(you wish you were kidding, but you’re not, fuck your sad life. John did find time in-between rigging the school to slip a card in your locker. It had ‘your ass is grass and i’m gonna mow it’ written on it, with a mangled doodle of what you  assume  is a lawnmower. That or a moose. Obviously a lawnmower would make more sense given the context, but it’s  John, so really, who can say?)

So honestly, it’s not like you were expecting to be wooed and courted today. Not even once did you allow your mind to dally into the rosy realm of daydreams, of flowers, poems or other tokens of affection. Nope. You? Never. But it’d be really fucking nice if he could keep his scrawny ass out of detention long enough so you could still take him out for dinner tonight, goddammit! Seriously, that isn’t much to ask, right? But detention is to John what breathing is to any other puny mortal, so. Fine. Whatever. Resigned, you begin to count: six, five, four, three, two aaaaaand one…

Dingdong! goes the PA system (it always reminds you of a wave pool jingle).

“JOHN EG-“ and that’s the farthest it gets, because next thing you know an atrociously familiar tune blares right over it: Never gonna give you up, Never gonna let you down, Never gonna run around—

“Oh my god,” you groan. “Did he just rickroll the damn school?”

Sollux shakes out his textbook, sending another cloud of glitter through the air. “Awesome, it worked,” he comments idly, mouth kicking up at the corners.

“And you HELPED HIM?” you scream.

“JO-JOHN EGB—“ the PA system tries again, ”—say goodbye, Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you!”  

“Why would you help him?” you demand. “I have a reservation at seven, what if he gets detention? I called four months in advance, you pole-humping eyesore! FOUR. MONTHS.”

“Shit, relax KK,” Sollux rolls his eyes. “We got it under control, alright, we asked-”

“Please don’t say Damara.”

Sollux promptly shuts up. Shrugs, all: welp.

“Mother of fuck,” you moan, forehead meeting your desk with a resounding thunk and instantly covering most of your person with glitter.

“JOHN EGBERT—een aching but you’re too shy to say it, Inside we both know—REPORT TO—been going on— PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE. NOW.”

“Wow, Doc sounds pretty pissed,” Sollux comments, looking way too fucking gleeful about that. “I bet it means that thing with the roses worked.”

You don’t even ask, just grab your books and decide to do damage control while you can (hey, you’re a star athlete, you’re not above using that as leverage so you can have your perfect dinner date with the school’s prankster rebel, okay? You fucking deserve it). The hallways are packed with glitter-covered maniacs, you bulldoze your way through the way you would on the field when you're setting up a blitz. True to word you’re just in time to see Damara strut out of the principal’s office. Wearing a hoodie and tattered jeans that are… huh, oddly familiar. Also twirling a lime green tie around her index.

She spots you. You valiantly do not turn tail and run screaming.

“Is good,” she informs you seriously. “We fucked him hard in head. Was easy. No fun. Like hard better. Hard is always better, yes?”

“Yes, clearly.” you agree, nodding enthusiastically. She eyes you and you promptly stop. “Right. So. Did you finally kill him? John? I don’t blame you if you did, but I’d appreciate it if you only killed him a little, you know, cause I have a dinner reservation.”

“Eat first, fuck later? Why. Eat and fuck now, eat holes, fuck food, yes? You useless like soiled plastic cockbag,” she curls her red mouth at you disapprovingly, shakes her head, and goes flaunting down the hallway like she owns the whole motherfucking building -she probably does, at that. Aaaaand right about then you realize why her clothing seems so familiar.

“Oh no.”

“Hi Karkat!”

“Oh no,” you sigh, and yep, you don’t know how or why or when, but John is in a dress. Damara’s dress. You cover your mouth with your hand, and forcefully reel your eyes to a neutral spot above his shoulder, just in time to see Principal Scratch sit head-in-hands and waist deep in petals at his desk, before the door swings shut, blocking the tableau. A waft of bruised roses and crushed dreams rolls into the hallway.

“What did you do?” you hiss, horrified.

“Who, me?” John points at his chest, doing his wide-eyed puppy dog thing (d’aw look at me, I would never chew on your shoes or piss on the carpet and even if I did you’d still think I was cute and feed me kibbles y/y?). You note there’s not a single fleck of glitter on him. Would they allow you to bring a corpse along for dinner, you wonder. For the greater good, of course.

“Do I even want to know?” you ask. “And how the everloving sugarcoated fuck did Damara not cheerfully rip you apart by furiously chafing your every orifice with her flaming fists?”

“Obviously I pay her with my young, nubile body.”

You frown at him.

John sighs theatrically, like he doesn’t understand how you can be so dense, geez Karkat, it’s elementary. “Pocky, dude. She loves Pocky.”

“What.”

