It is just a fucking shirt. That's not really what he's sorry about, it's just...He wants to apologize. He doesn't know what for, exactly, but he feels ashamed and exposed and terrible, still, like something cracked or warped inside him the moment he started weeping like a preschooler, and the break has set but not yet healed. Dave feels bad for dumping it on Karkat, feels bad for crumpling like tissue paper under the slightest pressure. He feels bad for how fucked up he is.
But he doesn't feel stupid. Karkat got there so fast, had words to say so immediately, that it almost doesn't even feel like he's done something wrong. That bawling all over the best friend he's had for the past three years isn't messed up. Like it's natural to expect.
Maybe it's a leader thing, recognizing the breaking points, having a plan of action. Dave doesn't know. And the hand on his back is nice.
He finally uncurls enough to put his own unpracticed arm around Karkat, to return the support in kind. It's weird, not having to worry about those nubby horns digging into his neck. His hair seems different, too, and his skin...
Poor Karkat. He didn't deserve any of this bloated horseshit.]
Me too.
[It all reminds him, suddenly, of Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff #5. The bro hug bump. The memory of their JPEG-y, vacant faces and the incongruity with his and Karkat's current situation works a weak, watery half-laugh out of him. Or maybe he's still crying. Who the fuck knows, not Dave. He sniffs again and presses his sleeve against his leaking eyes.]
God, we're fucked up. Sorry. I just...I've been trying to make this shit work, being here, and it's just...I don't know. [Quieter again, but less desperately fragile, now:] I wish I could fucking sleep.
no subject
It is just a fucking shirt. That's not really what he's sorry about, it's just...He wants to apologize. He doesn't know what for, exactly, but he feels ashamed and exposed and terrible, still, like something cracked or warped inside him the moment he started weeping like a preschooler, and the break has set but not yet healed. Dave feels bad for dumping it on Karkat, feels bad for crumpling like tissue paper under the slightest pressure. He feels bad for how fucked up he is.
But he doesn't feel stupid. Karkat got there so fast, had words to say so immediately, that it almost doesn't even feel like he's done something wrong. That bawling all over the best friend he's had for the past three years isn't messed up. Like it's natural to expect.
Maybe it's a leader thing, recognizing the breaking points, having a plan of action. Dave doesn't know. And the hand on his back is nice.
He finally uncurls enough to put his own unpracticed arm around Karkat, to return the support in kind. It's weird, not having to worry about those nubby horns digging into his neck. His hair seems different, too, and his skin...
Poor Karkat. He didn't deserve any of this bloated horseshit.]
Me too.
[It all reminds him, suddenly, of Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff #5. The bro hug bump. The memory of their JPEG-y, vacant faces and the incongruity with his and Karkat's current situation works a weak, watery half-laugh out of him. Or maybe he's still crying. Who the fuck knows, not Dave. He sniffs again and presses his sleeve against his leaking eyes.]
God, we're fucked up. Sorry. I just...I've been trying to make this shit work, being here, and it's just...I don't know. [Quieter again, but less desperately fragile, now:] I wish I could fucking sleep.