help. I sadstuck. So, yeah, postgame Dave drabble, with some implied Stridercest (and just really hardcore Dave-Bro-Familial-Love) and an experiment with second person, which I always loved. Either way, enjoy and happy new year.

No More Christmas

Your name is DAVE STRIDER and it's CHRISTMAS. It's your first Christmas since Sburb, since the scratch, since the end, since you fixed it, since everything.

You're in an asylum.

Well, technically, it's just a hospital. The fifth floor of Houston General, which is where they have the psych ward.

When you first woke up, you were in your apartment. All the puppets were strewn across the furniture. The fridge was filled with cooled Asian weaponry, half a pizza, and two liters of coke. The sound system was unharmed and pristine as you and Bro had always kept it. All the chords connecting to Bro's room and yours were aligned in the same tangle, which is how you preferred it. Bro's smuppet screensaver was going, and your computer laid idle and asleep. The apartment smelt faintly of axe, rubber, dust and dirty dishes, as if nothing had happened.

Except you were alone.

Alone in your record shirt with the Chef Boyardee stain on the arm that only you knew about, because it blended in perfectly, skinnies you would wear for two weeks straight, or until the smell became unbearable (usually the prior), and the red chucks without socks. Through familiar aviators, the darkened room that served as the Striders kitchen, dining room, living room, and entry way secured the fear that was rising slowly in your stomach.

You were alone.

Alone. No Bro, no Cal, no John, no Terezi. Pesterchum was dead, and no one was on Trollian, or even Karkat's retarded memos. All dead, cut off, abruptly. All your calls to your missing friends and broternal figure were nothing more than minutes of ringing. You couldn't even find the Sburb disc. Like nothing had ever happened.

Though you couldn't remember the last time you'd eaten, your first reaction was to throw up. Out of fear, desperation, and panic, you coughed up water and stomach bile for what seemed like an hour. You rushed to your bathroom, and ran cold water over your face, even letting it get on your shades and shirt.

You had just woken up, after feeling like you got hit by a train, and barfed all over your computer.

Because all your friends were missing in action.

Probably dead.

And you, for some reason, for whatever reason weren't.

You spent the next three days in the apartment. You slept in your bed, and remembered the feel of it, and tried to drown yourself in the illusion that it couldn't have been real. You were not the Knight of Time. You never died. You never went God Tier. You never met Terezi. Or Tavros. Or Karkat. Or even John, and Jade, and Rose. Those were all just a dream. You'd had more fucked up dreams.

And Bro just wasn't answering your calls. He did that sometimes. He's a busy dude.

You slept surprisingly well, and excessively. You hardly moved until the third day, when you woke up and realized you had no idea what time it was. Or what day of the week it was. Or what month it was. In order to get your bearings, you entered your Bro's room, which was exactly as he had left it. Waterbed unmade, smuppets everywhere; the large speakers seemingly amplified the emptiness. They were telling you there was no lull of fresh beats created by your Bro, or sick bass parts he ripped from songs, or even the occasional weird shit you heard, but never questioned.

You moved the mouse to bring up a notepad with a message addressed to you.

"it'll be okay, little man. stay cool. - bro."

You threw your fist threw the monitor, and smashed it against the wall several times before you realized you were crying, which only made you want to destroy it more. You proceeded to rip apart the CPU, did the same to yours, and were beginning to pick each key off the keyboard meticulously before you calmed down.

You went into the bathroom, and ripped open the mirror-cabinet behind the sink. Your Bro kept lots of pills in there for when things got bad, when things got good, and for headaches, which he got sometimes. You took three of everything you could find. When you closed it, and your reflection stared back at you, you jumped back. You were Dave Strider, a young, thin but still well-defined, freckled, blonde, fucking good looking teenager.

Your reflection was emaciated, dirty, and foreign. Your reflection cried; Dave Strider didn't cry. So you threw whatever you grabbed first, which was a bottle of axe body spray, and threw it at the stranger in your mirror.

Your landlady found you later that day, at least you think it was that day. She said your neighbors had heard screaming, and when she came in, you were stabbing the smuppets with your Bro's swords. Your face was bloody, and wet, and you were covered in remains of smuppets that once had names. She tried to calm you down to no avail, and simply proceeded to call the police. Bro was late with rent anyway. The police took one look at you, had no idea what to do, and just took you to the hospital. They gave you a sedative, which combined with everything you took somehow knocked you out. They pumped your stomach and when you woke up, you were hooked up to IVs and alone again.

You didn't remember anything after breaking the mirror. The police officer retold you all of it, and proceeded to question you on your Bro.

"Where does your brother work?"

He worked everywhere, and no where. But you remembered the names of a few of the clubs he had DJed at on the weekends.

"How old is your brother?"

The only way you could think to respond is "timeless."

"When did you last see your brother?"

"I don't know." You weren't lying.

"Has your brother ever done anything illegal?"

"I don't know."

"Has he ever stolen?"

