Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Oh, no.

This party has Roxy written all over it, despite the formal invitation that you’d received over two weeks ago in the mail had Jane written all over it. Literally. The invitation in question had been printed on light blue cardstock with golden filigree and used the word “cordially”. You thought it looked very fancy. In fact, it’d looked so fancy, you’d messaged her to ask if you should wear a bowtie.

The conversation is still logged on your phone.

JOHN: wow, is this like a fancy party?
JOHN: should i wear a bow tie?
JANE: No, it’s just a regular party! :B
JOHN: i’m wearing a bow tie.

You end up not wearing a bowtie, but you do wear a bowtie adjacent. That means you alchemize a hilarious novelty tee that has one printed below the collar.

It was supposed to be a prank because, even though Jane said it wasn’t that kind of party, you sort of just assumed it was. The two of you are basically the same age, but she’s also your Nanna? And you can’t picture your Nanna throwing an actual party. You’ve always imagined her as more of a quaint tea and cake kinda gal—which is why your faux-tuxedo graphic tee would have been priceless.

But this is a real party with music, and lights, and alcohol, and people, and you look like a total fucking dork.

You watch from behind the rim of your red solo cup as people congregate, splitting off into factions. Dave’s standing with Karkat, leaning in way too close to talk directly into a pointy, troll ear. It’s some typical Dave Strider mumbo-jumbo if Karkat’s scowl is anything to go by. Hm. Kinda hard to tell, actually. He does always kinda look like that.

You scan the crowd again until you find another familiar face.

Rose. She stands next to Kanaya, deep in conversation with a wine glass poised delicately in her hand. The red liquid that she’s swirling around is just water with a little bit of food coloring. You’d watched her mix it back in the kitchen. Rose doesn’t drink anymore. Neither of the Lalondes do.

And that brings you to Roxy.

You find her rubbing circles into Jane’s back while she upheaves the contents of her stomach into a potted fern. You promptly look away. There are some things in life that a guy doesn’t need to see. His nanna puking in a house plant is one of them.

Moving on.

Jake is uproarious as ever, standing on a table, making a dramatic toast to a crowd of people you don’t recognize. You doubt he does either. He looks pretty drunk…and silly! You like that about him though. The silly part, that is. He probably gets into all sorts of crazy shenanigans! If Jake weren’t surrounded by so many strangers, he’d be a strong contender for tonight’s hang-out buddy.

Oh, wait. Jade’s there too!

She turns to you and waves enthusiastically. You wave back. She beckons you over. You pretend you don’t see it. Sorry, Jade. You’ve already made up your mind, that’s too much adventure too soon.

A couple of seconds later, your phone vibrates.

JADE: hi john!!! :)
JADE: i just wanted to tell you that you shouldnt feel bad if the party gets to be too much
JADE: but we are all really glad you made it out!
JADE: just try to have fun
JADE: and make some new friends!!

That’s nice. You wish it were that easy, but you appreciate your sister’s sentiment all the same. When you look back over, she’s already full engrossed with, uh, what appears to be a betting pool? Looks like Jake’s gonna arm wrestle a pretty burly-looking chess dude.

Enough of that. Back to people watching.

Man. There are a lot of people here and you’re starting to feel a little claustrophobic. It’s like Jane extended the invitation to the entirety of Earth-C. You really don’t know half of these people, and not all of them are even people. There seems to be a healthy mix of humans, trolls, and Carapacians. You’re pretty sure you saw a Nakodile and Salamander in the midst of a heated, bubble-blowing debate on your way to the bathroom earlier.

Bottom line, you feel out of place. That’s not anything new. The feeling of disconnect from your friends and family has been sorta an omnipresent force in your life since the game ended. You thought they all felt the same. You were wrong. One hour at this party has given you more than enough evidence for that.

They’re all enjoying themselves and the company of each other, completely carefree.

All but one.

Across the room, Dirk Strider stares you down. You get the feeling, if he weren’t wearing his dumb triangle shades, the two of you would be making some seriously intense and uncomfortable eye contact. It’s nearly impossible to look away. He’s posted against the wall, nursing a can of orange soda, not talking to anyone. Just like you.

Except you’re drinking hooch, not gross Fanta.

And it’s the hooch, not gross Fanta, that gives you the courage to walk over.

“Hey! So, you’re Dave’s bro, right?” you ask, casual and cool.

A rhetorical question. You know that he’s Dave’s bro. It’s true that you’ve been locked in your house for almost three years, but you don’t live under a rock. You live in a nice suburban house, thank you very much.

Still. He doesn’t say anything to confirm or deny your query. The only indication that he’s heard you at all is the slight angle of his head, tilted in your direction. It throws you off, all your casual coolness slipping.

You rub the back of your neck. “I’m John. I don’t think we’ve officially met?”

Back in the doomed timeline, when the constructs of the game were collapsing at the seams, you met a much glitchier version of him. But that hardly feels like appropriate small talk.

He still doesn’t say anything.

“Uh.”

Okay. Apparently, he takes the whole “Strider stoicism” thing to the extreme. That’s cool. He’s looking at you with a curious tilt to his head, one dark eyebrow arched over his shades. You’re close enough to see past the tint, surprised to find a healthy dose of mirth there.

“Sorry if this is weird,” you say because you’re starting to feel like maybe this is weird. “Is this weird?”

He ignores you to pat down his pockets. Front left. Front right. Back left. Back right. But he must not find whatever he’s looking for because he frowns, shaking his head. You watch the whole thing unfold from the sidelines like a creep, shifting from foot to foot.

“Lost your keys?” you ask, smiling nervously. It’s a joke because none of you drive or even have to drive, being gods and all. You recognize that it’s not a very funny one, but you’re still irritated that he doesn’t at least laugh politely.

Under your breath, you mutter, “Tough crowd.”

But to that, he snorts. You think that constitutes as a laugh, maybe closer to a chuckle. Either way, score! You’ve made a breakthrough—oh.

Annnnnnnnd, he’s leaving.

Alright then.

You’re left in the same position you started; awkwardly standing by yourself against the wall. Only, now you’re on the other side of the room. Great.

You drain your cup in three long gulps, grimacing as it slides down your throat. It seems like it takes forever for you to get a buzz these days. Whether that’s because of your god tier status, an innate tolerance, or tolerance you’ve built up while holed up alone in your house, you can’t be sure.

Regardless, you need a refill. Pronto.

In the kitchen are more faces that you don’t recognize. You cut through the clusters of bodies, mumbling half-sincere apologies until you find the hooch bowl. You resist the impulsive desire to dunk your entire head in it. That’d probably be a bad idea for a plethora of reasons. The main one being that you’d get really sticky and gross.

A close second is the potential Earth-C News at Nine headline: John Egbert Has Finally Lost the Rest of His Marbles!

You fill your cup up with the designated ladle like a sensible young man. Then, you drink it where you stand and fill it again. Rinse, repeat times three. By the time you stumble back out of the kitchen, you’re at least feeling a little tipsy. A little more confident. A little more pizazz in your step.

You’re feeling better. You’re feeling good!

Who cares that all your friends have moved on with their lives while you’ve done nothing but wallow in self-pity? Not you! Who cares that you feel like a stranger to all the people you’ve known the longest? No one! Who cares that the only other person here that looked as out-of-place as you felt totally snubbed you?

Once again, emphatically: Who cares?

Not you. Not anyone.

Dirk Strider is an asshole, but you guess you should have expected that, given what you remember about his Beta self. Logically, you know that Dave’s Bro and Dirk aren’t really the same person, just like you know Jane isn’t your Nanna, and Jane’s Dad isn’t your Dad. But you’re slightly drunk and aggravated so, screw logic!

In your back pocket, your phone vibrates again. Fishing it out takes longer than you care to admit. It’s fine. Probably just Jade—

???: Nice shirt.

You frown, squinting down at the screen. The words are starting to blend together. Yes, you know it’s just two measly words, but your glasses are smudged, and your brain is fuzzy. That’s sarcasm, right? You’re pretty sure that’s sarcasm.

JOHN: don’t be a dick!
???: Sure, but I wasn’t being facetious.
???: I find a lot of comedic value in classic irony.
???: In other words, the novelty tee is really doin’ it for me.

You read along, mouthing the words slowly, a scowl growing with every syllable. Orange text. Pretentious vocabulary. Sarcasm dripping from every word. A forced play at a southern accent through text. The irony.

You may not have much hands-on experience with Dirk Strider, but you know enough to make the deduction.

Wow. Now he wants to talk to you?

Nope.

JOHN: hey, jade!
JOHN: so, i did what you said and tried to make a friend.
JADE: thats great john!!
JOHN: and you know those hilarious prank explosions that leave the person’s face covered in soot and their hair all crazy and sticking up?
JADE: im familiar :)
JOHN: well, that’s what happened when i tried!
JADE: oh no!!! :(
JOHN: yeah!
JOHN: thanks for the advice though.
JOHN: i’m sure any other time it would have been really good.
JADE: geeeeeeez im sorry
JADE: :/
JADE: you should go find dave and karkat
JADE: theyre already your friends!!
JADE: and i hear theyre going to play strip beer pong
JOHN: wow, that sounds totally stupid and made up.
JOHN: i’m going to go see what it’s about.
JADE: ok have fun!! :)

There. You just had a whole conversation without texting Dirk back. Now he knows that you’re ignoring him. You pointedly shut your phone off and shove it back in your pocket, making sure to look extra haughty as you do it (just in case he’s watching). He probably isn’t, but whatever. It makes you feel better. Sort of.

Ugh. You don’t know why you even care! Stop it. You don’t.

And if you save Dirk’s number after you’ve holed yourself up in the bathroom to get away from the noise and chaos…

Well. That’s your business.

Chapter Text

Holy shit. You’ve been hit by a truck. That’s the only plausible explanation for why your body feels the way it does. Heavy and achy, laden down with sore muscles. You’re not sure you could do the windy thing if you tried, not while you’re too busy being a human-sized paperweight.

Rolling over, you painfully crack open your eyes to assess the situation. It’s daylight. You’re still at Jane’s. You’re drooling all over her couch. You slept with your glasses on. You slept with your pants off.

Oh, Jesus. Where the hell are your pants?

The night before swings down hard like an ax through your skull, splitting it in two to make way for an avalanche of hazy memories. None of them provide the answer to your pants situation, but they’re all embarrassing enough to properly wake you.   

