tried to recite their respective alphabets backward, Dave telling Karkat he's the best friend he's ever had.
Telling him it isn't fair, he's so fucking hot, why did he have to be a guy?
Leaning in to kiss him sloppily and feeling the rumble of pleasure in Karkat's chest.
Feeling really, really good as Karkat pushes a rough, alien tongue into his mouth.
Following Karkat as he stumbles back to his room, laughing as he tells Dave jokingly to fuck off and sleep in his own goddamn bed.
Karkat pulling him down onto the mattress.
Giggling like an idiot as his shades get caught when his shirt is pulled over his head.
Warmth and softness and comfort and sweat and pleasure and something wrapping around his dick and squeezing just fucking right.
Dave guesses this means all of those gay feelings he's been ignoring are probably genuine. It's one thing to pass off staring at Karkat's lips while he's talking and fantasizing about kissing them, and maybe even jerking off to the thought of Karkat's legs wrapped around his waist as the influence of raging teenage hormones. It's another thing to actually have the sex. Dave is pretty sure there's nothing 'no homo' about humping another dude until he comes.
Of course, it would have been too much to ask for him to have dealt with said feelings like a goddamned adult, maybe talk to someone about them instead of pushing them under the mental rug with all of the smuppets and swords that haunt his dreams. Instead, Dave got his best friend drunk and fucked him. He congratulates himself on maxing out his maturity Echeladder by stopping and banging his head against the nearest wall, before the stabbing pain engulfing his brain reminds him that doing so makes a hangover approximately one zillion times worse.
Maybe, if he's lucky, Karkat won't remember that anything happened. Dave berates himself for how skeevy that sounds, but at the same time he doesn't give a shit because he wants more than anything for it to be true. Trolls are pretty similar to humans, so it's a fair assumption that they have wet dreams too. It wouldn't be too much to hope that Karkat might pass off all the fumbling in the darkness as the effect of the alcohol on his troll physiology. The idea is a tempting way out of the awkward-zone, and Dave feels a little better for it. That is, until he remembers he isn't wearing his shades. The one time they would have actually been useful to keep the burning light away from his aching head, and they're somewhere on Karkat's floor. A perfect little reminder of last night's huge mistake.
Running a hand through his hair, Dave doesn't think he could possibly feel like more of a fuck-up until he notices he is well and truly lost. None of these corridors look familiar, and even the little colored-chalk signs that Terezi uses to orient herself have disappeared. This is the ass end if fuck-knows-where, population: one big, gay idiot. He groans, listening to the sound carry along the tunnels. No-one can hear him down here so he yells his frustration in torrents of swearwords, until he hears a trace of Karkat’s rage in his own voice and chokes on the final expletive.
The labs down here are huge, echoing caverns, filled with tanks and strange equipment. Dave has always had an interest in dead things in jars, and these behemoths are fascinating enough to distract him from his self-loathing for a few minutes. One looms large above him, a creature with spines and scales and the abdomen of a giant spider. The imps of the trolls’ session must have been nightmare fuel, Dave muses, because this thing is one ugly motherfucker. The other tanks contain similar hybrids, different combinations of beloved lusii mangled beyond all recognition. Amongst the dragon-wings and centaur-hooves, Dave spots a smaller cylinder of glass. The goo inside it is murky green, but the shadow at the centre looks humanoid. He would call it human, were it not for the shape of curving horns arching from its forehead. The thing looks like a troll.
Dave inches closer to the tank, wondering what Kanaya would think of his discovery. If there’s one troll, there could be more. There could be a way to make more trolls. Dave knows that she carries the burden of continuing her race in the same way he feels responsible for keeping his friends alive. He moves closer, tries to see into the clouded liquid. The thing looks like it’s asleep, maybe even dreaming. He swears he sees its hand twitch. Dave nearly jumps out of his skin when his phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s Karkat, of course it’s Karkat, but that whole issue is a minefield of ‘nope’ sprinkled with liberal helpings of ‘oh hell no’ for good measure, so Dave ignores the guilt sitting bitterly in his stomach and instead focuses on the thing in front of him. This time he’s sure he saw one of those dimly-visible claws moving.
Desperate to distract himself from the inevitable implosion of his friendship with Karkat, Dave leans forward and does something very, very stupid. With the back of one knuckle, he raps sharply on the glass of the tank, just once. Once is all it takes for the hairline crack by his left sneaker to spread and grow, crawling like lightning over the surface of the glass. By the time that Dave realizes what’s about to happen, green liquid explodes toward him. The torrent hits him in the stomach with several tons of pressure, knocking him squarely onto his ass. Now, with the flow hitting his chest, he can withstand it more easily. He manages to keep his face largely free, but some still gets into his nose and mouth, burning as it does so. It tastes disgusting.
Eventually, the tide of liquid slows, and Dave can get a good look at the thing that caused this mess. The thing is a grey heap in the bottom of the tank, glistening sickly with green residue. He can’t tell if it’s moving. When he stands, his feet feel unsteady on the slick floor. As soon as he tries to take a step, to see what the fuck was in the tank, his sneakers promptly fly out from under him. Dave’s head hits the floor, and he feels his consciousness shut down as if he’d flicked his power-switch.
Darkness surrounds him.