#hate-married

You are about to ask Jade – very casually, like an adult troll who has control of his goddamn life – if she likes coffee and if so which is her favorite flavor yours is an Iced Strawberry Latte Mochachino with Extra Whipped Cream just in case she wants to know, in accordance with Step One of the plan when she drags you – bodily – into the pantry.

You make a sound halfway between a yelp and a gurgle that no self-respecting anyone would ever make.

“What the everloving fuck—“

“Shh!” Jade puts a finger against her lips exaggeratedly.

“Jade I thought you said you wanted to talk not drag me against my will into the pantry.”

This is all said in a very harsh whisper. You want her to know the extent of your disapproval. At last measurement, it extends pretty fucking far. If your disapproval were a measuring tape it would be one of those heavy-duty ones that are meant for ourdoorsy projects. The kinds your lusus always wants you to do at six in the morning after you’ve not slept because you forgot about that big project that has been looming for two months until eleven o’clock the night before and two of your fingers are glued together after your frantic attempt to copy and paste disguised excerpts from the three Wikipedia articles you read early that night and you know – you just know – that he’s doing it to be a dick, so you go to school miserable and annoyed and end up yelling your entire presentation at a class full of stunned  onlookers.

 The pantry might be quite large – the size of a small closet – but it was never meant to accommodate two people comfortably. A shelf is pressed against your back, and your elbow is resting in an open space between a box of unopened granola bars and about thirty packs of gushers which you are almost 100% certain belong to John.

Bumping gently into your head is your shelf with your jar of peanut butter. It is like an old friend or camp counselor, giving you a light tap of encouragement: buck up buddy, it’ll be all right.

A singular uncovered lightbulb illuminates the space, and it’s radiating more heat than a thermonuclear reactor.

Or maybe it’s the fact that Jade is standing a grub’s width away from you and staring you down intently, an air of purpose hidden behind thick glasses.

You press back into the amicable embrace of your shelf and try not to let your embarrassment show.

“We’re in the pantry because otherwise John could see and hear us and I’m pretty sure there are some things you don’t want him to know Karkat.”

Oh. Well that seems remarkably sensible. There are a number of Reasons you have not told John your innermost secrets which you have already gone over ad nauseum.

Still, there’s the principle of the matter.

“What are you talking about? I don’t have any secrets from John. We’re friends. Chums. Compadres. Buddies. Two grubs in a slime pod. Whatever I know he knows. In fact, I have no secrets. If I were any more fucking transparent my skin would show my abominable mutant blood.”

Jade gives you her “cutting through Karkat’s bullshit” look – the one with a half-twist of her mouth downward and that look in her eye like she’d like to raise her eyebrow but shit hasn’t quite got that serious yet.

“It’s okay Karkat,” she says. “I know.”

“No, clearly you don’t know, because there are no secrets going on in this pantry. Unless you’ve got something to tell me Jade. Do you have something to share with the class? Because my auricular sponge clots could sure use some stimulation about now. So go on. Fill my drivelpan with your delicious gossip.”

“Ugh, fine,” Jade says, and you almost breathe a sigh of relief except that this is Jade Harley-Egbert you are talking to and she is leagues too smart for you. However far your paltry attempt at disapproval extends, her intrinsic bullshit-o-meter extends that much further. “If it’s not a secret, then just say it.”

She takes a baby step forward and suddenly she is in your personal bubble. You rear your head back and knock into your jar of peanut butter and it falls with a heavy clunk, and then rolls away.

“I know why you’re over here all the time and making up really shitty excuses for it. I know why you always fall for John’s stupid bucket-over-the-door prank and insist that he wash your shirt even though he literally does it every time you’re here. I know you order bad movies online and say there was a mix up in your queue just so you can come over here and pretend to hate them. I know, Karkat.”