This is one of those parts where it will look a lot better on A03. It kinda needs colored Pesterlogs to make a whole lotta sense, but I'll make do with what I got for now. Also, no typing quirk for Karkat, because I always felt they seemed out of place in Human AUs. Unless there's a specific reason any of the trolls would decide to use a quirk in a human setting, it just feels weird to me. And I'm fairly certain it would seem weird to anyone pestering them, too. :P

- turntechGodHead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] –-

TG: yo
TG: its your wonderful and handsome and incredibly talented partner here to bestow upon you the grace of my chumhandle
TG: no don't worry
TG: your lack of response is entirely understandable
TG: it is only natural to tremble in dumbstruck awe by my presence
CG: Please tell me you have some terrible parasite that has wormed its way through your ear and is disturbing major components to your cranial apparatus. It will be much less concerning to hear than the alternative.
CG: That being that this is your actual personality.
TG: ah hell nah man you cant have red i type in red
CG: And once again, I find myself praying to even the most secular of higher powers that your behavior is the result of some traumatic brain injury.
CG: Because *surely* someone your age ought to possess enough maturity to not bitch over which color text someone has on fucking Pesterchum.
CG: Oh wait, I'm sorry. Freshman. I forgot. Forgive me for my lack of understanding.
TG: seriously man i can barely tell who said what
TG: and i am physically incapable of dropping the red its like the color of my soul
TG: my terribly immature freshmen soul
CG: Jesus Christ.
CG: Here. Satisfied?
TG: ahahaha dude you picked grey youre totally sulking arent you
CG: Well, you seem to be busy shoving your dick up your own ass.
CG: I'll go ahead and leave you to go finish that activity on your own.
TG: whoa whoa aight man take a chill pill
TG: we need to figure out when/where we wanna meet for this thing
CG: Ugh, I don't care.
CG: There's a little lounge near the edge of campus that's not super awful. We could meet there. Meet me at the library and I'll show you where it is.
TG: yeah okay that sounds good
TG: T/Hs alright for time?
TG: we could just meet when the class normally is
CG: Sure, whatever.
CG: But in all actuality, I need to go. See you then.

- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] –-

"I thought we were just gunna meet at some café by campus," you say, voice flat and totally not betraying the mounting horror growing deep in your intestines. The car in front of you is practically taunting you, glaring this godawful tacky red. Fugliest car you've ever seen. Like you can't get over how shitty of red it is. You feel personally betrayed that the color red could look so bad. There's even rust. Everywhere. And where there's not rust there's more rust.

Karkat snorts beside you as he shoves a hand in one of his pockets, rummaging for his keys. "It was a fucking fantastic plan until I realized it's Happy Hour. As much as I enjoy getting trampled by pretentious hipsters, I didn't think it would be all that conducive to a learning environment."

"Seriously, man, I am not getting into that deathtrap," you say, quickly, nearly cutting off his last word. Your mouth is too dry when you swallow. You did not sign up for a fucking car ride. You try to focus on how offensively ugly this monster is, rather than how tight your ribs are. "It's like - what's that phrase? Social fucking suicide to get in that atrocity."

"Oh, get over yourself," Karkat bites back, but there's no real hostility in his expression other than his permanent annoyance. You're getting the feeling everything he does has an essence of aggression that may or may not actually exist. "You can survive one ride in my shitstain of a vehicle. You're a college student. Shitty cars come with the territory."

You don't actually care how shitty the car is. But you're still not getting in the car.

You've only been in a car a few times since Bro…since you were in that accident last spring. Your stomach clenches, makes you shift your weight. A ray of sunlight reflects off Karkat's car into your eyes. The way your retinas sting despite the protection from your shades is a welcome source of annoyance.

"True as that may be, sweaty hipsters are also a part of the college experience. It might be a terrible battle but I think we'll survive if we lay low in the protective corners of the café."

Karkat gives you a long, level look, keys pulled halfway out of his pocket. His mouth is pulled all tight and his eyebrows as low as ever, but for all that he's emotive as fuck you still can't read his expression. His eyelids flicker before he lets out a longsuffering sigh, stuffs his keys back in his pocket.

"Fine," he says. "If you're going to throw a fit about it, we can stay on campus. But let's at least go find a lounge somewhere that isn't crawling with beanie hats."

You try not to let your shoulders visibly sag in relief. But as Karkat turns to walk back towards campus, your intestines twist. He dropped the issue faster than you expected. He probably registered something was up. Shame burns under your skin, but you ignore it, pass it off as the thick heat in the air.

It was nothing, and it means nothing. Stop looking into every goddamn thing. Your life isn't the center of the world – it's not like people actually notice that shit.

The two of you end up in some little lounge in the English building, sitting under the air conditioner and bitching about the weather more than actually making any progress on your project. You get the feeling doing so is some sort of Minnesotan rite of passage. You couldn't think of anything to brainstorm for the project anyway.

You'd thought about bringing up SBAHJ and doing something off that, but considering your horrid writer's block with it lately, you figured it'd be a pointless venture.

You feel agitated when you get back to your apartment that night. Can't sit still and veins buzzing unpleasantly. There's a weak attempt at homework before you realize you'll never be able to focus. You pester John to distract yourself instead, let him ramble about biology and some dumb movie club he joined while you move from your desk to your bed, back to your desk, to the bathroom, and back to your bed again. You might be beginning to resent renting an Efficiency. You can't even go to the roof.

Cold emotion ripples through you.

If only you weren't so restless. You'd just go back to sleep.

But getting going again this past week has made it harder to disconnect. Harder to ignore and harder to sleep. You're eating more again at least, but you don't really have an appetite. Just the act of it calms your nerves.

You dig through your cupboards for a new bag of Doritos, and you're inexplicably reminded of this time when you were five, on your tip toes reaching for some Doritos bro left on the counter, accidentally knocking the whole bowl to the floor. The thing had shattered, you'd jumped back and accidentally stepped on a shard of ceramic. You remember trying not to panic with the thing stuck in your foot, but crying anyway when Bro came in to see what happened. You'd thought he'd yell, but he just scooped you up and brought you to the bathroom, telling you how brave you were as he pulled the shard out.

The memory is like a punch to the gut and you recoil from the cupboard, nearly spilling the whole bag out over the floor. Pain hits you in a way that feels more like panic, your lungs seizing as you back against the wall behind you.

Fuck. Breathe. Just, fuck.

You're so pathetic. Jesus.

You force yourself to take a slow, shaky breath. Will the emotion away, force the memory down. You're fine. It's fine. You're being stupid. Freaking out over fucking Doritos – Bro would laugh in your face.

Your throat feels sticky when you swallow, your tongue tastes sour. You move to grab a box of apple juice from your fridge.

You feel substantially calmer once you suck the little box dry. You crumple it and toss it half-hazardly at the trash by your desk. You miss completely but don't bother picking it up.

Instead, you grab your keys and go for a walk.

You walk aimless circles in the few blocks around your apartment, barely even registering the city around you. By time you head back to your place, it's dark, and you go to bed without bothering to take off anything other than your shoes.

You have a fucked up dream about red cars and red roads and triangular potato chips stuck in your feet.