It's not easy for people who are used to keeping it all bottled in. Peter always liked the feeling of control it gave him whenever the whole world went to hell. After his parents died, he could shut down and pull away, and it'd make it like he could control it all. It felt that way at least, but it wasn't true, and it only ends up building over time. It stacks on top of itself over and over again.
From what little Peter does know of Dipper's world, it goes to hell in a hand basket (as his Aunt May might say) more often than any other world he's ever heard of (except maybe Wonderland itself). If he puts this much pressure on himself both there and here, it's going to build and build and build without anywhere for it to go. No wonder he's hiding out here in a cave. Peter relates so intensely to that need to hide away when it feels like the entirety of that pressure is about to crash down and then still hunching up in a corner, unable to let it out around anyone else.
Peter doesn't move at all, and he doesn't speak when Dipper slumps against him. There's a well of helpless concern and ache exploding up through him (and relief too because it's clear Dipper needs to be able to breakdown in some way with someone), but he can tell that Dipper doesn't want to let it all go or breakdown or cry, and he doesn't want to make that worse by saying something that might jar him out of it now that he's finally reached that point. His hand rests against his shoulder, squeezing gently once Dipper slumps over.
It's Peter's way of saying it's okay and you're not alone here without actually saying any words at all. Just letting him feel this right now.
oh no i wasn't prepared :'(
From what little Peter does know of Dipper's world, it goes to hell in a hand basket (as his Aunt May might say) more often than any other world he's ever heard of (except maybe Wonderland itself). If he puts this much pressure on himself both there and here, it's going to build and build and build without anywhere for it to go. No wonder he's hiding out here in a cave. Peter relates so intensely to that need to hide away when it feels like the entirety of that pressure is about to crash down and then still hunching up in a corner, unable to let it out around anyone else.
Peter doesn't move at all, and he doesn't speak when Dipper slumps against him. There's a well of helpless concern and ache exploding up through him (and relief too because it's clear Dipper needs to be able to breakdown in some way with someone), but he can tell that Dipper doesn't want to let it all go or breakdown or cry, and he doesn't want to make that worse by saying something that might jar him out of it now that he's finally reached that point. His hand rests against his shoulder, squeezing gently once Dipper slumps over.
It's Peter's way of saying it's okay and you're not alone here without actually saying any words at all. Just letting him feel this right now.