[The tighter squeeze is a surprise; he thought Karkat would let go now that it's clear Dave's not about to literally explode with self-pity. Grief. Whatever more emotionally competent people call this sucking-down dark hole in the pit of his chest, the thing that makes gravity three times as heavy whenever he tries to move forward. He thought they'd separate to talk it out, reestablish personal bubbles.
But with Karkat's head still tucked into his shoulder, Dave's okay to wait, because he's not gonna pry his friend off when it feels like he needs something, too. He just brings his other hand up, rubs Karkat's back once or twice. Leans into it again, lets the hug take more of his weight. This boy ain't going nowhere.]
I meant in general, numbnuts. I wish I could sleep in general.
[It's easier to talk about something more concrete, like his sleep schedule. Or complete lack thereof. There is so much sleep not happening, he's not sure the vacancy can get any more like a composite material composed of aggregate bonded together with a fluid cement which hardens over time.
Addressing the other thing would mean figuring out why he said that in the first place, and he has a sense it just came out automatically. He's not primed for any dismantling of his innermost machinery, not right now. He breathes out a shaky sigh.]
I always kind of had trouble...? But now, it's like. Every time I try, I jerk myself back to consciousness, so I'm just lying there for hours feeling like a total useless tool while Missy Elliott pretends I'm not waking her up every five minutes. And then when I do pass out, I dream--
[The words catch in his chest, and he freezes up for a second. Two. But, no. He managed to talk about this when he was thirteen, before everything, before he knew what was going to happen. He managed to get it out. He exhales again, eyes screwed tightly shut, and makes himself continue.]
I dream about dying, a lot. Or about other people. So it. Yeah, I'm not getting a lot of sleep. I thought it'd get better, but...
[Why is this so hard to admit?]
I think. I think it's just getting worse. Like the longer this goes on, the more my body just doesn't want to turn off, the more I just get worked up about it. So. Yeah. That's where I'm at with that.
no subject
[The tighter squeeze is a surprise; he thought Karkat would let go now that it's clear Dave's not about to literally explode with self-pity. Grief. Whatever more emotionally competent people call this sucking-down dark hole in the pit of his chest, the thing that makes gravity three times as heavy whenever he tries to move forward. He thought they'd separate to talk it out, reestablish personal bubbles.
But with Karkat's head still tucked into his shoulder, Dave's okay to wait, because he's not gonna pry his friend off when it feels like he needs something, too. He just brings his other hand up, rubs Karkat's back once or twice. Leans into it again, lets the hug take more of his weight. This boy ain't going nowhere.]
I meant in general, numbnuts. I wish I could sleep in general.
[It's easier to talk about something more concrete, like his sleep schedule. Or complete lack thereof. There is so much sleep not happening, he's not sure the vacancy can get any more like a composite material composed of aggregate bonded together with a fluid cement which hardens over time.
Addressing the other thing would mean figuring out why he said that in the first place, and he has a sense it just came out automatically. He's not primed for any dismantling of his innermost machinery, not right now. He breathes out a shaky sigh.]
I always kind of had trouble...? But now, it's like. Every time I try, I jerk myself back to consciousness, so I'm just lying there for hours feeling like a total useless tool while Missy Elliott pretends I'm not waking her up every five minutes. And then when I do pass out, I dream--
[The words catch in his chest, and he freezes up for a second. Two. But, no. He managed to talk about this when he was thirteen, before everything, before he knew what was going to happen. He managed to get it out. He exhales again, eyes screwed tightly shut, and makes himself continue.]
I dream about dying, a lot. Or about other people. So it. Yeah, I'm not getting a lot of sleep. I thought it'd get better, but...
[Why is this so hard to admit?]
I think. I think it's just getting worse. Like the longer this goes on, the more my body just doesn't want to turn off, the more I just get worked up about it. So. Yeah. That's where I'm at with that.