You struggle to sit up, groaning, and cradling your head in your hands.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.”

Leaning against the living room wall, Dave takes a sip of coffee from an obnoxiously ironic mug. Does that say World’s Best Grandpa? Anyway, you know its coffee because the whole place smells like dark roast. You also know that it’s not morning because the clock says it’s a little past noon. Just like you know that you’re not in any way, shape, or form, a beauty.

See? You know a lot of things. But you still don’t know—

“Where are my pants?”

“You don’t remember?” Dave takes another exaggerated sip. You hope it burns his stupid tongue. “You play one shitty game of strip beer pong, man.”

“Strip beer pong isn’t a thing.”

“It is, and you suck at it.”

“You suck at it,” you mumble, despite the fact that Dave doesn’t seem to be sans pants or otherwise. He probably doesn’t suck at it. “That doesn’t really tell me where they are though, just how I lost them!”

“You might want to check with Karkat.”

That wakes you up faster than whatever sludge is in Dave’s cup. “Karkat?” you ask, incredulous. “Why the hell would Karkat have my pants? Isn’t he your boyfriend?”

Hah! There. Totally got him. You can’t wait to see the look on Dave’s face when he realizes you’ve insinuated that he’s having amorous affair with a boy troll. He’s gonna be so burned. He’s gonna—

Shrug.

Dave shrugs.

“Yeah, but he won them fair and square. Wore them tied around his head most of the night calling himself Troll Rambo. Don’t know where they ended up though. He wasn’t wearing them when we passed out last night. Sorry, bro. They might be lost forever. You’re gonna have to do the weirdest walk of shame. All the way home in your novelty off-brand Slimer boxers, leaving your grandma’s house—”

“You and Karkat slept together?”

One dark, baffled eyebrow rises over the rim of Dave’s aviators. “Is that seriously all you’re gonna comment on?”

Okay. Sure. There are a couple points of that ramble you may want to circle back to, but Dave just alluded to the fact that he and Karkat slept together, right? He also didn’t deny that he was his boyfriend. In fact, he seemed pretty unfazed by the accusation. Almost like it was common knowledge.

“Are you and Karkat dating?”

“Wow. Where the fuck have you been, Egbert?” From around the corner, Karkat emerges—disgruntled and surly as ever. You must have said his name out loud one too many times. “Oh, right. Holed up in your hive for—” He pretends to look at a watch that isn’t on his wrist. Stupid. There’s a clock right behind him. “Three years?”

“Dude,” Dave whispers, nudging Karkat in the side. “Easy.”

Wow. What a knight in shining sweatpants. Heh.

Whatever. You don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because you can’t really argue. Karkat is right, but you sure as hell aren’t going to tell him that. Instead, you pick up your phone from the coffee table, aiming to distract yourself, changing the subject as you do.

“Anyone else still here?”

You aren’t really asking about anyone in particular. Not at all.

“Nah. Roxy took Jake home. Kanaya and Rose split pretty early—”

Dave continues to recount the guest list and their whereabouts while you squint down at your screen, too bright even though you’ve dimmed it a considerable about. It’s just that, well. Orange can be eye-searing.

DIRK: Hey.
DIRK: You still asleep?
DIRK: I’m guessing that’s a yes. Saw you all tuckered out on Jane’s couch when I left.
DIRK: You’re welcome for the blanket, by the way. You looked cold.
DIRK: Those patented Ghostbusters boxers, while hilariously absurd, couldn’t have been doin’ much in the way of thermodynamics.

You look at the end of the sofa, finding a balled-up fleece throw. You stare at it like it’s both slapped you across the cheek and kissed you directly on the mouth.

JOHN: you’re an asshole!

“Hello? Earth-C to Egbert?”

You raise your head to see Dave and Karkat watching you; both wearing a look of concern that you hardly consider warranted. When did Dave stop talking? Usually he’s still talking. Has that much really changed since you’ve been MIA?

“Sorry,” you say, laughing nervously, “I just spaced out for a second, I guess.”

Karkat throws up his hands like he’s had enough. Enough of what? You’re not sure. “Alright,” he says—yells?—"I’m headed to the ablution block. Dave, I would highly suggest you do the same. John.” He looks at you, bushy scowl still in place, a complete contradiction to his fond sigh. “You should drink some water.”

You give him a quick salute. “Aye, aye, Commander Karkat.”

“Yeah. Be there in a second, gonna chat with John for a bit. Been a while, you know? Got a lot of catching up to do,” Dave says, almost like you’re not right there.

Then, also as if you’re not right there, he leans down and gives Karkat a peck on his gray cheek, and it very quickly turns a very human shade of pink. You think yours might do the same. This feels like something you shouldn’t be witnessing, so you turn back to your phone.

Just in time for an incoming text.

DIRK: He lives.
DIRK: How’s the hangover?
JOHN: did you know dave and karkat are dating?
DIRK: Uh.
DIRK: That’s a hell of a conversation starter.
DIRK: Sorry, I don’t mean to sound like a total jackass, I know you’ve been goin’ through some shit, but…
DIRK: Did you not?
JOHN: no! and they just kissed in front of me!
JOHN: and i think you did mean to sound like that.
JOHN: or maybe you just can’t help it! :P
DIRK: Wow.

“Hey. Who the fuck are you texting? Writing a goddamn novel over there.”

You answer before you can really think. “Your brother.”

“Is that like a gay version of ‘your mom’? Lame.”

“No, numbnuts. I’m literally texting your brother.” For proof, you hold up your phone. Surely Dave sees all that obnoxious orange. “See?”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. He sure talks a lot, doesn’t he?” To keep your dignity intact, you omit the part where Dirk hadn’t said two words to your face at the party.

Dave grimaces. “Poor choice of words, my dude. But yeah, get him going and he’ll blow your phone up for hours. Word of advice, man-to-man, don’t diss My Little Pony unless you want a college thesis level essay on why friendship is fuckin’ magic.”

“Noted,” you say, only slightly confused.

“Hey. Can I admit something embarrassing?” Dave asks. He sounds pretty serious, and you’re not a complete asshole, so you nod. “It’s weird for me sometimes. My bro—you know, the one that uh. The one that raised me? He never said shit, just always snuck around the apartment with his puppets and swords, leaving notes when he wanted to beat my ass on the roof. Anyway, it was nice actually talking with Dirk because that was one of the things that really helped to set them apart in my head. My bro never sat down and had a conversation with me like Dirk did. So, it’s probably really selfish that it kinda…I don’t know. Freaked me out when he stopped talking? I know he’s not going to turn into Bro or anything but—”

There’s a record scratch that echoes in your head. “Wait. What?”

“Where’d I lose you?” Dave frowns. “Was it the puppets? It was totally the puppets.”

It was, surprisingly, not the puppets.

“Okay. Hold on a second.” You need to collect your thoughts. The only problem is, there’s a lot of them and they’re all running around greased-up pigs in your brain. Dave’s just dropped a lot of shit on you, but in order to comprehend any of it, you have to first clear something up.

“Dirk talks,” you finally say. “I’ve heard him.”

“Uh.”

You pull the memory from the back of your mind. It was a brief conversation, fleeting, but it never left you.

Dirk’s voice, ringing out into the ether while paradox space collapsed around him.

Ĩ̴̯̚͠ ̴̧̢͈̼̙͍̼͔̝͚͓͎̩̂̾͆f̷̬̟̊̈́̐̌̕á̷̭̣̩̪͓͇̬̉̍́̆̄̇̌̿͊i̴̤͇̫̻̥͈̭̝̫͆̽̾̅͠l̷̢̛̼̰̘̈́̐͂͛̊͒̂͑̕͘͠ȇ̴̡͍̠͇̺̱̩̗̲̟̼̰̏̐͂͐͌̏́̆̃́͠d̶̥̺͉̪͋̿̅̽̆͒̏͘̕͠͝.̴̧̖̟̜͈̲̻͑́̄͗̏̓̆͆̍̽̉̑͜

“Damn,” Dave sighs. “You really have missed a lot, huh? No, man. He doesn’t talk. Just kinda stopped one day and no one really knows why—kept sayin’ that it was better this way. I mean, I highly fuckin’ doubt that but whatever. It’s not really my place to say. He seems happier, so I guess that counts for something.”

You let that sink in. You let all of that sink in. It’s a lot, and you start to feel clammy like when you put too much lotion on your hands. Only right now, the lotion is one-of-a-kind, prime Strider trauma—and maybe equating that to lotion isn’t such a great idea. Sheesh. You’re glad Rose can’t read your thoughts; she’d have a field day with that one.

Point is, you’re still trying to grapple the fact that Dirk Strider doesn’t talk with your slippery lotion hands.

“Oh,” you say dumbly, and then again, but much more profound. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“That explains a lot.”

“And that explains nothing,” Dave complains. “C’mon. Enough with the cryptic shit.”

“Sorry. It’s just that last night at the party, I tried to talk to him and, well, he didn’t really say anything back? I thought he was just being an asshole, but now I feel kinda bad.” You rub the back of your neck, glancing down at your phone where it hangs loose in your grip. You’ve got some apologizing to do.  

“Well, if it’s any consolation, he’s definitely an asshole.” Dave smiles and pushes himself off the wall. “I should probably go find Karkat before he blows a gasket. Hey, maybe if I’m lucky he’ll just blow—”

“No!” You screech. “Please don’t finish that sentence.”

“Fine. I’ll go finish something else,” he says, waggling his eyebrows at your distressed whine. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop.”

“Thank you,” you say. It’s not your fault that you don’t want to think about your two pals getting biblical in your alternate timeline Nanna’s shower.

“You’re gonna stick around, right? Like you aren’t gonna poof and disappear like a shitty magician while I’m gettin’ my shower on?”

Oh. You hadn’t really thought about it. Integrating yourself back into polite society has been a team effort and a fairly recent one at that. There’d been a few small gatherings that lasted a couple of hours tops, and you mostly zoned out and smiled when you were expected to—but you were always anxious to get home at the end of the day, and it took weeks of solitude to recharge. This party had been the first big step, and you’re realizing now that it was a pretty shitty avenue for socialization. So, it makes sense, you suppose, that Dave would want you to stick around and have real bro time.

You blink back into reality, bright and cheery. “Yeah, sure!”

“Alright. Cool.” Dave turns toward the hallway, pausing just before he disappears. “Can’t really leave without your pants though.”

