Chapter Text
You are Karkat Vantas, and you have finally finished writing your screenplay.
You remember starting it, back when you were twelve and it was a silly idea you jokingly jotted down. You remember when you were fourteen and it was a strictly confidential file hidden deep in your computer folders. You remember when you were eighteen and it was no longer a joke or an embarrassingly private file, instead a story that held so much significance to you that you were sure writing it was the most important thing you could do. You remember when you were nineteen and it was abandoned, your hopes of finishing it scattered, your time taken up by college and work and real life.
And you remember when you were twenty-three and found that old Microsoft Word file sitting untouched for years. You remember rereading it and crying, then dedicating yourself to working on it as much as you could, even if it was on the side.
It had gone through countless revisions over the years, the plot refined and refreshed, the characters’ developments charted out, the dramatic, romantic, and comedic beats timed to balance and complement each other. You’re sure you’ll never be completely satisfied with it, that you could work on it for decades and still never make it perfect, but you’re twenty-eight now and you've gotten to the point where you’re happy with it. Five years since you rediscovered it- five years of editing dialogue during your breaks at work, of staying up late adding and deleting scenes, of shutting yourself in and avoiding social events and friends to weave a fictional romantic relationship- and finally, it’s done.
This screenplay was probably the closest thing you’d ever have to a son. And damn if you didn’t want to show it off to the world.
You just had to find the right partner. A director who would intuitively understand exactly what you want from reading your script, or at least someone who listened to your spoken words when the written ones didn’t get something across.
Someone who would care for it as if it were their own.
Unfortunately, between your irritating temper problem and the fact that you spent the past few years skipping social events, your networking skills are a little… rusty. Which means you’re left with absolutely no leg-up when it comes to trying to get someone to read your script. When you do manage to get some contact information, it’s only ever for a director’s agent, and you’re left trying to explain what makes you different from the hundreds of other lonely souls out there writing “the next big movie”. It never really works out in your favor, especially when they put on that condescending tone and you get just pissed off enough to start yelling.
At this point, you’re tempted to settle for pretty much anyone. You could try a less well-known studio or director, or maybe even let some film majors at the local college take a crack at it. Except you know your movie deserves better treatment.
There’s one last avenue your haven’t tried yet, though. The idea is accompanied by a heavy sense of guilt. But you have to try it. Any chance you can get to put your screenplay out there, you’ll take.
Shoving down those guilty feelings, you grab your phone and call June Egbert.
She picks up before the third ring. “Hello?”
Now that’s a voice you haven’t heard in far too long. “Hey, June.”
“Karkat!” Like always, her voice is filled with enthusiasm. “Wow, it’s been a while! You barely text me anymore. Gosh, I can’t even remember the last time I saw you. What has it been, like two years?”
“Something like that.” It’s closer to three, but you’re not about to tell her that. “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been scarcer than a germ on Howie Mandel’s ass, I’ve just been busy.” That’s not exactly true, either. If you hadn’t dedicated so much of your free time to your screenplay, you might have actually gotten out of the house for something non-work-related. You probably shouldn’t make a habit of being dishonest with your few friends- you’re probably already on thin ice with most of them, thanks to your antisocial habits, and you don’t really have any to spare.
June just laughs it off. “You’re fine, Karkat! I get it. The Man can really work a person down to the bones, huh? Get off my back, The Man!” You can clearly picture June jokingly shaking her fist at the ceiling. She’s corny like that. “Anyway, what brought you to call your dear old pal?”
“Uh, well…” Fuck. You want to tell the truth, you really do, but you don’t want to disappoint her. What kind of an asshole calls their friend of fifteen years, who they haven’t even texted since last month, and reveals they’re just calling for personal gain? You are, apparently, exactly that kind of an asshole. You are literally only calling to get your screenplay, which is the entire reason you haven’t seen June in so long, some recognition.
