[For the ironies, maybe Dave would have given it away, but Karkat mirrors the eyeroll in lieu of pointing that out, already picking at the delicate ribbon. If he could open the box while still leaving it intact... but would that ruin the ribbon, too? What the fuck, he shouldn't care; it's just a bow. A bow on his first wriggling day gift from his moirail—or birthday present, technically, since it hasn't been a full sweep yet by any means. So it's... his first birthday present. From his moirail.
... Fuck. Maybe he can get the bow retied later? Assuming he can't figure it out himself. Asking Dave to do it is going to invite all kinds of teasing with it, he's pretty sure, but he's officially stopped fucking caring. This is important.
His mind more or less made up, Karkat sneaks a glance at Dave before returning his attention to the box, carefully untying the ribbon, and setting it aside. He's already anticipating some comment from Dave, a careless remark more likely than a pointed barb about how long he's taking (but what if?), and his shoulders hunch before he can stop them, his gaze still fixed on the box. He's a little faster about raising the lid, less so about poking through the tissue paper (and yes, he's noticed the color), and of course because he couldn't do anything right if his life depended on it (as it has), he totally fucking freezes the instant he sees the bandanna itself.
It's his sign. His. The stitching is... he's not sure about the quality, actually, nor does he particularly fucking care, but it's a damn sight better than anything he could have attempted and, more importantly, infinitely superior to the versions he'd scrawled on every article of clothing he'd acquired since coming here. This isn't some cheapass fabric pen; it's literally hand-stitched.
Dave had made this. For him.
Karkat retains enough sense to look out for the sandwich and definitely put the box down somewhere safe (ribbon now tucked securely alongside the bandanna for reasons) before enveloping Dave in a hug, blinking furiously because just sort of fucking because, okay, he doesn't need a reason. He doesn't have a reason. Hahaha, it's not like receiving this give at this time holds any particular meaning for him, what.
He does his best to stifle a small sniffle by burying his face in Dave's neck, painfully aware that his horns would have been digging into his moirail's stupid fragile human skin right now if he still had them. That's not the point.]
action
... Fuck. Maybe he can get the bow retied later? Assuming he can't figure it out himself. Asking Dave to do it is going to invite all kinds of teasing with it, he's pretty sure, but he's officially stopped fucking caring. This is important.
His mind more or less made up, Karkat sneaks a glance at Dave before returning his attention to the box, carefully untying the ribbon, and setting it aside. He's already anticipating some comment from Dave, a careless remark more likely than a pointed barb about how long he's taking (but what if?), and his shoulders hunch before he can stop them, his gaze still fixed on the box. He's a little faster about raising the lid, less so about poking through the tissue paper (and yes, he's noticed the color), and of course because he couldn't do anything right if his life depended on it (as it has), he totally fucking freezes the instant he sees the bandanna itself.
It's his sign. His. The stitching is... he's not sure about the quality, actually, nor does he particularly fucking care, but it's a damn sight better than anything he could have attempted and, more importantly, infinitely superior to the versions he'd scrawled on every article of clothing he'd acquired since coming here. This isn't some cheapass fabric pen; it's literally hand-stitched.
Dave had made this. For him.
Karkat retains enough sense to look out for the sandwich and definitely put the box down somewhere safe (ribbon now tucked securely alongside the bandanna for reasons) before enveloping Dave in a hug, blinking furiously because just sort of fucking because, okay, he doesn't need a reason. He doesn't have a reason. Hahaha, it's not like receiving this give at this time holds any particular meaning for him, what.
He does his best to stifle a small sniffle by burying his face in Dave's neck, painfully aware that his horns would have been digging into his moirail's stupid fragile human skin right now if he still had them. That's not the point.]
Thank you.