It's both terrifying and painfully, desperately craved-- Dirk's words, that description of how he would put Ranboo down. To finally get to rest, to finally know some peace. Only seconds until unconsciousness-- and then nothing. Blissful nothing, which sounds wonderful compared to the fully-body ache they're experiencing now, the angry buzzing of their skull and the thoughts that sit inside of it.

But they don't get that choice. They never have gotten a choice before. Why start now? Why should this be any different? Live or die, kill or spare, it doesn't matter what Ranboo wants.

Anger and pain and fear and sadness and numbness for which they have no real outlet surges down their spine, draws their breathing harsh and noisy from their throat as Dirk holds them upright, presses the glass to their lips. He wants to lash out and knock it in Dirk's face, to cry and plead, but the hopelessness of it all short-circuits that anger, shutting him down instead.

Ranboo closes their eyes, and they drink. Their throat burns and aches, but the water, lukewarm as it is, still soothes the edges of it at least a little.

Maybe this will at least grant him enough water in his body to cry with again.