
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/808959.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      Multi
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Terezi_Pyrope/Dave_Strider, Dave_Strider/Karkat_Vantas, John_Egbert/
      Vriska_Serket, Damara_Megido/Equius_Zahhak, Sollux_Captor/Aradia_Megido,
      Sollux_Captor/Feferi_Peixes, Gamzee_Makara/Tavros_Nitram, Rose_Lalonde/
      Kanaya_Maryam, Nepeta_Leijon/Equius_Zahhak_(unrequited), John_Egbert/
      Other(s), Jade_Harley/Dives_Strider_(Davesprite), Eridan_Ampora/Aradia
      Megido, Karkat_Vantas/Nepeta_Leijon_(unrequited)
  Additional Tags:
      Self-Harm, Explicit_Sexual_Content, Underage_Sex, everyone_is_sad, no_one
      is_happy, Underage_Drinking, Recreational_Drug_Use, Alternate_Universe_-
      High_School, The_Island_of_Misfit_Toys_'Verse, Humanstuck, Student/
      teacher_relationship
  Series:
      Part 1 of The_Island_of_Misfit_Toys_'Verse
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-05-19 Words: 9523
****** Track 1: Where the Shore Ends ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     Your name is Dave Strider and you are a fucking rock star.
     Your throat feels raw and your tongue is numb and too thick in your
     mouth. You’re panting with exertion. Fuck yeah. Eloquent. You try
     again: fuck yeah.
Notes
     A huge thanks to secretyandere and alovelyhamsteak for editing!
See the end of the work for more notes
= = > Be Dave
 Your name is Dave Strider and you are a fucking rock star.
 It’s a Friday night and The BetaKids have just finished playing their final
set at Oberon, the bar two blocks down the street from Southland Academy of the
Arts, your school. As you and your friends exit stage right with what
instruments you can carry into the wings, the crowd—comprised of fellow
students, parents, and most importantly, your brothers and girlfriend—erupts
into  another cheer, a few voices rising above the roar. Your throat feels raw
and your tongue is numb and too thick in your mouth. You’re panting with
exertion. Fuck yeah. Eloquent. You try again: fuck yeah.
 Rose slips her guitar to her hip and smirks at you, and that’s all she needs
to say. Her hair is iridescent in the stage light, it’s like she’s glowing,
she’s so bright. Kanaya runs to her, backstage lanyard flung over her shoulder,
and they embrace, Kanaya smacking a wet kiss on Rose’s cheek. She smiles at you
grasps Rose’s hand. You watch them leave, Rose leading her out the backdoor and
into the parking lot. You’ll see them later.
 The girls (groupies, Rose calls them, without malice) who had been dancing on
top of the concert speakers climb onto the stage and approach John. He’s
packing up his keyboard, but he stands when he sees them. You can hear their
voices—distantly as if through a tunnel— compliment him and TBK. He grins and
winks at the blonde in satin pants. They offer to help him, but he politely
declines and they leave.
 You wait for John behind the curtain, arms crossed over your chest. Production
and Design kids rush on stage and start dismantling the drum kit and rolling
wires. They’ll return most of the equipment to campus storage, making clean-up
a breeze for you and the rest of the bands that played tonight. People begin to
file out of the front doors, leaving behind a mess of half-eaten burgers and
empty beer mugs. Jordan, your temporary drummer, rushes past you in search of
his girlfriend. He raises his hand for a high-five, which you dutifully return.
Good guy and a good drummer, but he doesn’t really fit in TBK. It’s a running
joke among you, Jade, Rose, and John that you’ll spend the rest of your career
searching for the right drummer.  
 John shoulders his keyboard and jogs to meet you.
 “That was fucking great!” he yells. The clatter of plates and the clutter of
conversations are dying down. Your ears are still ringing and his voice sounds
disconnected. John claps you on the shoulder and you return his splitting
smile. You’re running high on adrenaline, dopamine coursing through your brain,
dripping from your fingertips. A mallet is clasped in your hand. You’d used it
to beat the living shit out of the marching band drum while performing ‘Falling
Planets’. You can still feel your arm vibrating.
 “You did well,” you tell John, drawing it out like the wise, sagely man you
are. Kid learned everything he knows from you, more or less. He was amazing
tonight, hitting every note, rising and falling with the music, every press of
the keys synching with yours and Rose’s voices. You could kiss him right now
for his sweet, sweet solo during ‘Heartbeats’.
 Jade appears from the restroom. Her bass is strapped across her shoulders
still and she holds the neck to prevent it from slipping as she grabs cold
water bottles from an ice chest on the floor. Sweat glistens on her forehead
and a laugh bubbles from her when she sees the two of you. You know she feels
it too, the high after an amazing gig.
 “Here,” she says, and tosses you and John each one. John cracks his open and
drinks deeply. You press yours against your forehead. “Do y’think your Bro will
let me hang out at the apartment?” Jade asks. You shrug. “I dunno. Ask him.”
Her phone vibrates in the pocket of her jeans and she whips it out and smiles
at the screen.
 “Dives,” she explains and leaves in a rush.
 “Where’s Rose?” John asks.
 “With Kanaya. They just left. ”
 “Oh,” John says, “We no longer have a ride?” 
“Don’t worry about. I’ve got another idea.”
 You lead him towards a group of Commercial Music underclassmen. They’re
pouring over Karkat’s camera, watching the recorded performances and shuffling
through his various photos.  He looks stricken. Jacobi from Rabbit asks him to
delete something and Karkat nearly hisses.
 “Fuck off,” he says and John laughs next to you. Karkat takes his camera from
Jacobi’s hands and switches it off and hangs it over his shoulder. The
underclassmen moan their disapproval. “You’ll see them on Facebook later, god
damn.” Karkat shoulders his way past them and over to you and John.
 “Jesus,” Karkat says as way of greeting. He’s wearing the same backstage pass
as Kanaya and a red hoody. You rest your arm on his shoulder and pull him into
you. “You guys were great,” he says, nonchalant.
 “Karkat, my friend, the man with the cam,” you say. “We saw you snapping away
in the back and can I just say—”
 “What do you want, Dave?” His voice is thick and deep with sick and he
sniffles.
 John slips his arm over yours. The two of you begin to lead him out the back
door, towards his van. Realization dawns on him.
 “No, no, no, no! Absolutely not!” he yells and begins to twist out of your
hold. John let’s go first and you relinquish your grip.
 “Please,” John asks, drawing out the e. He bats his eyelashes.
 “Don’t beg, John,” you say.
 “Shut up,” John retorts. “Maybe he’ll—”
 “I’m not driving you to Fef’s party. No. Fuck no,” Karkat says. “I’m going
home to upload these photos and then I’m going to down a bottle of NyQuil and
sleep until noon tomorrow.”
 “I’ll pay for your gas next week,” you say. You probably won’t. Maybe.
 “Done,” he says. “Get in the back and don’t touch any of my equipment.” Karkat
pulls his keys from his jacket pocket, unlocking the doors. John slides his
keyboard in and climbs up. You follow.
 “I may have promised Terezi we’d pick her up,” you say. Karkat slams his hands
on the wheel.
 “No,” he says, and turns on the radio.
 “She may be waiting up front, all cold and shivery. What if she catches
something? What if she gets really sick and has to be hospitalized and then
who’s to blame? You. You’re to blame,” you say.
 “No!” He hisses, glaring with renewed vigor at his rearview mirror.
 “She’ll be comatose for years, oh, if only Karkat had –“
 “Fine! God dammit,” Karkat says and revvs the engine. He jerks out of the
parking spot and swerves around the corner to where Terezi’s standing. She’s
talking to Abbe, but waves goodbye when Karkat pulls up to the curb and slams
on the breaks, sending you flying forward. John raises his eyebrows and snaps
the seatbelt against his chest. You sneer and recover and slide open the door
to admit Terezi.
 “Hey,” she says, and settles in the back between you and John. She kisses your
cheek and licks across the seam of your lips. You smile against her skin, your
nose pressed to hers.
 “More of that later,” you say. John gags. Karkat speeds up.
 
