Prove It

Chapter 21: The Bro Consultation

The air in The Grind hung thick with the scent of burnt espresso beans and the low thrum of a dozen murmured conversations. Dave slouched in the worn velvet armchair opposite Rose, his long fingers drumming a nervous staccato on the chipped formica table. Steam curled lazily from the untouched Americano before him. He hadn’t lifted his shades, but the tension radiated off him in waves, tightening his shoulders, making the cracked lens of his shades catch the dim overhead light in fractured glints.

Across the table, Rose Lalonde regarded him over the rim of her delicate china cup, steam wreathing her composed face. Her long, white-blonde hair was neatly pinned back, violet eyes sharp and unreadable as she took a deliberate sip of Earl Grey. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the hiss of the espresso machine and Dave’s restless fingers. He finally cracked.

"So," he started, the word abrupt, bouncing off the tabletop. He cleared his throat, shifted. "Hypothetically." Another pause. He stared intently at a water stain on the table that resembled Australia. "If someone. Not me. Obviously. Was… you know. Living mostly at someone else’s place. Practically."

"Co-habitating?" Rose supplied, her voice smooth as the tea.

Dave flinched. "No! Not… not co-anything. More like… extended crashing. With benefits. Bro benefits. Mutual convenience bunking." He rubbed the back of his neck. "And say this someone… this hypothetical guy… has a roommate-type person. Who does shit. Like… makes pancakes. With the exact right syrup-to-batter ratio." He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping, conspiratorial. "And does laundry. Like, folds it. Properly. Even the stupid ironic band tees."

Rose set her cup down with a soft clink. "How industrious of this hypothetical roommate."

"And not just that!" Dave plowed on, gaining momentum fueled by nervous energy. "He like… remembers stuff. Stupid shit. Like where you left your external drive two weeks ago under a pile of ramen in your own damn apartment. Which, by the way, feels like a goddamn museum exhibit now. Dusty and weirdly echoey." He shuddered theatrically. "And he knows your class schedule better than the registrar. Shows up exactly when you get out."

A faint, knowing smile touched Rose’s lips. She traced the rim of her cup with a fingertip. "Sounds like a remarkably attentive individual. This hypothetical roommate."

Dave slumped back, the cheap velvet scratching his neck. "Yeah. Attentive." He picked at the frayed edge of his sleeve, avoiding Rose's piercing violet gaze. The clatter of cups behind the counter sounded unnaturally loud. "And... okay, fine. Hypothetically plus ultra. What if..." He swallowed, the words sticking like dry toast. "What if this roommate situation... hypothetically... also involved..." He gestured vaguely, fingers twitching near his shades, not able to get the words out.

Rose’s teacup froze halfway to her lips. Her eyebrow arched, a silent, dangerous question.

Dave stared at the Australasian water stain like it held the secrets of the universe. He inhaled sharply, the burnt coffee smell suddenly overwhelming. "Okay, fine," he ground out, voice scraping low, "what if... hypothetically... this roommate was also... y'know." His fingers clenched around his untouched Americano cup. "Fuckin'. The shit. Out of you." The words tumbled out, harsh and inelegant. "Like. Daily. For a while?" He finally looked up, shades betraying nothing but the frantic tapping of his foot against the chair leg.

The frantic tapping of Dave's sneaker against the chair leg echoed the frantic pulse he felt hammering in his throat. The words hung in the air between them, thick as the coffee smell, raw and undeniable despite the flimsy shield of 'hypothetical'. Across the table, Rose didn’t flinch. She lowered her teacup slowly, deliberately, the porcelain making a soft kiss of sound against the saucer. Her violet eyes pinned him, sharp and utterly unsurprised. "Daily," she repeated, her voice dangerously mild. "For a while."

Dave winced, pulling his shades slightly down his nose to rub at the bridge, revealing a flicker of red before snapping them back into place. "Yeah. Hypothetically." He stared hard at the steam curling from his cold Americano. "And it’s… fuck, Rose. It’s good. Really good." A shaky breath escaped him.

