Work Text:
Dave had always liked the color red.
Not that he ever stated it like that - that wouldn’t be coolkid behavior. It was just something he passively and unironically enjoyed, something that wound its way into his room, his clothes, his chat color on Pesterchum.
So it shouldn't be surprising he liked seeing it on his skin, too.
In all honesty, he wasn't sure why he was doing this. He didn't think it was a desire to hurt himself - he got enough of that from strifing with Bro, thanks - but there was some sick satisfaction he gleaned from running a blade across his arms, thighs, stomach, anywhere really. From working thin, angry red lines into soft flesh.
Angry red lines. A phrase he had heard a million times before, in books, on blogs ranging from supporting self-harm and offering support for those who self-harm. Angry red lines. But they weren't very angry - not in the way he would expect, not like Bro’s cold, unattached anger that would leave Dave stinging and aching and burning for days. Rather, the word he would use to describe it would be proud.
Proud red lines. It fit better. After all, he wasn't doing it out of self-loathing, or punishment, or a need for attention. He just liked it. They were proud, in a way, even if he hid them under long red sleeves, in the way he would run his fingers over them in the shower or naked on the bathroom floor. In the way he would roll up his sleeves when he was alone and just stare. In the way they felt good.
He knew this was fucked up. He knew he was fucked up.
It just felt too good to stop.
And, at the end of the day, did it really matter? Eventually he would pick himself back up, roll his sleeves back down over fresh cuts, clean his blade, and put on his mask of cool indifference. He would leave the bathroom, hide away in his room, and within a matter of minutes be on something else. He would pester John or Jade or Rose, he would work on his most recent mix, he would lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling. He would be normal until next time.
He would be normal until the sun sets and his thoughts would wander to the blade stained with his own blood, years-dried at this point, hidden under layers of random junk left in the bathroom drawers. He would be normal until he goes online and sees something that mildly reminds him of his wounds, singing under too-thin clothes. He would be normal until the red of his room started reminding him less of apples and more of beads of blood welling up from his flesh.
He’s thought about talking about it before, but really, what options did he have? Bro? Hell nah. Bro was too cool for this - Dave couldn't imagine anything past a silent eyebrow raise and another invitation to strife. John and Jade didn't even know what porn was until Dave came along to pester them, what would they know about cutting? Rose would pull some Freudian psychoanalysis out of her ass and talk to him all detached in that perfectly clinical way that helped literally nobody. Anyone from school was out of the picture, too, because he would rather suffocate to death under another pile of smuppet ass before having to face the soft concern of the guidance counselors. Again. So, that really only left one viable path: just don't talk about it.
He wouldn't talk about how he would stay up at night tracing the precise, straight lines carved into his skin. He wouldn't talk about the sinking feeling in his stomach when he was truly alone for a bit too long, wouldn't talk about the irrational tightness in his chest that signaled Bro’s appearance. He wouldn't talk about the sick satisfaction watching red drawn across himself.
Because at the end of the day, Dave loved the color red.