Work Text:
"𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯'𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘬𝘦, 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧!"
But he didn't get it. He didn't. Of course not. Cavendish couldn't understand.
Dakota didn't worry about himself. He couldn't. Because he didn't 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 about himself. He didn't need to.
He was no concern. Whatever happened to him, none of it mattered. He knew his own worth. He knew he'd never made much of an impact; not to Cavendish, not to himself, not to anyone.
Okay, maybe that wasn't true. Maybe he'd had something to offer when he and Cavendish first met. But now they were here. Dakota had already served that role. So what more use was he?
So no, he didn't have to worry about himself. No one seemed to understand that he didn't have to because 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦. It wasn't important to him, never a priority.
But Cavendish? His happiness, his fortune, his safety? That was important. See, Cavendish meant too much. To him, to anyone. He was important. He was vital. He was loved. That wasn't even just out of Dakota's feelings. To Dakota, this was 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘵.
It was a simple progression in Dakota's mind: Cavendish was important, deserved appreciation, deserved love. Deserved the world. Dakota kept himself along as well. Not because he had any interest in caring for himself. Simply to fulfill his need to give Cavendish all he could. His love, his praise, his encouragement.
It wasn't even just for Cavendish. It was anyone he cared about. Cavendish or Milo or his strange little friends, they were all of importance. And because of that, Dakota felt the need to love them. To be there for them. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 was his purpose. A vessel for emotional structure. Who cares what he "needed"? He knew his limits. He knew the minimum required to survive.
Sure, the stress was unhealthy. Sure, his mindset was unhealthy. Too often, his thoughts trailed to darker places, haunted by intrusive thoughts, conflicted feelings, even harmful urges. But what was he going to do. He couldn't pull through with anything. Hell, how did he intend on working up the courage to end it all when he could barely work up the effort to get out of bed each morning? Of course, he knew there were other itches to scratch without necessarily approaching his final curtain. But it was hard enough to cover up old scars, let alone new ones. Besides, what could he say? He was three months clean. And too spiteful a bitch to break that streak.
So, the urges called and he longed to answer. Instead, he'd push them down. After all, he still was somewhat needed. For support, to be a pillar of comfort. He didn't care what he needed.
He didn't care.