And then he’s gone, and you realize with startling clarity: He's holding your pants hostage.

Ugh.

You pull your phone out.

JOHN: i take it all back.
JOHN: DAVE is the asshole!
JOHN: i should have known because i did spend three years on a ship with a shittier version of him.
JOHN: at least this dave isn’t shedding feathers every where, i guess! or impersonating my dad!
DIRK: Alright. Let’s back this truck up.
DIRK: Dave is an asshole. Got it.
DIRK: And you lived with some kind of Avian-Dave hybrid on a ship?
JOHN: yeah. dave sprite.
DIRK: Nice.
DIRK: I’ll be honest, this raises a fuck ton of questions, but I’ll take the automatic resolve of all my imagined transgressions against you. Can’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
JOHN: uh, speaking of mouths.
DIRK: …
JOHN: why didn’t you tell me that you don’t talk?
JOHN: out loud, i guess.
DIRK: For one, I thought you knew.
DIRK: Then, I realized that you didn’t, and I was going to tell you when I finally got my phone back from Roxy, but you were pretty drunk, and I couldn’t bring myself to distract you from strip beer bong. You were already embarrassing yourself enough as it was.
JOHN: bluh. that again???
JOHN: strip beer pong isn’t real!
JOHN: ok. so, you didn’t have your phone?
JOHN: don’t you know sign language or something?
DIRK: Yeah. Do you?
JOHN: no.
DIRK: There you go.
JOHN: ok, but you could have signed something at me and i would have put two and two together!
DIRK: Bro. I saw you slamming solo cup after solo cup of that witch’s brew from the kitchen. Would you have really known what the fuck I was doing if I started waving my hands at you?
JOHN: maybe!
JOHN: or maybe i would have thought you were doing some lame interpretive dance!
DIRK: See? A swift save to my reputation.
JOHN: ok, fine.
DIRK: Is this going to be a problem?
JOHN: what?
DIRK: The mute thing.
JOHN: oh. uh, no?
JOHN: why would it be?

You stare down at your phone, perplexed. Is Dirk Strider trying to befriend you?

DIRK: No reason.

Huh. You scratch at your chin, at the stubble that’s been steadily growing on your jawline. This is interesting, and new, and…sort of exciting? There’s a strange, bubbly feeling in your stomach that you haven’t felt in a long time. Maybe ever. Damn. You really can’t remember; it’s been so long since you’ve felt anything.

Does that mean something?

Your phone vibrates before you can think too hard on it. Probably for the best.

DIRK: Hey. Do you want to play a game?

Chapter Text

DIRK: Egbert. I know you’re over there cheating.
DIRK: That’s some low-hanging fruit, bro.
JOHN: uh, no i am not!
DIRK: Bullshit.
JOHN: sheesh. i know big words too.
JOHN: in fact, it’s absolutely preposterous that you would think any different.
JOHN: i am positively flabbergasted at your accusations!
DIRK: Keep it up.
JOHN: oh, i will!
JOHN: did you see that?
JOHN: did you see me rack up all those points?
DIRK: Whizbang? Really?
JOHN: it’s a word.
DIRK: Sure. If you’re Jake English.
JOHN: well, i’m not.
JOHN: just admit i’m better than you at words with chums!
DIRK: No.
JOHN: surrender!!!
DIRK: Don’t make me come over there.
JOHN: do it.
JOHN: i’m not scared of a guy who can’t even beat me at a dumb phone game.
DIRK: I could beat you though. Physically speaking.
DIRK: Sharpening a katana right now.
DIRK: Gonna cut right through that web of lies.
JOHN: you’re so lame.

It’s been two weeks since you and Dirk entered your unlikely friendship. Dave had been right—for a mute guy, he sure doesn’t shut up. You text each other nonstop. It feels like every second, your phone is going off with a new notification, and it’s not always him being a sore loser. Sometimes it’s just regular talking.

And it’s nice.

Like really nice.

Turns out, you have a lot to say too. There are years of pent up thoughts and ideas and emotions in your head and you hadn’t noticed how ready they were to come out, or how lonely you’d been. Part of you feels guilty that you aren’t communicating like this with Dave or the others but—well, it’s easier with Dirk. You didn’t really know him before; it feels new and fresh, but still familiar. Most of all, he doesn’t constantly remind you of everything you’ve lost because of the game.

(Sburb. Not Words with Chums. You haven’t lost anything there.)

You haven’t told him that though, and probably won’t. You like the allyship that you’ve forged with him and don’t want to ruin it with sad, pathetic past shit. Because you actually like Dirk, and you want him to continue liking you and no one likes you when you’re sad.

JOHN: by the way, you could do it.
DIRK: Fold you like a cheap lawn chair? I know.
JOHN: no, asshole.
JOHN: you could come over.
JOHN: and like actually hang out.
DIRK: …
JOHN: with me.
DIRK: Yeah. I got that.

Okay. Hm. Maybe you overestimated where the two of you are on the Bros-for-Life spectrum. Was that too much?

DIRK: Ok.

Oh. Guess not.

JOHN: cool.

You look around your house—at the piles of laundry, the empty bottles of water, the empty bags of chips and old wrappers, the plates and cups scattered about on various surfaces. And that’s just your bedroom. You know the mess doesn’t end at the door and that there’s a pile of dishes in the sink and a thick layer of dust on most of the furniture.

It’s been a while since you've had company, so what?

But…hm. Maybe you should have cleaned before extending an invitation.

JOHN: not today though! i’ve got some stuff to do.
DIRK: No worries. Same here.
JOHN: tomorrow maybe?

Can you clean this pigsty in a day? Probably. You can use your windy powers to blow most of the trash away. Laundry can get shoved in the closet…The dishes. Well. You’re swimming in boonbucks. Time to toss them all in the trash and go shopping.

You got this!

DIRK: Sounds good.
DIRK: What’s the plan?
DIRK: What will I be doing at the ever-elusive, mysterious Egbert estate?
DIRK: Paint me a picture, bro.
JOHN: well, i’ve alchemized some good movies.
DIRK: Doubtful. Go on.
JOHN: rude.
JOHN: anyway, i have more games that we can play too.
JOHN: i’ll even go easy on you.
DIRK: I’d never dream of askin’ you to do that.
JOHN: haha!
JOHN: ok, i’m going to go work on some stuff. come over tomorrow around noon?

Note to self: Be up before noon.

DIRK: Alright. See you then.
JOHN: yeah! see you.

You put your phone into sleep mode and lay it on the nightstand. It nestles nicely into the phone-shaped clearing you’ve created in the clutter.

Oh, boy. You’ve got some work to do.

Cleaning your house takes a lot longer than you’d anticipated. Holy fuck, you hadn’t realized how bad it’d actually gotten. No one ever visits—because you don’t invite them to and would say no if they asked—and lacking that accountability has apparently allowed you to live in a dumpster for the past three years. You get it mostly straightened and picked-up and, by the end, it’s what your Dad might have forlornly called “presentable”.

And, by the time Dirk’s knocking on your door, you’ve completely forgotten to make yourself presentable.

Shit!

Another series of knocks tears you away from the hall mirror, where you’d been attempting to comb your hair with your fingers. Futile cause. Your shirt is wrinkled, and your shorts could use a wash, but you did brush your teeth this morning and washed your face so—not as bad as it could have been.

“Coming! Ahh—damnit!” You stub your toe on the edge of the couch trying to make it to the door before Dirk has time to deploy more knocking, and hobble-hop the rest of the way, cursing under your breath. When you finally open the door, Dirk has one eyebrow raised.

This is already going so, so smoothly.

“Hey,” you say. “I stubbed my toe.”

So smooth.

Dirk shakes his head in exaggerated sympathy and holds something out. It’s a plastic to-go container with a bright red lid filled with…Hm. You bring it eye-level and inspect it thoroughly.

“Cake?”

Dirk gives you a thumbs up.

“Thanks,” you tell him, leaving out the part where you really don’t like cake all that much. It used to just irritate you with how much your dad baked, but now it leaves you feeling a little sad and nostalgic for a world and time that you can’t go back to. “Do you want some?”

He shrugs, still standing in the threshold of your porch and living room because you’ve been a complete jackass and not moved aside to let him in. You step aside, gesturing to your humble abode.

“Make yourself at home. I’ve got—oh okay.”

He walks right in, shucking off his jacket and tossing it over the back of the couch. You follow him, wordlessly, and watch as he stands somewhere in the middle of your living space, hands on his hips, doing a full evaluation. It sorta makes you nervous, and you wait with bated breath as he tallies it up.

“It’s not much,” you say, despite your home being on the nicer side of average. He looks at you oddly and your stomach does a somersault. “Uh. I’m going to go put this in the kitchen now.”

Dirk gives you another thumbs up and you start to wonder if this is how you’re going to have to communicate the entire time. Thumbs up if “yes”. Thumbs down if “no”. Blink twice if you’re being held against your will. To be honest, you’d almost forgotten about the not-talking thing. Texting doesn’t seem to bother him very much—or at all, really. Maybe he just doesn’t like the sound of his own voice? Is that a thing? Dave only said that he just stopped one day.

In your pocket, your phone buzzes, and you realize you’ve been standing there, staring inside the open refrigerator for way too long.

It’s Dirk.

DIRK: Sorry. I’d told Jane I was coming to visit, and she insisted I bring that.
JOHN: oh, jane made it?

You’re not sure why that surprises you.

DIRK: Yeah. Not me. So, don’t worry. It’s safe to eat and completely edible.

You probably won’t be eating it, but you appreciate the sentimental gesture either way.

JOHN: alright. thanks!
DIRK: Do you plan on coming back?
JOHN: yeah, haha. i’m walking back right now.
JOHN: do you hear me?
DIRK: I’m mute, not deaf.
JOHN: ok, smartass.

You send the last text while standing in the living room, a whopping five feet away from him. Looks like he’s already ransacked your entertainment console and spread out an array of games and movies on the coffee table. You can assume those are your choices for the evening and the ones that he’s deemed “cool” or “ironic” from your collection.

Jokes on him. They’re all cool and not a single one of them ironic.

JOHN: national treasure?

Dirk looks at his phone, and then at you, and then back to his phone, and then---yeah.

JOHN: what? didn’t peg you for a nic cage fan! i thought all striders had shitty taste.
DIRK: John.
DIRK: What did I just say?

Uh.

