Chapter 20: Domestic Bliss
Sunlight, sharp and intrusive, sliced through a gap in the blinds, hitting Dave square in the eyes. He groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow that smelled overwhelmingly of Karkat – cheap soap, sleep, and the lingering ghost of sex. The deep ache in his muscles was a familiar, almost comforting, souvenir from last night. From the moment he’d laughed, raw and disbelieving, and spoken those impossible words into Karkat’s skin.
I’m so fucking gay.
He hadn’t taken them back. Karkat hadn’t let him. They’d just… stayed. Tangled. Silent. Until exhaustion won.
Now, unfamiliar sounds drifted from beyond the bedroom door. A rhythmic sizzle. The clatter of a spatula. A low, off-key hum. Dave cracked his eyes open. Karkat’s side of the bed was empty, the sheets thrown back. The scent wasn’t just on the pillow; it permeated the room, mixed now with something else. Something sweet. Burnt sugar?
Dave pushed himself up, wincing as muscles protested. He spotted his shades on the floor, lenses cracked. He must have knocked them off in the… fervor. Squinting against the light, he shuffled towards the door, the cool floorboards rough under his bare feet. He snagged one of Karkat’s discarded hoodies from a chair – oversized, smelling like laundry detergent and Karkat’s particular musk – and pulled it on. It dwarfed him.
The scene in Karkat’s chaotic kitchenette stopped him in the doorway. Karkat stood at the stove, his back to Dave. He wore only threadbare grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, the muscles of his back and shoulders shifting fluidly beneath smooth, tan skin as he flipped something in a pan. Sunlight caught the messy black spikes of his hair, turning them almost halo-like. The humming was definitely coming from him, a tuneless, contented drone. The air was thick with the smell of cooking oil, vanilla, and that rich, caramel sweetness – pancakes. A stack already sat on a plate nearby, pale gold and steaming. Beside it, a bottle of maple syrup.
Dave leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over the borrowed hoodie. He watched the flex of Karkat’s biceps, the confident flick of the spatula. It was so… ordinary. So domestic. And after last night… the cuffs, the claiming, the shower, the bone-deep tenderness… it felt jarring. Surreal. His stomach growled loudly.
Karkat froze mid-flip. He didn't turn around. "About time, Sleeping Beauty," he grumbled, but the usual bite was softened by the lingering hum in his voice. He slid the last pancake onto the stack. "Figured you'd need refueling after…" He finally glanced over his shoulder, warm brown eyes catching Dave’s. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. "...everything."
Dave felt heat crawl up his neck. He pushed off the doorframe, trying for nonchalance. "Smells… good" He gestured vaguely at the stove.
Karkat turned fully now, wiping his hands on a dish towel slung over his shoulder. His gaze raked over Dave – the oversized hoodie, the sleep-tousled blonde hair, the faint marks visible on his neck even in the morning light. A possessive gleam flickered in his eyes. He nudged the plate towards Dave. "Extra syrup. No walnuts. Like you whine about whenever we get the shitty brunch place ones."
Dave stared at the perfect stack. He hadn’t even realized Karkat knew that detail. Or remembered it. He cleared his throat. "Uh. Thanks." He stepped closer, drawn by the smell. As he reached for the plate, Karkat’s hand shot out, not grabbing, but landing firmly on Dave’s hip, pulling him those last few inches into his space.
"Morning" Karkat murmured, his voice dropping. The kitchen suddenly felt much smaller.
The kitchen suddenly felt much smaller. Karkat’s hand burned on Dave’s hip through the thin hoodie fabric, his proximity overwhelming. That low hum Karkat sometimes made vibrated in the confined space, familiar now, constant since Dave’s admission last night. Dave’s breath hitched, caught off guard despite everything.
"Morning," Dave mumbled back, the word thick. He couldn’t quite meet Karkat’s eyes, focusing instead on the faint scar above Karkat’s collarbone. The spatula lay forgotten on the counter. Syrup slowly crawled down the side of the pancake stack.
