You feel bad that Karkat noticed, let alone that he was pushed onto the stage to perform. You frown, lowing your voice and leaning in towards him as the chant begins in the audience:
"Brother you don’t got to, I can take the mic and you can leave. Or uh, if you want to all give it a shot, that would be motherfuckin wicked of you. Sure you could spout out some sick noise."
You give your friend a hearty pat, awaiting his response.
Gamzee’s words of encouragement were lost to you in the din of the cafe. Any focus you had on hauling your friend off-stage by the ear jumbled with the rush of music; the lights that obscured your vision made the numerous people pushing in to see little more but a bobbing, faceless mass that made you dizzy.
You weren’t one for stagefright per se, but the way the announcer clamped his damp fingers around yours to secure the microphone made you nauseous.
The mic bounces off your teeth when you finally swing it near your mouth, squeezing its handle tight in both hands till your knuckles paled.
There was really only one rap you knew.
It rolls off your tongue with practiced ease, as if you might have spent a number of nights in your youth rapping along to it in the privacy of your respiteblock which was a ridiculous fucking accusation if anyone ever asked—
thanks for coming kanaya
they’re like those “sometimes best friends” kinda guys
WAIT DONT LOOK AT YOUR PHONE WATCH THE ROAD
I’M SHOUTING INTO MY WATCH YOU BLUBBERING NUMSKULL
SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP I’M DRIVING
kARKAT I DONT WAN T YOU GETTTING HURT OKAY LIKE STOP AT THE RED LIGHTS AND SHIT IM NOT GOING ANYWHERE
NO I FORGOT TO BRING FUCKING PANTS