Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's not even your moirail's shoulder.

It's Dave's.

You can't hate him, you absolutely can't. And that's probably the reason you've always managed to end up sobbing your heart out, undoubtedly over something stupid you can't remember, hiccuping and chirruping into his hood-cape and clutching desperately at his shirt. He's always been there for you, though, rubbing your back and petting your horns and kissing your hair, and you never have the willpower to push him away. Every chirp and peep that finds its way out leaves you pressing your face further into him, face flushed from both all the crying and the embarrassment of making such noises.

He tells you to let it out, cry and whimper and everything else, and you can't help but do it. You murmur into his shoulder everything you want to say, have said but want to repeat to him, just- not in English or common Alternian. In your lusus language.

You wail to him about Gamzee, mostly. It's a one-sided moirallegiance- he's always the one being comforted. And then there's the two of you, where you're the one breaking down. You feel like you're cheating on him, but, well, it isn't like Dave could ever feel pale for you if he can't feel pale in the first place. So you always end up shrugging it off in favor of having someone to talk to.

You're glad he can't understand you when you speak in lusus.

After calming down, one of two things generally happens. You either fall asleep right away, and he plops you on his couch and leaves you to your nightmares. Or, sometimes, you'll curl up on his bed and listen to him mix music until you actually do conk out. Either way, he makes you sleep on the couch.

Tonight the latter's happened, and you're on his bed, bundled up into the sheets and happy to have his scent around you. It's comforting, smells like a laptop that's been on too long and apple juice and vinyl. Just like his scent, the sound of "wubs" and electronic disc scratches and electropop tracks mixing together have become just as calming. You once loathed being able to admit you like being around him, but now you've accepted it.

Unlike most meteor-nights, however, you're still awake, burying yourself further under the covers as his equipment clicks off and footsteps grow nearer and nearer. He wraps his arms around your waist, tugging you up with effort as you scramble for a hold on the sheets. He tut-tuts, managing to pull you away, and the hold is awkward as he tries to deal with your flailing.

"Shit, Vantas, what's got your panties in a wad?" He slings you over his shoulder, and you plant your face where his hood-cape meets his neck and groan, arms around said neck.

"Do you not want to sleep on the couch again?" You can feel the way his vocal cords vibrate against your temple, shaking your head. He's always straight-on with you on your scheduled cuddle nights (at least every other night), words never veiled with metaphors and culture references, and you're grateful. He understands you, you think, and maybe that's why you're both Knights.

You can easily imagine him pursing his lips, an audible sigh following closely after. "Do you want to sleep with me?" The question wasn't one you'd ever thought of saying yes to, not until now. But hours of extended cuddletime do seem like a great idea right now, especially since you're not quite keen on the idea of looking for your pants and shoes and going back to your own respiteblock. Cuddle nights are generally pants-free for you, not that it really matters, your sweater goes halfway to your knees anyway.

You nod, grasping him more tightly, and he sighs again, just loud enough for your ears to pick up, and probably completely quiet to him. There's a moment of silence as he thinks, until he finally decides to speak. "Alright. Fine. But the Strider bed has two rules. No humping me in the middle of the night because you're in heat or what the fuck ever, there's a bathroom for that shit, and if you attack me while I sleep I'm kicking you out." You grunt and nod once more without question, though you'd really like to voice that trolls don't go into heat. Talking takes up too much energy.

He lays you down, waits until you pull away, then tosses off his hood and crawls in beside you with his shades still on. You aren't surprised, he probably showers with the things. You're about to bury yourself back into the copious covers when he pulls you close to him and sighs once more. Dave sighs a lot, in your experience, but this time it's contented, and you're pretty okay with that.

You wonder if he feels anything beyond cuddle-cry-buddies for you. That would mean love though, right? Not the platonic love trolls have, just... romantic love. Fits into matespritship like a broken puzzle piece, sort of fits, but not quite.

He doesn't feel that way for you, if there's one thing you're sure of, it's that. You've heard of "squishes" from Rose, though. A very strong platonic relationship? It sounds not-really sort of like a moirallegiance, but you're probably just being too hopeful.

You snuggle your head between the crook of his neck and the pillow, and your vascular pump hurts a little, so you hug him more tightly and take solace in his warmth. His shades are poking your horns, eliciting an incredibly embarrassing purring response from you, a lot louder than usual in the silence of the room, save for the quiet whirring of machinery that serves as your lullaby.

Somewhere in the night you move your horns out of the way of his shades, and somewhere in the night you finally nod off, albeit after a good while of drifting in and out of sleep.