You scratch the back of your neck, shifting awkwardly. Oh, man. What are you botching up now? You watch as Dirk’s fingers dance across his screen. He’s got some long fingers. Boney. And, wow, they’re quick.

Shit. Did the heat just kick on? You’re a little sweaty around the collar.

DIRK: You can talk out loud.

“Oh.” You feel pretty stupid. “Sorry.”

Dirk: It's cool.
DIRK: Sit down though. You’re starting to freak me out.

To accentuate his point, Dirk pats the empty seat next to him on the couch. That’s a little too close for comfort, so you sit farther on the end, leaning your entire body against the arm. You hope you look cool and casual because that’s totally what you’re going for.

Dirk occupies himself with shifting through his personal picks of your games and movies. It’s a window of opportunity to check him out and you climb through it. This is only the second time you’ve seen him since the game ended—the other time being the party in which you properly met him. He’s dressed much nicer than you, which is to say, he’s not wearing a ratty old shirt and gym shorts. The denim pants are dark gray, the muscle tank is black, showing off his toned muscle, freckled and—

“What the fuck is that on your arm?”

Dirk looks at said arm like he’s only just noticed it’s attached to him before abandoning his task and picking his phone back up.

DIRK: What does it look like?

How the fuck does one person manage to put so much sass into a text message?

And okay, you know what it looks like. It looks like a really shitty Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff tattoo. Like. Shittier than SBaHJ already is. How did he manage to make a tattoo look like a crunchy, JPEG artifact? You’re almost impressed, if not a little horrified.

You already know the answer but, you ask anyway. “Is that real?”

DIRK: Yeah.
DIRK: Did it myself.
DIRK: I could probably rig something up and give you one too.

“No,” you say quickly. “No, thanks.”

DIRK: Yeah. That’s for the best, honestly.
DIRK: Jake already has the matching one.
DIRK: Not sure what’s left for you to get.

It’s been a while since Dave’s sent you one of his comics. “Uhm. A set of stairs?”

Dirk laughs. Well, he snorts, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. It’s kinda weird to hear him make any sort of noise. You barely remember what he sounds like, but you can tell that his voice is low and deep, probably lilted with a light accent like Dave’s is. You bet it’s a nice voice. But it feels inappropriate to be thinking about that, so you stop.

You clear your throat. “So, your timeline’s Dave made those comics too?”

DIRK: Yeah.
DIRK: He was pretty fuckin’ successful with them too. Built an empire before things went to shit. I watched his movies on repeat, old interviews, newspaper articles, anything I could get my hands on. Dude was a genius.
DIRK: I was a kid when I put this thing on my arm, but I don’t regret it.
DIRK: Those movies really meant a lot to me growing up. For a long time, they were all I had.

You read the words, and then read them again, chewing your lip. They might just be words on a screen, but you can feel the vulnerability in them. You can’t even imagine how you’d feel if he’d actually said them out loud. At least pretending to take a long time to read gives you a bit of a buffer to think of something really good and heartfelt to say in response.

“That’s cool.” If you could slap yourself, you would. “What was I like?”

Great, John. Nice save! Bring it back around to yourself, good going. You’re the worst.

Dirk doesn’t seem to mind. He immediately starts tap, tap, tapping away. Wow. You’re still impressed with how fast he is.

DIRK: So, in my timeline, you went by Crocker, not Egbert.

You make a face.

DIRK: Yeah. Dave told me you weren’t a fan.
DIRK: Good call, honestly.
DIRK: At this point, we know all about the Batterwitch, don’t really need to rehash that fish-fried nonsense. I’ll just skip ahead.
DIRK: Or skip back, I guess. Whatever. You were long dead before I showed up.

“Morbid,” you comment as the texts come in.

But yeah, that’s right. You forgot that Dirk and Roxy were separated from their guardians by centuries—even from Jane and Jake. Then, to make matters worse, Dirk and Roxy had been kept from each other too. That must have been lonely in a way even you can’t relate to, despite your recent prolonged self-isolation.

DIRK: Jake’s grandma, Jade, I guess, ran away but he stayed back.

“Oh, jeez. That doesn’t sound very good.”

DIRK: Nah. Probably not.
DIRK: I wanted to meet you, actually.

Your heart beats a little faster. “You did?”

DIRK: Yeah. Sorta wanted to meet the guy who could stand to be raised by an evil, cake-slingin’, fish alien and still turn out to be just a regular dude.
DIRK: I thought, “Damn. That’s one stand-up bro with a fortified moral compass.”
DIRK: Or maybe he’s just really good at rollin’ with the punches?
DIRK: Not to be Rose, but I wanted to pick your brain to see if there was even anything in there, or if it was all just leftover mush from Betty Crocker’s chum bucket.

“Gross,” you say. “A little insulting too.”

DIRK: Nah. I know you’re not him or anything, but I can see how another version of you could take all that shit and still turn out alright.

You don’t say anything to that. Thankfully, he’s still typing so you don’t have to.

DIRK: He became a pretty famous comedian, did a few comedy specials. You could call him legendary, but those would be Jane’s words, not mine.
DIRK: Oh, and he had an appearance in Night Court.

“With Harry Anderson?”

Dirk reaches across the couch, leaning into your space to put a hand on you. He’s extremely warm, or maybe that’s just you. Either way, you stare at his fingers curled against the curvature of your shoulder and swallow down the pesky lump that’s formed in your throat.

With one hand, he types:

DIRK: Bro. You were Harry Anderson.

Your heart skips another beat because that’s probably the coolest thing anyone has ever said to you.

“That’s the coolest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

He smirks like he knows this, giving you a few quick pats before he pulls away. It feels colder after that. Strange because your face is on fire, all the blood has rushed to your cheeks—oh shit! You’re blushing. Shit. Shit. Shit!

In your lap, interrupting your panic, your phone vibrates. Saved by the buzz.

DIRK: Don’t let it go to your head.
DIRK: You died via a shelf and ladder.

“Aww! What?” You pout at your phone, shoulders deflating. “That is significantly less cool!”

DIRK: Legends say there was a mysterious young woman in a suspicious hat present at the scene of the incident.
DIRK: Does that help?

“No! That was probably wasn’t relevant at all.”

DIRK: No, you’re probably right.

It lapses into awkward silence after that. Not that there was much noise outside of just you talking. Your face is still burning hot and you know he’s already clocked you for it. There’s no way he hasn’t. Truth be told, you don’t even know why you’re blushing! You don’t blush when Dave or Rose or Jade or anyone else smiles at you! Or touches you. Or pays attention to you. Or—

Well. There was Roxy.

But that was different.  

Okay. You really have to stop thinking about this. It’s making your stomach feel weird and your head all fuzzy.

“Want to watch a movie?” That feels safe. Not that you’re in any perilous danger or anything. Everything is fine. “You can go ahead and pick.”

Dirk picks Ghost Rider which you personally think is a great choice. There’s lots of explosions and up-close shots of Nicolas Cage’s gaunt face. When it’s not a flaming skull, that is. He texts you a few times through it, mostly mild complaints that you roll your eyes at. Then once to make a comment about how Jake would probably enjoy the movie, assuming he hasn’t already seen it. You agree because yeah,  movies and skulls are sorta Jake’s thing, but it still annoys you more than when Dirk messaged you just to diss a special effects explosion.

It’s weird. Right? That Dirk dated Jake? You don’t think guys dating guys is weird or anything. You’re not a homosexual, but you’re also not homophobic! And maybe you’re not even straight? There are areas in between. You’ve googled a thing or two. You’re hip!

It’s weird because Jake is sorta like…your grandpa? But maybe he’s your dad? Ectobiology makes no sense and you should probably stop pretending like it does. And, while you’re at it, you should probably change your Pesterchum handle. It’s some serious false advertising at this point.

But to what? Back to ghostyTrickster?

No! Then you’d match Jake with the whole “GT” thing. You can’t have that.

Ugh. What’s wrong with you? Why has your stupid brain suddenly decided to make Jake your rival? You like Jake a lot! The fact that you’ve turned down countless movie marathons with him isn’t a reflection on how you feel about the guy. That’s more of a “you” thing. He’s probably great to watch movies with because he won’t blow up your phone with petty complaints about the CGI.

Speaking of complaints. Your phone vibrates with another one.

DIRK: You alright?

Oh.

“Yeah!”

DIRK: You look like you’re competing for gold in the mental Olympics.
DIRK: Seriously. I think you broke a sweat.

“It’s just hot in here.”

DIRK: Oh. I see.

What?

“What?”

DIRK: Is the Cage doin’ it for you right now? Is that it?

You sputter. Very eloquent.

DIRK: He is.
DIRK: Is it the leather? The chains?
DIRK: The pure masochism he exudes while he straddles that bike?
DIRK: Or…

Dirk leans over, sifting through a stack of DVDs, nodding sagely to himself. If you didn’t value your collection, you’d blow them right out of his hands and out of the window. He returns to his phone, typing out his studious conclusion.

DIRK: No. You’ve just got the hots for Nicolas Cage in general.

You bark out a laugh. It’s not a nervous laugh. It’s a plain, regular laugh. Maybe even a teeny bit incredulous.

“I do not! He’s a good actor. Some might even say great,” you tell him; smug like you’ve just dropped some hot, irrefutable fact. Which, you have. Everyone knows that Nic Cage is Hollywood’s swiss army knife. The man can do anything!

Dirk doesn’t look impressed. But he does look calculating, and that worries you.

DIRK: I bet you own Moonstruck on Blu-ray.

Oh, that’s it.

“Yeah! Of course, I do!” You throw up your hands, exasperated. “What? I’m not supposed to own the movie that he did with Cher? Get real, Dirk.”

For a long time, Dirk stares at you like you’ve really socked it to him, mouth hung open in disbelief. You start to get a little self-conscious like maybe you were too defensive. You’re about to apologize when Dirk sits his phone down and oh, oh no. Is he leaving?

Dirk turns to face you, a loose smile on lips, and brings his index and middle finger to his chin, flicking them downward.

“Uh.”

He repeats the motion.

“Did you just flip me off in sign language or something?”

Dirk rolls his eyes and gives you the middle finger before turning to settle back into the couch. He resumes the movie, but you don’t look at the screen. You keep looking at him and the subtle quirk of his mouth, trying to figure out why your hearts beating so fast.

He looks over and does it again.

