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The new world is a mess of vegetation, so much of it that they give up on climbing over it as they explore and settle instead on flying. It’s a sprawling reach of green, dotted with flowers the likes of which Dirk has only ever seen in pictures.
Overhead, a bird chirrups and it’s nothing at all like the annoying bay of seagulls.
Dirk lets himself linger, even as their voices grow distant, then gone. The rest of the group has hurried ahead, eager to see what else their new world has given them, but Dirk feels like he has to savor this.
He runs his hand along the bark of a tree, making note of how it scratches at his skin, and follows it down to the ground. The grass is soft, damp, and squeaks when he pulls on it. The flowers smell like Roxy, some kind of perfumey nonsense that sets him at ease. Some roots come with the flower when he tries to pull it out, clumped with dirt and splintering down like a net, desperately clinging to the earth.
A little guilty, he sets it back in the small hole and tries to cover it back up. It wilts slightly but doesn’t topple. He’s sure it’ll be fine. All of Jake’s old stories about his island made it seem like nature was usually pretty fucking strong.
“Hey.” Dirk glances up at the voice, surprised to find Dave standing nearby and no one else in sight. He opens his mouth to ask how long he’s been out here but pauses when Dave makes a startled noise.
“You okay?” Dirk asks, slowly getting to his feet.
Dave laughs nervously, like he’s not sure if he should be concerned or weirded out. “Yeah, great, I’m peachy. Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Just--” Dave makes a vague motion with his hands, jerky and unsure, and then gestures to his face. Dirk’s face. Something on Dirk’s face?
Dirk swipes a thumb over his cheek, brow furrowing in confusion when it comes away wet. Immediately, he looks up, but the sky is clear and it’s not like he’s under the tree of some pissed off creature that’s decided he needs to be pissed on.
“Huh.”
He rubs his thumb and forefinger together, testing it, and then reaches up with his other hand to check the other side. The pads of his fingertips are soaked in seconds, water trickling down his fingers into his gloves. As he pulls his hand away to look at it, he can feel another wave tracking the slowly drying paths on his cheeks. It drips uncomfortably onto his neck and then down to the hem of his shirt.
“Oh.”
Okay, so he’s crying. Those are tears.
...he’s not sure what to do with that, honestly.
It’s a normal thing, he knows. He’s human, humans do this sometimes, but what-- what exactly is he meant to do about it?
His shades are practically a fishbowl, his face is wet; he can see his hands shaking and feel the rattle of breath in his chest, but his mind is blanking. What are the procedures?
“Sorry,” he tries, because he’s learned by now that that’s generally a safe way to start. His nose is running and it’s disgusting. Dave’s saying something but his voice is a slur of syllables in a language he can’t parse.
Has he ever cried before? He can’t remember. It’s hard to think. Most babies do, he knows, but most babies are also born. Or so he’s told, anyway. Feelings also make people cry, his brain chimes in. He’s felt hurt, sad, angry-- the memories are all catalogued away in his brain like files on a server-- and crying is a natural conclusion to intense emotions. He’s definitely intense, and he knows he’s felt emotions, so he’s had to have cried sometime before and made notes of it.
Somewhere.
What the fuck are the procedures?
Colors swirl in front of his eyes and it takes him a beat to realize that there’s a voice with it, then another before he can blink enough of his swimming vision away to make out that it’s Dave. Dirk raises his head, a little worried that if he stops looking at his hands that they’ll cease to exist, but it’s rude not to look at someone when they’re speaking. Jane taught him that.
“Hey,” Dave greets him. “You back with me, man?” Dirk swallows and it feels like he’s going to choke on it. He nods instead. “Okay, cool. Are you, uh, good with touching right now or…?”
In response to the confused silence, Dave tips his head to the side. Dirk follows the hint, gaze tripping slightly when he spots Dave’s arm and follows it up to where one of his hands is hovering at Dirk’s shoulder. Slowly, Dave lets it drop. His hand is warm even through Dirk’s shirt and the pressure of it, though soft, feels… nice. Grounding.
He looks back at Dave, at the questioning look on his face as he raises his other arm, and nods. Dave lets out a breath. He’s nervous, Dirk knows. Dave’s always nervous with him. Less so now, thankfully, but a single moment can’t change years. He doesn’t hesitate though, and even though Dirk knew something was coming he’s still surprised to find himself pulled into the hug.
It’s.
Dirk doesn’t know what it is, to be honest. More grounding than just the one hand, less comfortable than when he’d just been standing on his own. His face is kinda mushed against Dave’s shoulder, smearing his shirt with tears and probably snot, and his arms are trapped between them.
Of course this would also be something he had no idea how to handle.
“You can hug back, if you want.” Dave shrugs his other shoulder, awkward and a bit red-faced. “Or, y’know, not. You can also just, like, stand there and be hugged. I’m a great spoon either way so. Whatever helps, man.”
Dirk swallows again. It feels easier this time. When he tries to move his arms out of the way, mimic the curl of Dave’s around him, he’s surprised to find that they listen. He doesn’t know when they came back, when his brain stopped drifting off with the nonexistent waves, but it’s such a relief to have them back that he can’t help tangling them in Dave’s shirt. It’s soft and worn, still dirty from their fight with the Jacks.
“Sorry,” Dirk manages to croak again. Dave hooks his chin over Dirk’s shoulder with a hum.
“It’s cool,” he whispers. “I get it.”
He still doesn’t know how to stop crying or why he started, but he’s starting to think that maybe right now it doesn’t matter. He’s got time to figure it out.