                                       --
                                        
= = > Be Tavros
 Your name is Tavros Nitram and you’re making a sandwich.
 You’ve just slathered the rye bread with mayonnaise and slapped on some pickle
slices. You think your mom bought you tofu turkey, but you forgot to check and
navigating back to the fridge would be impossible in your position. Instead,
you add three pre-cut tomato slices and finish the whole thing up with a
crumble of feta cheese. Best sandwich ever.
 You cover the sandwich with a paper towel and place it on your lap. You roll
yourself backwards and out, speeding up so you can gather the momentum required
to clear the ramp leading to your room. In the years since your Accident, the
house has been upgraded to handicap accessible. Once inside, you slam the door
shut behind you, hoping your parents hear it all the way on the second floor.
They had decided last minute to no let you go to Feferi’s party. Lame. Ha.
 You place the sandwich on your desk and unfold the paper towel, taking a bite.
 Your room is square and white, but you’ve decorated a little since your family
moved from Connecticut four years ago, just so you could attend Southland. A
Dizzy Gillespie poster is taped above your bed and broken vinyl records from
the thrift store tile your walls. An eclectic stack of CDs are piled in the
corner: Modest Mouse, Bombay Bicycle Club, Pixes. Your guitar sits in its hard
case leaning against your hamper. You consider taking it out and jamming until
you feel tired enough to climb into bed and sleep, but you’re full of energy.
You aren’t sleeping anytime soon.
 The orange and blue curtains that cover the French doors in your room are
slightly parted. It isn’t until you move to pull them closed that you realize
your door is open, just a crack. A cold breeze forces its way inside and
brushes across your face. The door creaks when you push it out.
 A cement path leading from your room forks into two different lanes. One lane
takes you to the garage and the other precedes the backyard. You push yourself
forward and roll onto the path leading to your mother’s garden, backing up to
close the door behind you. The night is quiet, not even the crickets dare
chirp. A bird flutters overhead and you freeze, watching it hover above the
branches of a willow tree before settling. A fountain statue of a Rubenesque
woman pours gray water into pan of stone roses.
 The gazebo is empty. The fairy lights hanging from the gazebo’s rafters are
twinkling in the half-light of dusk and cast everything in a soft, burnt-orange
shadow. You’re not sure why you’re outside anymore. Your dad probably went
through your doors to access the backyard and forgot to close it when he came
back in. You turn yourself around.
 “Hey Tav.”
 If you could, you would have nearly jumped out of your chair. But you know
that voice with it’s gravely intone and lazy inflection.
 Gamzee is standing on the path in front of you, twirling his car keys with one
finger. He’s wearing a paint-stained T-shirt and an unlit joint is stuck behind
his ear. Judging by his slower speech and red eyes, you surmise that he’s high.
Nonetheless, he’s grinning.
 “Fuck, Gamzee,” you say, rolling up to him. “You scared me there.”
 “Sorry bro.” He smiles down at you. “Wanna ditch?” he asks.
 “And go where?”
 “The party. I know your ‘rents are keeping you under lock and key tonight.
Let’s screw those motherfuckers right in the ass.”
 You consider this carefully, but only for a moment. “Uh, okay.”
 “Fuckin’ sweet,” Gamzee says, and steps up behind you, rushing you out to the
curb through the side gate. His red jeep is parked a few houses down, hopefully
out of sight and earshot of your parents.
 “You cool to drive?” you ask. He’s capable, even while high. He’d driven the
two of you to the Catskills last April, completely stoned. It’d been a fun day.
 “You wanna try, man?” he says. You scoff.
 “Yeah, uh, right,” you say. He unlocks the car and opens the passenger side
door.
 “Don’t sweat it brother, you’ll get your license eventually. They make special
cars for that kind of shit. We’ll figure it out.”
 Gamzee lifts you out of your chair. Your arms automatically come up to wrap
around his shoulders, his wild hair tickling your skin. He places you in the
seat and folds up your chair, storing it in the backseat. You buckle up and
pull the door shut and Gamzee climbs in beside you, starting the car.
 You’ll be missing that sandwich soon, but fuck if this isn’t worth it.
 
