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Whenever you're alone in a room together, he's blushing.
For Dave, you ignore it. Beneath the cracks in all that coolkid armour, he's got the softest little underbelly. You wouldn't risk humiliating him by bringing attention to his problem and so you don't, choosing instead to slide your gaze right on past those pink-tinged cheeks and change the subject.
You talk a lot about nothing.
Dave is wont to fill any lull in conversation with meaningless banter and for him, you ignore that too. Tolerate it, because he deserves your benevolence and your patience and the scattered parts of you that are good.
You never ask why he's hanging around.
Kid's got abandonment trauma stacked up higher than the wall of bricks you wish you could place between you, to protect him from those parts of you that aren't so good. But for him, of course, you will tolerate the imposition, resist your natural impulse to dissect or artificially modify whatever feelings he's holding towards you.
You know it's that he needs you, or the version of you that's still breathing, and reachable, and unwilling to leave him. The least you can do is indulge his distorted notions of who you are, because his neediness is, after all, something you helped create.
You, or that other you. The one who looms dark over Dave, and yourself, like some indomitable, unholy ghost.
Whenever you and Dave touch on the topic of you, that other you, it's because your curiosity drags him there. The man has his mark all over Dave, who doesn't need to say a word for you to read him like a line of code, see that he has been systemically dismantled from the inside out and yet still retains his loyalty, his devotion, his love for that other you.
For all your growth and newfangled self-awareness, for all the fondness you hold for Dave, you can't quite resist the impulses born of your own narcissism. For how could you not be curious about him, that other you? Legendary if just to Dave, formidable and enigmatic and omnipotent, even in his death.
How could you not be curious to learn the secrets of his power over another, a hold so strong it persists across time and space and even death?
It's a power you have never held over anyone, despite your deepest, most private desires. But if he is you, and you are him, it's there, somewhere, inside of you. Dormant and dozing beneath a mouldering layer of weakness and self-doubt, but there all the same, just waiting to be put to the test.
And Dave. Dave has to be your test.
You want to be careful with him. He's too delicate for the worst of your ruthless probing, but you reason you can push on him a little and he'll be alright. He's safe with you. He knows you mean him no harm.
You start subtle, begin by simply adjusting your tone around him, experimenting with pitch and turn of phrase until you're sure you've landed on the winning combination.
Dave reacts most strongly when you're clipped with him, keeping your conversation short, your tone low and disinterested, each word peppered with just a hint of condescension. Nothing you couldn't brush off as a misunderstanding, but enough it causes him to second-guess himself, grow flustered around you, engage in playful attempts to recover your approval.
The sense of power it instils in you is both unnerving and intoxicating. You wonder if Dave always prodded at the other you's worst impulses, the same way he does to you-you. His deference to you, even when you're playing him like a game of cat and mouse, feels dangerously titillating, and up until now you've tried your best not to encourage it, for your sake as well as Dave's.
But you're still in control here, still tempering the darkest of your instincts, and Dave remains safe within the confines of your little experiment. It'll be worth it in the end, this game, because together you're discovering new things.
You're beginning to understand where the other you found his power, and it's through Dave. When Dave looks at you the way he does, like you're the center of his universe, how could you not feel like a god? The wanton hero-worship he bestows upon you has you feeling more masculine than you've ever felt in your life, and it's starting to click for you that power--
It's not something you can find within yourself; only through another. For other you, it was Dave who gave him his power. For you, you're still not so sure, only you know that Dave is not for you. The power he hands over so readily still belongs to someone else, someone you're beginning to believe must be the better man.
When Dave proves to be more resilient than you'd counted on, you prod him a little further. You're still curious about why he blushes and bats his eyelashes when you look his way, and so you wait for your opportunity, pounce on it when you're sure you'll be alone with him.
As soon as he lays eyes on you, the pulse is visible in his throat. He pales rather than reddens, and you keep your expression neutral as you meet his panicked stare. You wonder if you've gone too far this time, if he'd even buy any of your, "What? I just felt like wearing this today" total. fucking. bullshit.
You're dressed just like his Bro, and it's fucking him up -- you're witnessing him 404 right now -- and you should feel terrible about it, should get on your knees and beg for his forgiveness, but the experiment is still in motion and you have to see it through to the grand finale. Dave will forgive you, because that's what Dave does.
When he recovers enough to move, he hesitantly approaches and sits down across from you at your kitchen table. You study him closely; the pulse dancing in his throat, the tremor of his hands, and resolve to push things along a step. He can handle more.
You ask him why he's late. It's an innocent enough question, but you lace your tone with just enough remonstrance that he stumbles over his reply, gives you some convoluted, meandering tale about Karkat taking too long in the shower.
His palpable fear of you feeds something putrid nesting inside your gut, makes you feel about ten feet tall. You're getting off on the power he's funnelling into you; like a total piece of shit, you're getting off on it, and you wish you had it in you to stop all this but you can't, not when you've never felt like more of a man.
You repeat some of his words back to him, cruelly mocking his stutter, and it's curious the way you can pinpoint the precise moment his heart shatters. A shadow passes behind his eyes, his posture deflates, crumpling in on himself, and he can't even bring himself to stammer out a reply.
He is, totally, utterly, broken by you.
You keep your eyes trained on him, unyielding in your display of glacial disapproval, and it's not until he pushes the chair back and runs that the spell shatters and you're you again. The you who loves Dave, cares for him, would do anything in this world to see him unhurt.
You catch up to him by your front door, and it's not until you have your hands on him that you begin to appreciate the damage you've caused. He's crying, sucking in big, heaving, gulping breaths, and the sound of it makes you want to die because what have you done? How can you fix this?
"Come here." You have his shoulders now, and they're shuddering beneath your palms. You pull him into you, cradle him to your body. "Dave, Dave, Dave. Come here. Sshh."
It's predictable, the way he folds into you, winds his arms around you, tucks his head beneath your chin, allows you to hold him, sway him, kiss at his temple.
He asks why you're doing this, why you're being like this -- has he done something wrong? -- and you wish you had an answer for him that wasn't psychopathic.
When he untucks his head to gaze up at you, eyes huge and wet, tears clinging to his lashes, you know he's seeing someone else, that other you, wanting him, not you, and you have to know.
You kiss him. Because you're curious. Because you want to see how he'll react. Because you're suspicious. Because you want to.
He whimpers into your mouth, curls his fist into your t-shirt, arches up into you and you know. You know.
So many things about Dave make sense in that moment and you wish you never knew because now that you know it's all you can think about. Him, you, fucking his Dave, your Dave, only it wasn't fucking, it couldn't have been, it was rape, he was raping him, and--
You part from him, desperate for air, and Dave can only look down at his shoes.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, like it's his fault you kissed him.
You don't want any of that. You tuck an errant lock of hair behind his ear, a gesture you hope puts him at ease, reminds him you're you and not him, lets him know he can trust you again, that you wouldn't hurt him.
"Dave," you begin. You need to hear him say it. "Did he...?"
He nods, just once.
And just like that his path to you illuminates, the reason he blushes when he's near to you. He's thinking of him, grieving him, wanting him? and it makes you sick, guilty, jealous, aroused.
If you could just slip your tongue back inside his mouth, neither of you will have to hurt anymore.
But he's reached his limit with you, you've pushed him too far, and all you can think as you watch him flee from you is that he's yours, your Dave now, and you'll do whatever it takes to make sure he knows it.