Chapter Text
Sometimes he dreams of stiflingly hot days, windows wide, fan blasting and music blaring in the room he had. He'd lean back in his shitty kitchen chair and send messages to his friends. In his dreams, they'd joke back at him. They'd read his raps, the ones he pulls out of his ass and fires off at them like the god-tier rapper he is, and they enjoy it.
In those dreams, he was a normal kid. Bro wasn't waiting around the corner with Lil’ Cal to throw him into a strife. Instead, he would be on the couch, playing his shitty game. He'd feel safe leaving his room, there'd be actual food in the fridge.
Sometimes, he would dream of the meteor. He’d be resting on his bed with Karkat, listening to him speak as he droned on and on about his shitty romance novels or movies. And he’d like it. Other times he was in the common area– Maybe watching one of those shitty movies, or listening, making, music. Or even waiting for that stupid fucking machine to make him his shitty coffee
In those dreams, he was just Dave. Dave Strider, Knight of Time and he wasn't headed for uncertain death at the hands of Jack Noir or going to meet some fucked up kid version of his bro.
Those were the good days.
Some days, he dreamt of burning tarmac. Always burning. It melted against the hot sun and burnt the damaged skin of his back. He'd dream of stinging cuts and the sharp feeling of a katana slicing his skin. He'd dream of being kicked when he was already down. He'd dream of Strifes, of not being able to abscond until Bro was happy with his progress that day. Those dreams, he was in pain. He was hurting and although Dave was never religious, he prayed, begged, for anyone to save him; Rescue him from the living hell that his life was. He could almost imagine that everything else was the dream, that this was real.
Those were the bad days.
The worst nights were the ones he dreamt of dying. Of standing on the slab and staring at The Tumour as the timer ticked down. As he stood beside Rose and relived one of the lowest moments of his life where his body was split apart at the seams by the birth of The Green Sun. Where he’d ascended through flames and primordial power in the form of Dave, Knight of Time.
There were dreams where he stood on another roof, Caledfwlch in his hand. Those dreams were the ones that cycled through. Sometimes it was Dirk. Sometimes Karkat, Terezi, or anyone else. Even, occasionally, his own self. All with the same ending; having to make the decision to end the life of someone he knew or let a Jack do it. Those dreams are the ones that never get any easier.
It was the ones which seemed to hover at the edge of his consciousness– Of two swords through him, his own slipping from his fingers. Of standing before Jade on her quest bed, blood dripping down his arms. Ones that he knew couldn’t be real yet felt real, felt like he was dying, like his life was slipping from his fingers. The dreams where he felt he was still in The Game, those were the worst.
It was hard to say he ever really enjoyed his dreams.
At least being awake, staring at Jake English’s ass on screen… At least then he could say that the nightmare was over. Even if he lived a very different sort of nightmare now. Sort of.
It was hard to say now. He wasn’t constantly on edge anymore, now that Earth-C was a thing, now that he flatted with Karkat and that he had his own space to breathe. And well… It helped that there wasn’t puppet porn going on in the environment around him. Even if he was still in contact (Technically) with the source of so much of his trauma.
He loved Dirk, he really did, but sometimes it was hard not to look at the guy and see Bro. And sometimes when Dirk snuck up on him, well… Dave’s not proud to say that Dirk has gotten the short end of the stick by being his ectobiological brother/father. Hypervigilance was unfortunately still a thing, even if he didn’t feel on edge. And that— That kinda sucked; especially when his shit cropped up around all their friends.
It made him feel like a fucking wreck. A big ol’ ‘Oh no, your father/brother said something behind you without you knowing, time to freak the fuck out and–’ Ugh.
Sometimes he wished he was just a little bit less of a fuck up. That he’d acclimatised himself better to the peace and quiet of everything like his friends had. Fuck–Even Kanaya and Karkat had adjusted better than him, and they’d lived on a literal fucking war planet. So he didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with him there.
God. Well. He was god now, technically, so that didn’t work out. Fuck, if he was one of Earth-C’s gods then this planet sure as fuck was doomed.
Which was all really a long-winded way to say that it was currently four-fucking-thirty-am in the morning and Dave was staring out the window watching the seconds literally tick by on his internal clock.
Which was stupid. He should be asleep, but he wasn’t because he’d woken up panting half an hour ago from a stupid dream. And not one of the ‘Oh you’re back in your apartment in a strife’ ones. No. This had been one of the ‘Oh by the way you’re fucking dying’ ones. A real ‘so remember when you and Rose went on that suicide mission, y’know the one that tore your body to literal shreds, well why don’t you relive it again.’ Honestly, was his psyche that fucking caught up on dying to a giant bomb?
He was almost twenty-one for fucks sake. The game had ended almost 5 years ago now, and everything was fine.
It was all fine.
So why did it all feel like it was crashing down around him? It wasn’t like anyone else felt like the world was crashing down, or anyone woke up from nightmares about Sburb (That was a lie. He knew Karkat did, he could sometimes hear Karkat wake up with a dead friend’s name on his lips or something similar. He’d never hold it against Karkat. Dave knew that what happened on the meteor had stuck with him, and that the Troll still considered it his fault).