                                       --
 
= = > Be Eridan
 Your name is Eridan Ampora and you are currently slamming it up on stage in
assfuck nowhere town, population: nonexistent.
 The spotlight is heavy on you, pinning you against the stage. A drop of sweat
runs down the nape of your neck and the gel in your blond hair is giving out,
strands falling out and dangling against your forehead. It’s been a long day, a
really fucking long drive up from Southland, but finally, you’re here and
you’re speaking:
 “I guess what you don’t expect is that sixteen will taste like pomegranate
seeds and you’ll spend Saturday nights in your room wonderin why no one seems
to notice or care that you’re miserable and you’re thinkin ‘I’m lonely please
love me please’ while you check your phone every three minutes for some kind of
sign from god or a satellite that someone in the world gives a damn about you—”
 Fourteen people tonight, sitting in ivory wooden chairs, sipping coffee from
recycled cups, checking Facebook on their smart phones. A group of three girls
are watching you with rapt attention, nodding along or cringing in supposed
understanding. They don’t know how you feel. Doctors can’t treat brain tumors
efficiently enough to prevent muscles from atrophying after months of idleness
because no one is born with the same brain. No one ‘understands’ you because
it’s not possible. Even you don’t know how they’re feeling, but you can imagine
it’s worshipful and phony.
 “—and I guess what you don’t expect for sixteen is that you could be so eager
to experience everythin and so desperate to die at the same time and I guess
what you don’t expect is that sixteen can feel like six and twelve and twenty-
five and eighty-seven some nights—”
 At the front of the stage, in a row of three chairs, Mariana, Jen, and Daniel
stare up at you with listless eyes, or out the window behind you, composing
sestinas and villanelles in the quiet of their head. They’ve heard you perform
this piece before. It’s nothing new to them. You feel powerful on stage, though
taller than them, even though you are naturally taller than almost everyone in
your school. You hunch, but not up here.
 Ms. Porrim, the coach of Sink/Swim and your mentor, is sitting in the far
corner, her notebook open and her pencil resting between her thumb and
forefinger. The surface of her lidless cup of coffee vibrates with every tap of
her toe against the table leg. She’s watching you, following your movements,
keen and sharp. You’re angry, this poem is about being angry and young and you
want to convey that to her and anyone else willing to listen.
 "—and sometimes you’ll jaywalk and hope you get hit by a car but you still
slammed on those brakes when the truck driver moved into your lane and I guess
what you don’t expect for sixteen is that your life will seem so tame and so
out of control at the same time and I guess that you feel this way because this
is not the world that you expected but you don’t know very much—”
 A man sits in the corner of the room nearest the restroom. You hadn’t noticed
him before, but he’s there, face half-submerged in shadows. The streetlamp
outside flickers on and illuminates him and you see he’s dressed in an
immaculate suit and has a cup, like the others, but it’s empty and coffee-
stained and he’s torn it apart and laid it flat. He’s drawn on it, swirling
pictures of faces and spotlights in bright green sharpie.
 The man’s head is tipped back and his eyes are closed. You think he’s
sleeping.
 “—and each day you spend learnin you feel like you know even less and so you
spend a lot of time readin and writin because you’re a physical person and
things don’t feel real until they’re tangible, which I guess is why you’re so
bad at feeling loved when you’re alone and why you want to shrink inwards like
a mornin glory at dawn every time someone touches you and why you fall in love
with every boy or girl who kisses your neck and tells you you’re beautiful and
why you’re still scared of thunderstorms even though you’re too old to be—”
 You wish your friends were here. You long for Feferi’s shining face, the
flashing red light of Karkat’s video camera in the back, Nepeta sipping chai
tea and smiling at you, encouraging and comforting. They couldn’t make it;
Feferi had informed you yesterday at school. She’s hosting a party tonight, in
honor of MONTAGE finally coming to a close after long weeks of late night
rehearsals. You get it. Sort of. No, actually you don’t. You can’t comprehend
why they couldn’t come and support you because this? This fucking stings. You’d
thought long and hard about which poem to perform and how to perform it.
 You feel alone on this stage, bereft and abandoned. Your words are empty and
you want to hide, you want to get out of the spotlight and lock yourself in a
restroom stall and run a blade across the chicken scratch of your thighs or
press your mother’s curling iron to your ribcage, because Feferi didn’t even
inviteyou. Her words ring in your head, an overlay of the words you’re
speaking: sorry, I can’t make it, I’m throwing a party with a couple of
friends, sorry again. And she knows she’s the only reason anyone else ever
comes to your stupid slam poetry performances.
 “—and I guess what you don’t expect is that sixteen could be so wonderful and
so horrible all at once.”
 You finish to the polite clapping of your team and Ms. Porrim. The three girls
snap their fingers. You roll your eyes and hop down from the stage. Mariana
stands and fixes her skirt. She steps up and starts her piece, spittle flying.
 You sit down across from Ms. Porrim and watch as the man in the corner rolls
his head forward and opens his eyes. You realize he’d been listening the entire
time, letting your words wash over him. He looks right at you and smiles.
   
