Dave Strider (
shenunigans) wrote in
thecapitol2015-01-09 01:41 pm
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Entry tags:
City never sleeps so I guess I never slept on.
Who| Dave and Feferi, Gary, Clara and Steve.
What| Punchy is "dead", Dave needs to deal with it.
Where| D9, D11
When| Spanning over the week after the Panem Nightly post.
Warnings/Notes| Talkin' about murder.
It's hard to process real death after being surrounded by fake death for so long. It's like switching from lite milk to full cream, because it's doing something to his stomach. But then, processing infers some level of understanding or acceptance. Dave didn't talk to anyone when the cheery presenters woefully announced that his friend was dead. It's not the first time he's disappeared, it's not the first time anyone's disappeared, but it's different this time.
They're just lying. They're probably lying. There's no reason to believe them, but there's no reason not to, either. Punchy is gone, he isn't in his room and he isn't staggering back into the commons no matter how long Dave sits around on the couches and pretends the News got it wrong.
It shouldn't be this hard anymore, but it feels like there's a vice around his chest when he thinks about it. There's sad irony in the fact that the guy reminded him so vividly of his Bro, then they got close, then he died. It's hilarious, really, that all of his foundations are starting to crumble slowly or very rapidly and he doesn't know how to handle it anymore.
Maybe he owes it to Punchy to feel something, or show something, but it's easier to be mindless and numb about all of this. He doesn't drink or party, he just deals with it. He's either sleeping all day or awake all hours and when anyone sees him, he's fronting. Trying too hard to be over it too fast.
What| Punchy is "dead", Dave needs to deal with it.
Where| D9, D11
When| Spanning over the week after the Panem Nightly post.
Warnings/Notes| Talkin' about murder.
It's hard to process real death after being surrounded by fake death for so long. It's like switching from lite milk to full cream, because it's doing something to his stomach. But then, processing infers some level of understanding or acceptance. Dave didn't talk to anyone when the cheery presenters woefully announced that his friend was dead. It's not the first time he's disappeared, it's not the first time anyone's disappeared, but it's different this time.
They're just lying. They're probably lying. There's no reason to believe them, but there's no reason not to, either. Punchy is gone, he isn't in his room and he isn't staggering back into the commons no matter how long Dave sits around on the couches and pretends the News got it wrong.
It shouldn't be this hard anymore, but it feels like there's a vice around his chest when he thinks about it. There's sad irony in the fact that the guy reminded him so vividly of his Bro, then they got close, then he died. It's hilarious, really, that all of his foundations are starting to crumble slowly or very rapidly and he doesn't know how to handle it anymore.
Maybe he owes it to Punchy to feel something, or show something, but it's easier to be mindless and numb about all of this. He doesn't drink or party, he just deals with it. He's either sleeping all day or awake all hours and when anyone sees him, he's fronting. Trying too hard to be over it too fast.
Steve
He wasn't sleeping, for once. He'd lost himself in a video game until he realised it was a cruel irony to be playing one right now. A drink would clear his head, but not alcohol. No. He's made that mistake already, he doesn't need to be vomiting and singing on top of everything else.
It's about 4.30am when he sets the apple juice and the cup in front of him, it's 5.30 and he hasn't touched it. He has a blinged out sunglass repair kit set on the table as well and he sits there idly tightening the screws of his aviators as if it is an essential thing to be doing at this very moment. He doesn't notice that the sun is coming up, he's busy.
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He had an notion that the recent murder and Dave's reclusiveness were related.
So, Steve's almost surprised to see Dave in the kitchen. For a long moment, he just silently watches the boy tinker with his glasses, debating giving the boy space or approaching him. It's not a long debate as Steve moves to Dave's side, taking the apple juice and pouring the boy a glass.
"Fixing or tuning up?" He grabs the chair besides Dave, pulling it out and away to the side - giving Dave space while still close by - and sits.
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Tinkering with the little kit Punchy got him is oddly cathartic, partly because he's not mature enough to look at the tiny screwdrivers and not imagine he's a giant doing handy work. Mostly it's because it's mindless and sets him to thinking about nothing in particular. A little bit about Punchy, a little bit about his friends back home and a lot about how he's thirsty and should do something about it.
It's just so mindless that he barely hears Steve enter, so his shoulders hunch in surprise when the other man reaches for the juice he'd forgotten about until now. He levels a confused look on him as he moves to sit, then remembers what he's doing and why Steve is asking about it.
"Tune up." He answers coldly, focusing on wiping at the lenses before he relents and glances toward Steve. "They're getting old. Physically, anyway. They'll never go out of style." And now Steve is getting a funny look as he slides them back on. "Why are you up so early?"
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He gives a little smile when Dave says they won't go out of style and Steve can't help but agree in a way. They seem a part of who Dave is, so it's less a style thing and more they'll always fit on him.
"More like you're up late. It's after five," Steve is always up and out the door by six, though he doesn't see that happening today. Concern pulls at his mind that Dave so obviously lost track of time.
Steve leans forward a little, his expression open and earnest. "You must have a lot going on up there for a timelord to lose track of time."