Karkat didn’t say anything else. He just leaned in, deliberate and slow, giving Dave every chance to pull away. Dave didn’t move. Karkat’s lips were warm, dry, tasting faintly of coffee and maple. It wasn’t demanding, not like last night. It was… soft. A press, a quiet claiming. Good morning.
Dave’s hands, hanging uselessly at his sides, twitched. He felt the solid heat of Karkat’s chest against him, the steady rhythm of his breathing. It was shockingly ordinary after the intensity before. Karkat pulled back just enough, his thumb rubbing a small circle on Dave’s hipbone. "Food’s getting cold, shitbird." His voice was rough, fond.
"Yeah," Dave managed, his own voice sounding weird. Karkat finally released his hip, turning back to the stove to pour more batter. Dave grabbed the plate of pancakes, the ceramic warm against his palms. He snagged the syrup bottle too. "Couch?" The question felt absurdly normal.
"Where else?" Karkat grunted, flipping the pancake without looking. "Go sit down before you pass out from standing still too long. You look like a confused pigeon." Dave flipped him off over his shoulder as he shuffled towards the living room, the cracked lenses of his shades winking accusingly at him from the floor near the bedroom door.
The couch was its usual landscape of discarded controllers, a crumpled hoodie, and a half-finished graphic novel. Dave shoved things aside with his foot, clearing a space. He sank down, the worn cushions sighing under him. He set the plate and syrup on the low coffee table, pulling his knees up. Sunlight streamed through the window, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air thick with the smell of batter and Karkat’s tangled life.
Karkat appeared moments later, holding two steaming mugs. He set one black coffee down near Dave, then squeezed onto the couch beside him. Not just beside. Close. His thigh pressed along Dave’s, radiating warmth. He picked up the syrup bottle, drenching his own stack unceremoniously. Dave watched the amber river flow.
"Gonna stare all day or actually eat?" Karkat asked around a mouthful of pancake. He nudged Dave’s plate closer with his elbow. Dave picked up his fork. The first bite was perfect, fluffy and sweet. Comforting.
Karkat shifted, his arm draping heavily over Dave’s shoulders, pulling him sideways. Dave stiffened for a heartbeat, syrup sticky on his lip. Then he relaxed, letting his weight lean into Karkat’s solid side. It was an easy fit. Karkat’s thumb brushed the nape of his neck, just under the hoodie’s edge. Possessive. Calm.
Dave chewed slowly, staring at the cracked sunglasses on the coffee table. He thought about the last few months. Waking up tangled in Karkat’s sheets. The quiet shuffles in the kitchen. The inevitable pull towards the couch, plates balanced precariously. Karkat’s arm always ended up around him, like gravity. Dave always ended up leaning in.
He used to bolt. Make excuses about gigs, or errands, or just needing space. But over time, they'd done this... a lot.
Karkat took a noisy sip of coffee, the sound warm and domestic. His fingers idly traced patterns on Dave’s shoulder. Dave watched the sunlight catch the edge of Karkat’s jaw. He didn’t feel trapped. He felt… settled. Anchored in the warm chaos of Karkat Vantas’s life. It was terrifyingly simple.
"Can I…" Dave started, then stopped, clearing his throat. He stared hard at his half-eaten pancakes. "Can I stay? Like. Today. Just… hang?" The question hung in the syrup-scented air. Karkat’s hand stilled on his shoulder.
Karkat turned his head. Dave could feel the weight of his gaze. He finally risked a glance up. Karkat’s warm brown eyes held no mockery, just a quiet intensity that made Dave’s stomach flip. A slow, genuine smile spread across Karkat’s face, softer than any Dave had seen before.
"Yeah," Karkat said, his voice low. Simple. Certain. His thumb started moving again on Dave’s shoulder. "Course." He nudged Dave’s untouched coffee cup towards him. "Drink that before it’s cold, dumbass."
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Later, standing at Karkat’s chipped bathroom sink, Dave automatically reached for the green toothbrush leaning precariously in the holder. It wasn’t his. His own cheap, blue one was probably fossilizing back at his own apartment. He stared at the green bristles, then into the mirror. Karkat’s reflection appeared behind him, squeezing toothpaste onto his own brush – the red one.