Chapter Text

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, you try to cram as much ASL into your brain that you can. You spend hours watching videos and practicing in the mirror, and even practicing with Dirk on video calls. You never figure out what the hell he said to you that day—mostly because you don’t remember the exact movement or fingers or position and now, he refuses to repeat it.

Whatever!

Point is, you’re getting pretty good. You can communicate some rudimentary things and have simple back-and-forth conversations with Dirk. The two of you stick mostly to text but, hey. Progress is progress and you’re feeling pretty proud of yourself.

Or. You were.

Right now, you’re feeling pretty inadequate as you sit on Dave’s couch, watching his hands fly, and Dirk’s fly right back. You can’t even watch the stupid movie they put on because all you can see out of your peripherals are two sets of blurry hands. There’s no way they’re actually communicating. They’re totally just fucking with you.

Right?

You fluff up the pillow resting under your chin and readjust yourself, hugging the cushion tight to your chest. You’re not pouting. Except, you kinda are. Next to you, Dirk snorts a laugh, and your stomach does that stupid thing where it flutters, and Dave laughs along with him and you don’t because you don’t have any idea what’s so funny.

“Can you two keep it down?”

Dave’s eyebrows try to crawl off his forehead. “I haven’t said shit,” he figuratively points out, followed by literally pointing to Dirk. “Dirk. Bro. Did you say something?”

Dirk shakes his head.

“You know what I mean,” you complain.  

“Not really. Are we signing too loud, Egbert?” Dave stretches his leg across Dirk’s lap, kicking at your knee. “Are we annoying you? Huh? Are you annoyed?”

Dirk signs something too fast for you to catch, which, you probably couldn’t decipher anyway. Your vocabulary isn’t that vast. And it wasn’t like it was meant for you. He’s barely even texted two words to you all night.

“I’m not annoyed by it,” you grumble, shoving his foot away, “I’m just frustrated.”

Dirk stiffens, while Dave lets out a soft and offended: “Dude.”

It’s weird to have two sets of Strider eyes on you; orange and red like a fire you’ve just burnt yourself on. You’d nearly choked when Dave lifted his shades earlier in the night, and then double choked when Dirk did the same. But apparently facial expression is important when it comes to signing and they stay off.

“What?” You blink once. Twice. Three times. It finally clicks. “What! No! I’m not saying that the signing is frustrating. I’m saying that I’m frustrated at myself because I can’t fully understand it yet.

 Dirk’s mouth twitches in a barely-there smile, hands moving slowly so you can read them. “It’s okay.”

“Not really,” you mutter. Okay, now you’re pouting. “I could be better.”

“You’re learning.”

“Yeah, man. Don’t beat yourself up,” Dave says, despite having been two seconds away from beating you up himself when he thought you were implying that Dirk’s situation was, in any way, inconvenient. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, or whatever. They had to sleep too, and like…oil each other up and wrestle naked, and invent spaghetti.”

Wow. You really hate that visual metaphor, but alright.

Dirk responds but, once again, you’re lost.

Dave rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well. Didn’t the Romans steal pretty much everything from the Greeks? Are you telling me they were like—Oh! Philosophy? Ours now. Medicine? In the basket. Naked oil wrestling? Nah. Leave that where it is.”

On second thought. Maybe you don’t want to be part of this conversation.

You turn back toward the television, still stewing in your shortcomings. Dave at least starts to speak out loud as he signs, and you should really be paying attention because it’s a good opportunity to practice and pick up some more niche gestures, but you don’t. You’re too far out of your element, whatever element that is. The element of being an anti-social loser who spent years cowering under a rock, surprised when the world had continued to turn without him? That’s probably it.

It’s just…you feel like shit, okay?

Everyone has moved on and done stuff with their lives and you’ve been—ugh. What have you been doing? Wallowing. Drinking. You did a crossword puzzle once. Meanwhile, everyone else has learned how to communicate with Dirk effectively and you’re such an asshole, you hadn’t even realized communicating would be an issue. And, sure, you can’t totally blame yourself. It’s not like the two of you were friends.

Would you have even bothered to try?

Something nudges you in the side, jostling the world back into focus. Dirk’s elbow. He looks from you to the bowl of popcorn he’s holding out, with one eyebrow raised expectantly. Warmth swells inside your chest, a strange mix of admiration and guilt. Yeah, you think you would have tried. Not getting to know this dork would suck pretty bad! You like Dirk.

Oh, god. Shit.

You like Dirk.

You like, actually like him.

Like-like.

You shove your hand in the popcorn bowl like a madman because that’s what you do when you realize you have a crush on someone, right? Geez. Crush makes it sound juvenile. You’re an adult. A man. A manly-man. You have chest hair and everything! Who cares if you have amorous intentions towards another man? A man who might also have chest hair? Probably not though. Dirk’s pretty clean-shaven.  Plus, didn’t you already come to terms with the fact that could happen? Why are you freaking out? Is it because it’s Dirk? You best friend’s brother? Dave is going to totally flip his shit. Just go absolutely fucking bananas. He—

“Dude. Are you marinating your hand in butter or something? What the fuck.”

Oh. Uh.

You realize you’ve just completely zoned out with your hand submerged in the popcorn and blow a raspberry. “Everyone knows the good stuff is at the bottom.” You grab a handful of kernels, grimacing, and pop them in your mouth. “See?”

“Sureeee,” Dave drawls, signing something to Dirk. It definitely doesn’t line up with what he’s just said because he’s still going, and you know for a fact that the single word of “sure” doesn’t require that many hand signals.

Dirk responds back, eyes cutting to you every so often, a smug smirk on his face. Then he does it. He ends his statement with that sign! The one that’s been torturing you for weeks! The chin-flippy one! It takes everything in you not to snatch up your phone and ask Professor Google what the hell it means. You don’t because you’ve already lost your cool in a bowl of popcorn. You just burn the gesture to memory instead.

Or maybe just ask Dave because, damn, did it get a reaction. He lets out a long-suffering groan, shoulders slumping and head tilting back to stare, vacant-eyed at the ceiling. It’s pretty dramatic, in all honestly.

“Dude. I fuckin’ knew it.”

Dirk signs: “Sorry.”

Hey! You knew that one.

And then, with a smug smirk: “Not sorry.”

“Wait.” Dave looks to you, brows furrowed, looking downright accusatory. “John. Did you—you know what? Never mind.” He throws his hands up and that’s that. Whatever he was going to say, he doesn’t finish. That in itself is concerning. You’ve never really known Dave to not insert his asinine ramblings into casual conversation.

Dirk’s next series of signs are far beyond your comprehension, but you watch them anyway, mesmerized with how fluid his movements are. It’s hypnotic. Ugh. You really wish you knew what he was saying right now—mainly because whatever it is, it continues to raise Dave’s hackles. A look of abject horror is also starting to appear. Hm. That can’t be good.

“What’s he saying?”

Dave pretends to retch, or maybe he actually does. “I can’t even repeat it, man.”

“Uh.” You turn to Dirk and find he looks entirely too smug. “What’s going on?”

“Dirk’s just being a dick.”

You might not have a whole lot of experience, but the gesture Dirk does next definitely isn’t proper ASL, but it is universal. He mimes sucking a dick, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. You never understood that last bit, normally that isn’t where you aim, but you’re in no position to argue the semantics.

It’s a really strange argument to watch unfold. Even though no one’s talking, you can feel the tension.

Dave signs something.

Dirk signs something back.

Dave signs something more fervently.

Dirk signs something more impassively.

Dave signs something—

Well. Whatever it is? Dirk tenses up, hands dropping to his lap.

You blink awkwardly from your side of the couch, waiting for Dirk to retaliate. He’s probably cooking up a really sweet comeback to absolutely roast Dave. You won’t know what it is, but oh well. Any second now, hands will go flying and Dave will get all pouty and offended. It’ll still be great.

Any second!

Any…second?

For the first time all night, Dirk’s interested in the movie. Or, at least, he pretends to be. You can tell he’s not really paying attention. His fingers are tapping a nervous beat against his shaking knee, and he’s staring through the television, rather than at it. Mouth pressed into a thin line. Eyebrows furrowed. Dave in the background looking insanely guilty.

You sneak your phone out of your pocket, doing your best to inconspicuously hen-peck with one thumb.

JOHN: hey! is everything alright?

Dirk jumps a little at the vibration in his lap, turning it over. He looks at it, and then you, and then back to it. His thumb hovers over the keyboard, lightly stroking the air in phantom swipes. It never takes him this long to fire something back, but you can be patient. Maybe he’s just thinking about what to say. It’s a pretty straight forward question, you figure, but Dirk’s a wordy guy.

He puts his phone in sleep mode and turns it face down once again.

Okay. Actions speak louder than words.

He’s pissed.

And you know that you didn’t do anything wrong—you don’t think—but you can’t help feeling insecure at the fact Dirk totally just ghosted you right in front of your eyeballs!

On the far end of the couch, Dave remains unusually quiet and just as fidgety. What the fuck were they saying to each other? See. This is why you need to be more fluent! So that you can act as a mediator between these stupid brotherly quarrels.

Before the credits are even rolling, Dirk stands and brushes the stray popcorn from his lap directly into Dave’s floor. He grabs his wallet and keys and heads to leave. No goodbye. No see-ya later. No two-finger salute. Nothing. Your brain finally comes back online when he opens the front door.

“Hey! Wait!” You jump up from the couch, tossing your pillow and your own fair share of popcorn to the ground. Dave grumbles something but you ignore him, tripping over his legs as you climb over them. “Dirk!”

You make it to the front porch just in time to snag him by the elbow before he takes off. Literally. He can’t zap from place-to-place like you can, but he can still fly—no matter how dorky he probably looks floating around in his civilian clothes.

You only realize you’ve been holding his arm all this time after he’s already jerked it away.

“What happened back there? Don’t say ‘nothing’ either!” You pause to replay that wording. “Well. Say something.” You pause again, replaying that. “I mean—ugh. You know what I mean. Don’t leave me hanging! Something upset you back there!”

Dirk shakes his head, signing something vaguely comprehensible that you translate to: “I have to go. Sorry.”

“Do you want me to zap you home?”

He shakes his head.

“Are you sure? I can get you there super-fast!”