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It makes it all the more surreal. It makes him realise the loops he's been thrown through when he's not sure if he's able to accept that he's sincerely gone while simultaneously expecting the worst.
The way he balks when Steve tells him the time is visible even with his shades on, but he tries not to look too thrown by it. His timekeeping is usually on point, even without his powers, and he's not sure if he's more thrown that Steve noticed or that he didn't.
"Been busy," He starts slowly. "Got boardgames to market. I'm sure you understand." He quirks a brow, referring specifically to a drawing Steve happened upon, but it's followed by a long pause and then a furrow of his brows. "Aw shit, I know that look. You're here to school me, aren't you?" He holds up his hands as if in surrender. "I'm fine. Really, it's crazy how great I am right now."
Gary
He might not be Dave's best homie, but he was tight with Punchy and he might want to do something gross like talk about it.
So, Dave takes himself down to D11, slinking into the suites and glancing around the suites before he invites himself to sit on the couches and wait for Gary to make an appearance.
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The normal level of distraction isn't quite enough, but he's sure as hell trying his hardest to make it work. There's music blaring over the speakers in the common area, as there has been since early that morning, the flat screen is on and equally loud on a level of a bright and aggressively flashy racing game, combining to create an incomprehensible cacophony of noise that rattles the walls and the furniture. Gary is in the middle of it, kneeling on the couch with a controller clutched in his hands and a bag of chips strewn over the cushions. His eyes are glossed over. Bruiser and Rasputin the tribbles are huddled next to him, but their coos are drowned in the racket.
So is the sound of Dave entering. It's not until he's practically sitting next to him that Gary sees him out of the corner of his eye, leaps up, drops the controller and spreads his arms wide. "Dave!" Bro hug incoming. Gary's expression is enthusiastic but forced, decidedly haunted--it might be in Dave's best interest not to turn him away. "What's happening? You want some chips?"
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The way Dave enters is much like a lost ghost. He sweeps in and sits just far enough away that he isn't directly in Gary's radius because any closer seems too cuddly. He doesn't expect that he might be in for literal cuddles, so he doesn't even get a chance to squirm away before Gary's arms are coming at him.
He wants to pull away, but he figures if this makes anything any easier he might as well hold still and let him have his moment.
"Hi." He says finally. "Nah, I'm full." Full of not eating.
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"Mmph," he says with an emphatic nod, which is probably an attempt at saying that it's okay for Dave not to be hungry. He finishes his mouthful of chips at some point after he bends over to grab his controller. "What'cha up to? Wanna play some--" Gary looks up and realizes that the racing game is still going and he's long since crashed into last place. He pauses the game. Some of the background noise abruptly ceases, allowing for the purrs of the tribbles to be heard as they snuggle against Dave's thigh. "--whatever the fuck this game is? Came out last week, I think. The courses are based on the last Arena! Isn't that neat? They even update the rosters in real-time!"
His face goes a bit pale.
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It's tempting to take him up on the other. He's also tempted to just get it over with and yell at Gary thanks to his own pent up frustration, but he does neither. Punchy was better at this shit, so he owes it to Punchy to not be a dick about this.
"...Yyyeah. About that." He trails off, idly scratching the tribble when he does. "I thought we should probably. Talk. About Punchy. If you want." Can you tell he never does this?
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"...Good stuff. Right?" Not about the fact that he's dead, or how the rebels that were supposed to be helping apparently killed him. Good. Things. Gary's mouth twitches into a desperate smile to encourage this.
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"What's good about it? He's dead. I just wanted to make sure you knew he was dead and didn't think this was some sick bro prank." Maybe he shouldn't be so harsh, but so far he's starting to wonder if Gary believes or reacts to anything without having it hammered into him. "He's gone, alright?" His voice is a little softer, but he still sounds mildly irritated.
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Clara
The last thing he remembers is a very heated discussion about whether belts are fashionable and then he wakes up with a start from a dream of a belt themed dystopia in which his friends keep fucking dying.
The grumble of annoyance he makes is a mournful sound, because it takes him a long moment to realise he isn't in his bed and an even longer moment to realise he isn't alone. Seeing Clara is enough to make him sit up, running a hand through his hand when he does.
"Morning?" It's definitely not morning.
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Instead, she heads down to District 9 to find Dave. Just the concept of having someone who understands, especially someone who she's close to, seems better than mourning alone. She's a little surprised to see Dave sleeping in the common area, but at least she sees him right away instead of having to ask around the floor for him.
There's a temptation to sit on the same couch he's sleeping on. To let him rest his head against her leg and gently brush through his hair with her fingers like she's done with David so many times. But she resists, settling to slide his sunglasses off and put them on the table so he doesn't smoosh them against his face.
When Dave wakes up, she's sitting in one of the overstuffed armchairs nearby, reading some gossip rag with her and Rose's picture splashed on the front with a scandalous headline. At the sound of his voice, she closes the magazine before looking up at him, trying to ignore the way the bionic eye shifts from reading mode to whatever the regular mode is. "Afternoon," she says with a teasing tone that makes her feel like an asshole a moment later. "You're you holding up?"