"Move your bony ass, Strider," Karkat grumbled, nudging Dave aside without looking up. He started brushing vigorously, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth. He spat, rinsed, then caught Dave’s frozen stare in the mirror. "What? Forgotten how brushing works? Dementia setting in already?"
"You," Dave started, gesturing vaguely with the green brush, "this is yours." It felt stupidly obvious.
Karkat snorted, wiping his mouth. "Yeah? And? You've been using it for weeks. Figured you liked the flavor." He leaned past Dave to grab the floss. "Saves you trekking next door every time your fangs get fuzzy." He said it like it was the most mundane observation, like noting the sky was grey. Dave looked back at the brush in his hand. Weeks. He’d been using Karkat’s toothbrush for weeks without even registering it. A tiny, intimate invasion he’d accepted without question. He put it in his mouth. Mint exploded, familiar.
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Digging through Karkat’s chaotic bedroom drawer for a clean t-shirt that wouldn’t swallow him whole, Dave shoved aside faded band tees and mismatched socks. His fingers brushed familiar, softer cotton. He pulled out a worn black tee, screen-printed with a pixelated sword. His tee. Hadn't seen it in weeks. He kept digging. Another of his shirts. Then a pair of his own boxers, folded haphazardly beneath Karkat’s.
"Looking for something specific?" Karkat leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Dave root through his drawer. He was already dressed, smelling faintly of soap and that cheap laundry detergent Dave hated but Karkat swore by. "Or just enjoying the archaeological dig into my sock abyss?"
Dave held up his own shirt. "This is mine." It wasn't a question.
Karkat shrugged, pushing off the frame. "Yeah. Kept showing up. Laundry pile merger. Happens." He walked over, plucked a plain black tee from the drawer – one Dave knew was definitely Karkat's, slightly too big – and tossed it at him. "Wear this one. Less holes." He turned to leave, then paused, grinning. "Plus I like seeing you wear my things". Dave pulled the tee over his head; Karkat’s faded band logo draped loosely over his frame, smelling stubbornly of that cheap detergent. He flexed his shoulders, the fabric settling against his skin like a second layer of belonging.
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Wednesday afternoon found Dave absently drumming his fingers on a library table, the dense text on sound engineering theory blurring before his eyes. His phone buzzed against the laminate surface – 4:05 PM. Without conscious thought, he packed his notebook and headphones. He was halfway across campus, dodging bike racks and chatter, when the realization hit: Karkat’s shift ends at four. He reached the campus coffee cart precisely as Karkat’s beat-up sedan pulled curbside, window already rolling down. "Get in, loser," Karkat called, leaning over to shove the passenger door open. "We’re buying groceries before the discount meat sells out again." Dave slid into the worn seat, the scent of old coffee grounds and Karkat’s citrus body wash instantly enveloping him. The engine coughed to life. "How'd you know where I was?" Dave asked, buckling his seatbelt. Karkat just shot him a sidelong look, warm eyes crinkling. "You always finish your 'Intro to Pretentious Wankery' lecture at 4 on Wednesdays." He tapped the dashboard clock. "Right on schedule, Dave." Dave stared out the window, the city blocks sliding by. Karkat knew his timetable better than he did.
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Friday night’s basement gig thumped with heavy bass, sticky bodies pressing in. Dave navigated the crowd towards Jade and John near the makeshift bar, sweat already pricking his neck. Jade spun around, her bright eyes scanning behind him. "Hey Dave! Where's Karkat?" she yelled over the synth line. John leaned in, wiping condensation from his glasses. "Yeah, thought he’d be glued to your side, critiquing the DJ's track selection like usual." Dave shrugged, the motion feeling stiff. "Dunno. Said something about a late inventory thing?" Jade exchanged a knowing glance with John. "Aw, bummer! Tell him we missed his grumpy commentary on the bass drops," she laughed, already turning back towards the dance floor. "He owes me a rematch on that zombie shooter game, too!" John added before following her. Dave stood rooted for a second, the pulsing lights strobing. People didn't just ask him where he was. They asked him where Karkat was. Like he was the keeper of the Karkat Vantas GPS feed. He took a long pull from his water bottle, the cold liquid doing nothing for the unexpected warmth blooming under his ribs.