So why was he still…
Shit, was he seriously crying right now? Comparatively speaking it hadn’t even been that bad of a dream, so was he crying? Dave scrubbed his hands against his eyes and rolled out of the bed, letting his feet touch the ground with a tired sigh.
Seriously. What the fuck?
There was no point trying to sleep anymore at this point so he abandoned the safety of his room and slipped into the chill living room, expecting it to be dark and quiet. Which, admittedly it was, it just wasn’t empty . And that somehow surprised Dave, which it really shouldn’t. Karkat lives here as well, so it makes sense that he’d be here.
Except well… It was still about 4:30. So.
“I wanna say it’s a bit early for you to be up but we all know that’s sorta bullshit,” Dave says. And Karkat jerks, he turns, twists and stares at Dave like he’s grown a second head. Or like he’s forgotten his shades again. It’s happened before, it’ll happen again. Besides, it’s a fucking unholy time in the morning, it’s dark in both his bedroom and the lounge–Like fuck is he making the room that much darker when for once he can go without his shades and give the world those sweet, sweet, red eyes he denies it all the fucking time.
And it doesn’t hurt that Karkat always takes a moment to stare at him every time he’s shades-less. Like…. Like seeing someone else with eyes the colour of his blood makes it easier for him. Makes them both seem a little less like freaks.
Which they’re not–They’re not freaks.
But some scars run deep– Whether it’s years of being mocked in school or a deep fear for your own life. So Dave smiles, drops onto the couch next to Karkat and blinks somewhat distantly when he realises that Karkat had actually replied. Asked him a question even.
“Uh. What?” That earns him a sour look, which he honestly probably deserves. But hell, Karkat usually talks a lot, and loudly. Sue him for zoning out of one conversation at 4:36 am in the morning.
“I said, that I know, I couldn’t sleep. Which–Actually, this doesn’t fucking matter. It’s not like you can fucking talk Dave.” Karkat’s voice rumbles, but it’s pretty clear he’s been up a while. Not that Dave can really talk. Well, he can, but like, that’s not the point.
“I sure actually can talk, it’s easy, see? Like this. Just open your mouth and blurt out your–” A hand was covering his mouth. And Dave did not at all try to resist the urge to lick it.
“Dave what the fuck.” Karkat jerks his hand away with a sour expression. And honestly– Dave could probably, honestly, write lyrics about this. Honestly, he probably had at one point. But he wrote a lot of things, and he remembered less than half of those. And even less of those made it onto paper. So honestly, if he had written anything, he wouldn’t know. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t. He most definitely had written shit about Karkat.
It was hard not to, not when Karkat had been such a big part of his life as long as he had. It was nearing on close to ten or nine years now, or something. (It was actually eight, but he’d actually rather die than let anyone know he was actually keeping track) And though out all of that time, Karkat had been a constant. Sure a grouchy, pissy mother fucker, but a constant nonetheless and considering Dave’s life both before and during the game… Well, it was a relief to actually know someone who related to that whole thing. Which wasn’t to say that none of his other friends didn’t.
But it’d all felt like his other friends had moved on with their lives. Like none of the shit they went through ever affected them. Which… Intrinsically he knows that’s false. Factually, he knows that’s false. He’s seen the way John sometimes stares at everyone, has talked at least one person down from a panic attack. So he kinda wishes that his definition of acclimated wasn't 'doesn't wake up at fuck knows when because trauma by the way’. Because that's, like, a really unfair assessment to all his friends and just because he's not seeing their struggles doesn't mean they aren't.
But at the same time, he does also wish his problems just weren't loud. Actually, a quiet Karkat would probably be so much fucking worse so scratch that actually.
Still.
The sun’s starting to rise over the horizon by now, and honestly, Dave wonders for a moment if he’s slipped back into a dream at this point. He hasn’t.
“Do.” He starts, leaning forwards, resting his arms on his legs. It. It takes him a moment. Because he’s not sure if he really wants to know. He probably already does, and Karkat can be an intensely private person at the best of times. Dave doesn’t want to scare him off and make him think that Dave’s some sort of fucked up voyeur. He’s really, really, fucking not. So he thinks better of it, for once in his fucking life, just stares out the window, watching as light slowly creeps through their open curtains and into the house.
And it’s Karkat who breaks the silence next, a quiet sigh as he makes to stand and move on with his day. He’s meticulous in his habits, taking control of his life in a way the Game didn’t let them. And if his habits dictate that Karkat showers for half an hour every day…Then it was hardly difficult for Dave to let him do that. “Well. We’re both just going to sit here like fucking…” He trails off, shakes his head.
“I’m going to shower.” He finally says, stepping away. And Dave— Dave almost reaches out to stop him, to ask Karkat not to leave him alone with his thoughts. But, what would he do or say to make him?
He didn’t want to seem more damaged than he already did. Dave lets him go, sits in the dim light and looks at the static on the television.
He's not sure how long he stays there (He does. And he doesn't like the answer.)