Dave stared hard at the steam curling from his cold Americano. "And it’s… fuck, Rose. It’s good. Really good." A shaky breath escaped him. "Like, embarrassingly good. Consistently." He shifted, the worn velvet scratching his neck again. "Hypothetically."

The steam from Dave’s forgotten Americano had long since vanished, leaving behind a bitter ring staining the cup. Rose’s violet gaze remained fixed on him, a silent, terrifyingly patient void. Dave felt sweat prickle under his shades, the worn velvet of the armchair suddenly abrasive against his skin. "Right," he muttered, picking obsessively at a loose thread on his sleeve cuff. "Hypothetically." He took a breath that felt like swallowing glass. "So, this arrangement. It’s… functional. More than functional. It’s…" He trailed off, the word ‘good’ feeling inadequate, used up.

He gestured vaguely, encompassing Karkat’s apartment chaos, the perfectly folded laundry, the pancakes, the relentless, undeniable physicality. "It’s all baked in, y’know? Like the syrup." He swallowed hard. "But lately…" Dave paused, his foot tapping a frantic rhythm against the chair leg again. The ambient chatter of the coffee shop faded into a distant buzz. Rose waited, a silent, immovable monument composed of Earl Grey and knowing looks. "Hypothetically," Dave forced out, his voice scraping lower, "this… someone? The guy crashing the place?"

He couldn’t look at her. He stared intently at the chipped wood grain of the tabletop. "He maybe… kinda… wants it to be…" The words jammed in his throat. He made a vague, frustrated motion with his hand, like he was trying to grasp smoke. "Not just the pancakes. Or the laundry. Or even the, uh… nightly calisthenics." He squeezed his eyes shut behind his shades. "More. Different. Something… defined? Maybe?"

Silence crashed down. Thick, heavy, suffocating. Dave felt the heat crawling up his neck, threatening to ignite his ears. He risked a glance upwards.

Rose Lalonde slowly lowered her teacup. Her expression didn’t change. It remained perfectly calm, perfectly composed. Then, with deliberate, almost glacial slowness, she raised her hand. Her palm connected with her forehead with a sharp, resonant smack that echoed slightly in the cozy space. It wasn’t a gentle tap. It was a full-force, palm-flat, utterly despairing impact that tilted her head back slightly and made her immaculate white-blonde hair sway. She held it there, fingers splayed against her brow, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t sigh. She just stayed like that, forehead firmly palmed, radiating a profound, bone-deep exasperation that sucked all the air out of the corner booth. The faint hum of the espresso machine seemed to pause in solidarity. Dave flinched, the sound reverberating in his own skull. He saw the subtle tremor run through her arm, the slight shake of her head beneath her hand. It was a facepalm of monumental proportions, a silent scream etched into the lines of her knuckles pressed against her skin.

Rose kept her palm pressed firmly against her forehead for another agonizing five seconds, the pressure seeming to contain the sheer magnitude of her disbelief. She was trembling somewhat - Dave worried that he'd pushed her over the edge and she'd finally snapped. Maybe he'd moved her to tears.

She threw back her head and laughed, tears streaming.

Finally, Rose calmed down. She looked at Dave, not through him, with a directness that always felt like she could see the wiring beneath his skin. "Dave," she said, her voice calm, precise. "You are attempting to navigate a pre-existing relationship dynamic with the linguistic finesse of a concussed badger wielding a sledgehammer."

Dave opened his mouth, a retort forming, but Rose held up a single, elegant finger. "You are already 'official'. You've moved your essential belongings into his apartment. You share a bed with near-perfect consistency. He nourishes you, maintains your wardrobe, anticipates your movements, and marks you each morning with the devotion of a particularly territorial cat." The corner of her mouth twitched. "The only thing lacking is the specific vocabulary."

Dave flushed, the heat rising up his neck. "So, what? I just… say it? Like, point-blank? 'Hey Kitkat, wanna boyfriend me?'" He winced at his own words. "That sounds like a bad rom-com trailer narrated by a chain-smoking walrus."