Okay. Maybe you sound a little desperate right now, but that’s only because you are. He steps off the porch and, shit. You need to do something. What does the male love interest usually do in all those sappy rom-coms that Karkat makes you and Dave watch? Wait. Are you the male love interest? Or is Dirk? That’s stupid. You’re both males and you’re both love interests! Well, you don’t know if you’re Dirk’s or not. Maybe you aren’t. You haven’t had time to consider that possibility yet. Oh no.

In the midst of your heated internal battle, Dirk’s readies to launch himself in the air and your mind still won’t shut up long enough to stop him. “Dirk!”

He turns.

Oh, shit. Now what? You didn’t think this far ahead. You don’t have a boombox or cue cards to get your hopelessly romantic point across!

Instead, you panic like a fish out of water and bring two fingers to your chin, brushing downward. It’s the same sign he’s done to you a couple of times now and you have absolutely no fucking idea what it means. If it’s the sign for douchebag or something, you’re going to kick his silent ass very vocally.

He’s not looking at you like you’ve called him a douchebag or anything else of that nature, but he definitely seems pretty off-kilter. You try the motion again, slower, and less panicked.

Dirk takes a step toward you. Okay. Whew. You must have said something right. Would it be overkill to do it a third time? Probably. You watch him take another step—and then he freezes. Shit. Turns around. Double shit.

Annnnnnnnd he’s gone.

You drop down, sitting on the top porch step, and stare in disbelief at the spot that Dirk had occupied just moments before, now empty. What the hell just happened? You’d thought there for a second that…

Ugh.

Maybe you should figure out what the hell you just said to him, that might be a good place to start. You carefully type in the gesture, making sure to describe it as accurately as possible, down to the finger and—

Oh.

That can’t be right.

You try again, with a different slew of words: two fingers on chin swipe down sign language

Yep, there it is again.

You just called Dirk Strider cute in the midst of his emotional outburst. That should probably horrify you, but…that means he’d called you cute first. That cancels out whatever bad feeling you had. Holy shit.

Dirk Strider thinks you’re cute.

Maybe not all hope is lost.

Chapter Text

You come to an embarrassing, sort of sad, conclusion after a week of complete radio silence.

Dirk Strider has ghosted you.

Worse? You do nothing about it. After a few unanswered texts and video calls, you give right the fuck up. An unfinished game of Words with Chums now lives in a permanent stalemate on your phone. A stack of alchemize movies remains untouched on the coffee table. After the sixth day, you knock it over. On the seventh, you chuck Failure to Launch at the wall after tripping over it and then promptly apologize to Matthew McConaughey’s handsome face. It’s not his fault.

It’s yours. You know it.

He called you cute as a joke, and then you went and did it for real!

Okay…maybe that’s not the reason.

Unfortunately, Dave wouldn’t tell you what transpired between the two of them when you’d marched back into the house and demanded it. He just kept shrugging and making vague noises of confusion. You’d told him that he must have said something to set him off. He told you not to worry about it, that Dirk gets all weird like that sometimes. Just give him a couple of days. He’ll come around.

So, you did.

You do.

Now, you’ve given him almost two weeks and still nothing.

Alright. So, maybe none of that alludes to any of this being your fault. No, you know that it is because before you’d left Dave’s house, he’d looked you directly in the eyes, sans shades, and asked: “Do you have a thing for my bro?”

To which you had said.

Nothing.

You’d fucking zapped out of there so fast, you got tangled in your proverbial windsock.

Unlike Dirk, Dave blows up your phone and, unlike Dirk, you answer him. Vaguely, unhelpfully, and in a manner that Dave calls “sus as hell bro” but you do answer him. It’s the only reason you have the balls to pester him now.

JOHN: have you heard from dirk?
DAVE: whats that?
DAVE: are you askin me if ive heard from dirk?
JOHN: yeah, dave. that’s pretty much what i asked verbatim!
DAVE: sorry yeah i got that
DAVE: its just that i remember a certain someone telling me that what happens between him and my bro is “none of my fucking business” and then with a quick follow up of “and there is no business to be had”
DAVE: so i guess im just confused
DAVE: about this sudden business that you have with my bro
DAVE: where did it come from?
DAVE: this impromptu entrepreneurship youve apparently embarked on
DAVE: dirk would make a terrible business partner btw
DAVE: absolutely zilch in the communication department
JOHN: ok so. i’m taking it that you haven’t heard from him?
DAVE: nah
JOHN: bluh!
JOHN: he’s totally ghosting me!
DAVE: you keep using that term so im gonna go out on a limb and say you just learned what it meant
DAVE: who taught it to you
JOHN: jake.
DAVE: oh shit
DAVE: ok no actually that checks out
JOHN: anyway! it’s what he’s doing!
DAVE: have you considered that maybe hes setting you up for an elaborate roleplay?
JOHN: uhm.
DAVE: you know that shit roxy does sometimes
JOHN: i know what roleplaying is, dip shit.
JOHN: i just don’t know what that has to do with anything!
DAVE: ok its like this
DAVE: your favorite movie is ghostbusters right?
JOHN: one of them, yeah.
DAVE: so maybe hes trying to help you live out your weird kinky ghostbusters fantasy
JOHN: oh god.
DAVE: no hear me out
DAVE: hes ghosting you so who do you call when theres a ghost?
DAVE: john
DAVE: who are you gonna call
JOHN: i’m not going to say ghost busters.
DAVE: too fucking bad
DAVE: you just did
DAVE: anyway you show up to his house in a khaki jumpsuit and vacuum strapped to your back
DAVE: im going to go out on another limb and say you already have the outfit
JOHN: …
DAVE: thats what i thought
DAVE: so you show up with your big fucking ghost hose ready to suck a ghost or whatever happens in ghostbusters
JOHN: not that.
DAVE: and dirks there brooding
DAVE: not too out of character
DAVE: you find yourself thinking “oh shit is he even roleplaying or did i show up in a costume like a jackass for nothing?”
DAVE: but lets be real
DAVE: its dirk
DAVE: of fucking course hes roleplaying
DAVE: hes got a bucket of ectoslime and everything
JOHN: i’m blocking you now.
DAVE: at least i dont have a slime kink

And then you do.

You probably should have argued that last point first. Oh well. You’ll unblock him later but right now you really can’t handle the idea that Dirk hasn’t spoken to you because he wants to sexy roleplay Ghostbusters. That feels like the sort of thing you have to plan. No. Dirk just hates you.

You just don’t know why.

Or maybe you do. Shit. Maybe he knows you have a giant, gay crush on him and now he’s weirded out. But you know for a fact that it’s not the gay thing that bothers him; so, that just leaves the “you” part. With that, a horrible, sinking feeling manifests in your gut. Oh, no. That’s it, isn’t it?

Man. You wish you had Dave’s dumb god tier powers so you could go back to a simpler time of two minutes ago when your biggest concern was the threat of sexy Ghostbusters roleplay and not unrequited affection.

This sucks.

Maybe you should just pop in over at Dirk’s place and check on him. Would that be weird? You aren’t trying to be invasive or anything, and you really do want to respect his privacy but, well. Dave said he hadn’t spoken to him either? He could be lying but…no, probably not. Dirk seemed peeved when he took off.

That’s where your dilemma lies.

Whether Dirk is upset with you, or Dave, or anyone else, isn’t the point. He’s upset. Point blank. Period. You were upset once too, and everyone had just let you hole yourself up in your house for years. It’s not like you’re bitter about it. You’re not! They were trying to give you space and respect your wishes to be a weird, greasy hermit. Whatever. But you’ll admit sometimes it made you feel, well. Bad.

It made you feel like you weren’t important enough to be bothered with. It made you feel like a burden.

You don’t really want Dirk to feel that way. You want him to know that someone notices he’s missing beyond a few concerned texts. If he kicks you out and tells you to beat it, you will. If he never wants to see you again? Fine. You can’t really blame him.

You’ll show up. You’ll get everything off your chest. You’ll let him decide what he wants to do with it. Then you’ll move on. And you know what? After that? You’ll be okay.

Yeah. Huh. Wow. That might be the first time you’ve ever told yourself that and actually believed it. Which at least gives you the confidence needed to make your final decision, the one that’s admittedly been rumbling around in the back of your head for the past week.

You’re going to visit Dirk.

But first.

You turn toward the hallway, toward your bedroom, and pause. There is a Ghostbusters costume in there, fully equipped with a proton pack and everything. It’s something you alchemized ages ago and never got around to wearing because there are tragically few events where it’s socially acceptable. You take a step forward. You pause again.

What the hell are you doing? You aren’t actually going to show up looking like a young Bill Murray. Sure, you want Dirk Strider to jump your bones, but maybe the two of you should talk it out first. You want him to kiss you (oh god, you want him to kiss you), not Doctor Peter Venkman.

Yeah, no. That’s not what you were going to do.

“Get out of my head, Dave,” you mumble to no one.

You turn back away from the hall and, instead, make yourself comfy on the couch, pulling out your phone for some quick and super important research. You hit up YouTube first. Bingo! They’ve got exactly what you need, and the first video looks promising.

The lady on the screen shows you the sign for “I”. Duh, you knew that one already. You point to yourself anyway.

The next sign is pretty simple, or so you think. At first, you place your fingers in the wrong position, and the lady on the screen straight up calls you out like she saw you do it. The sign you just did means “no”. Oops. Apparently, it’s a common mistake but, still,  it could have been disastrous! Sort of the opposite of the message you’re trying to get across. She then shows her invisible audience (you) the correct position. Middle finger touching the thumb, hand positioned like you’re going to make a shadow puppet, point it toward you and drag it away. Easy! You repeat the gesture a couple more times, paying close attention to which fingers you use.

Got it.

Next is “you”. Which, hey! Another easy one. Just point at the person.

(In hindsight, you totally could have figured this out on your own. Doesn’t hurt to make sure, right? This is important stuff.)

Okay. Altogether now.

“I.”

“Like.”

“You.”

A harsh wind rattles the chimes on Dirk’s porch, clinking the miscellaneous pieces of scrap metal and robot parts in an unharmonious symphony. You appear just moments later, snapping into existence like a bad B-Rated scene transition. Silence greets you.

Okay, sure. Dirk is a quiet guy, but never this silent. There’s no hum of machines or an abrasive hiss of a blow torch. The bass of Dave’s latest mixtape isn’t thumping through the walls. There’s nothing, save the DIY windchimes and your breath.