                                       --
 
= = > Be Vriska
 Your name is Vriska Serket and you’re currently hooking up with John at
Feferi’s party in the Jacuzzi out back.
 It’s good. You’re straddling him, the water bubbling up between you. You’re
fumbling with his dick, palming it clumsily and he’s rubbing his hands up and
down your sides. Your hair is wet and plastered to his bare chest and
shoulders. You’re both in nothing but your underwear.
 His lips move hot and insistent against yours. You kiss and nip his smooth jaw
and Adam’s apple. He’s doing that thing where he presses his mouth to each of
the freckles on your shoulders. The little breathless moans he keeps making are
driving you crazy with want.
 It’s good, but it hurts because somewhere, in the back of your mind, you know
you’re going to regret this. You’re regressing again, crawling back to him.
Everyone’s bound to see you and get the wrong idea. It’s easy enough to clear
the air with a smile that’s too much teeth and a flippant remark about the size
of John’s penis, but each time you make excuses, people believe you a little
less.
 Irrelevant. This feels amazing! He surges up against you and shoves his face
into your neck, whimpering. You’re both buzzed, alcohol and lust coursing
through your veins. Everything around you is moving in slow motion, like
they’re trapped in honey. But then there’s John, who’s this focal point where
every part of you that’s touching him meets and speeds up and he tips his head
back, licks his lips, touches your hips and gazes up at you with a gentle,
affectionate expression. You squeeze him brutally tight and he comes and
clenches his eyes shut. Maybe it’s because he can’t bear to look at you.
 It’s good, it hurts, and it’s over too fast.
 You climb off of him and he stares at nothing, his tan skin flushed a cherry
red. You’re caught, frozen in place. Stuck.
 So you escape. You wink and haul yourself out of the hot tub, water sluicing
down your body. You grab your slightly damp blue jeans and Die Antwoord T-shirt
and dress quickly. Your feet are still wet, so you stuff your socks into your
Dr. Martens and clasp them in your right hand.
“Later, sailor,” you say, saluting him, and start towards Fef’s house. You need
to get out of here now. The pool is full of half-clothed party-goers, sipping
beer from red cups. Kegs are lined up against the backyard fence, probably
provided by Feferi’s college friends, who are crowded along the deck, legs
dangling over the sides and into the water. Tiki torches flame in tropical
planters and along the perimeter of the lawn. The sky is moody overhead,
threatening poor weather. Steam rises from the surface of the water and from
your too-hot skin. You can’t get John’s stupid orgasm face out of your head, so
you think about other things instead.
 You’ve got rehearsal for The Crucible on Sunday and your mom won’t be home
until tomorrow. She gets off work at eleven and then she’s going out for drinks
with Tommy. He’ll drop her off in the morning, hopefully in one piece. She’ll
stumble out of his car, one shirt sleeve hanging off her shoulder and her hair
a mess. She’ll wave goodbye to the exhaust pipe of his truck and smile
crookedly at your window. You’ll watch her limp her way through the front door
and listen to her put the kettle on the stove—
 Someone shoves past you as you’re about to step into the house and sends you
slamming into the sliding glass door. Sharp pain cuts through you. You recover
quickly and turn to find Terezi standing in front of you.
 “What the fuck!” you yell.
 She’s poised to flee. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes glisten and she is
looking right at you. People are starting to notice. You glance at their
curious faces, gaze flickering from hers.
 You’re reminded of that night. Screeching tires, metal crunching, Terezi’s
screaming. You shudder and goosebumps spread across your skin.
The moment ends when she turns to run again. You watch her recede into the
woods behind Feferi’s house and consider following, but you remember yourself
then and remember what you are to her, and shrug. The people around you relax
and life goes on.
Karkat, the little pissant, was watching you the entire time, his eyes hooded
by his furrowed brow. You glare daggers at him and he goes back to minding his
own business. As you’re walking away, you hear him mumble, “crazy imbecilic
bitch,” under his breath. You ignore him.
You can’t imagine why anyone would go into the woods at night alone, but you
don’t particularly care. Her boyfriend’s bound to be around here somewhere.
Speak of the devil. You spot Dave as you make your way to the front door. He’s
running down the stairs, but stops when he sees you.
“Have you seen Terezi?” he asks.
You point over your shoulder in the general direction of the backyard. He
thanks you and leaves. You don’t particularly care what he’s done, but you hope
he finds her and apologizes. The last thing you and your friends need is a war
in which everyone chooses sides and you’re all divided. When you and John broke
up…
Suffice to say, it blew.
You pull your socks and shoes on, watching Karkat as he brightens when he sees
Dave and you fight the urge to laugh. Dumb fucking kid.
You grab your coat from the closet on your right, house keys jingling in the
pocket, and leave. It’s a short walk to the bus stop— at most a mile— but it’s
enough time to clear your head and make up excuses for yourself to justify your
desperation.
                                        
                                      --
 
= = > Be Aradia
 Your name is Aradia Megido and you are currently purchasing a box of Trojan
condoms from a CVS.
 An older woman is in line behind you and you can feel her eyes boring holes
into the back of your head. You can tell that the young man the register is
trying not to laugh as you stare down at your hands, a blush spreading up your
neck.
 “Is that all?” he asks. You nod, think better of it, and grab a Snickers bar
from the display. They’re Sollux’s favorite. You pay with your debit card and
the cashier double bags the items for you.
 You hurry out as fast as your legs will carry you. Your car is parked at the
far end of the lot, hidden from view by someone’s massive truck. You unlock the
doors, climb in, and shove the key into the ignition and your car roars to
life, sputtering as the engine turns over. You put it in reverse and screech
out of the parking lot. Feferi would be laughing her head off at you if she
could see you now.
 Sollux’s residence is around the corner, so it’s a short, shame-faced ride.
You pull into the empty driveway of the Captor’s modest, three rooms, one-and-
a-half bath house and turn off the engine. Sollux is waiting at the window of
his living room, watching you walk up the cement path to the door, CVS bag in
hand and your purse slung over your shoulder. You smile at him, but he does not
smile back. He disappears from sight and unlocks the door for you. You turn the
knob.
“Hi,” you say, stepping inside. He’s not waiting for you in the entryway, but
the light in the kitchen is on and you can only assume.
Sollux is sitting at the granite island and his computer is, for once, off. His
back’s to you and he’s hunched over, hands resting on his knees.
“Sollux,” you say, approaching. You set your purse and the bag down on the
counter. He doesn’t acknowledge your presence.
“Sollux,” you repeat, resting your hand on his shoulder. He flinches from you,
shaking your hand off. “Talk to me,” you say. You come around to the other side
of him
“They’ve been gone for three hours, AA,” he says, eyes downcast. “Mom won’t
answer her phone and Dad’s is on his nightstand.”
“I’m sure they’re fine,” you soothe. You place your hand on his cheek. “They
just went out to dinner. They’re probably seeing a movie or something.”
“No,” he says, finally looking up at you, glasses askew. It looks as if he’s
been crying. “She always answers my calls.” He’s rubbing his hands up and down
his legs, a nervous tick.
“Can I—” you ask, reaching around him. He leans into you, letting your arms
hold him upright. He weighs nothing, like paper, a stark contrast to your
modest build. “Why don’t you wait a little and see what happens. We can try
calling her again in a half an hour.” 
Growing up, the two of you had been inseparable. Your mothers had known each
other in college and had remained friends since. Frequent play dates and
outings had bred familiarity. When you noticed that Sollux was different from
the other kids at school, more isolated, often angry, you hadn’t really
questioned it. It wasn’t until sixth grade that his paranoia really set in and
he’d had fits of depression and anxiety so severe he’d hurt himself
purposely—throw himself down a flight of stairs or disappear for hours,
sometimes days.
“Did you take your medication today?” you ask. You know he doesn’t take them
sometimes, hides them in the broken, exposed pipe underneath the sink in his
restroom. He hates the way they make him feel.
“Yeah,” Sollux says, nodding against your chest. He pushes you away and wipes
his hand across his face. “Yeah I took them.”
You sigh and stroke his hair and kiss the top of his head, then his cheek, his
lips. He doesn’t respond, but he watches you.
You thought tonight would be the night, but you guess not. He’s in no state for
anything remotely sexual and sometimes you think he doesn’t even know you’re
dating. Everyone else knows it, accept the one person who truly matters to you.
“I’m gonna go to the restroom,” you say. “We should watch Breaking Bad.” He
nods and gets up from the stool.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” You grab the Snickers bar from the plastic bag and hand
it to him. He brightens.
“Thanks,” he says, lisping his ‘s’.
You check the pipe in the restroom and find a week’s worth of pills, even the
ones he’d told you he’d taken today. You fish them out with your hand, a
sopping mess of orange and swirly white, and flush them down the toilet and sit
on the freezing, tiled floor with your head in your hands. You stand and splash
your face with cold water, fix your hair and smile at your reflection. You
could cry.
Sollux isn’t in the kitchen when you return to confront him. He’s not in the
living room either, or his room, or any of the rooms for that matter. You start
to panic and run back into the kitchen. His half-eaten Snickers bar rests on
the ground. The box of condoms has been removed from the bag and sits
forlornly, unopened on the countertop. There are dents in the cardboard,
vaguely finger-shaped.
The front door is open and a draft blows through the house straight to your
heart. You shudder.
 