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The fact that his sunglasses have been removed is secondary to the fact that Clara is here, but he notices when he goes to rub at his eyes with the heel of his hand. He isn't hurt by the teasing tone, it draws a soft snort from him in place of disappointment.
"It's a process." He answers cryptically, and he needs to fight the urge to stride right over and dump himself in her lap like he's a five year old. He never had a mother to cuddle him and coo when he cried over his booboos, but she's starting to bring out those instinctive compulsions in him nonetheless. He knows she's hurting too, he tells himself that's why he does pick himself up and move over to her chair. To his credit, he doesn't dump himself in her lap so much as he climbs the chair to sit on the arm of it. "Kind of hard to wrap your head around it, right? Doesn't feel right, it just feels.." He purses his lips before he finds the words. "It's quiet."
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Clara's familiar with that quiet. It's like the way it felt in the days following the bombing, or the way it felt when she walked into her parents house for the first time after her father died. Not that she's going to say that out loud because Dave doesn't need to hear about that right now (or ever, really). "I know," she says softly, trying to figure out what else to say. As if out of instinct, she reaches out and rubs his back, trying not to think about the fact that she did something like this was with David after one of his nightmares. "You get used to the quiet, eventually. Or find something else to focus on to fill the void."
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He doesn't want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him snap or break, but it's almost like the sincere comfort is making him sadder than trying to bury his feelings. The hand on his back is warm and it feels good, but it makes his stomach twist something awful. Then he's like a rag being wrung out, because it's enough to squeeze a few tears from his eyes. His hands dart to his face, like he's trying to cover a sneeze and he thinks he's being sneaky, but if he doesn't answer he'll be more suspicious.
"Yeah." He answers and his voice betrays him with a shudder that he swallows down. "Shit happens. We weren't that close." It feels disrespectful to Punchy, but the denial is so much sweeter than the reality of being sincerely hurt.
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Instead, she chooses not to let him. She can't be sure if it's out of a maternal fear that he'll drown in his hurt or that she's hurting too and just wants to cling to someone who understands, but she gently pulls him off of the chair's arm into her lap before she reaches out to cup his cheek with her flesh and blood hand. She looks on the verge of crying, as much as she doesn't want to do so in front of him.
"We both know that isn't true. There's no shame in mourning a loss," she says as she gently rubs at his cheek with her fingers. "You shouldn't hide from these things, it'll only make it hurt more."
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He studies her face for a long moment, brows furrowed with indignation and a stubborn refusal to let himself fall into overt misery yet again. "It's no worse than any of the shit that's gone down here." He argues, trying to re-approach as blasé before thinking better of it.
"I didn't cry when my Bro kicked the bucket." He points out, making his point slowly. "And now he's here. So how am I meant to believe he's gone for good when people keep coming back and forth like Death's revolving door is broken?" He sounds a little desperate, like he's hoping she'll have some wise, motherly answer in there that will explain away the confusion and the hurt.
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Feferi
It's company he won't deny, though. He makes an effort to change, because he's been in his PJs for far too long. There's still a faded Karkat face pasted to the side from a craft accident, but the face is strewn over a chair to judge him now that he's wearing jeans and a clean T-shirt.
Standing around waiting is, apparently, exhausting. Dave has flopped himself backward over his bed while he stares at the ceiling.
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She gets someone to let her in, so that she can slip into Dave's room without rousing him from staring at... whatever is so interesting on the ceiling. She lingers near the doorway, hands folded behind her back and dressed just as simply. There's nothing that screams Capitol about a plain magenta t-shirt and denim skirt, except for maybe the Pisces symbol Bedazzled into one of her back pockets, and she'd like to keep it that way as much as possible.
"Hey. On the way up I was thinking, for Feferi bingo, trying to get into one of the aquarium displays should be on there." She doesn't know how else to break the ice. "Not that I am saying I have tried that more than one. Or twice. Or eight times..."
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He sits up suddenly, then slumps his shoulders in an effort to regain his casual air. It was not preceded by seconds of turtle like flailing as he struggled to pull himself up, he has no idea why anyone would think that.
"Anyone who wanted that box would have to follow you to the Aquarium every time you try it. So unless you want a herd of well meaning stalkers, you might want to try again, Free Willy." Of course, he has absolutely no idea that she's earnestly trying to break the ice here. There's no ice, he's just cool. Mellow cool. Like moo juice.
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She just doesn't know what. Was it losing the arena? Losing his powers again? Something else? Feferi can't even begin to guess, but she can be here to listen. He's only her fake boyfriend, but he's still her very real friend.
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"Not much. The ush. Guess it's all downhill once you hit sixteen." He props his elbows on his knees, leaning his face on his hand lazily. He knows this game gets old fast, but it's hard. Admitting shit. Feelings, etc.
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"Now I know it not just that." She shifts closer, within arm's reach, to reach out and fuss with his hair, trying to put some stray strands back in place, as much as he'll let her. "So you can either tell me what's bothering you, or you can let me hassle you for a while longer until you give up and tell me."
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