You fish the house key from beneath the welcome mat, only to find the doors already unlocked. Shit. Alright. Something’s wrong. It doesn’t seem likely that anyone would break-in. For one, Dirk’s house is in the middle of nowhere, a secluded cabin nestled in a clearing, surrounded by tall evergreens. You doubt anyone would go through the trouble. Two, Dirk is a literal god with a katana. Intruders wouldn’t stand a chance.

That doesn’t change the fact that somethings off.

“Dirk?” You step over a shattered plate, frowning to yourself. “You home?”

Nothing.

You fumble around for the light switch in the hallway, flicking it on to find more things in disarray. Pictures off the wall. Broken glass. Maybe there was a break-in? Panic begins to burrow its fingers into your chest. You’re no Jane Crocker, you don’t have a fancy mustache or magnifying glass, but you’ve unfortunately seen enough reruns of CSI to know this doesn’t look too hot.

Peeking your head into his bedroom, you’re almost relieved to find it empty. His bed is a wreck, the blankets and sheets half-strewn onto the floor in a wadded mess. The rest of the room isn’t much better—clothes everywhere, more scrap metal, an ominous severed robot arm, and a very questionable body pillow. To be fair, this is probably the least concerning thing that you’ve seen so far. His room pretty much always looks like this.

The cabin isn’t big—just the one bedroom, a bathroom, and a humble den and kitchenette—and so, there isn’t a whole lot of places left for Dirk to hide. He’s either out of the house, kidnapped, or in his workshop. The first option is plausible. The second option isn’t. The third…

Well. You just have a feeling.

Sighing, you disappear in a flash, leaving behind a cyclone of blueprints, and you reappear in front of the small shed-turned-workshop in the backyard. Sure, you could have just as easily walked here, but what’s done is done. It’s called efficiency.

Like the rest of the house, the workshop is silent, and you start to think that maybe you’ve worried yourself for nothing. Maybe he’s just out with Roxy, or Jane, or…Jake. You hate the sour taste that thought puts in your brain. There’s no animosity between you and Jake, and you really wish your brain would stop conjuring up excuses to put it there.

“Dirk, helloooo? Are you in here?”

The workbench where you typically find him hunched over, engrossed in a project, is vacant—but you’re not alone. You recognize the sounds of shaking, panicked breathing—you’re just typically the one that’s making them. Not this time. It’s coming from behind a giant hunk of machinery you still don’t know the name for. (Last time you were here, you called it his flux capacitor to be a dick and he nearly throttled you on the spot.)

Slowly, you peek around the not-flux-capacitor.

On the ground, Dirk sits with his head buried in his knees, bathed in shadows and the orange glow of circuitry. His phone lies in pieces next to him, purposely shattered. You assume the hammer just a few feet away is the culprit of that one. He doesn’t look up, even though you’re positive he knows you’re there.

“Hey,” you say, lowering your voice to a soft, soothing tempo as you crouch down, careful to mind the glass. “What’s going on? What happened?”

 Dirk lifts a hand, waving a dismissal.

“Go away,” it says.

“No.” You do your best to keep your tone light, but stern. “I’m sorry, I’m not going to force you to tell me what’s going on, but I can’t just leave you here like this. You know that, right? Hey—can you look at me?”

You lower a careful hand to his shoulders, feeling out the tremors beneath his skin. One of two things can happen, you figure. He can either shrug you off and push you away, or he can tense up and you’ll feel like an enormous asshole for only making things worse.

But. Dirk does neither of these things.

Instead, he shakes harder, leaning into your touch with a hoarse sob that rips through him just as much as it does you. His hand claws for yours, but not to shove it away. No. His fingers curl around yours possessively, and you’re locked in place. Not that you’d planned on leaving. But it’s the familiar desperation of it that breaks something fragile inside you.

When he looks up, that breaks you too.

You can tell that he’s been crying for way longer than you care to imagine. Again, it’s a look that you recognize because you’ve worn it before. A face you’ve seen in the mirror after dragging yourself to the bathroom at the end of a breakdown. Eyes red and swollen, lips chapped. You put your free hand on his cheek, leaving your thumb to stroke the warmth that resides there. Dirk never stops watching you, but at least he stops shaking.

“It’s okay.”

He shakes his head.

“No, it is! Or—I guess it will be. That’s why I’m here!” You try to sound hopeful, but that’s not really your strong suit. It’s not like you’re Jake—

Shut up, brain! Not now. What the fuck?    

Dirk lets go of you to sign: “I’m okay. You can go.”

“Okay. I know your vocabulary is pretty limited when it comes to signing with me, but that just isn’t true.” Carefully, you pick up the discarded skeleton of his phone, dangling it to prove a point. “You smashed your phone to bits, Dirk! I was so worried. I hadn’t heard from you—”

He looks at you, blinking.

“I thought you were upset with me. Unless you are, and if that’s the case, can you, uh. Tell me what I did? Sorry, jeez. That’s such an asshole thing to ask. I should already know! But…I don’t know. I guess I can be sort of an obtuse jerk when it comes to things like this. You know, emotions and stuff? They really get me flummoxed sometimes—”

Dirk clamps a hand over your mouth, and you let the rest of that sentence die a slow, muffled death on his palm. He raises a finger to his lips and silently shushes you, a gesture that you roughly translate to: “Shut the fuck up, Egbert.”

For the best. You're pretty sure that your brain was subconsciously channeling Jake there towards the end.

He slowly lowers his hand, threatening you with a narrowed glare, sharp as a dagger. If you weren’t so relieved to see him looking somewhat back to normal, it might work.

That’s fine. You don’t even have to open your mouth to “say” this. Ha.  

Grinning at your stupid joke, you go ahead and lean back on your haunches, giving yourself some room. Dirk rests his head in the crook of his knees and, with a curiously raised eyebrow, regards you like he’s waiting for a magic trick.

Jokes on him! You’re about to knock his socks off…or make him extremely uncomfortable. Hm. Don’t think about that right now. Just get it over with.

You take a deep breath. Raise your hands.

“I like you.”

It’s not until you’ve cracked one eye open that you realize you’ve shut them at all. Well, “shut” might be a bit of an understatement. You’re squeezing them together so tight, you start to feel a migraine forming.

And Dirk, he’s…not doing much of anything. His mouth hangs silently ajar, eyes wider than you’ve ever seen them. The pink of his tongue swipes across his lips and an embarrassing amount of saliva pools in your mouth at the sight. You swallow. The look he’s wearing is unreadable, and it’s not like you were really any good at reading him to begin with. Maybe you’ve messed up.

“Sorry. That was awful timing,” you apologize. “I don’t know why I did that.”

He tilts his head, raising a hand, and oh god, here it comes. You brace yourself for the sting of rejection.

"Why?”

Wait. You immediately unbrace yourself, shoulders slumping. What?

"Oh, uh. Did you want an itemized list or something?"

Whatever the response is, it’s lost on you. You’re not sure that you recognize any of those gestures. This isn’t going to work. Luckily, your phone chooses that moment to start buzzing in your back pocket. Oh. Right. You still have one of those!

You pull it out, swiping away the notification from Dave. He can wait. Asshole. Instead, you open up an empty message screen and hand it over to Dirk.

“Don’t smash this one, okay?” You laugh to let him know you’re kidding, rubbing the back of your neck as it tapers into a nervous chuckle. “By the way, why exactly did you do that?”

He doesn’t immediately start texting, staring blankly at the screen in his hand. Sometimes you wish you knew what he was thinking, just as much as you wish you knew what he was saying.

Finally, he types out:

JOHN: Long story.

“Yeah, but you type fast,” you counter, smile crooked. He gives you a look. Your smile flattens back out. “Okay, sheesh. If you don’t want to say, that’s fine.”

JOHN: Later, okay?
JOHN: I’ll explain. I promise.
JOHN: But for now, can you just answer one thing?

“Oh, yeah. Sure,” you say, pushing for your best attempt at sounding cheerful despite the sinking feeling in your gut. You’re terrified that you won’t be able to. Given your track record, it’s a pretty rational fear. “Ask away!”

JOHN: Is this real?

And you were right, you can’t answer that, but for once it’s not because of your emotional incompetency.

You just have no clue what he’s trying to ask.

“It seems pretty unlikely that we’d be simultaneously dreaming, and I don’t think the dream bubbles are still a thing.” You perform the fail-proof Dream Test and pinch your arm. Yep. Still hurts. “So, yeah. I guess?”

JOHN: You sound a little unsure about the stability of your reality, bro.

“Shut up,” you say, fighting a valiant battle against your urge to smile. “That’s not what you meant though, is it?” He shakes his head. “Okay, well. What did you mean?”

JOHN: Forget it.

You don’t even know what you’re supposed to be forgetting. So, you just say: “Okay.”

JOHN: So, you came here all on your own?
JOHN: Nothing made you?

“Made me?” You silently mouth the words a few more times, trying to decipher their intended meaning. How the hell is he making less sense than before? “No? Wait. Are you trying to ask if Dave sent me or something? Because he didn’t. I have the autonomy, you know!”

JOHN: Do you, John?

Shit. Do you?

Yeah, of course you do. Dirk’s just being cryptic, per usual.

“Sheesh. I’m not some creepy puppet, Dirk.” To get your point across, you shake your hands at the wrist. “See? No strings.”

Dirk stares at you, gaze darting back and forth like he’s reading some imaginary text scribbled on your face. It makes you a little self-conscious if you’re being completely honest. You don’t know what he sees in you. A washed-up, sorry excuse for a god in sweatpants? That’s not what you want him to see.  

His eyes drop back down to the screen and the insecurity demon throttling you lets up just a little.

JOHN: Damn.
JOHN: I’m pretty into creepy puppets.

You let out an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh, not even trying to bother with hiding the way your face breaks into a wide grin. You’ve been told this particular smile is goofy, probably on account of your teeth that sit just a little too large in your mouth. (Thanks, Dave.) But you also have it on pretty good authority that it’s endearing. (Thanks, Roxy.) Given by the way Dirk’s lip twitches at the corner to grace you with a patented Strider smile, and his eyes roll, you figure it’s a comfortable mixture of both.

“Come on, let’s go.” You stand with a grunt, offering to help him up. See? Your dad taught you to be a gentleman, some of that stuck.

Dirk holds up a hand, but not to take yours.

“Wait.”