                                      --
  
= = > Be Karkat                           
Your name is Karkat Vantas and you really hate parties like this.
The heavy scent of weed smoke and beer plays at your senses, aggravating your
already stuffed-up nose and you’ve been sneezing since you got here two hours
ago. You’re leaning against the wall closest the back door and you’re bored out
of your fucking mind.
Red cups are passed from hand to hand as people grind and twirl on a makeshift
dance floor in the center of Feferi’s living room. The house itself is
sprawling with, what you estimate, a billion fucking rooms. From the backyard
you hear people splashing about in the pool, shouting and cheering one another
on like it’s a game of who can fuck up the most in one night. You can
practically hear the bad decisions as they’re being made. A glass shatters.
Someone giggles.
Sollux has been texting you for the past few hours, the content varying between
insults and fretting over his parents absence during their old people’s date
night. You have plans to spend Saturday night with him, playing Go! in his
living room and catching up on Game of Thrones.
Kanaya and Rose are macking on a couch in the sitting room. Actually, many
couples are hooking up in rather public places. You want to throttle them. The
heady scent of hormones and poor choices are making you feel, if possible,
sicker.
You could leave. No, that’s a fucking lie. You can’t leave. You’re trapped
here, bound to an evening of distasteful teenager copulation and the stench of
vomit, at least until Dave and Company are ready to go. Feferi confiscated
everyone’s keys the moment you walked inside. It’s a precaution you all accept
and accede to because of last year’s traumatic event that none of you talk
about. Ever. She subjects drivers to a breathalyzer, and, if she deems you too
inebriated to drive, she’ll lock you up in a room for the night.
Her mom is gone for the weekend, as far as you know. You could care less,
really. It’s her head on the chopping block if anything happens anyway.
You spot Dave’s dazzling blond hair approaching you from across the room. He is
a beacon of light, a glimpse of hope in the otherwise tumultuous sea of
writhing bodies. You know you look like an unattractive asspimple right now,
but you push yourself off the wall, try and look a little less drab and a
little more dapper anyway.
Dave doesn’t notice.
“Have you seen Terezi?” he asks. He looks harried and his speech is slurred.
You can smell the sticky-sour scent of rum on him.
“She just ran out back,” you say. It’s true. She’d run past you a few minutes
ago, colliding with Vriska on her way out. Vriska, bless her heart, had been
bitchy and awful about the whole confrontation.
He sags, his shoulders dropping as if he’s bearing a heavy weight. The
aviators, normally cemented to the bridge of his nose, slip down. You can see
his eyelashes and you’ve always wondered what they’d feel like brushing against
your cheeks.
“Why? What’s going on?” you ask.
The façade returns. He stands straight again and smirks and it’s astonishing
how good he is at the whole putting-himself-back-together thing. You want to
help him, whatever it is. You’ll do anything.
“Nothing, Karkat, don’t worry about it, man,” Dave says. He puts his hands in
his pockets. “Go home. Get some sleep. Sorry for dragging you along.”
“I’m your ride,” you say. So, yeah, you wish you were home, but you don’t just
want to abandon your friends, least of all Dave.
“I’ll find someone else to take me,” he says.
“But—"
"Seriously.” His hand comes up to squeeze your shoulder. “Don’t sweat it,” he
says and swaggers out the backdoor, eyes searching the crowd.
 You are invariably worried about him.
 And you’re definitely not taking off. Not a chance. You huff and consider
following him, but decide instead to find a room to lie down in. A curved
staircase takes you to a hall of closed doors. The first few you try and either
locked or contain copulating couples. You want to barf. At the end of the hall,
you find an empty, dark room with a single bed and generic furniture. The door
doesn’t have a lock, so you prop the desk chair underneath it. You set an alarm
on your phone for twelve and hope that a good couple hours of sleep will take
the edge off of your flu and fatigue. You know that the party will probably end
well into the wee hours of the morning. You climb on top of the cool sheets
fully clothed and try to ignore the sound of the music from beneath you.
 Fucking Striders.
   