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Rain lashed against Karkat’s apartment windows Monday evening, a rhythmic drumming that mirrored Dave’s fingers tapping on his laptop keyboard. Karkat sprawled on the couch, controller in hand, brows furrowed at some pixelated carnage on-screen. Dave glanced up from his mix, the deadline looming. "Shit. Forgot my external drive again." He sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Karkat paused the game without taking his eyes off the frozen explosion. "Bottom drawer, left side of your desk at your place," he said, his thumb resuming its rhythmic button presses. "Under the stack of ’emergency’ ramen." Dave stared at him. Karkat knew the precise location of a hard drive in Dave’s own apartment. Karkat finally looked over, catching Dave’s expression. "What?" he grunted, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "I put it there last week after you left it plugged into my TV again. Wasn’t gonna let you lose your precious ‘ironic polka remixes’."
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A week later, tangled in Karkat’s perpetually rumpled sheets that smelled like sweat, cheap detergent, and them, Dave found himself laughing, breathless and inelegant. Karkat was attempting something ambitious, a maneuver that involved leverage neither of them quite possessed, resulting in a clumsy tangle of limbs and Karkat’s elbow accidentally jabbing Dave’s ribs. "Ow! Fuck, kat, watch the goods!" Dave wheezed, trying to squirm away but only succeeding in getting more entangled. Karkat collapsed half on top of him, his own laughter shaking the mattress, warm puffs of air hitting Dave’s collarbone. "Shut up! Your bony ass knee was in the way!" he gasped, trying to regain composure, his fingers still gripping Dave’s hip possessively but without force.
Sunlight, weak and late afternoon, slanted through the blinds, catching the dust motes dancing above them. Dave’s ribs ached faintly, his shades lay to the side where they’d been knocked off earlier, and Karkat was still chuckling softly into his skin. Dave looked down at the mess of black hair pressed against his chest, felt the solid weight anchoring him, the ridiculousness of the moment blending with a deep, unexpected warmth. His fingers, almost without thought, slid into Karkat’s perpetually messy hair, not pushing him away, just resting there. "We're such a mess," Dave breathed, the laughter fading into something quieter, more profound. Karkat tilted his head up, his warm eyes finding Dave’s, no mockery, just a soft, open affection that made Dave’s stomach flip. "Yeah," Karkat murmured, his thumb tracing Dave’s hipbone again, that familiar, grounding touch. "Best mess, though." He shifted, settling more comfortably against Dave, his breath evening out. Dave let his hand rest in Karkat’s hair, watching the dust motes swirl in the golden light, the quiet hum of the city outside a distant counterpoint to the solid heartbeat against his own.
Hm.
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The realization didn't crash over Dave like a wave. It seeped in, slow and undeniable as the fading light painting stripes across Karkat’s sleeping face. His fingers were still tangled in Karkat's hair, the rhythm of Karkat's breath steady against his skin. Hm. It wasn't just this bed, this afternoon. It was every bed. Every night.
He traced the pattern. Tuesday: falling asleep after pizza and bad horror movies on Karkat’s lumpy couch, inevitably migrating to the bedroom mid-argument about zombie tropes. Thursday: crashing at his own place after a late DJ set at The Crypt, only for Karkat to show up around midnight, muttering about "bro solidarity" against the suspicious noises Dave’s ancient fridge made. Friday: Karkat’s. Saturday: sometimes Dave’s, sometimes Karkat’s, decided by who had clean sheets or who couldn’t be bothered locking their own door. Sunday: definitely Karkat’s, because the guy made stupidly good pancakes.
