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Dave Strider is afraid of thunderstorms. Now, under most other circumstances you would be teasing him, pulling shitty pranks on him and being an all round douche (his words, not yours) but with an armful of shaking best friend you really don't think this is the best time for that.
After huge amounts of organising and assuring your father that, "no, Dad, he's not a rapist/serial killer/criminal, we've been talking since we were 10," Dave is spending a couple of weeks in the summer holidays with you. You picked him up at the airport, crushing his feeble attempt at a bro-hug with your bear-hug, to which he awkwardly reciprocated by patting your back. It may have lasted a bit longer than normal hugs, but that's okay because you're finally meeting your best bro of 7 years!
You came back to the house and spent the rest of the day playing video games, with Dave kicking your butt at most of them. Your father left sometime in the evening, saying something about a work dinner function. The storm started up soon after.
At the first crash of thunder, you saw Dave flinch, reaching for the remote to turn up the volume. You didn't really know why he wanted to play Mario Kart at full volume, but you didn't mind. It was only when the power snapped off that you realised he did not like the storm.
He'd thrown himself at you, burying his head in your shoulder, the second the lights went out. This, of course, leaves you in your current predicament.
"Hey, Dave, I'm gonna go light some candles, is that okay?" He shakes his head profusely, clutching you tighter. You almost do it anyway, but when lightning flashes through your window at the same time as a rumble of thunder, Dave flinches, a small whimper escaping him, so you figure leaving him alone isn't the best idea. Instead, you manoeuvre your bodies around until you're lying on your sides on the couch, face to face.
You don't even need to ask if he minds, since the second you're both lying comfortably, he tucks his head into your neck and wraps his arms around you.
"Ow, shit, wait a sec," you mutter, reaching to remove his shades. It makes you happier than you'd like to admit knowing that you gave them to him and he wears them everywhere. He reflexively resists, but relaxes slightly and allows you to take them off. He immediately puts his head back into its position.
You chuckle, wrapping your arm around his waist. A loud rumble of thunder shakes your house and Dave jolts. He's shaking less now at least, so you consider that a small achievement. Eventually, the thunder quietens, the lightning becomes less common, and you fall asleep, clutching Dave to your chest.
***
When you wake, early morning sunlight is streaming through the window, no trace of last night's storm in the weather. Dave is sleeping peacefully, using your chest as a pillow, blond hair fanned out across your shirt. You notice that someone, presumably your father, has placed a blanket over you both, and you stiffen slightly as you realise what this probably looked like.
You relax again almost immediately, remembering the sleeping Dave smushed against you, but it's still enough movement to rouse him slightly. He grumbles, trying to shove his face into your chest to avoid the light of the room, but his attempt is futile. He looks up at you, eyes bleary and half asleep, and you think, not for the first time, that he is really damn cute.
"Mornin'," he mutters softly, not moving from his spot. This is the first time you've ever seen his eyes, and you relish in the knowledge that he's letting you.
You consider saying something about your position, but that might make him move and you really don't want that. Instead you reply with a soft, "morning to you too, dork,".
"M'not a dork, you're a dork," he replies, evidently still too sleepy to formulate any sort of witty response. Sleepy Dave is the cutest thing you've ever seen (not that you'd ever tell him that).
You lay there comfortably for a while, running a hand through Dave's hair in a completely platonic way, because that's what best bros do, right? Maybe not, but you can't bring yourself to care.
Eventually, however, it's time to move. "Dave, let me up, I need to pee."
"Nah."
Daaaaaaaaaave, come on!"
"I'm fine here thanks."
"I will piss on you," you threaten, and although you both know that it's an empty threat, he rolls off you and straight onto the floor. You hear a soft "fuck" and he reaches for his glasses, shoving them onto his face. Your disappointment is quickly overshadowed by your pressing need to pee, so you quickly rush to the toilet.
When you return, Dave offers you a controller, the screen already displaying Street Fighter. You take it and sit next to him on the couch, sides pressed together. Neither of you mention last night, which irks you slightly, but after your first game, Dave leans over and kisses you on the cheek, blushing furiously, so you don't mind one bit.