                                      --
 
= = > Be Equius
Your name is Equius Zahak and you’ve just returned home from a bittersweet
contemporary warm-up class.
It was bittersweet because your favorite ballet instructor, Mr. Hans, is
retiring. He had made the announcement of his retirement prior to the end of
term. You’d known him since freshman year and he’d taught you so much, but you
understand why he’s leaving—his body’s getting older and the most he can do now
is offer you these final, simple classes. You’ll take what you can get.
The class itself was mainly populated by the younger members of the corps de
ballet, hoping to get back into shape before auditions and rehearsals begin for
Swan Lake. Thanksgiving break ended a week ago and the whole conservatory’s
quality has lessened. Family meals and inactivity— you’d fallen victim to these
simple pleasures too, so you believe you need the ease of contemporary class,
if only to improve your chances during auditions.
It was better than you dared hope, but you still found yourself sweating like a
pig. You’re scheduled for a pas de deux on Monday with the new instructor, who
you’ve never met. Mr. Hans had pulled you aside and confided in you that, while
she was a lovely dancer, she was a little sloppy. He promised to email your
entire conservatory before midnight.
You and your Dad's heated loft is a great big welcome home and it eases your
frazzled, nervous feeling concerning your new dance teacher. You can hear him
clattering about in the kitchen and the smell of Kushari makes your mouth
water. It’d been a cold trip home on the train, your sweat pants and tights
doing nothing to protect you from the chill. Luckily, a friend leant you their
Southland sweater. Your hair is pulled back and neatly tied.
Upon entering, you knock over the vase of tulips your dad got his boyfriend for
their anniversary with your dance bag. It falls to the floor and shatters,
glass shards and water exploding outwards. Oops.
 “Good evening, Equius,” your father says, his thick, Arabic accent booming out
of the kitchen. Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture is permanently on repeat in your
head and the muscles in your legs twitch from exertion.
 Your dad appears from the kitchen, carrying a dust pan and broom.
 “Father,” you greet.
 “Go and prepare for dinner. I will clean up this mess,” he says.
You nod and take your bag to your room and drop it on your desk chair. You
slide the mouse of your computer across the pad and the screen lights up.
Nepeta’s been pestering you.
 
-- arsenicCatnip (AC) began trolling centaursTesticle (CT) ! --
 AC: :33 hey eq i was wondering if i could photograph you on monday during
conservatory
AC: :33 fur figure painting of course hehe
CT: D- -> Hi
CT: D- -> That would be fine
CT: D - -> I will have a new dance teacher then
CT: D - -> I am uneasy as to their level of skill, but perhaps I do not need to
be
AC: :33 < pawsome! are you going to fef’s party tonight
CT: D - - > I don’t believe so, too tired
AC: :33 < aww get some rest then
CT: D - - > Will you be in attendance?
AC: :33 < hardly my ''''scene''''
AC: :33 < id much rather be at home on tumblr
CT: D - - > I understand
CT: D - - > Have fun, I suppose
CT: D - - > Goodnight
AC: :33 < nighty night
        -- centaursTesticle (CT) ceased pestering arenicCatnip (AC) ! --
You log off. You walk on leaden legs to your bed, but as you're about to
collapse on it, your computer pings. You have a new email. You drag yourself
back to the screen and open it.
 *
 From: zachary.hans@saa.org
 Sent: Friday, January 09, 9:37 PM
 To: equiuszahak@smail.com
 Subject: NEW BALLET INSTRUCTOR
 --
 Hi all! I’ve just met with your new conservatory teacher, Ms. Damara Megido.
She’ll see you all in room 102 on Monday for conservatory hours. You can view
her staff profile here.                                                
                                                             I will sorely miss
all of you. Good luck!                                                        
                          
                                                                              
                  Mr. Hans
 *
 You spend the next few minutes scanning her profile, until your dad retrieves
you from your room for dinner.
 
  
                                       --
  
= = > Be Terezi
 Your name is Terezi Pyrope and you’re running far, far away.
 Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuck! Why did you even say anything, what the
fuck is wrong with you?
Oh god. He’s right, though, isn’t he? He’s so fucking right.
Your head is spinning. You’re past the point of inebriation and you’re
stumbling along a beaten path surrounded by thick foliage that keeps tripping
you up. You’re floating in the nebulous space of your mother’s supposed
Nothingness and daddy’s God Within. Where is He? You keep searching, but you
can’t find Him. He’s not there. He’s never been there for you.
 Your foot catches on a tree root and sends you sprawling. You lie in the dirt
for a moment, breathing deeply. Then you turn over and stare up at the clouds.
It’s begun to snow. You close your eyes.
 Fuck.
 
                                      --
                                        
  = = > Be Nepeta
Your name is Nepeta Leijon and you’ve just reached six hundred followers on
Tumblr.
 Last night, you uploaded the sixteenth page of Something Wicked, your action/
adventure webcomic that’s amassed a modest fanbase. It loosely draws its roots
from the happenings and shenanigans at Southland, with a few major alterations
to ensure the anonymity of your friends.
 Your readers follow the misadventures of sophomore student Nip and her best
friend, Ike, as they battle demonic English teachers from Hell, pretentious
classmates, and the devious, ever-present entity known as the Principle. You’d
be lying if you said Nip didn’t embody your struggles at Southland, minus the
epic fight scenes and romantic entanglements, especially with Eq— Ike! You mean
Ike!
 Sigh.
 
                                      --
  
= = > Be Dave
 Your name is Dave and you are a complete fuck up.
You don’t look for Terezi because John messages you. He’d been with Vriska in
the hot tub when he saw Terezi run out into the woods. Being the gentleman he
is, John went after her. He’d found her in clearing a few hundred feet in,
lying on the ground.
 EB: she says she doesn't want to talk.
TG: tell her i am sorry
EB: she won't answer me.
TG: what do i need to do?
TG: what does she need???
EB: she keeps shaking her head.
EB: and saying fuck fuck fuck.
EB: i think i should take her home.
TG: johhnnn
EB: dude she's really upset and it's cold as balls out here.
EB: how much did you two have to drink anyway?
TG: shots of jaeger a few beers we have been here since seven what the fuck do
you think egbert?
EB: i'm just gonna call a cab.
TG: you got fare?
EB: dad gave me some money this morning.
TG: ok
TG: i'm sorry
EB: she says it's okay.
TG: but she doesn't want to see me?
EB: :(
-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist[EB] at 24:43 --
And then you remember:
-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist  [EB]  at 24:44
 TG: her bag is with karkat
TG: so is your keyboard
EB: is karkat still here?
TG: his van is out front
EB: ask him to bring it by tomorrow?
TG: i guess
           -- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist[EB] at 24:46
--
It’s too dichotomous for words. You’re torn in two and you’re not sure what’s
going to happen next. Your mind is clouded as you stagger through the party,
searching for Karkat. You’re not sure if you want him to take you home or cry
on his shoulder. Gamzee waves at you from the den, an unlit joint hanging from
his lips and you nod back. He takes a hit, faces Tavros, and blows smoke into
Tavros’ parted mouth. You think you see the top of John’s head at some point,
towering over the crowd, so you veer around the corner to the stairs and
stumble up, ducking your head to keep out of sight.
 Reacting the way you did, you can understand why Terezi would take off. Even
now you can barely wrap your head around what she’s told you. Your mind
struggles with it, grasping it, but it eludes you, slipping away like tendrils
of smoke. You know it’s bad, it’s awful, horrible, a down right shame. Like a
storm cloud, it shadows everything and you can’t think straight. You keep
seeing her face though, her open, trusting expression, and then, the betrayal,
the fear, the anger…
 You reach the landing and stumble blindly into a room at the end of the hall.
It’s not locked, but something’s blocking it. You shove and it opens a little
wider. You use your shoulder, throwing your body into the door. Something
creaks on the other side. You shove and keep shoving until—
  