She tilted her head. "Have you considered simply… speaking to him? Using the words that accurately describe what you are already doing? Such as 'boyfriend'?"

Dave stared at her. The word hung in the air between them, solid and terrifying. Boyfriend. It wasn't hypothetical anymore. It wasn't 'not-bro'. It was Karkat. Karkat, who folded his socks. Karkat, who knew his food preferences down pat. Karkat, whose humming in the kitchen felt more like home than any place Dave had ever lived.

"Yeah, but…" Dave’s voice was small, stripped of its usual irony. He looked down, tracing the water-stain Australia with a fingertip. "What if… what if I fuck it up? What if he laughs? Or worse, what if he just… expected this to be temporary? Convenient bunking with bro benefits? What if I read everything wrong?" The vulnerability was raw, surprising even him. "He deserves… better than me fumbling it."

Rose’s expression softened, just a fraction. "Dave," she said, her voice losing none of its precision but gaining a layer of warmth, dropping the hypothetical. "Karkat Vantas has been meticulously curating this 'situation' since approximately the moment you moved in next door. His persistence in the face of your truly Olympic-level denial has been… inspiring. He folded your laundry before you were sleeping in his bed. He is, quite literally, all in." She leaned forward slightly. "The risk of you 'reading it wrong' is statistically negligible. The only risk here is your own fear of stating the obvious. And Karkat," she added, a ghost of a smile returning, "has never required perfection from you."

The ghost of Rose’s smile lingered, sharp and knowing, as Dave absorbed her words. Karkat never required perfection. The phrase echoed, cutting through the static of his panic like a clean blade. He pictured Karkat’s focused frown while meticulously stacking Dave’s band tees, the way he grumbled about syrup viscosity but always got it right. It wasn’t flashy. It was constant. Relentless. Like bedrock.

The silence in the coffee shop thickened around them, the low hum of conversation and the gurgle of the espresso machine fading into white noise. Dave stared at the water stain Australia, but instead of continents, he saw Karkat’s hands – deftly flipping pancakes, carefully folding a stupid t-shirt depicting a vomiting rainbow, smoothing the blanket on his side of the bed. Steady. Reliable. Like bedrock. He swallowed against a sudden tightness in his throat. "He... does a lot," Dave mumbled, the understatement scraping his tongue raw. "All that shit. The folding. The remembering. The... everything."

"...does a lot." Dave stared at the congealed ring in his coffee cup. "All the work. The folding. The remembering." He swallowed. "The... everything." He finally lifted his gaze to Rose, the red behind his shades feeling exposed. "It feels like... he's pouring it all out. Like a fucking geyser of... whatever this is. Pancakes and patience."

Rose placed her teacup down with surgical precision. "He is, Dave. He invests significant effort." Her violet gaze held his, unblinking. "The pertinent question is: what are you investing? Beyond your charming company and," a faint, dry smile touched her lips, "hypothetical nightly exertions?"

Dave flinched. "I'm there! I eat the pancakes! I wear the clean shirts!" He ran a hand through his messy blonde hair. "What else is there? Should I... start folding his laundry? Cook him some charred disaster he has to pretend is edible? Buy him, like, a fucking vacuum cleaner?"

"Reciprocation doesn't mean mirroring his exact actions," Rose countered, her voice slicing through his flailing. "Karkat isn't seeking a caretaker. He craves appreciation. Acknowledgement. Effort directed towards him, specifically." She leaned forward slightly. "He adores romance, Dave. But quiet romance. Gestures that speak, not shout. Not fanfare. He wants to feel chosen. Seen. Not just conveniently present."

Dave absorbed this, the frantic energy draining out of him. He pictured Karkat humming over the stove, the flex of muscle in that thin t-shirt, the concentrated frown while meticulously pairing Dave’s ridiculous socks. The quiet pride when Dave actually ate everything on his plate without complaint. The way Karkat saw him, all his jagged edges, and just... kept showing up. Folding. Flipping. Being there. A wave of something terrifyingly warm washed over him, pushing against the usual sarcasm. "He deserves it," Dave murmured, the words thick. "Doesn't he? To know... it's not just convenience."

