[Crying. Yes, right, of course, crying, because that's the important thing Dave should be taking away from this, some pointless fucking observation about Karkat's emotional state that's absolutely nothing anyone with a pair of working ganderbulbs could have worked out on their own. This is so completely fucking noteworthy that it needs to be recorded in the annals of shut the fuck up and cater to your own goddamn needs, you insipid grubfucking moron. What's so bad about crying?? IT'S JUST WATER, ISN'T IT?
Karkat convulses with another silent not-laugh before his body folds around Dave's completely, a sharp gasp punctuating the moment he remembers how to breathe without howling. He is not okay. Dave's not okay, neither of them are okay, he's not buying any of these fermented behemoth leavings until he sees some actual fucking evidence of anyone being at all okay, ever, which will probably have to wait until he's feeling less lightheaded and wow when had that started happening? He is breathing, right?
He clutches at Dave's back and draws in another desperate lungful of air, his squeal pipette fighting him every step of the way. It shouldn't be this hard, breathing is easy, he does it literally every day! Breathe!]
D-Dave.
[Oh, yes, real fucking helpful. About as helpful as usual, which is to say not at all and he's probably making things worse. What else is fucking new!
He plants his face in Dave's neck and shudders, his pulse pounding in his auricular sponge clots. He's supposed to be helping his moirail dry up, change clothes, get the fuck into bed, but he can't. Fucking. Think. He's absurdly grateful for the towel suddenly; his nails are digging into it hard enough that he probably would have drawn blood by now, or at least it fucking feels like it.]
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Karkat convulses with another silent not-laugh before his body folds around Dave's completely, a sharp gasp punctuating the moment he remembers how to breathe without howling. He is not okay. Dave's not okay, neither of them are okay, he's not buying any of these fermented behemoth leavings until he sees some actual fucking evidence of anyone being at all okay, ever, which will probably have to wait until he's feeling less lightheaded and wow when had that started happening? He is breathing, right?
He clutches at Dave's back and draws in another desperate lungful of air, his squeal pipette fighting him every step of the way. It shouldn't be this hard, breathing is easy, he does it literally every day! Breathe!]
D-Dave.
[Oh, yes, real fucking helpful. About as helpful as usual, which is to say not at all and he's probably making things worse. What else is fucking new!
He plants his face in Dave's neck and shudders, his pulse pounding in his auricular sponge clots. He's supposed to be helping his moirail dry up, change clothes, get the fuck into bed, but he can't. Fucking. Think. He's absurdly grateful for the towel suddenly; his nails are digging into it hard enough that he probably would have drawn blood by now, or at least it fucking feels like it.]