I've seen a lot of Trans!Dave fics, but a sad few Trans!Karkat ones. I've decided to take it upon myself to fix that.

As per usual, I will be using my Fanfiction account as sort of a journal of Rough Drafts. I'll post this story in bits at a time to keep myself motivated to finish the project. I'll put up the completed, revised work on A03 once it's complete.

Enjoy the first, sadly short installment!

It's the first day of kindergarten. Your dad told you this would be a big day, and that you'd have lots of fun. You're scared anyway. You don't know anyone; you're too shy to try talking to anyone either.

The morning goes by pretty okay. Your teacher is an older lady, who sometimes forgets things. She has you introduce yourselves. When it's your turn, you nervously say your name, your favorite animal, who your family members are. Some of the kids laugh at your name. The teacher scolds them and tells you she thinks it's pretty. You want to tell her 'no, my name is not pretty.' but she's moved on to asking the next student to introduce herself before you can.

Despite not having anyone to talk to, you do pretty well until the teacher tells you and your classmates to line up, boys on one side of the room and girls on the other.

You walk over to the boys' side, little fists nervously balled up, fingers clenching the hems of your oversized turtleneck. You hate how small you still are, tucked in between two boys almost twice your size. Your dad keeps telling you how much you've been growing, but you're not sure you believe him.

"What are you doing over here?" one of the boys asks, staring down at you like you just stuck a toad in his hair.

You furrow your eyebrows, confused. Before you even finish opening your mouth to ask what he meant, the boy on you other side gives you a shove. You stumble out of the line.

"Get over there," the second boy says, making a weird, twisted up expression, like he can't decide if he's amused or grossed out.

"Wha," you sputter before your temper flares. "Don't push me!" you shout, stamping a foot down. You try to worm your way back in your place in the line, but they move close together so you can't get in. "Let me back in line! I was there first!"

"You're in the wrong line, dummy," the second boy says, shoving you back again.

"No I'm not!" you scream at them. You start to lurch at them but you're stopped by a big adult hand around your middle.

"Hey, what's going on here?" your teacher asks, a scolding look all over her face. You shrink into yourself, can't manage to find your voice to tell her that these mean jerks keep pushing you out of line for no reason.

"She's in the wrong line!" the first boy pipes up, looking very pleased with himself. You stick your tongue out at him.

"No, I'm not!" you shout back from the teacher's arm. You hate her for holding onto you. It makes you look weak in front of them.

"Ohh, oh, sweetie," the teacher says, suddenly sounding like she's talking to the puppy your neighbors had before someone ran it over. "The girls' line is over here, honey."

You want to protest, but it gets caught in your throat. You feel a wave of confusion roll through you as you let yourself be led to the opposite side of the room. You see the girls' hair, long like yours. See how most of them are wearing skirts like yours. And you realize your teacher's right, those boys are right, you do match this side of the room.

Knowing this doesn't stop you from sending confused stares across the room until your dad comes to pick you up at the end of the day.

He gets introduced to the class the day school starts again after winter break.

"Okay, everybody," the teacher says at the start of class, "this is your new friend, Dave Strider. He just moved here from the cities so make sure to be nice and help him out if he gets lost or anything."

You eye him curiously along with the rest of your classmates. His skin is pretty tan, but you can tell it must be from being outside so much, like he should actually be pretty pale if he didn't. He's got pink sunburn across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, despite it being January, sun darkened freckles speckled across the burn. His hair is almost impossibly blonde, a number of notches lighter than his skin, all swept to the side like some movie star. On his six year old face, it's pretty stupid.

Most stupid are these ridiculous triangle shaped sunglasses that are two sizes too big for his face.

"I thought we can't wear sunglasses at school," you say loudly before thinking about it. You're always doing that. You have a hard time controlling your mouth and everything you say always comes out too loud.

"Raise your hand first, Karkat," your teacher scolds, giving you a warning look. "And Dave is allowed to have his sunglasses because he needs them for his eyes. They're really sensitive to light and the glasses help protect them."

"And 'cuz they're cool as shit," Dave pipes up, his face straight.

You blink, mouth dropping open. There's a flurry of whispers around the room, some kids gasping about how he'll get a time out, or his parents called. Some kids are frantically asking what's wrong, what does that word mean? You've heard the word before from your dad when he gets really upset. Afterwards he always makes sure to tell you to never say that word yourself. It's a bad word.

The teacher ruffles in surprise, telling Dave not to say that word again or she'll have to call his home if he says it again. Dave just shrugs, says "okay," like he honestly doesn't care. Still flustered, the teacher tells him to sit next to you while she goes to get the letter tracing worksheets.

Dave plops himself in the chair next to you, looking like he's holding back a proud smile but failing. You frown and hunch your shoulders around your ears, your black hair falling like a veil over your face. Why does he have to sit by you? He's mean to the teacher. He makes you nervous.

"Sup?" he asks, leaning back in his chair and crossing his small arms. You notice some sort of juice stain on his sleeve. Dummy can't even drink right. You wedge your hands under your thighs and try to ignore him. "Hey," he says, pokes you.

"Don't touch me," you snap at him and your teacher gives you another warning look from across the room where she's gathering the worksheets. Dave looks like he's going to prod at you more, but stops himself when the teacher pointedly places herself between the two of you.

"Dave, stop picking on Karkat," she says, placing the worksheets in front of you along with a box of crayons. "And Karkat, I've told you a thousand times, use your inside voice."

You glare at her back as she turns to give the other kids their worksheets. You examine yours, recognize the sheet has your name written on it ten times, with dotted letters to trace. You look at Dave and realize his has different letters than yours - they must spell his name. Your face sours when you realize he has less letters to practice. Not fair.

When you reach for the box of crayons, Dave snatches it away, pulls the red crayon out of the box.

"Hey! I wanted red!" you whisper loudly at him, not wanting the teacher to yell at you again.

"I got it first," Dave says, starting to trace his letters. He sucks at it.

"But I want it," you protest. You're not pouting. You promised your dad you wouldn't pout.

"Here," Dave says, not even looking at you as he reaches into the box again. He pulls out the pink crayon and puts it in front of you. "Use that one then. It's kinda like red."

"But pink is a girl color," you frown, pulling your hands free from your thighs to push it back.

"Yeah, so?" Dave asks, his mouth also pulling into a frown. "You're a girl, so what's the problem?"

You don't know what to say to that. He's right sorta? You guess he's right. That doesn't make you any happier. "I don't want pink," you say stubbornly, reach back into the box, grab the first crayon your fingers meet.

It's grey. Probably the worst color in the whole box excluding white. You use it anyway. You catch Dave smirking at you in the corner of your eye.

You realize two very important things that day. One: you hate being treated like a girl. And two: you really hate Dave Strider.