Dave shifted slightly. Karkat grunted, burying his face deeper into Dave’s chest, one heavy arm tightening around his waist possessively even in sleep. The lenses of Dave’s shades winked from the nightstand where they’d landed hours ago. Dave stared at the ceiling, cataloging the faint glow-in-the-dark stars stuck haphazardly above Karkat’s bed. He knew their positions better than the water stains on his own apartment ceiling.
It wasn't planned. It wasn't discussed. It just… was. Like breathing. Like the specific way Karkat always left exactly one bite of his last pancake "for the birds," meaning Dave usually stole it. Like the green toothbrush Dave now used without a second thought. They migrated together, a unit. His apartment’s pristine emptiness felt alien now, sterile and cold compared to the comforting, chaotic warmth of Karkat’s clutter – the stacks of comics, the perpetually humming game console, the faint, stubborn smell of that cheap laundry detergent clinging to everything.
Dave’s own bed back next door? He pictured it. The neat, unused duvet. The silent stillness. It felt like a museum exhibit. Dave Strider’s Former Life: Exhibit A. He glanced down at the dark head resting on his chest, felt the solid weight anchoring him. He didn’t just end up here anymore. They gravitated. Together.
Karkat stirred, his eyes fluttering open, warm and sleep-hazed. He blinked up at Dave, a slow, unconscious smile spreading across his face. "What're you thinking 'bout so loud?" he mumbled, voice thick. His hand slid up Dave's back, pulling him infinitesimally closer. "Your brain's practically buzzing."
Dave looked down at him, at the easy intimacy, the unthinking way Karkat sought his warmth. The "bro stuff" pretence felt flimsier than ever, a ghost haunting an occupied house. He brushed a stray strand of black hair off Karkat’s forehead. "Nothing," Dave said, his own voice quiet in the afternoon stillness. "Just… logistics." The word was a placeholder, inadequate.
Karkat hummed, unconvinced but too comfortable to press. He snuggled closer, his breath evening out again against Dave’s skin. The rain had stopped outside, leaving the world quiet except for their shared breathing. Dave kept his hand in Karkat’s hair, watching the dust motes dance in the sliver of sunlight. Logistics. Like the effortless way they always ended up tangled together in the same bed, regardless of whose key turned in the lock first. It wasn't just where they slept. It was where they were.
Later, after Karkat had dragged him off to demolish leftover pizza and argue passionately about the merits of pineapple (Karkat: "Abomination." Dave: "Sweet, tangy abomination."), they found themselves standing on the landing outside Dave’s apartment door. Dave had his keys in hand, ostensibly heading in to grab his laptop charger. Karkat leaned against the grimy wall, scrolling his phone.
Dave slid the key into the lock. He turned it. He pushed the door open. The familiar scent of dust and faint mildew wafted out. He took one step inside, the cool emptiness hitting him instantly. He stopped.
Karkat looked up from his phone. "Forgot the charger already?" he asked, pocketing the device. "Knew you would. It’s probably tangled in the bedsheets you never wash." He pushed off the wall, moving to follow Dave inside like he always did.
Dave didn’t move further into the apartment. He just stood in the doorway, holding the door open. He looked back at Karkat, then at the sterile quiet of his own space. He thought of Karkat’s couch, the half-finished game paused on the TV, the smell of stale pizza and that damn detergent. He thought of Karkat’s warm weight beside him in the dark.
He pulled his key back out of the lock. He stepped back into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him with a decisive click. The heavy lock engaged. He pocketed the keys. "Nah," Dave said, turning to face Karkat, who was watching him with a curious, slightly surprised expression. "Let it die. Got stuff at yours."
A slow, knowing grin spread across Karkat’s face, warm and bright. He didn't say anything mocking, didn't tease. He just nodded, once, and bumped his shoulder against Dave’s as he turned to head back towards his own door. "Yeah," Karkat said, the single word packed with understanding. He dug his keys out, jingling them. "Yeah, you do." He unlocked his door and pushed it open, the familiar comforting chaos spilling out into the hallway. Dave followed him inside without hesitation, the heavy thud of Karkat’s door closing behind them echoing Dave’s own certainty.
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