"Unequivocally," Rose stated. "He deserves the truth. The defined reality. And the effort. Your effort."

Silence stretched, filled only by the coffee shop's murmur. Dave took a deep, bracing breath. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, but underneath it, a current of resolve sparked, bright and fierce. The image of Karkat’s face, hopeful and maybe, just maybe, a little surprised, solidified in his mind. Fuck the hypotheticals. Fuck the bro shield. "Okay," he said, the word sharp and final. He pushed his untouched, stone-cold Americano away. "Okay. Time to man the fuck up and actually ask the guy to be my boyfriend." He stood, the chair scraping loudly. "Wish me luck. Or, y'know, condolences. Whichever."

Rose watched him, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face. She took one last, deliberate sip of her Earl Grey. "Excellent decision." Her eyes glittered with amusement. "Congratulations, by the way." She paused, letting the moment hang. "On finally coming out." Dave froze, halfway out of the booth. Rose’s smile widened, razor-sharp. "As a bottom."

Dave choked. His shades slid slightly down his nose. He stared at her, heat flooding his face. "Lalonde, what the actual f—" She merely raised her teacup in a silent, infuriating toast. He snapped his mouth shut, yanked his shades back up with a jerk, and turned on his heel. He stalked towards the door, Rose's quiet chuckle following him. His ears burned crimson, but his stride didn't falter. He had a question to ask. And a very specific, syrup-loving neighbor to ask it to.

Dave pushed through the grimy glass door of The Grind, the bell jangling wildly overhead. Rose’s final words – bottom – burned in his ears hotter than the shame flushing his cheeks. The city air felt thick, smelling of exhaust and damp pavement, a stark contrast to the coffee-scented haze he’d just left. He shoved his shades firmly up his nose, the cracked lenses a comforting barrier against the too-bright street.

He walked fast, sneakers slapping the sidewalk, weaving past dawdling tourists and overflowing trash cans. Karkat’s apartment wasn’t far, a few blocks away in a building that leaned slightly to the left. Dave’s mind raced, replaying Rose’s infuriatingly logical dismantling of his entire "it's just bro stuff" facade. All in. The words echoed, stripping away the last flimsy shreds of his denial. Pancakes weren’t bro stuff. Knowing his class schedule wasn’t bro stuff. Folding his stupid ironic tees with near-religious devotion definitely wasn’t bro stuff.

The familiar, slightly sticky stairwell of Karkat’s building greeted him, smelling faintly of old cigarettes and curry. He took the steps two at a time, his earlier resolve hardening into something solid, if terrifying. He didn’t knock. He just pushed open Karkat’s door, the hinges groaning in protest.

The usual wall of sensory overload hit him: the sweet, greasy tang of pizza lingering under the sharper scent of cleaning spray, the faint electronic buzz of a game left on pause, the visual chaos of comic book posters plastering every available inch of wall space. And there, in the middle of the organized clutter that was the kitchenette, stood Karkat. His back was to Dave, muscles flexing visibly under the thin, threadbare cotton of his black band tee as he scrubbed a pan at the sink. The rhythmic shhhk-shhhk of the sponge was weirdly calming.

"Hey," Dave said, his voice coming out slightly strangled. He leaned against the doorframe, shoving his hands deep into his pockets like they might betray him. Karkat jumped, whipping around. Warm brown eyes widened, then crinkled at the corners in surprise and obvious delight.

"Strider? Didn't expect you back so soon." Karkat dried his hands on a dishtowel slung over his shoulder. "Thought you were holed up with Lalonde plotting world domination via bad poetry." He grinned, the kind of easy, open smile that always made Dave’s stomach do something complicated. "Hungry? There’s leftover pizza. Or I could whip up some eggs?"

