The waiting room is still and would be silent were it not for the 'tick, tock, tick' of the clock on the wall to your left, and the steady stream of sound from the noise makers in front of each office. You decide to add to it with the tapping of your fingernails against the wooden arm of the old creaky chair you sit in. You idly wonder if any of the other chairs are this noisy. You wouldn't know. This is the one you've grown comfortable in and the only one you've sat in since John's dad brought you here about six years ago.
You're waiting for your weekly visit with Dr. Lalonde to start. When you look at the clock it reads 4:13. Well, she never was one for punctuality. She works perfectly for you, though, so you don't mind. Down the hall, you hear a door open and soft, low voice and you can't help your lips from quirking up. The sound of clacking heals gets louder and you see her walk to the front desk with a short, freckled, ginger teen in a grey sweater that's about four sizes too big for him. You see him almost every week before your own appointment and he almost always has a sour look on his face, but today he doesn't look quite so bitter.
"I'll see you next week, Karkat. Don't forget to talk to your dad." She smiles softly at him. "Karkat" nods and pays the woman in the office before waving to her and walking out the door. Lalonde looks to you waves you over. Your chair screams as you lean on it to get yourself upright, and you make your way over to her.
"What's up, doc?" You ask her with a smirk. She lets out a low laugh and smiles as she leads you to her office.
"Oh, I haven't heard that one before, Dave." She sits down in her big cushy chair and you know by now to just make yourself at home in her office. You grab some clay off of her bookshelf and get comfortable on her weird corduroy couch. "So, how have you been?"
"Pretty good." You shrug and knead the clay in your hands. And you really have been, it's not just an automatic answer to anyone who asks anymore, not that you ever really faked emotions with Dr. Lalonde. After the money that Mr. Egbert shelled out for this for the first two years, and continued to help out with for another two, you take this shit pretty seriously. You realize that she's looking at you expectantly.
"We have 45 minutes, Dave." She laughs. "You don't have to be so vague. Tell me what's been going on since we last met."
"Well, work is good. Boring, but good. Meds make me a little nauseas, but nothing I can't handle." She throws in a quick 'Noted.' and you continue. "Tomorrow will be two months of no cutting...again." She whistles and grins.
"No kidding! Congrats, Dave." You smirk and brush imaginary dirt off your shoulder.
"No problem." You pause. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I think about it…like all of the time. Something always stops me though."
"Speaking of the boyfriend." She smiles and you laugh and shake your head. "How's he been."
"Awesome. Best brofriend ever. A+. Would date again." You realize you're babbling and stop, hesitating a bit and wondering if what you want to say is appropriate to bring up. "We uh…had sex last night," You stare down at your clay in embarrassment as you finish with, "like all the way."
"Oh?" She asks, sounding neutral if not just a wee bit surprised, and you can hear her pen scratching a quick note. "How did that go?"
"Good. It was nice. Like really nice." You sigh, "To be honest, I wasn't even sure if I'd be able to feel good in that situation ever again." She hums in consideration and scribbles down another note.
"Unfortunately, it's very common for sexual assault survivors to feel that way. But with some patience and help, it's entirely possible to retake a healthy sex life." There's a pause where you can't tell if she's expecting you to reply or not. She speaks up again when she sees that you're not going to. "I'm proud of you Dave."
"Awww. Thanks, doc. Hits me right in the feels." You tap your chest with a fist and she rolls her eyes, still smiling.
"I'm serious! You've made some great progress."
"So am I." You laugh. "Seriously, thanks."
"You are quite welcome." She crosses her legs and straightens your file on her lap. "Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?"
"Well, I got another letter from Bro. Haven't opened it yet."
"This is the fourth one, correct?"
"Yeah, I don't know what it is. I can't bring myself to read them."
"It's likely that you haven't forgiven him yet. It's completely understandable."
"Yeah, but he didn't do anything."
"Exactly. It can be very hard to erase the feeling of abandonment after it's been so thoroughly instilled in you. Just take your time, maybe open them when John is there to support you."
"Yeah, maybe." You mumble.
"You could bring them in here, if you want, but I think it would be better for you to read them with John."
"I'll think about it." You nod.
The rest of the session goes by in a blur, talking about feelings and coping skills, and before you know it, you're standing up and saying your good-byes before walking out of the building and to your car.
You think about the letters the entire drive home. How are you supposed to bring them up to John? You've been hiding them from him for the last two months now. You decide that you'll bring it up tonight after dinner. Yeah, that'd be best.
When you get in the door of your apartment, the most wonderful smell reaches your nose. John is actually cooking. Sweet. You think it smells like red sauce and when you reach the kitchen your suspicions are confirmed when you see spaghetti boiling on the stove. You take off your shades and they clatter on the counter.
"Hey, Dave!" He turns around and calls to you from over the island, adding some salt to the sauce and stirring the pot. "How was therapy?"
