Your relationship with Strider was somewhat complicated.
The fact that it couldn't be labeled made you irrationally frustrated. It was bright red, and it was pale, and it was the darkest shade of black, and the lines were so blurry between each quadrant that you could scream. Hell, you two were all the colors of the fucking rainbow.
The majority of the time, you end up feeling ridiculously flushed for the prick. You'd blowup in his face and throw tantrums and bash him with every insult and demeaning name you could muster. You'd scream and yell and, holy shit, you'd break down in hysterical sobbing and swear on your life that you despised him. The fact that he just sat there and absorbed it made you even angrier - he wouldn't say a word, just wait for you to finish. When you were done, and all that was left was a whimpering shell, he'd hold you close to his chest and stroke your hair and whisper comfort in your ears.
And you don't know if that's red or pale or black because sometimes you do feel like you truly hate him but afterwards you realize it's just all the pent up self-loathe and fear and rage and you just dump it all on him and it just won't fucking stop and you just wish you knew what you're feeling.
You both moved into a small, dumpy NYC apartment after you graduated college. You worked odd jobs after failing to pursue your career as an author. Dave worked as a DJ at clubs and parties and other venues. The two of you made rather crappy income, and your schedules often clashed, and some days you only saw Dave when he crawled into bed with you at 3 am.
You came home angry one winter afternoon. Dave had taken the day off and was sprawled across the futon flipping through Netflix. You don't know why you were angry, but when you saw Dave laying there on his ass, you decided you were angry at him. There was no reason. But he was there and he was pretty much the only one you fucking cared about and you were mad.
"The apartment is a fucking mess. You could've at least changed out of your pajamas, you lazy prick. But hell, that's expectable - you never do shit around here." The door slammed behind you and Dave looked up, expressionless, and he knew what was coming.
"Why should I have to tolerate this shit from you, Strider?" You felt the anxiety and hatred bubble up inside you, and it was too late to stop it. "You're such a fucking moron, you know. It's fucking exhausting, you fucking pig, fuck you. I should just fucking move out now, it'd be much easier than babysitting your pitiful ass!" And he sat there. And he watched you. And he slowly took off his shades and set them on the coffee table beside him and watched you with those eyes that looks exactly like yours and it made your skin crawl.
"Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. You're just a douche, Strider, really. I'm so fucking sick of you. I hate your filthy guts, asshole." Your vision danced and you felt nauseous. You wanted to throw things. You wanted to tear into something. "I hate you." The room spun and tears bounced to your eyes, because it was so stressful, and no you didn't hate him, you pitied him.
You watched his stoney expression melt as he stood.
"Don't touch me." You shrank backwards but as soon as he wrapped you up in his arms, that was it, you were gone. You were sobbing and he was carrying you like a motherfucking princess to the stained futon and curling up with you and stroking your cheek and cooing 'babe, my cute little kitten, its okay, shh' over and over and over. You then proceeded to watch romcoms with Dave planting soft kisses down your neck and things were okay.