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It isn’t uncommon for Dirk to move around at night, move closer to Dave and press against him. He’s been doing it since he was a child. Just, sometimes he moves around enough to wake Dave up, and not because he’s having a nightmare.
In the moonlight shining through the half open window, Dave can see Dirk gripping the pillow case and the bed sheets, his skin beaded with sweat as his legs squirm. He watches, almost in awe, feeling guilty when he swallows and his throat is dry. Why does he always end up back here? He shouldn’t feel this way. He should just wake up Dirk and take him to the bathroom before the kid has another accident.
Dirk whines, gasping softly, rubbing his legs together. Dave bites his lip, waits a few moments. Dirk’s still asleep, he can see it in the way his chest rises and falls slowly. The kid can be a deep sleeper sometimes.
Gently, Dave reaches forward and brushes Dirk’s bangs away from his sweaty forehead. He can’t tell if the kid has a fever (he hasn’t been feeling well all day) and he should really wake him up. If Dirk wets the bed he’ll wake up in tears and there’ll be never ending apologies. It’s always a big deal, even though it’s a common occurrence whenever Dirk forgoes his diapers. Dave doesn’t care, there’s been a mattress protector on for years, but for some reason it always makes Dirk so upset. He’s sure it’s embarrassing for him (he actually doesn’t know; he doesn’t think he’s ever wet the bed), maybe he feels humiliated, doing such a childish thing at fifteen in front of the person he idolizes. That’s why he should wake him up. He could bring Dirk to the bathroom and get the thermometer and take his temperature while he pisses. That would be the good thing to do.
Dave has no intentions of doing that.
Dirk is wearing these cute little white shorts and a black tank top with a heart on the front. He looks so good, needy and desperate even in his sleep. His dreams are probably full of water.
Dave lifts Dirk’s shirt, fingers brushing against his abdomen. He gasps and squeezes his legs together tighter. His bladder is hard, bulging out. What did he even drink before bed? With the way he keeps squirming and if those (hot) sounds he’s making are any indication, he doesn’t have much time left.
He presses his hand against Dirk’s crotch and squeezes. Dirk moans softly, curling up more and squishing Dave’s hand between his legs. Dave tries to keep his breaths quiet, even though he’s pretty sure that won’t wake Dirk up at this point, he doesn’t want to run any risk of him waking up to see his older brother’s hand between his legs, dick hard in his boxers. For a split second, Dave regrets. He shouldn’t be doing this, what kind of guardian does this?
But then Dirk whimpers, a deeply pitiful sound, and Dave can feel his hand slowly getting wet. Slowly, then forcefully, the piss just gushing out of him. Dave’s eyes widen and in the darkness of the room he can just make out the wet spot spreading from Dirk’s pants to the bed sheets. It’s so warm and he shouldn’t like this, he should not like feeling his little brother pissing himself, should definitely not enjoy the utter relief on Dirk’s face, the blush on his cheeks, his little breathy gasps, as he empties his bladder all over his hand.
He should feel so bad. He does, sort of, just a little guilt pricking at this stomach, yet his hand moves, rubbing against the wet fabric of Dirk’s little shorts as the stream starts to taper off. Dave wraps his other arm around him, holds him close. The space under them is soaked (seriously, how much did he drink before bed?), both of their pants and legs are wet with pee and Dave enjoys the warmth while he can.
He sort of gets lost in all of it long enough that he barely has time to pull his hand away before he notices Dirk stirring. Those pretty orange eyes flutter open and for a few moments, there’s still blissful silence. He looks so sleepy and peaceful.
And then he feels the wetness, which has now cooled and is starting to get uncomfortable, realizes how close he is to Dave. Dirk whimpers, curls up tightly and, just as Dave suspected, the apologies all tumble out.
“’m s'rry,” he slurs, voice thick with tears already. “’m s-so s'rry… fuck. I-I–”
“Shh, it’s fine. Don’t cry. It was just an accident.” An accident that could have been avoided, but who needs to know that? He kisses Dirk’s forehead. He prays Dirk is too upset to notice how hard he still is. He shifts a little, trying to hide it, and Dirk just keeps crying. Dave can tell he’s torn between clinging to him tightly and pushing him away. Dirk ends up choosing the former, which makes it very easy to scoop him up in his arms and slip out of bed.
Now it’s time for the usual routine; throwing their clothes in the hamper, get into the bathtub, decompress in the warm bathtub until Dirk is relaxed and tired enough to go back to bed. Dave tries to think of awful things as Dirk shakily slips out of his clothes. He tries not to look because that’ll just make things worse for himself. It’s all for naught in the end because once he gets his boxers off, Dirk is standing right beside him, wiping the tears from his eyes, staring at his still semi-hard dick. He mouth pulls into a tired frown and he huffs, coughs into his fist.
“You’re so gross,” he murmurs, swaying a little. But there’s no malice. Maybe he doesn’t know.
Dave huffs a weak laugh and just gently ushers Dirk into the bathtub.