Dave swallowed. The casual offer, the warm domesticity of it all, tightened his chest. He pushed off the doorframe, taking a step into the room. His palms were sweating inside his pockets. "Uh, no. Pizza’s good. Later." He cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the small space. He looked around, anywhere but at Karkat – at the meticulously stacked pile of Dave’s own laundry on the threadbare couch, the specific brand of syrup on the counter, the worn spot on the floor where Dave usually kicked off his shoes. Rose was right. The evidence was everywhere, screamingly obvious. How had he missed it?

"Everything okay?" Karkat asked, his voice softening with a hint of concern. He crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. "You look… kinda wound up. Lalonde give you grief?"

Dave finally met his gaze. Karkat’s expression was open, patient, the way it always was when Dave was being particularly dense. Dave took a breath. This was it. Time to stop being a concussed badger with a sledgehammer. "Yeah. Rose. She, uh…" He stalled. Boyfriend. The word felt enormous, a live grenade in his mouth. He shifted his weight, scuffed his sneaker on the worn linoleum. "She kinda pointed out some shit. About… us."

Karkat raised an eyebrow, waiting. The silence stretched, thick with the hum of the fridge and Dave’s own frantic heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Dave pushed the words out in a rush, tripping over them. "Look, I know I’ve been… obtuse. Like, monumentally. About… whatever this is." He gestured vaguely between them. "The laundry. The pancakes. The… nightly programming." His ears burned. "And I just… I want you to know it’s not just… convenience. Or bro stuff. Because it’s not."

He paused, sucking in air. Karkat hadn’t moved, his expression unreadable. Dave forced himself to keep going, the words clumsy but determined. "I want… I want it to be more. Official. Defined. Like…" He met Karkat’s eyes again, bracing himself. "Boyfriend defined. If that’s… something you’d even want. With me." He added the last bit quickly, lamely, his voice dropping to a near-mumble. "After me being such a colossal dipshit about it for months."

The silence crashed back down, heavier this time. Dave felt sweat prickle at his hairline. He braced for laughter, for confusion, for Karkat to finally snap and call him out on his ridiculous journey to stating the blatantly obvious. But Karkat just stood there, leaning against the counter. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face. Not a smirk, not a teasing grin. It was warm, deep, and tinged with a profound, bone-deep relief. He unfolded his arms.

"Dave," he said, his voice soft, almost gentle. "Obviously."

Dave blinked. "…Obviously?"

Karkat pushed off the counter, closing the small distance between them in two strides. He stopped right in front of Dave, close enough that Dave could see the flecks of gold in his warm brown eyes, smell the faint scent of soap and pizza sauce clinging to his skin. "Yeah, Strider. Obviously." He reached up, his thumb brushing lightly, almost reverently, against Dave’s jawline, just below the edge of his shades. "I kinda thought we already were." A soft chuckle escaped him. "You moved half your crap in here. You eat my food. You let me fold your stupid shirts." His hand slid to cradle the side of Dave’s neck, warm and grounding. "You sleep in my bed almost every night." His gaze held Dave’s, steady and sure. "Call it whatever you want. 'Boyfriend' works fine. Took you long enough, you oblivious asshole."

Relief, warm and dizzying, washed over Dave. He leaned into Karkat’s touch, the solidity of him, the sheer rightness. A shaky laugh escaped him. He felt stupid. Monumentally, universe-record-breakingly stupid. "So… you knew?" he mumbled, his voice rough. "The whole time?"

Karkat’s smile widened, full of affection and a hint of exasperation. "Dude. I've been fucking you for months, and moved you into my house. Duh."

Dave closed his eyes behind his shades. The scent of Karkat – soap, laundry detergent, him – filled his senses. He felt Karkat’s fingers thread through the hair at his nape. "Guess I'm just… stupid," Dave murmured, the words tasting strange, an admission more vulnerable than anything he’d said aloud before.

Karkat huffed a soft laugh, pulling back just enough to look at him properly. "Nah," he said, his thumb tracing the shell of Dave’s ear. "Just Dave." His gaze dropped to Dave’s mouth for a breathless second. "My boyfriend." He said it like it was the simplest truth in the world. "Finally."