"It was uhh…good. Pretty great, actually."
"Awesome, come taste this." So you do, smacking your lips obnoxiously until John laughs and jabs you in the ribs with his elbow.
"It's good."
"Thanks, it's almost ready. Can you set the table and get some drinks out?"
"Sure thing, babe." John sticks his tongue out at you for the pet name and you go for the cupboard holding the bowls, (because why the fuck would you eat spaghetti on a plate? Shit's just a mess waiting to happen.) and open up the drawer by the sink for forks and spoons. (yes, spoons, they are of utmost importance for noodle twisting technique.) You set down the bowls across the table from each other, the spoons going to the left of each and the forks on the right, like John's dad taught you.
You silently wonder if wine would be fitting as you make your way to the fridge. It's Friday night and there's spaghetti, so why the fuck not? You pull a cheap bottle of pinot noir out of the fridge, pulling some glasses out of a rack on the counter before walking back to the small wooden table. Pouring two full glasses (you're both gonna need a little something for what you have planned later), and leaving the bottle on the table, you stroll back to the kitchen to watch John work. He twitters around for a bit, stirring here, seasoning there, and when he opens the oven, you actually groan at the smell of garlic.
He laughs and shakes his head. He looks at you, playfully severe. "Did you get the potholders?" You totally forgot.
"I was getting there."
"Uh-huh."
So you get the potholders and set them on the table just in time for John to bring out a pot of deliciously red noodles. You both sit down and get to eating.
You compliment him on his cooking and ask him about his day.
He thanks you, give a vague run-down, and asks you about work.
The vague run-down is returned.
You feel like it may be awkward, but he looks fine, so it must just be you. Honestly, you are really nervous about sharing the letters with him. Maybe you should read them by yourself first? You're not sure if you could, when you think about it. You only realize he's saying your name when he kicks your feet under the table.
"Huh?"
"I asked if you were ok, you're zoning out again."
"Y-yeah, just thinking."
"About what?" You kind of cringe when he asks and you can't for the life of you tell if it's from having to answer or from him asking with his mouth full.
"There's uh…something I need to tell you after dinner." His face screws up in concern and you put your hands up. "Nothing crazy, it's more like a show and tell kind of thing, anyway." He looks to be satisfied enough with your answer to not transform into a literal mother hen.
"Alright." He says and that's that. Dinner goes on, small talk filling up the times where it gets to be a little too silent. You don't keep track of the amount of wine you drink, but you start to feel pretty tipsy by the time your plate is empty. In fact you stumble a bit when you help John clean up. He doesn't notice (thank christ) and it doesn't take long before you're leading him to the bedroom and sitting him on the bed.
The letters are hidden in a shoe box under the bed, so you fish it out and place it on his lap, standing back and rubbing your arm.
"What's this?" he gestures at the box in front of him and quirks an eyebrow.
"O-open it." He shrugs and takes off the lid. He looks at the letters and then at you, before looking back down and picking one up.
"Dirk Strider…" his voice wavers and he looks back at you, "Your brother?" You bite your lip and nod, moving to sit next to him. "The one who…"
"The one who ignored it, yeah." Your voice shakes.
"Dave…" He reaches for your arm and you bring your hand to his.
"He's been sending them for a little while. One every two weeks or so." He opens his mouth to say something and you cut him off. "I haven't read them yet."
"Oh. So…"
"I brought them up and therapy today and my doctor thought it'd be a good idea to read them with you around. And I agree with her."
"Ok. So which one do you want to read first?"
"I-I don't know. I guess the one he sent first?" You realize your hands are shaking as you reach for the one on the bottom. John grabs your hand and kisses it, using his free hand to direct your chin at him.
"Hey. It's ok. I'm right here, alright?" You nod and take a deep breath reaching again with a steady hand. You open it and take another breath. You're a bit shocked to see that there are pictures inside. You're thankful to see that none of them include…Cal in them(God he died two years ago and it's still so hard to even think his name). Or Bro, for that matter. They're just of your parents. On their wedding day, as little kids, on their first date. You're absolutely mesmerized. To be honest, you'd almost forgotten what they looked like. Your mother, long and beautiful and light and your father, broad, strong, and handsome. You can't help but laugh at some passing memories of them.
"Are those…"
"My parents, yeah."
"You look like your mom."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"Well good, cuz it was one."
There's a sudden sourness in your gut as you remember what you said to her before she died. You just hope that wherever she is, she knows that you love her.
The letter is about Bro, mostly. About how sorry he is and how much he wishes he could take back your teenage years and replace them with something good, something at least somewhat innocent. He goes on to try to explain himself, saying that after your parents died he kind of lost himself and eventually turned to pills. He tells you about just how hard he fell but that he's picking himself up, that he's been in a rehab facility for 2 weeks and now that he finished detox, they're finally allowing him outside contact. So this is it, his first move to at least attempt to fix things with you. He writes that he doesn't expect you to forgive him, not by a long shot, but he had to try.
