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It's a perfect clear day, and so you take the walk with Karkat over to the makeshift gym Dirk and Jake have been sparring in lately. Jake’s been teaching Karkat how to target-shoot because…well, you still don't get all that, but getting out into the fresh air is good for you lately, even if you never stick around.
Today, there’s no way you’re sticking around because Dirk’s in there and things between you these days are weirder and more confusing than ever. Your heart starts to pound the moment you spot him, so hard you feel like you’ve run a marathon, not just taken a leisurely stroll, and you inch back up towards the open door.
“Hey,” Dirk says when he sees you, lowering his sword. He narrows his eyes when he notices the fidgety state you’re in and adds a suspicious, “What’s up?”
“Oh. N-nothing,” you stammer. “I gotta go. Bye.” Karkat looks at you like you’ve grown an extra head and you offer him a short half-wave before quickly absconding.
You guess your weirdness isn’t gonna fly with Dirk today, though, because he’s in front of you before you get very far, the impressive width of his body casting a dark shadow all around you. Every time you see him it’s like he gets bigger, taller, more physically imposing, and now you think he’s surpassed even your Bro in that department. At six-foot-three he towers over you the way your Bro once did, and the thick muscles he’s developed over the past few months just remind you of feeling weak, trapped, overpowered and entirely at the mercy of someone capable of breaking you in two with hardly any effort at all.
“Dave.”
“Oh. Hey.” You avoid his eyes but yours dart around wildly, everywhere but at him, and you’re aware of how shifty you must look to him. You've completely lost any semblance of chill you ever possessed.
“What’s with you?”
“Nothing, just… Nothing. I’m good. I’m cool. Totally sweet.”
“Yeah, well you don’t look it. Are you avoiding me or something?”
You try for a laugh but it just comes out sounding empty and pathetic. “Psshh. No? Why would I be avoiding you?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me, Dave?” And shit if that doesn’t make your situation a thousand times worse. A beat later and you’re sweating bullets because he doesn’t just look like him, he fucking sounds like him, too. That low, deceptively-calm tone that makes your blood run cold because you know what follows it and how bad it hurts.
“I’ve gotta go,” you tell him for the second time that day. You don’t miss the look of bewilderment on his face as you split, run away from him like some scared little kid. Unlike your Bro, he doesn’t come chasing after you, terrifying and purposeful and full of fury and vengeance. You suppose that should make you feel better but it doesn’t.
*
The next time, it’s you who approaches him. You find him alone in the gym, and before he can get a word out you blurt, “You look like him.”
He doesn’t even try to act surprised. But then you suppose he’s smart enough to have guessed why you’ve been acting so sketchy around him lately.
“I… Dave, I’m—”
You hold a hand up to stop him. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I know, but it’s not like that. I mean, you really look like him now. The way I remember him. Before, you kinda didn’t, I mean, you looked like you, but now it’s… I don’t know, man; I know it’s not your fault but every time I look at you I see him and it’s…” You lick your lips and avert your eyes in shame. “It’s a trip. What can I say.”
“Uh, I’m sorry?”
“Don’t do that,” you tell him, and it comes out harsher than you intend. “I mean, just...don’t apologize,” you add, gentler now, “‘cause it ain’t even kinda your fault, man. It’s not you, it’s me. And I know that sounds like some lame one-liner but it’s true. It’s not you, dude. This is my shit and I’m sorry for spraying it all over you.”
“Nice imagery, but… I get it. It’s fine. Really.”
“No, it’s not.” Your throat suddenly feels thick and there's a stinging pressure behind your eyes. He’s always so understanding with you and you feel like a total d-bag for fucking up your friendship with him at every turn, for making things like this between you, all because you’re not over your shit with your Bro no matter how many times you tell yourself you are.
You can’t stand the way he’s looking at you, all stiff and awkward like he doesn’t know what to do because you’re crying now and he thinks he’s responsible.
“Dave.”
Shit. You make to leave, get the hell out of here before you dig yourself a deeper ditch, but then he says, “Dave, come here,” and you stop, find yourself gravitating towards him the second he asks you to--no hesitation, just need.
He lays his sword down and places a heavy hand on your shoulder. “C’mon, don’t.” He’s pulling you into him then and you fall against his hard chest, wrapping your arms around his torso the second he’s given you the opening to touch him, be close to him.
He holds you close to his chest, stays still and silent while you cry into the soft fabric of his tank. With each second that passes the awful tension in your body eases bit by bit, and you think this is what you needed from him all along.