Work Text:
Pat. Pat. Pat.
Dave rubbed his eyes, bleary and red. His room was dark, dimly lit by fairy lights strewn across the ceiling. The walls were covered in posters from punk shows and cutouts from CDs, as well as stains and chips in the paint. His room was brimming with personality.
In the background, a record spun. Dave had fallen asleep listening to it—some compilation of psychedelic rock songs. That stuff put you to sleep fast.
Pat. Pat. Pat.
There it was again. Dave sat up in bed, confused and disoriented. Was that coming from the record? He got out of bed, his boxers twisted round and t shirt riding up. He took the needle off the record, only for the noise to continue.
Eventually, in his sleep addled state, he realised the noise was coming from the window. He yanked back his curtains, peaking his head through them and staring around. He was startled by a rock hitting the window. Goddamn! That must’ve been what had been making the noise.
He stared down, looking at his garden. You were stood there, in the cold and the dark, dressed in a hoodie and jeans and untied shoes, arms wrapped around yourself to stop the goosebumps.
Dave cracked open his window, still half asleep. Your face brightened. “Jesus Christ, man, what the fuck are you doing down there?” Dave croaked, smoothing out his hair.
“Let me in!” You yelled up, a whisper-yell so to not wake up anybody else in the grohl household. Dave sighed heavily, shutting his window. He couldn’t just leave you out there in the cold, could he?
You sat on Dave’s bed, hands rubbing at your arms ferociously. Dave stared at you, a little more awake but still feeling groggy. He gave you one of his long sleeved shirts to put on and a pair of joggers. You’d announced you’d be staying the night.
“It’s my dad,” you said angrily. Dave could hear the waver in your voice. He knew you dad could be a dick. He wasn’t abusive, not by any means, he just…wasn’t the most affectionate of sorts. “Fuckin’..being nasty again. He thinks he’s not a dick cause he doesn’t hit us. Bare fuckin’ minimum.”
Dave stared at you, just keeping quiet. He let you speak, let you get it all out. This often happened. You’d get upset about something at home and come on over to Dave’s. He didn’t mind it. He liked having you here, and he appreciated that you trusted him above all else.
“He always yells. Nothings ever good enough for him. He spoils everything. And my mom never does anything about it, of course. I’m so sick of it. I wish I could stay here, Dave,” you stared up at him, eyes locking into Dave’s dopey brown. He sighed, just looking back at you.
“I’m sorry.” Dave whispered, hand resting on your thigh. You stared down at the touch, feeling a heat spread across your cheeks.
Eventually, your ranting finished and you sprawled yourself across Dave’s bed, tugging at an extra pillow and wrapping your arms around it. Dave sat down next to you on the bed, rubbing your leg in a soothing manner.
“I’m really sorry, man,” he whispered. “You deserve better. I’m glad you came over here. You’re always welcome, y’know? I’m always glad to listen to you.”
You stared wearily at Dave. You really struggled with receiving affection. It was such an internal conflict. You didn’t want to accept it. It wasn’t something you were used to, a foreign chemical entering the bloodstream.
“You’re such a fairy.” You muttered, shooting Dave a small smile and then standing up to grab the clothes, put them on. Dave went a bit red but laughed, quietly, so not to wake his mother or sister.
“Shut up, man,” he said, grabbing at you and laughing as you tumbled over, joggers still half way down your legs from being pulled up. You fell onto him and the two of you tried to stifle your laughter as you lay together.
Dave smiled at you, warm brown eyes penetrating yours. Truth is, you were the fairy. Dave made you feel things no guy—or girl, for that matter—had ever made you feel. He was gorgeous and kind and loving and you couldn’t help but want to grab his face and kiss him, cuddle up with him in bed, spend every free moment with.
But it was the 80s. You couldn’t be gay. Gay men were..they were weird. Flamboyant. The only gay man you’d ever met was the Bowie-obsessed, makeup-wearing guy who worked down at the record store and blew you kisses when you didn’t call him a slur. You weren’t like him. Surely you couldn’t be gay.
You wormed out of Dave’s grasp, pulling your joggers up and rubbing your face. “Where can I sleep, man?”
Dave stared up at you, shrugging. His room didn’t have much. He had a bean bag next to his record player but that wasn’t the most comfortable. “My beds pretty big. We could share it.”
You tried to stay calm, levelheaded. You’d shared a bed with Dave before. It would be fine, totally fine. Dave was cosy and comforting and warm. You wanted to be close to him.
You scoffed, sliding back into the bed and yanking up the covers. “Alright. Thanks Dave.” You mutter teasingly, flashing a smile before you lied down.
Dave lay down next to you, back to back. You could hear him breathing. It was nice being so close to somebody. You felt less alone when you were with Dave.
“Goodnight, Dave.” You whispered gently. Dave hummed, already feeling sleepy. “Night.” He mumbled back.
Suddenly, after a few minutes of silence you felt arms wrap around you, Dave pulling you into his chest. Your cheeks reddened but you didn’t make any move to pull away. You just settled, enjoying the touch. This wasn’t gay. You were just being comforted by a friend.
You shut your eyes again, curling into a comfortable position and letting yourself fall asleep in Dave’s arms.