You know what? Fuck their deposit. The next time something like this happens, he's breaking the fucking door down.
Karkat stands rooted to the spot for several seconds, his jaw slack as the full extent of what Dave had done during his latest spectacular fit of self-destruction sinks in. Shower running, clothes still on—the wall of steam he'd been expecting to hit him hasn't come, which only makes this worse, but at least registering that makes Karkat's next move clear.
He stumbles into the ablutionblock and all but falls to the floor next to the ablution trap in his haste to shut off the water and throw his arms around his moirail, completely failing to give any shits at all that he gets soaked in the process. He should have done this twenty minutes ago, why hadn't he done this twenty minutes ago, is he fucking braindead? Dave—
He buries his face against wet hair, takes a moment to try and calm his breathing, and gives up in record time before pressing a kiss to Dave's temple and resting their heads together.]
Dave. Shoosh.
[Another kiss, then a very uncoordinated attempt to pap this hopelessly pitiful moron's face. There's no real way to tell just yet if Dave has been crying, but since Karkat has resolved to treat him like he has anyway, if not better, it barely fucking matters. He just wants to know.
He makes no move to pull off the shades yet, though, instead pressing another kiss to Dave's forehead because fuck you, he doesn't need a reason.]
Shoooosh, it's okay. I'm here, it's okay.
[He's here and Dirk isn't. In fact, Dirk is never fucking coming here if Karkat can help it, but more on that later.]
Pale for you. Shoosh. Don't be sorry, just—just let me take care of you. Please? You're drenched, idiot, I—fuck, we need to get you out of these clothes. Where's Missy Elliott? Dave?
action
You know what? Fuck their deposit. The next time something like this happens, he's breaking the fucking door down.
Karkat stands rooted to the spot for several seconds, his jaw slack as the full extent of what Dave had done during his latest spectacular fit of self-destruction sinks in. Shower running, clothes still on—the wall of steam he'd been expecting to hit him hasn't come, which only makes this worse, but at least registering that makes Karkat's next move clear.
He stumbles into the ablutionblock and all but falls to the floor next to the ablution trap in his haste to shut off the water and throw his arms around his moirail, completely failing to give any shits at all that he gets soaked in the process. He should have done this twenty minutes ago, why hadn't he done this twenty minutes ago, is he fucking braindead? Dave—
He buries his face against wet hair, takes a moment to try and calm his breathing, and gives up in record time before pressing a kiss to Dave's temple and resting their heads together.]
Dave. Shoosh.
[Another kiss, then a very uncoordinated attempt to pap this hopelessly pitiful moron's face. There's no real way to tell just yet if Dave has been crying, but since Karkat has resolved to treat him like he has anyway, if not better, it barely fucking matters. He just wants to know.
He makes no move to pull off the shades yet, though, instead pressing another kiss to Dave's forehead because fuck you, he doesn't need a reason.]
Shoooosh, it's okay. I'm here, it's okay.
[He's here and Dirk isn't. In fact, Dirk is never fucking coming here if Karkat can help it, but more on that later.]
Pale for you. Shoosh. Don't be sorry, just—just let me take care of you. Please? You're drenched, idiot, I—fuck, we need to get you out of these clothes. Where's Missy Elliott? Dave?