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You want to ask Dirk what he heard that was so concerning to him. Concerning enough that you jolted awake to his hand on your shoulder, shaking you. He knows you’re terrified of being touched in your sleep. You only partly feel bad for punching him. Mostly because you have a tendency to sleep talk- well, really, it’s more like sleep-screaming. So whatever he heard was probably real fucked up. He’s got his hand over his nose where your right hook landed, but even with his fingers obscuring them as he rubs his soon-to-be bruised flesh. His eyes are visible enough. On the brink of tearing up.
Whatever you said, you’re you’re probably super fucking busted.
You open your mouth to say something like ‘ Sorry man, didn’t mean to punch yo u’
Instead, you just kinda stare at him with your mouth half-open like an idiot.
‘ Watched one of Rose’s psychological thrillers and it had a rape scene, must have gotten to me’ you tell him in your head. He looks back at you and you whimper like a little bitch.
‘ Nothing about it hit home whatsoever, so don’t even go there. ’ Disgusting fat tears begin to fall down your face.
“Hey,” he says, reaching out to wipe them away. Stopping just shy of actually touching you to look at you expectantly, trying to ask permission. You hate that you flinch.
Even so, you grant him this. Grabbing his recoiling hand between your own and pressing it up against your face. His hands are always frigid, and it’s a small relief as he smooths sweat-sticky hair off your forehead. Circling down to your cheeks, where he runs his thumb over the squishy flesh there. Then, over the sides of your nose, the crest of your lips, and down to your chin. Coming to rest under your jaw when he realizes no amount of wiping at the tears is going to make them stop.
“Dave, is there anything you want to talk about?” His voice is so indiscernible that you can’t tell if he’s going for ‘You wanna talk about it, dude?’ Or ‘is there anything you need to tell me? I already know, I’d rather you say it instead.’
Truthfully, you do want to tell him. The words burn at the back of your throat, trying to claw their way out of your esophagus. They’ve sat heavy in your chest since you first got a good look at Dirk. Every time you make an offhand joke about how shitty your childhood was, or have a genuine heart-to-heart brotherly chat about the things your bro put you through you it threatens to jump out.
‘He raped me’
You want to say it. What comes out instead is:
“Nah man, just another shitty nightmare”
He looks at you for a beat too long without a response, so you kick into panic mode.
“Yeah it sucked. Super abstract too. Something Rose would look at and think ‘s hit time to bring up Frued so I cam fuck up Dave Strider’s da y’ I didn't even know who thet geriatric dickhead was until she started pilfering around in his grave to make some point about how messed up in the head I am.”
“Dave?”
“I looked up a picture of him when I was like- 14 and god damn. What was up with those glasses? Am I right? I don't know if that was just the fashion in 1800-and-whatever-the-fuck, but Jesus. They remind me of that freaky underwater troll chick, you know the one.”
“Dave.”
“Like what's her deal anyway, I met her and-”
“ Dave.”
His voice makes you flinch, and you look up at him all guilty. You've got his hand in a death grip, which you jerk away from. Letting go of him to grab at the hem of your shirt like you’re a kid again. Like you’re a little kid standing in the doorway of your bro’s room because he called you in there and you know why, and you're scared shitless because you know he's going to make you do things that little 4-year-old kids shouldn't be forced to do.
“Dirk, he,,” your chest is heaving, and silent tears have turned into full-on sobbing
“H,e,,”
“Breathe,” he tells you. He doesn't move to touch you again, and you feel almost cheated. You wanted the excuse to crawl into his arms and shove your face into his chest, feel the way he breathes in deep because he’s trying to get you to do the same. You want it so bad, you crave his touch like you’re starved for it. It reminds you of when you were a kid. In summer, monsoons would hit your little west Texas town. You’d go crawl up with Bro because you were so terrified of the thunder that would shake your tiny apartment. It felt like your whole world was rattling, about to collapse in on you completely. It was one of the rare times Bro would let you crawl up onto him. Crawl up onto him like you do to Dirk now. Like how Dirk holds you when you wake up from nightmares about the man who hugged you when storms made you cry.
You know it's not true, but part of you wonders if he has figured out what you've been trying so hard to both tell him and not. Maybe he's repulsed by you. He’d have every right to be.
“Hey,” he says in a hushed voice. He’s trying to be comforting, but he never learned to modulate his tone, so all he can do is make it quieter.
“It's okay, man. I’m here, alright? " He offers out his hand, and you grab it and squeeze.
“Whatever it is you're trying to tell me, it doesn't have to be right now. It can be tomorrow morning or whenever you want, Dave.”
You shove your face into his forearm and whimper; you feel the ridges of his scars on your cheek
“Do you want me to stay with you for tonight?”
“Sure”
You say it, trying to be nonchalant, but you're nodding so hard that your skull is knocking against the bones in his arm. Your nails scrape his skin as he escapes your death grip to crawl further up on your mattress, landing beside you.
You sleep in a twin because you wanted extra space in your room to fit your turntables, gaming setup, and miscellaneous collections of complete bullshit that you didn't want to get rid of. But it’s almost laughable how much he doesn’t fit in your bed. His feet dangle off the edge, and he has to lie on his side, squished up against you to fit. You don’t want to be in a bed right now, but it's easier with him next to you. Even so, self-hatred burns in your stomach as you wrap your arms around him.
His head bumps the top of yours as he wraps you up in him. He leaves it there, lips pressed up against your scalp in an almost kiss, but not. You despise the way it aches. Words threaten to bubble up out of you again.
You smother them in his neck where your face is buried.