Chapter Text
Your name is Dave Strider, and you are thirteen years old. You step onto the roof, sword in one hand and Lil Cal draped over your shoulder. You look around before you even step through the door, and you don't see anyone. You don't see anything except the Houston skyline, and you don't feel anything but the hot sun beating down on you. God why did you wear jeans, you could have put something thinner on. But that wouldn't protect your legs, now would it?
Something doesn't feel right though, as you step into the hot sun and look around. You don't see any sign of him, and normally you can at least feel when he's around. You always have that feeling of being watched in the apartment, mainly because you know about all the cameras live-streaming your very existence to some fucked up crowd, but it's different out here, with him. Your throat feels dry as you prop Cal up against the chair he keeps out here, but you think about throwing him off the roof. It'd be so easy, be so easy to get rid of him. You stand at the edge, looking at the puppet and then back down at the busy streets below.
If you threw him down, he'd probably be caught in the wind or shredded by one of the cars below, but he wouldn't be the only casualty. You'd probably follow after, whether by your own choice or his. A simple accident, one he'd never face consequence for. Or framed as just another teen in the area plummeting off the high-rise apartments. You slowly take a step towards it, and you think of it. It wouldn't take long to speed up, and you probably wouldn't even feel the pavement beneath you. You feel dizzy, and you almost feel your stomach rising when it happens.
The briefest of movements in your periphery vision, and you're being dragged back from the edge before you can topple over. You already know the words before you hear them, and it doesn't stop that dizzy feeling.
"What do you think you're doing, little man? You ain't thinkin' of skipping out on your strifing session are you? You know damn well that if you take a tumble I'll be dragging your ass back up here on the rocket board."
Oh, right. That is his main method of travel now, isn't it? You stumble back from him as you blink your vision back into focus, reaching for your sword. You don't try to draw it, not yet. If you do you'll initiate strifing, and you'll get your ass kicked harder. No, you have to wait for him to get ready, for him to get Cal and get started. You hate that goddamn puppet, you hate all of his puppets, but you could never let him know. You could never say anything, he keeps all your pesterlogs on file, and you know it. He knows that you know it.
God you aren't at your best today. You don't know what it is, but something doesn't feel right. You know you ate yesterday, even if it was just an old granola bar, so it's not that. You had some closet apple juice earlier too, and before that some water from the shower you were taking. You don't know why everything is fuzzy and off, but in a way where you can't place why.
You don't even realize he's moving until Cal hits you, and everything goes into a blur. You can tell something's going on, you can see blades moving and you can feel the cuts coming against your arms and chest, the slight breeze it gives the fresh tear in your shirt. Your shades get knocked off somewhere in the fray, and as much as you want to fight it, the blinding sun stops you. You drop your sword and raise your arms to try and block it, and then you're flat on your back.
You feel the hard pressure on your ribs as he stands there, blocking out the sun with one foot pressing against you in just the wrong way. It hurts, it hurts and you know he's pressing on the fresh bruise from earlier this week. You spent the last week laid up in bed trying to set it, and he had been targeting it every time he strifed with you. You curse and close your eyes, and he only grinds down on it, and you can hear his sharp words as you feel tears prick at your eyes.
Then suddenly, he's gone. Everything is gone, and you're sitting up in bed with your hand clamped over your mouth. It's dark, it's cold, and it takes you a moment to realize you're sweating. You can faintly hear steps approaching, taste the iron in your mouth, and you know someone is coming. You were too loud again, you woke someone up.
Your name is Dave Strider, and you are twenty two. It's your birthday today, and you're sitting in bed and leaning against your sister's shoulder as she mumbles consolations and holds your hand. Roxy is your favorite sibling, not that you'd ever tell anyone. She knows well enough without the verbal acknowledgment, even if it would be a massive step. You haven't been a big talker in quite some time now.
You keep yourself on her for a moment longer, before you sniffle and slowly let go. You rub your eyes with your hands, and look over at the clock displaying on your phone. It's four, and you went to bed at one. You know damn well you aren't getting any sleep, and you doubt she's going to either. You take in a sharp breath as you shift, feeling a sharp pain go through your chest, like it always does after these night terrors.
Ten minutes later and you're sitting in the kitchen, staring into a mug of cocoa, complete with the whipped cream and tiny marshmallows and cinnamon and nutmeg on top. It's her specialty these days, and it doesn't make you jittery like coffee does. You inhale the steam coming off of it as she sits across from you, quietly drinking her own cooled coffee while the toaster heats up something. You don't remember what she put in it, maybe waffles? You don't know, and you probably won't finish whatever it is. You never can finish much after you get in a rut like this.
Your hands leave the sides of the mug and roam over your arms, feeling the skin through the thick fabric of the hoodie Roxy had given you, one of her favorite ones. You'll have to take care not to make a mess on it before you can return it. You don't even realize your eyes are closed and your fingers squeezing until she gently takes your hands and guides them down to the mug, quietly instructing you. Focus on the mug, on the warmth of it. Take in the steam and the smell of the toppings melting into it, and how it cools down the drink. You take in another deep breath, and slowly let it out your mouth once she finishes the instruction. God you wish you were as good at calming yourself as she is at telling you how to. It'd make this shit a breeze and you wouldn't wake up screaming. God you probably woke Dirk up too, and you know he's going to pretend you didn't. You just know it.
You finally pop out of your thoughts when something brushes your hand. It's a plate, a plate with some cherry pop tarts on it. Your stomach turns, but you let her set it in front of you, two more in front of her. You silently pick one up, breaking it in half in order to bite into the middle of it, trying to get the most of the sweet filling as you can as she gives you that small, warm smile you always get when you brave your instinct to refuse food. You'll feel better once you've eaten something, you might even get a little more sleep on the couch if she stays with you. She seems to read your mind, and you get the confirmation that yes, she plans on putting something on in the background and doing some reading. You know the background noise is mostly for you though, even if she wouldn't admit it herself if you asked.
But she does bring up something else. You turn twenty two today, and you had agreed to let her and Jane plan something for you. Your eyes instantly focus on the sweet breakfast pastry in front of you as she reminds you, but you quickly sign to her that you're still up for it, and you'll still go to the party she'd organized. You needed to get out more anyways, you rarely leave if no one is up for going with you. You don't drive much and barely meet new people, and her and Jane were trying to help you get out to meet new folks.
So, yeah. You have a party to go to that night, provided you're up for it. You only agreed after the assurance that there wouldn't be a ton of people there, and that there wouldn't be a focus on the birthday aspect. You never really celebrated it before, and you don't like being the center of attention anymore. She offers to make a guest list for you, but you decline. If you know who is going to be there, you might chicken out and stay home, not that you'd get any flack for it. It's just easier on your nerves to wing it and stay by Roxy the entire time.
You manage to eat one of the pop tarts, and Roxy doesn't protest as you slide the untouched one onto her plate. You finish up your mug of cocoa and fill the mug up with water, rinsing it, then finally walking it to the couch. With the mug of water on the coffee table and Roxy sitting in her chair, you curl up on the couch with Frigglish hopping up to lay on your side, purring up a storm as you lull yourself into a small rest.