You picked June because she’s pretty big in the entertainment industry. She’d started with a Youtube channel, harmlessly pranking unsuspecting friends for laughs. Then she’d posted comedy sketches, making her viewership soar, and suddenly she was getting attention for her skills, getting offers on SNL and a few sitcoms. You, of course, didn’t really understand the appeal of turning Youtube stars into mainstream celebrities- for the most part, it never really turned out well when they left Youtube and got media attention, and agents, and restrictions on their content. You were happy for June, though- her humor was just as potent through a television as through a computer screen. You couldn’t say you weren’t jealous, though, especially since at the time you had yet to rediscover your script and your life was feeling particularly directionless.
You know she’s made connections, what with that positivity-fueled charisma she has. She might even know a big director or two, if you’re lucky. You feel absolutely rotten for exploiting your friendship like this, especially since you’ve been such a crappy excuse of a friend lately, but this might be your last shot to get the attention your movie needs.
“Karkat?” You didn’t even realize you’d been quiet for so long.
“Yeah, sorry, I’m still here. I just called because I wanted to talk to you about something that’s pretty fucking important to me. It’s-”
“Oh, something important, you say? Why don’t you come over and we can talk about it in person?” Fuck. Just what you need, an awkward conversation in person. “Unless it’s urgent, then of course I’ll help you as quickly as I can. But both me and Terezi would really like an excuse to see you, since it’s been so long.”
Wow. Is she playing the guilt card? She definitely is. And mentioning Terezi, as if that’s a bargaining chip! Well, not that it isn’t, per se. Sure, you two had a close pass with romance when you were younger, but you both got over it and were able to stay pretty close as friends, even if things didn’t end super well. Okay, maybe she hates you. But hey, at least you introduced her to June, who is... another person you definitely had a fleeting crush on for a few weeks. They got on like two peas in a pod- well, okay, that’s also not true, they fought a lot, but in a playful, weirdly endearing way. And then they got engaged. Your ex-crush and your ex-girlfriend. Except they’re also two of the closest friends you have.
You’re not jealous or anything- you’re glad their bickering-based relationship is so strong- but it does make you wish you had someone like that for yourself. Hell, there’s a reason your favorite movies are all romantic comedies. There’s a reason the one you wrote is a romantic comedy. You just… haven’t found the right person, haven’t had the time to meet new people. You don’t even remember the last time you met someone new. Does a Doordash delivery guy count? Probably not. Besides, your shitty personality would be enough to scare off any prospective dates.
Sometimes you wonder if you’ll ever get that romcom fairy-tale ending you used to believe in. It used to drive you, the idea that fate had the perfect person waiting for you somewhere. It’s that kind of belief that propelled you to write your screenplay, and to work on it until it was done. You’re not sure if you still have it. You’re not sure you know a single shitting thing about love, or fate, or destiny. You’re not sure if your script’s story reflects you, or just a shadow, an outline you used to fill but have since grown out of. Or maybe you shrunk, and now that outline's too big to fill. You're not sure.
Then again, you’re not sure of much of anything these days.
June is still waiting patiently for your answer. You really don’t have a choice, though, and she knows it- she can be very persuasive when she wants to be. You sigh. “Sure, I guess. It’s not like I’m in a rush or anything. We can talk in person like normal fucking adults.”
“Great!” Her excitement is infectious- or it would be, if you weren’t dreading this meeting with every bone in your body. “When are you free? My schedule’s kinda tight lately, but I can definitely move things around to squeeze you in.”
She probably still thinks you’re busy as hell. Swamped with work or whatever. “Uh, I mean, I’m free pretty much any day after work. So, anytime after six, I guess.”
“Awesome!” If she’s suspicious of your sudden abundance of free time, she doesn’t show it. “How about next Wednesday?”
“That works for me. Guess I’ll see you then.”
“Heheh, not if I see you first!”
The joke doesn’t even really make sense to you, but whatever. “Sure. Bye, June.”
“Bye, Karkat!”
You hang up, then slump into your couch, putting your head in your hands.
God, you didn’t realize socializing would be this hard for you. You guess that’s what happens when you go years without practice.