The words don't really take meaning in your head until you finished the letter, and holy shit, he cares. You feel like you should be pissed, fucking livid, but you're not. All you feel is a rush of relief that you still have family out there. You only realize your crying when you feel a warm arm wrap around your shoulders and a thumb pad wipe the wetness on your cheeks. There's a long moment where the only sound in the room is the slight hiccups in your breath and the occasional crinkling of paper.
"So tell me what's happening." John says, finally breaking the silence. "Are you ok?" You rub your face and nod.
"Better than ok." The paper seems so loud when you fold it up and put it back in the envelope. You put it on the nightstand and reach for the next one. "Let's keep going."
"Ok." You feel him nod against your hair and kiss the side of your head as you open up letter number two.
In this one, there's only a single picture. It's of the four of you, well, you, Bro, and your parents, some embarrassing Christmas portrait with matching outfits. Judging by how old you two look, this was long before Cal came into the picture. If you had to guess, you'd say you were about two years old, making Dirk around eight.
John laughs obnoxiously in your ear at the look on baby-Dave's face. You have like three chins and your fat grin is only accentuating the chubbiness in your cheeks.
"Shut the fuck up, man." You elbow him in the ribs and he laughs harder.
"Look how cute you are though! Those cheeks are probably a fully-grown man's handful." You bark out a laugh and nod.
"Thanks, Egbert. I'm really feelin' the love here." After a few moments, his laughter finally tapers off and you start reading.
You're happy to see that this one is not him beating himself up, but telling you about your parents and stupid shit you did when you were little. Some of the memories make you laugh and you tell John about them. He's very interested in hearing your stories and makes you promise to tell him more. You agree and move on to the next letter.
This one doesn't have pictures, just a simple letter about his treatment, how well it's going, that he should be out of there in a few weeks, and how great he feels. "Like new," He says. You're happy for him, and you can relate. Asking for help was the best thing you ever did. You sigh and fold it up and set it aside with the others. One more.
In this one he states that he's getting out tomorrow. He wonders how you're doing and gives you his cell number that you can reach him by starting tomorrow sometime in the evening.
Then, your stomach twists up in something you can't recognize.
He's asking to meet with you, "over lunch or something".
What do you do?
Seriously, what the fuck are you supposed to do?
You look to John and deadpan, "He wants to have lunch." His eyes widen a bit and his mouth makes an "o".
"Do you want to?"
"I…I think so?"
"I'll go with you if you want." He shrugs.
You nod and place the letter on the nightstand with the others, though still out of the envelope and open.
You find yourself exhausted, probably between the wine and the crying, and convince John to go to bed.
It's been about two weeks since you opened up to John about the letters and you've been texting Dirk for the last half of that time. You and the lovable dofus you call your boyfriend are currently in the car on the way to some Mexican restaurant on the other side of town.
You're so fucking nervous.
You're about to see your brother for the first time in six fucking years.
And really, for the 2 years before that, you never really saw him anyway.
John has to tell you to stop bouncing your leg like three times. Then you just move on to taping your fingers on the arm rest.
"Holy shit, chill out. It'll be fine. I'll be right there, ok?" He grabs your hand with the one that he's not using to drive and quickly looks over to you.
You nod and start grinding your teeth.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you fish it out to see a text from Bro that he's got a table for you three.
A few more minutes of agonizing torture and you finally pull up to the restaurant. Great, now you can't turn back. You realize that anxiety you felt on the ride here is fucking ice cream compared to the knots in your stomach when you open the double doors and step inside. You curse yourself as you stutter your last name to the hostess and when she asks you to repeat yourself, John saves you and states the name loud and clear. You squeeze his hand in a silent thanks and he locks your fingers together reassuringly. The woman leads you through the restaurant and your eyes flit behind your shades for spikey blonde hair and sunglasses indoors.
And then you see him, missing the hat that you remember and wearing a nice white button up. When he sees you, he stands from his seat and waves, though a bit awkwardly. You nod back and when you get closer, he holds his hand out for John to take. After hesitating a bit, he does. They introduce themselves to each other and you and John sit down across from him.
He looks really good. You think the last time you saw him was at 5 in the morning crossing paths to and from the bathroom. You remember his face: every crease and line darkened, dark, deep circles under his eyes, his hair greasy and messed up.
But now, he looks…clean. Healthy even. He's asking you something, and it only registers when John kicks you under the table.
"Huh?"
"I asked you how you've been?" You're not quite sure what triggers your reaction, but you end up catching him up for the last six years. You tell him about therapy and school and work. You talk about John like he's not even there, and when you realize, your face goes red and you apologize to your boyfriend. Bro laughs. "I'm glad," he says. "you seem happy."
And yeah, you guess you are.