                                      --
 = = > Be Jade
 Your name is Jade Harley and you have the best boyfriend in the whole world.
 You’re lying in his bed, naked. Clothes are strewn around the room. Your pink
bra hangs off of the sword display above his dresser. Warmth spreads outward
from your stomach, pleasantly heating your whole body from the inside out.
You’re sweating, you’re sated, your hair’s mess. You smile up at the ceiling.
In the bathroom connected to Dives’ room, the slow sound of the trickle of the
shower washes over you. Light spills out from underneath the door.
Your phone vibrates in your discarded pants’ pocket. Right now, you could just
roll over and sleep, but you promised your grandpa you’d be home before
midnight. It’s a quarter past eleven and he’d said he’d text to remind you.
  Rising, you begin collecting your clothes and dressing. Grandpa’s message
simply reads, “Half hour.” You get the memo. Dives still hasn’t come out of the
bathroom, but the shower’s stopped. You enter without knocking and find him
standing at the sink in a towel, shaving his three-day-old stubble off. You
come up behind him and wrap your arms around his middle. The bathroom is lit
only by a dim, overhead lamp. His glasses are off and he meets your gaze in the
mirror and smiles gently.
 “Hello,” he says.
 “Hi,” you reply shyly, stroking his chest and flat stomach. His hair is damp
and flat and you kiss the fringe at the back of his neck.
 “You need to leave?”
 “Yeah.”
 Dives is Dave’s older brother by a year, the middle child of the three Strider
boys. You’d met at Gala last March, a couple weeks after the conception of The
BetaKids. It’d happened gradually, your relationship with him, and it’s been
the best three months of your life.
“Wanna take the bike?” he asks.
"My bass—”
 "Will be fine. It’s in Bro’s car.”
You smile into his shoulder. “Okay.”
While he dresses, you wait in the kitchen. A stack of shiny brochures partially
hidden by a box of Pop-Tarts on the dining room table catches your eye and you
can’t help but to snoop. The brochures advertise colleges, the pages filled
with shiny pictures of clean, green campuses and cozy libraries. USC, Berkeley,
Whitman, all schools on the west coast. Your heart drops.
 “Ready?” Dives asks, appearing from the hallway. You shove the brochures back
into a stack and fold your hands over your lap. Dives' glasses are back on, but
you see his eyebrow arch.
“Mhm.” Dives hands you the extra motorcycle helmet he bought two weeks after
you started dating, when you discovered that being on the bike with him is
exhilarating.
 He drives you home and you cling to his middle, wind tossing your hair every
which way. You try not to think about the college brochures.
  
                                      --
 
 = = > Be Sollux 
 Your name is Sollux Captor.
  The water is grey, grey, grey and the tide washes in and out like a
metronome. It’s snowing, but the earth is still too warm after an Indian summer
and it doesn’t stick. The sand is soft and cold beneath your bare feet, like
the pinpricks of a numb limb. Dark clouds overhead prevent even the barest hint
of moonlight.
  You stare out at the horizon, lit by the radiance of a midnight sun and
towering oil rigs, standing unwavering, dotting the water like shimmering
islands. Steadily, you walk forward, getting closer and closer to the water,
until you feel the first lick of frigidity. You’re standing right at the edge,
right where the shore ends and the sea begins. Your thoughts are like
sailboats, splitting apart and drifting away with the rush of the ocean.
 And your thoughts are a rush, one long running commentary on how she was in
and you were out, running away, away again without any idea of where you were
going, but somehow you’ve ended up here, heart pounding, sweating, so so
nervous. You squat and wash your hands in the cold water, scrubbing at the skin
between your fingers and on your knuckles. You feel used, shamed, dumb.
Ceremonially, you clean the cuticles of your nails. The tide goes out, returns.
You splash the frozen water all over your dirty face and plunge your hands back
in again. You are trying not to think about Aradia and how she wants something
from you that you’re too afraid to give her, could never give her. You feel
obligated because she’s been there for you always, but you’re terrified,
running scared.
 You don’t want to think about having sex with her, about having sex with
anyone or letting anyone see you naked or touching them and hurting them or
letting them hurt you. You don’t want to think, period. Just want to feel your
skin go numb.
  
