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“I can’t fucking do this anymore Roxy. I don’t hate you. I just don’t, can’t care anymore. I just don’t care.”
That was the last thing Dirk said to Roxy before he had gotten on a ship with Rosebot and Terezi and fucked off to who knows where.
That had been about an hour ago. Roxy stumbled back to his apartment and found the bottles of wine he’d hidden in a false back of a cupboard in case something happened that made all his progress not worth keeping. He’d peeled away the seal and unscrewed the cap of the nine dollar bottle of wine. It was pinkish despite the bottle saying it was white Zinfandel. He took a long swig and grabbed two more bottles and didn’t bother to shove the false cupboard backing into place.
He stumbled to his bedroom, drinking right from the bottle barely taking breaks between sips long enough to breathe.
Dirk had finally gotten sick of his shit and left. Everyone fucking left eventually so he didn’t know why he was surprised. Janey left to run her bullshit racism and baking goods empire. Jake had stopped talking to her after he divorced Jane. Karkat and Dave had gotten their own place, Dave had said he didn’t want to keep intruding on Roxy’s space. Roxy had thought them moving in together was so sweet but now they never saw each other.
Roxy drained the last bit of the first bottle and moved onto the second bottle, a merlot. What he really needed was vodka, maybe absinthe. Get so fucked up he wouldn’t know who or where he was much less remember Dirks leaving.
He was halfway through the second bottle when he realized that Jane would probably be willing to hang out since Roxy was on the path to getting absolutely obliterated.
“You’re more fun when you’re drunk!” He could still remember how fucking bad that had hurt so he chugged the rest of the bottle. Any expert wine taster would be absolutely disgusted with his lack of care for the experience and taste of the wine. But it wasn’t that it was wine, it could have been beer, vodka, a fruity little cocktail or ten, he just needed to feel less. Wobble in and out of his own edges, blur out the pain.
He finished the third bottle, he didn’t even bother to read it. He fell twice on his way back to the kitchen and the second time he didn’t get up. What was the point. What was the point of ANYTHING. Dirk was gone.
Dirk was his reason. His person. Maybe it was just the BPD talking but this was the end up the fucking world. The end of his world. His world had gotten on a ship with his sister-mother-robot and one of his sort of but not really friends and just flew off. His world was who knows how far away and getting further away every second. He wanted to scream. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to sink his nails into his own arms and drag through the skin like a knife over and over until he was as physically shredded as he felt emotionally.
He needed Dirk. Dirk was his oxygen tank in the twilight zone of the ocean. Dirk was his lighter when he needed to light a fire. Dirk was what made this bullshit life worth living.
What point was there to keep going if Dirk wasn’t here? What the fuck was he supposed to do now? He didn’t want to do anything. He didn’t want to exist. The pain was so intense it was almost physical.
He curled into himself and let out a shuddering sob. He just let himself break. He sobbed and held himself and fell apart and screamed and shook until his throat was sore and raw and he was so dehydrated from crying that he wasn’t sure he could keep the tears flowing.
But what did it fucking matter. Again, if Dirk wasn’t here, nothing he did mattered. He could lay here for days, it wouldn’t matter. He could drink every drop of alcohol in his stash, it wouldn’t matter. He could bite and scratch and cut himself up until there was no blood left in him, and it Wouldn’t. Fucking. Matter.
He got up. He didn’t remember the actual process of getting up. But he was stumbling toward the bathroom.
He collapsed in front of the toilet and shoved two fingers down his throat to vent his gut. Once he’d gotten it all up he peeled off his clothes and threw them vaguely towards the hamper. He crawled into the shower and turned the water on and just lay there under the water.
He couldn’t fucking think, he could barely breathe.
Somehow he washed himself and turned the water off. Who knows how long it took. He pulled on boxers and collapsed into bed. He couldn’t fucking bother with anything else.
He pulled the blanket around himself and curled into a ball. Maybe if he went to bed, this would just be a bad dream. He’d wake up and Dirk would have sent him a message on pesterchum asking for Roxy’s opinion on something for his show, or asking to meet up for coffee so Dirk could run through a script and Roxy could help work out all the finicky bits.
Yeah.
Yeah, he just had to go to bed and he’d wake up tomorrow and this would just be a bad dream.
He just had to go to sleep for a bit.