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His hands are warm as they steadily trace patterns on your skin while you lay together. You think how much those hands have been through. They’ve been cut, calloused, scabbed. They’ve seen combat, and so much more. So much more than the hands of anyone his age should’ve.
Dave has been through a lot too, as have you, and everyone else with you. He watched his Bro die. He’s seen his best friends die. He’s been thrown into a strange timeline, and you know exactly what that’s like.
His breath is warm on your neck. It’s comforting somewhat. Like you know he’s there still. You fear he’ll leave you at any moment. He’ll realize just how useless, pathetic, tiny, and self destructive you are. He’ll see the scars that litter your arms and thighs and decide you’re not worth it. He’ll remember all the things you had said before and realize that maybe it’s just not worth all the trouble.
The first tear slides down your face, silently. You don’t want to make any noise. You don’t want to worry him. He’s been through so much. He’s so young. You’re all so young. You shouldn’t be the ones fighting, bleeding, scarring, killing.
Eventually you can’t help it though. A whimper escapes you, and you desperately wish that it didn’t. He immediately sits up, hoisting you into his lap while more involuntary tears spill and more pitiful, weak sounds escape you. He kisses your tear stained cheek softly before pulling away.
“What’s wrong?” He asks gently, rubbing your back with one hand.
“I’m so sorry.” You whisper, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry Dave it’s all my fault I’m so sorry.” Because it is. It is, without you this wouldn’t have happened. It was all you, all you, all you.
He shushes you and tells you it’s not. It’s not your fault, it’s not your fault, Karkat.
“D-Dave. Can I s-show you s-something.” You ask, holding back tears in the form of choked noises that insert themselves in random points of your sentences, serving the purpose of some non-existent form of punctuation.
He nods, pulling you closer.
You roll up the sleeves of your sweater, tears now dripping helplessly over the scars as you hold your arms in front of you. Close to your body, but not so hidden that Dave can’t see them.
The imperfections are clustered, some faded scars, barely noticeable, and some more prominent ones, some even still healing. You remember some of them. A particularly large cluster from when Gamzee had gone off the deep end.
Dave scans the marks before pulling you closer, whispering again.
It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.
It’s okay Karkat, It’s okay.