                                      --
  = = > Be Karkat
 Your name is Karkat and something that is definitely not your alarm wakes you
up. Blearily, you lift your head and watch as Dave pushes his way inside,
crushing the chair. He keeps shoving it, splintering the wood. You scramble out
of bed and rush over to him.
 “Dave!”
 He doesn’t notice you, not really, just collapses in the doorway. You huff in
exasperation and bend to help him inside the room. With your foot, you shut the
door behind the two of you, stepping over the ruined chair. You lay him on the
bed, face up. His shades have slipped down his face completely and hang
underneath his chin. Gently, you pry them off and fold them up. You place them
on the bedside table next to your phone. You silence the alarm before it has
the chance to go off. He groans and turns over and you pull his shoes off of
him. He mumbles something into the mattress.
  “What?”
  Dave rolls over and faces you.
  “I’m such a fucking idiot.” He sounds sad and bitter.
  “What happened?” You sit on the bed next to him. At Dave's silence, you add,
"You don't have to tell me."
  “No, no no I-- Terezi told me— she’s been,” he tries and throws a hand over
his face in frustration. “She’s been lying to everyone.”
 "Oh” you say.
 You and Terezi have been at odds for years because, well, you’ve been crushing
on Dave since you’d been partnered with him in Biology, freshman year, for a
project on mitochondria. He’d been this quiet guy in the back, always wearing
those douchey shades and when conservatory classes started, carried his guitar
or his god damn electric violin with him everywhere and smiled at you when he
saw you at his shows and that was that, the line between ‘crushing’ and
‘devastating’ blurring into a single meaning. It’s been you, him, and John ever
since and you’re so lucky to know them. Bonfires, study sessions, midnight
movie premiers, road trips, jumping from the bridge into the Southland Bay on
summer days, Christmas parties; before Dave and John, you hadn’t been sure
you’d get this—friends, parties, the whole shebang.
 You think Terezi knows, but she’s never said anything about it to you. You
wish you could like her because she lives like a fucking house on fire and has
the most raucous laugh and tells the best jokes. She’s amazingly talented and
everyone worships her and she is just so fucking humble and genuine. After
Tavros’ accident, the worship died down and people stopped talking to her. You
don’t just paralyze a friend from the waist down and remain blameless.
 If you were a different person and not Karkat Vantas, perhaps you could like
her, but you like –maybe love— Dave and she has him and you don’t. It sucks;
everyday it sucks and it’s painful to watch them together. It’d been painful to
watch Terezi and Dave dance around each other for months, and then you’d
stumbled across them kissing backstage nine months ago, while Nick’s band,
Die&Dine, played The Smashing Pumpkin’s 1979 onstage.
You’re not a selfish person. Maybe if you were, you’d have a chance with him.
He’s never even looked your way though, is probably not even gay. Maybe if you
were specialhe would love you, love you the way he loves Terezi. He doesn’t owe
you anything and he doesn’t know he’s hurting you, but you’re bitter and
jealous and it’s an old wound that never closes properly and is constantly
being opened anew; it aches.
 “Oh,” you repeat and you don’t ask any more questions, just reach out and
touch his arm because he’s shaking, trembling all over. It must be bad if he’s
reacting like this. A part of you soars at the thought of their impending break
up. You tamp it down, extinguish the flare of hope that surges through you.
You’re a huge piece of shit.
  “She left with John,” he says, and then, “I don’t know what to do.”
 “I’m sorry.”
 You lay down next to him and he turns to face you. You can smell the sour
stench of alcohol on him, his sour breath puffing against your face. It’s not
at all pleasant, but you’ll take what you can get.
 You stare at each other in the dark, until Dave puts a hand on your waist and
pulls you into him, presses right up against you from thigh to forehead. You
don’t know what to do, just freeze up and stare, wide-eyed. Your breaths come
shorter and shorter. Dave kisses you then, presses his lips against yours,
insistent and needy. You stay stock-still, and then you realize what is
happening, revel—only for a moment— in the warm, wet line of his mouth, and you
draw in a breath through your nose, grasp his hair and yank him back. He goes
without a struggle. The rabbit-quick thumping of the bass on the floor below
you matches the beating of your heart. Dave looks at you, looks and looks and
looks.
 He turns over eventually and lies motionless. You listen to the sound of his
breathing even out. The taste of him is on your lips and you can’t stop wetting
them just to try and remember what it had felt like because you’re probably
never going to get that again.
 Dave tasted of everything you would ever need.
You must fall asleep at some point.
  
                                      --
  
 = = > Be John
  Your name is John Egbert and you’re sitting in the back of a cab.
 Terezi’s in the passenger seat, sleeping with her head resting against the
door and her breath fogging the window. She’d been silent the whole ride home
and hadn’t even looked at you when you helped her out of the forest. Trails of
mascara stain her cheeks from when she’d been silently crying. There’s a
crumpled tissue clutched in her fingers. You just want to make sure she gets
home safe.
  The cab driver was polite enough to not ask questions, simply asked for the
address and started driving. You watch the numbers on the dashboard steadily
increase and worry about the amount of money in your pocket covering the cost
of this ride. You stare out the window, watching storefronts and streetlamps
pass by.
  You’re not entirely sure what to make of the situation between Terezi and
Dave because you honestly have no idea what’s happened. All you know is that
they were both drunk and said awful, hurtful things to each other. It’s
happened before, of course, especially after what happened in June last year
when they were fighting all the time and you’d thought that surely they
wouldn’t last, but they did. No couple is perfect, least of all Dave and
Terezi.
  And you’ve always liked her. She’s great, she’s fun, she didn’t become some
crazy, possessive girlfriend and try to steal all of Dave’s time. The rare
occurrences when you’d hung out alone together had been perfectly not-awkward
and that’s all you can really ask for. When you’d been dating Vriska, she did
avoid you, and Dave told you Terezi didn’t trust her, that Vriska and her had
been involved in the accident together and had been friends before, but didn’t
come out the same after.
 It’s like all of your friends have divided themselves along this idea of
‘Before&After’, see things from Before as so much worse than they are now, in
the After, when everyone got a little smarter and more independent and less
self-destructive. You don’t know why they do that because everything from
before seems better, back when you and Vriska had promised each other always.
Everything after the accident and your subsequent breakup is sort of a jumble
of one night stands and failing math grades.
 “Stop the car!” Terezi yells suddenly, startling you out of your reverie. The
cab comes to a screeching halt and you lift your head. Terezi unclips her
seatbelt flings the door open and rushes out. She slides on the slightly frozen
street, but regains her footing. You follow her.
  “What?” you yell, “Terezi! What?” She’s stopped a couple feet in front of
you, crouched down next to a pile of blackened snow.
  “Someone,” she pants, “in the snow.”
 You come up behind her and realize that the pile of blackened, mushy snow is
in fact a ‘someone’ who is lying face down in a gutter outside of a Rite-Aid,
one block from the beach. 
  You reach out and roll him over and are met with the wet haired, blue-lipped
face of Sollux Captor. He lies motionless in the snow, glasses misplaced and
barely breathing.
 Terezi looks up at you.
 
 End of Track 1
End Notes
     I have a tumblr here
     the poem Eridan recites is sixteen by my friend Paige (with her
     permission i swear)
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
