[Dave doesn't even open the door until he hears Dirk leave. When he does abandon his Closet of Solitude, it's with his hands fisted and steady at his sides, feet planted wide, shoulder turned to present a smaller target; something close to a fighting stance.
Ghost Bro takes his stand immediately, flickering away from his comfortable leaning spot to occupy a space not two feet from Dave's nose. A challenge. Dave tenses but doesn't blink. His sunglasses are tucked into the collar of his shirt.]
Hey.
[Ghost Bro doesn't move. Dave waits for him motionlessly as the seconds stretch out, then releases an annoyed hiss through his teeth and looks away.]
Right. I don't know why I'm bothering with this. It's not gonna do anything, you're not--it's not like you'd care. If that's even you, which it probably isn't.
[At that, Dave looks up. Bro remains impassive. Dave lowers his chin without dropping his gaze, like a Tauros readying to lock horns. Defensive. Standing his ground.]
The real you wouldn't have stuck around this long. Not without something to entertain you.
[Low, bitter. He grits his teeth and almost ducks away, but how long--how much have Karkat and Ashley been helping him with this, how deep does he have to dig into his own chest before all of this comes up and out? When can he get rid of all this trash inside him? Dave takes a deep breath.]
Was that all it was to you, man? A fucking game? One you could put down once it got boring, or play all wrong in order to--to win some shitty "achievements," like making it harder for no reason but the challenge does any good in real life, like, at all? Was that what I was to you?
[His voice is still too low to be heard outside the room, but he stops himself anyway, keeps it at a low hiss. Dirk is out there.]
Because, for me? It wasn't fun. It wasn't fucking fun at all, you piece of shit, I felt like a cheap throwaway toy my whole life and I died like that. Thinking I was fuckin' dispensable.
[And it hurt, every time. It never got easier after the first one; metal punching through his flesh and rearranging the molecules so they didn't make him anymore, just meat and blood and fragments of bone, dead things taken out of time. He wakes up some nights still choking on the memory of his lungs collapsing, of his own blood filling his airways, of huge, important pieces of him shutting down fast.
Dave balls his hands tighter.]
So I don't forgive you. I don't--what the fuck, Bro, what could I have been if I felt safe enough to be anything but what you wanted me to be, to--to stop trying to live up to some stupid, toxic man-bro archetype presented to me by a delusional child who never grew up? What could've happened if... if you took fucking responsibility for my adulthood?
1/3 Takes a month to write one tag
Ghost Bro takes his stand immediately, flickering away from his comfortable leaning spot to occupy a space not two feet from Dave's nose. A challenge. Dave tenses but doesn't blink. His sunglasses are tucked into the collar of his shirt.]
Hey.
[Ghost Bro doesn't move. Dave waits for him motionlessly as the seconds stretch out, then releases an annoyed hiss through his teeth and looks away.]
Right. I don't know why I'm bothering with this. It's not gonna do anything, you're not--it's not like you'd care. If that's even you, which it probably isn't.
[At that, Dave looks up. Bro remains impassive. Dave lowers his chin without dropping his gaze, like a Tauros readying to lock horns. Defensive. Standing his ground.]
The real you wouldn't have stuck around this long. Not without something to entertain you.
[Low, bitter. He grits his teeth and almost ducks away, but how long--how much have Karkat and Ashley been helping him with this, how deep does he have to dig into his own chest before all of this comes up and out? When can he get rid of all this trash inside him? Dave takes a deep breath.]
Was that all it was to you, man? A fucking game? One you could put down once it got boring, or play all wrong in order to--to win some shitty "achievements," like making it harder for no reason but the challenge does any good in real life, like, at all? Was that what I was to you?
[His voice is still too low to be heard outside the room, but he stops himself anyway, keeps it at a low hiss. Dirk is out there.]
Because, for me? It wasn't fun. It wasn't fucking fun at all, you piece of shit, I felt like a cheap throwaway toy my whole life and I died like that. Thinking I was fuckin' dispensable.
[And it hurt, every time. It never got easier after the first one; metal punching through his flesh and rearranging the molecules so they didn't make him anymore, just meat and blood and fragments of bone, dead things taken out of time. He wakes up some nights still choking on the memory of his lungs collapsing, of his own blood filling his airways, of huge, important pieces of him shutting down fast.
Dave balls his hands tighter.]
So I don't forgive you. I don't--what the fuck, Bro, what could I have been if I felt safe enough to be anything but what you wanted me to be, to--to stop trying to live up to some stupid, toxic man-bro archetype presented to me by a delusional child who never grew up? What could've happened if... if you took fucking responsibility for my adulthood?