He pats your shoulder. There, there. “Don’t worry, Karkat. My young, nubile body is still uncharted territory. Maybe it's time you mapped it, y'know, mark it and plant a flag or something. Meanwhile I have appeased the wicked witch with a month’s worth of Pocky.”

“Pocky.”

“Yup. Seriously though, don’t worry. It’s totally cool, we didn’t do anything illegal. Much.”

“Why is that not assuring at all?” you snarl at him.

“Geez, dude, lighten up!” he flaps a hand at you. “Also, hey, rude! Aren’t you going to say anything about my dress?” He swings his hips until the fabric flares out a bit.

It’s… it’s a nice dress. Short, obviously, because Damara, but other than that it’s just a simple sundress in sky blue. John’s legs are sharp, hairy and go on for miles, holy shit, and he’s still wearing his scummy yellow Vans and mismatching socks. His knees are covered in scabs and bruises from all the times he misjudged an ollie and kissed the pavement. It's a skater dress, you think, you've seen Roxy wear them; a fitting bodice with a, flaring skirt. The neckline is a hard square, framing the bracket of his collarbone to perfection while the fabric clutches at his biceps in the narrow capped sleeves. His waist looks slender and perfect for your hands to hold. It’s like everything boy about him has artfully been highlighted by this flimsy excuse for clothing.

It’s February.

“You’re going to freeze to death, you shit,” you point out feebly.

John shrugs, one shoulder, and the fabric wrinkles across his chest. Ngh. “Yeah, but do you like it?”

“John, you are wearing one of Damara Megido’s dresses. I could write a fucking novel about the places that dress has been, the things it has seen, the stains that have been forcefully purged from it because their existence was too vile too contemplate, not unlike your own continued presence in this barfpot of a planet. It would be a masterpiece, more epic and gruelling than the Lord of the Flies, it would make Lovecraft weep bitter baby tears while he copiously defaces over the gold-plated first edition of The Road to Madness.”

“Alright,” John says. “But do you like it.”

HRGH.

“YES!” you roar at him, flinging your arms in the air and shedding glitter like a phoenix rising from the ashes of its premature rage-induced demise. “YES I LIKE IT.”

John grins at you, and it’s that sort of happiness that comes from inside-out and just… absolutely makes the world glow, all crinkled eyes and bunched cheeks and dark lashes as he smiles at you, and next thing you know he’s in your arms.

The fabric is tight against his skin, fragile under your fingers, like you’d hardly have to try to rip it from his body. What are these thoughts. John’s mouth lands near your jaw, catching stubble even though you shaved this morning, you wanted to look nice, damn it, and then he nips at your lips. What feels like a wrecking ball of pure emotion swings against your lower stomach.

The dress flows like an airy exhale under your palm as you smooth it down his back, so thin, you’re going to give him your team jacket as soon as, as soon —any moment now, as soon as you’re done sliding your tongue into the wet heat of his mouth, as soon as his hands release your face, because he’s holding you against his mouth to kiss you and it’s all you can do but kiss him back. He’s tiptoeing to reach, working at your mouth until you go slack and open for him, you let him, god, you let him, hold him by the waist as he kisses you, feeling yourself come apart in tiny, stupid versions of yourself as he slowly licks against your tongue.

He does stop, a little, not quite, just enough your lips disconnect, faces still slotted close and exchanging exhales and soft noises as you catch your breath. John’s smiling, flushed and radiating contentment as he noses against your cheekbone. “Been wanting to do that all day,” he murmurs.

“Hm,” you grunt out. “Thanks for the oh so charming card.”

“Hehe.” His thumb sweeps along your bottom lip, and you shiver. “Vroom. That is me. Mowing.”

“Clearly.”

You kiss again, amused despite yourself (don’t encourage him, Vantas, jesus), John wavers on the points of his toes as he tires, so you sling your forearm under his ass to help steady him. The skirt hikes up, and hello, you got an armful of warm skin. You startle, suddenly shy. He laughs against your throat, amused, then lays out a fond trail of kisses to the curve of your ear.

Sometimes you’re scared this is just young love, that the both of you will burn bright and blinding, an all-consuming blaze of wanting and adoration that will scar itself along the inside of your ribs, before fading just as fast.

But John pecks your cheek, having arrived at your face again, he’s still smiling and so damn close you only have an intimate, vague impression of his blue eyes and smudged glasses, the smattering of freckles across his nose.

Maybe. Well. You kiss him again, a chaste peck at the corner of his mouth. Maybe this might last. You hope it does.

The backs of his legs are soft against the inside of your arm. “Are.” You swallow. “Are you wearing anything underneath this?”

John snickers and wags his brows, once. “Why don’t you find out?”

Shit. Okay. Fuck. Challenge accepted. Your hands skim up the backs of his thighs until the silky material of the skirt brushes across your knuckles, higher, so you can cup the curve of his ass, where-

“Holy shit!” you curse, mouth dropping open.

John bursts out laughing.