[There's not much closer to get, but Karkat is just as keen as Dave is to try. He's already wound around his moirail's upper body like a particularly insidious strand of ivy, but between the hand on his back, the breath on his neck, and Dave nosing at him everywhere he can reach—fuck, okay, fine, he takes it back: Dave knows exactly what he's doing. He doesn't know what the fuck he's saying but that's probably true of anyone with any level of comprehension of the English language at all, ever. The few parts that aren't an unrecognizable mass of syllables farted out his mouth, though, those are...

He sniffs and hides his face against Dave's chest because fuck you, no, he is not going to cry because he's moved or whatever, who does Dave even think he's trying to fool here? He'd—do something ram the idiot's head into the door again because ~*Dave's heart's ass pancakes*~ alone deserves some form of retaliation, possibly of the extreme variety, but he's not moving for anything right now. Even if that would be satisfying. Holy fuck how can anyone be this bad at piletalk.

As for... the other parts...

He hugs Dave tighter still and sniffs again. He'll do more than straight up cling once he's no longer in danger of losing his shit all over the place, okay?]

You're either braindead, delusional, or your feeble, carbon-based human skull is so completely horrible at protecting your minuscule think pan that you somehow managed to give yourself a concussion from hitting that block aperture with insufficient force to kill a fucking marchbug.

[He pauses, then lifts his head just enough to nuzzle under Dave's jaw and at his throat before tucking his head back under his chin. Just. Give him a minute.]

... I'm sorry.

[Not about the concussion thing; Dave deserved that. He hadn't deserved everything else.]