"I don't know."

"Has he ever hurt anyone?"

"I don't know."

"Has he ever done any illegal drugs that you know of?"

"I don't know."

"Has he ever given you any drugs?"

You were silent, and the officer took that down in a notebook. The two of you were silent, him looking at you, and you looking resolutely away.

"Has your brother ever touched you?"

You jumped up from the bed, ripping off the IV, and attempted to pummel the guy. The lack of food for the last few days had taken its toll on you, and you weren't able to do much, besides break his glasses, which were dumb anyway. "You don't know my bro! You don't fucking know anything about my bro! You don't know shit! You don't know shit! You fucking shit! Fuck off!" Your screams all became one, and all you could think of was breaking this man, and not letting yourself cry again.

A nurse pulled you off, and rushed to the aid of the officer. He thanked her and told her he wasn't hurt, which felt like he was pissing on your ego. Your lips twisted and you shouted, "my fucking bro's missing and you're asking me if he fucks me! Just find him! Find him! Find him, and John, and everyone! Just fucking find them!"

Your knees gave out, and they rushed to your side. They asked if you were okay, and who John was, but all you could say was "fucking find them."

You were questioned by a different officer a few hours later. It was a woman, with dark eyes, and a blouse and khakis instead of a uniform. She didn't start off by asking about your brother, but asking about you. She wanted to know if you were feeling well, if you were hungry. She gained your trust when she was able to get you apple juice. So you told her. You took a deep breath, and told her that you and your best friends, who you had met online, all started playing this game that somehow started as sims on every drug ever somehow turned into alternate universes, trolls on other planets, and saving the world, how you had died several times, seen yourself die in other timelines, and how you saw your brother die, and how you miraculously survived, and woke up in your apartment without your brother who you simply wanted them to find so you could go home and get a pizza with him.

This woman nodded, and asked if you would excuse her for a moment while she talked to the doctors. You grabbed your shades from the stand beside your hospital bed, flustered that you had let the officer, a nurse, and whoever that woman was see your eyes.

She came back after ten minutes, and said she was going to take you somewhere safe.

She brought you here.

Your name is DAVE STRIDER and it's CHRISTMAS in the PSYCH WARD.

You start every day at nine, when the staff comes to wake you up no matter what. You eat your breakfast, and the nurse asks you to set a goal for today. Every day they ask you to set a goal. For the first three days, you said "to see my bro" but they asked you to change it because you weren't in control of that. So you settled for "to understand." After three days, you just went straight to the second one. She lets you choose your lunch, and asks if you want to go to the first group therapy, which starts at ten. You decline and shower.

The showers are private, but the hot water runs for only ten minutes. They give you shampoo, soap, and a single towel. You use the soap for everything, diligently scrubbing until your skin is red and sore. The hot water runs out, and you let your head fall to the tiled wall, and scream as the cold water sprays harshly out of the shower head onto your back.

You dress. They washed your clothes for you, and said they'll do it every week. They wouldn't let you keep your shoes because the laces were dangerous, but after one hell of a fight, they let you keep your shades.

You walk in late to group therapy. The group is familiar. You learn everyone in a ward quickly. Most of them are drug addicts, coming here before they go to rehab. They usually stay for three days. When you sign yourself in, you're required to stay for seventy-two hours, which seems like enough for detox, and then they give you your shit in a plastic bag and your free to leave. No one signed you in.

One of them is an old man named Harold. He has something, you're not sure what, but he says it makes him hurt everywhere. He tried to off himself and end it quickly. Now he's here, and hallucinating the pain away.

One of them was a kid about your age named Michael. He'd tried to kill his father, who he had seen beat his mother one too many times. Old man escaped with one stab wound, and a few stitches. Michael was here with a black eye, and a parol officer who'd visit every third day.

One of them was a girl about twenty named Jessica. She'd been dealing with her manic-depression with heavy combinations of ritalin and over the counter sleep pills. Her boyfriend said something to her that sent her over the edge, and she made herself a nyquil-vodka-and-ambien cocktail that had her puking for the entire first day she was here.

Today's question in therapy was about coping methods.

"When you would get upset, or angry, or frustrated, what was something you did to feel better?"

Most people answered substance abuse or something violent. You are silent.

The nurse made a list on a whiteboard in front of them. One was labeled with a happy face, and one was labeled with an angry face. She explained how doing those bad things didn't fix the problem, but made other problems.

"Now, what's something constructive you can do?"

She insists on every member of the group saying something productive they could do instead.

Harold says, "pray." He's Jewish.

Michael says, "build something." He was good with his hands.

Jessica says, "crochet." You guess she makes shit, and almost don't think about Rose.

Almost, and you choke when you do.

The group looks at you, and you swallow before saying, "music."

"Do you mean listen to music or make music, Dave?" The nurse asks.

You twist your mouth, trying to think of how to say it. "My brother's a DJ… and I mix shit with him."

