Chapter Text
>you: be the boy waiting.
you sit on the roof of your house waiting for your best bro dave. he agreed to meet up and hang out tonight and you’re super excited! you hear some rustling and see dave come out of the neatly trimmed bushes by the side of your house.
“hi,” you say, greeting him with a wave.
dave gives you a “hey,” and a short wave back and you pat the space beside you, inviting him up. he climbs on the tall trash can by your house and pulls himself up next to you. you wish you could do that, but you’re a bit too wide and chunky. dave is perfect it for though, with his toned arms and long legs. he lays back on the roof and looks up at the sky, the stars bright and the moon full. you take this chance to look at his face and study the slight curve of his cheeks and the sharp jut of his cheekbones. you’re not a homosexual! sometimes dave is just...nice to look at. yeah, nice to look at. that doesn’t mean you like him! you turn away and look at the moon.
“how’s it been at home?” you ask, your eyes flicking back to him to see a slight frown on his lips. there’s a pause, the air between you going dead and you consider backpedaling, not wanting to upset your best friend, when dave sighs and pulls off his glasses. you wince at the deep bruise around his eye. it must've been a really hard hit, dave is near-impossible to bruise, especially with a mark that bad. that thought makes your mouth twist into a frown and you glance to the side of the roof before crawling to the edge. you carefully crouch near the edge of the roof right next to the trash can and dave looks at you like you’re crazy. “come on!” you whisper-shout and gesture for him to follow you. you climb down to the trash can and jump to the ground, hearing the soft scuffle of shoes on shingles behind you. you creep around to the back corner of the house and stop in your tracks, listening for the sound ofyour dad moving around the house.
“why-,” dave starts but you shoosh him and grab his hand to lead him into the house.
>you: be the kid with the warm face.
john, your best bro, the guy you’ve spent many-a-night watching shitty nick cage movies with, is holding your hand. you definitely don't freak out for a second before realizing he’s probably just doing it to lead you around and you definitely don't think about how soft his hand is compared to yours. your palm starts to sweat and you cringe, john’s probably gonna think you’re gross, who the fuck has sweaty palms? its nasty, and weird, and- he’s pulling you along behind him. when did your legs start moving? whatever, you go with the flow like a true strider does and follow him through the back door. john lets go of your hand and points you towards the bathroom.
“go wait in there, i’ll be there in a minute.” you nod and head to the bathroom. after a few short minutes if navigating the halls, you sit on the toilet lid and stare at the hand john held earlier. you know you have to tell him eventually- but you don’t want to ruin anything. he’s the closest friend you’ve ever had and if you ruined that you don’t know what you’d do. you could never forgive yourself. you consider the thought that john might like you back but quickly brush it off. he’s straight, he’d never like you. and even if he was gay, you surely wouldn’t be his tenth choice, let alone his first. you hear a slight murmur and your head snaps up to see john standing next to the sink, looking at you. you look up at him, confused, and he snorts.
“i said, i need you to take off your shirt,” you keep staring at him, still confused, and john lets out a small laugh, covering his mouth to muffle the sound, “i have to check your injuries, dummy.”
you let out a soft “oh,”and slowly started pulling your shirt off. you don’t wanna think about why you’re so self-conscious about it, so you don’t.
>you: be the medic.
he slowly lifted the fabric off of his torso and you can see him grimace as the damp fabric peels off of a long, shallow slash across the left side of his torso. you kneel in front of him and start touching around the slash. you trace your finger along the bottom of it and he shivers.
“this is because of him. isn’t it?” you look him in the shades and he looks away from you and nods. you let out a small grumble.
“bro’s not that bad, you know that,” you shake your head, refusing to have this conversation again, and reach for the first aid kit behind you. what could swordfighting possibly prepare somebody in the modern world for? how could someone treat dave like that? and last but not least, how does that piece of shit sleep at night? you grab the gauze and slowly unwrap some of it, in an effort to stamp down your anger. you cut off a piece long enough for dave's torso and set it aside. you grab a small rag, wet it, and get to rinsing all of his smaller scrapes and scratches. you’ll tackle the big one later. time passes quietly, daves tiny gasps and grunts and your mumbled sorrys occasionally filling the silence. once you’ve got all the smaller scratches cleaned and bandaged you get started on the larger slash. a while later, after dave’s bandaged up and has his shirt back on, he decides to head back home for the night. you feel sick and anxious sending him home to bro, but dave insisted on it. you watch him start for home from your window and let out a soft sigh, wishing he could stay with you and be safe.
you guess it wasn't meant to be.