"That's great, Dave! Very creative." The nurses know how much you talk about your brother. No one comments anymore.

The meeting ends, and everyone scatters to their rooms, or to the dining hall with the TV. You move to the couch at across from the TV and idly watch reruns of Andy Griffin and Dick van Dyke with Harold for an hour until it's time for lunch.

You sit with Michael and Jessica, but seldom talk. They do though. Michael is a freshman in high school, in spite of his age. He was held back, twice. He likes his wood shop class, and wants to be a carpenter. Jessica draws, and wants to be a tattoo artist. She has an aum on one wrist, an ankh on her other, a flower on her hip, and a tramp stamp with an important date of some sort on it.

They know you have a brother, and you don't know what's wrong with you. That's how you keep it.

They give you five pills every day. You know the names of none of them. One of them is supposed to help you with anxiety, which you didn't know you had. One of them is supposed to help you put on weight, because you're apparently suffering malnourishment, which they think might be causing your delusions. Another is supposed to help with headaches, which you've been getting a lot of lately. One is to help you keep food down, because you keep puking. And the last one is to help you sleep. They all make you feel like your chest is full of peanut butter.

You skip the after lunch meeting to take a nap. The nurses scold you and say that if you don't go to meetings you'll never be able to go home. The threat is empty.

You've been having dreams. Before you came here, sleep was all black. Now it was back. In shades of technicolor purple and gold. You talk to John in some of them, idly back and forth on pesterchum. You're with Rose in space ships in others, and in some you're catching frogs with Jade. In some, you're with Terezi discussing shades of red, with Tavros having a rap off, or with Aradia examining time with a God's eye view.

The first thing you ask them all is if they're okay. They all say, "of course, because you're here."

You're not tired, but you want to sleep. Most of these naps end after three hours of restless examination and interpretations of previous dreams, but you want more of them. Because you've seen them all. You've met everyone, and at least talked to them once. Hell, you almost always see Karkat and he's usually yelling about how you had to fucking go and do that. You have no idea what he's referring to and whenever you ask, he just goes on about fucking stupid you are, so you just flip the little fucker off and proceed.

And last night, you saw him.

You finally saw him.

You finally fucking saw him, and he didn't say a goddamn word to you.

You were talking to John about being part God, and behind him you saw him. He was watching you two talk. You pushed John aside and told him you had someone to see. But as soon as he saw you approaching, he started to walk away. You screamed for him but he just kept walking.

And if you had to punch yourself to sleep, you were going to find your goddamn Bro again. Fortunately, you hadn't taken your sleeping pill the night before, so punching yourself to sleep wasn't really something you had to do.

On a flat scale, when the sun sets behind a much larger moon, you meet your brother.

"Hey little man," Is all he greets.

You run up and punch him.

He dodges. He always fucking dodges.

"What the fuck is going on?" You scream.

"You won the game."

"I won?"

"Yeah,"

"I fucking won? I didn't win shit! All my friends are dead! I'm alone! I live in a fucking asylum! And you're gone! I don't have anybody!"

He flicks your forehead.

He fucking flicks your goddamn forehead, like the brother does on that stupid fucking ninja anime.

"Don't fucking do this to me, Bro!"

He just looks at you. And you just look at him.

And the stars stop.

"You did that." He comments.

"I'm the knight of time."

"You are."

"This all happened."

"Of course."

"Then why the fuck am I here?"

"Give it time. You'll understand."

"I don't fucking have time!" You scream, over and over, until your throat is raw and all you can do is pant and look at him.

"Sorry, bro, but I gotta go."

"What?"

"Stay cool man, I gotta peace it."

"No, Bro, wait." You start, but he turns his back and waves at you.

"Give it time, little man." He says, his voice just as loud but his body achingly distant.

You stay, and stare at where he stood, hoping your rage will bring him back. But when it doesn't, your knees buckle, and you scream again.

"I miss you."

Your name is DAVE STRIDER. It's CHRISTMAS and you're in a PSYCH WARD.

There are no group therapy sessions. Dinner is roast ham, mashed potatoes, peas, corn, green beans, baked pineapple, pumpkin pie, and chocolate cake. The nurses made cookies, and they let you drink soda. You don't eat much, but you drink five cups of coke.

The nurses make you talk about Christmas traditions.

Harold talks about his grandmother's latke and sufganiyah.

Michael talks about how his mom would let him sleep with her so she could wake up when he did.

Jessica talked about how her grandmother made lasagna.

You drink the rest of your coke, and whisper, "I miss my bro."

The nurse asks you to speak up.

"I miss my fucking brother." You say, and no one talks to you for the rest of the night.

Usually, they want you all in bed by nine, but they let you stay up until eleven tonight. As everyone gets phone calls from their relatives, you sit by the tree. It's a small one the nurses set up on an end table, and decorated with stars that have all the patients' names written on them.

"You won the game."

You cry under the tree and refuse to admit that you are DAVE STRIDER.