His gaze demands your attention, leaving you frozen, awkwardly rooted in spot with your palm face-out and empty like a doofus. What are you supposed to be waiting for exactly? Is he not done sitting on this dirty workshop floor? There are so many rusty nails, you’ll probably have to take him to get a tetanus shot before you take him to get a new phone. No, maybe not. Dirk Strider, robot daddy, probably has some freaky tetanus immunity. Or maybe you all do. Can gods get tetanus? Why are you even thinking about this right now? Dirk’s looking at you funny—

Oh, shit. That’s right. You totally confessed your feelings to him earlier. Oops.

Dirk starts to move his hands. You start to sweat.

“I like you too.”

O-oh.

“Cool. That’s, uh,  great.”

You probably should have specified what kind of “like” you meant.

Dirk finally accepts your chivalrous gesture and fits his palm in yours. He’s warm; like the shade of orange you’ve come to associate with all things Dirk; warm like the soft lull of his machines; warm like worn leather. You pull him up, bringing him directly into your space, and when his breath ghosts across your cheek, you find it’s warm too.

Before you can do something irrevocably stupid like kiss him, you drop his hand and step away.

“Let’s go back inside.”

Chapter Text

Your name is John Egbert, and you’re struck with the sudden urge to get up and get Dirk a room-temperature orange soda. Nothing about that seems like an odd request. You stand, your body moving without your permission, expression vacant of all the autonomy that you’ve claimed to possess. You remain blissfully unaware and adorable, making your way mindlessly to the kitchen and, wait. Hold on. What the fuck are you doing?

Record scratch.

John doesn’t walk into your kitchen, in fact, he walks in the opposite direction of your kitchen, over to the cluttered desk in the corner, piled with papers and books and blueprints. He starts touching your stuff. See? Normally that would set you off, there’s important shit in there, but you’re too stunned that John’s just…

Uh. What is he doing? Is that where he thinks you keep your soda stash?

No. He comes back with a legal pad and pen, flipping through the pages until he finds one that’s mostly free of your scribbles and (frankly, genius) calculations, and plops it down on the coffee table.

That’s not. Hm.

This isn’t right.

“Reading your messages like they were coming from me was starting to get weird and confusing for everyone. I figured you could just write down what you needed to say. Because, uh, not to be an asshole, but I don’t think you need to keep any of this bottled in.” To make a point, John looks around the clusterfuck that is your living room. He laughs to himself, whistling through the slight gap in his teeth. “Unless this is what happens when you unbottle! I thought I was the one with the windy powers! Man, it looks like a tornado tore through here.”

You should be sipping a lukewarm, citrus elixir.

Because he’s right, you don’t have the windy powers—or the time powers, or the sight powers, or the hope powers.

You are Dirk Strider, the Prince of Heart, and you have agency over the soul. You’ve got the “I control everything” powers. The narrative bends to your will, and you do with it what you please because you’re the master of manipulation, whether you like it or not.

Which is why John Egbert goes to the kitchen and gets you a fuckin’ soda.

But he doesn’t. He sits down, crisscross-applesauce on the floor in front of you.

Alright. Admittedly, it’s been a while since you’ve purposely tried to persuade the narrative to do anything. Maybe you’re just rusty. This isn’t exactly a muscle you like to flex.

There had been an extended period of time in your youth where this kind of power would’ve been revered, welcomed even. And you know for a fact that you have several splinters that would kill to have them. Not you—not this version of you—whatever make and model of Strider it is that you exist as these days.

“Uhm, Dirk?” John’s looking at you now with way too much pity to comfortably digest. He bites at his bottom lip, and you really, really wish he would stop doing shit that draws your attention to his mouth. It’s bad enough you want to kiss him. “You do know how to write, don’t you?”

Jesus Christ. It’s even worse that you still want to.

You nod. Of course, you know how to write. He literally just flipped through a notebook full of things you’ve personally written. It’s just that your hands are starting to shake and you’re not sure anything that you attempt to scribe will be legible. Your penmanship is chicken scratch as it is.

You go for it anyway.

“Get me a soda,” you write.

“What?” John squints at it, and then at you. “Get your own soda! I just sat down.”

Okay. Don’t panic, don’t—

You immediately start to panic. Again.

Only, this time, you have no idea what the true origin is. Fear that your metanarrative bullshit powers aren’t working—or relief that they aren’t? You’ve spent years in silence, wishing them away, but fuck. You need them. They’re the security blanket that suffocates you. With them, you’re dangerous. Without them, you’re irrelevant.

All too quickly, your chest grows tight.

“Hey, hey.” John unfolds his legs, crawling the short distance it takes to reach you. He places two steady hands on each of your knees, quelling violent tremors that you hadn’t noticed. “I’ll go get you a drink if you really need one. Geez, are you having caffeine withdrawals or something? Low blood sugar?”

You look at him through a lattice of your fingers, and he gives you a weak smile that serves as a question. You answer with another nod.

“I’m not a doctor,” he says, standing. You know he so very badly wants to tell you that he just plays one on TV but manages to refrain. Just like you know that he gets an unopened can of Fanta from the cabinet because he wants to—and not because you’ve made him.

That’s a weird fuckin’ revelation to have.

When John comes back with your soda, he’s wearing the goofy, endearing grin that you’re so fond of. The top pops with a carbonated hiss. “I do play one on TV, though.”

Okay. You’re now irrefutably convinced you truly have no horse in this race. If you were plucking at even one string, you would’ve never allowed John to finish that horribly cliched joke. So, it’s a real cryin’ shame that he still makes you laugh.

He hands over the drink and you take it. Now, normally, you’d let this sit for a good fifteen-to-twenty minutes to help it reach that perfect, bitter realm of flat, but John’s watching you expectantly and you’re not in the mood to disappoint him. He looks proud. Fine. You take a polite sip; fizz tickles at your nostrils and throat, and you suppress a grimace while swallowing it down.

“Feel better?” John asks.

No.

You give him a thumbs up, trying not to gag. Disgusting.

“You’re so weird,” John comments. This time he forgoes the floor and sits down on the couch next to you. “That’s why I like you though, I guess.”

Right.

About that.

You thought you knew what that meant, what that implied. Dave had said it to you weeks ago, planting the seed right into the darkest part of your heart. You know he hadn’t meant to, that it was just Dave being Dave, a wily little asshole who cares more than he lets on, but it really did a number on you. Watching your brother’s hands unknowingly sign your greatest fear— “You made John like you.”

Paraphrased, of course. The actual rant had been a lot less coherent with a lot more accusations of witchcraft.

In retrospect, you probably had it coming. Not long after the game ended, Dave had confessed to you his former crush on one John Egbert, and you did what any ecto-brodad would do. You teased him mercilessly. All in good fun, of course. Dave had heart-eyes for Karkat—who, apparently, had spade-eyes for John at some point—but it was never a sore spot for either of them. But, eventually, the novelty behind the jokes fizzled when Dave and Karkat got together; while becoming a lot less funny when John disappeared into a depression-induced self-isolation.

You just wrongfully assumed that you could pick it back up after he reintegrated himself into society and the two of you became friends. But, turns out, when the jokes allude to you and John, it’s suddenly a level-five nuclear threat to Dave’s fragile sexuality. Go figure.

“Should we, I don’t know…talk about that?”

You look over to find John nervously plucking at a loose thread in the seam of his sweatpants. Ah. He must have misinterpreted your lack of response as a sign of disinterest. No, sorry, bro. Just fell into an exposition hellscape. My bad.

When he glances over, you take the opportunity to sign a word he knows.

“What?” 

“About the fact that I like you? I don’t think I was very clear before.” John groans, frustrated, and rubs at the back of his neck. “Obviously, I like you as a friend. I have fun with you, and you make me laugh. I make you laugh too! Which is nice because I know I’m not actually all that funny.”

That’s not even remotely true, but you won’t interrupt him just yet.

“But there’s more to it than that. I mean Dave does all those things too, but I don’t get all tingly when he touches me!” John snaps his mouth shut, his tanned cheeks darkening in a rapid flush. “Sorry. That was a weird thing to admit.”

Oh.

You reach for the notebook and pen, staring at the only message scrawled lopsided in the margins—a command that had been ignored. It hits you, suddenly, that really didn’t twist the narrative in your favor this time. John’s describing feelings and emotions that are entirely his own.  You didn’t put them there.

With a shaky hand, you write: “I get that.”                                                                  

“You…do?”

Yeah. You’re feeling pretty fuckin’ tingly right now.

“So, you, uh,” John swallows in hesitation, and you watch the bob of his throat as it makes its way down. “You feel the same? God. This sounds so stupid and immature, I’m sorry. I just don’t know how else to be sure—”

You know how to be sure. Actions speak louder than words, after all.

You silence him with the press of your mouth to his, feeling as the rest of his sentence wilts against your lips. It’s an impulse decision, a reckless one. But once he realizes what’s happening, John kisses you like he’s more than pretty sure, and you return the favor, leaving no room for doubt. 

For either of you.

At once, all the walls you’d built to keep yourself guarded, all the trenches you’d dug to keep yourself at a distance, vanish. John Egbert has somehow managed to weasel his way into the empty chasm of your chest, and you can’t deny it anymore. You can’t blame this on technicalities and false narratives. He’s here, coaxing your mouth open with his clever tongue and grappling at the back of your neck, threading his fingers through your hair to pull you closer, and closer, and—

Your arms wrap around his torso, hands finding the small of his back to draw him in. John makes a startled sound but follows through, leaning heavily against you, tugging at your hair, forcing you to tilt your head back so that he can better lick into your mouth. Now it’s John that has both hands on the steering wheel and he’s guiding you back against the couch, crawling on your lap, and holy shit, that’s hot.

Looks like this train is going full steam ahead and, for once, you ain’t the conductor.

John pulls back long enough for you to catch your breath, then he’s diving back in, biting hard at your bottom lip. Oh, shit. You try to find solid footing to brace yourself on the edge of the coffee table, but your spiked adrenaline causes you to overshoot, and you end up kicking the ever-loving shit out of it instead. Embarrassing, sure, but not all that concerning.

Until you hear the ping of metal and a bubbly glug, glug, glug…

John catapults himself off your lap.

“Oh, fuck!” He stumbles back, grabbing the closet thing he can find to sop up the spilled soda—oh, one of your work shirts. Thank god it’s already stained with grease because wow, he’s really working it in here. “Sorry!”

Hm? Why is he apologizing? You’re the one that Swayze’d the can off the table.

“I guess I got carried away.”

You’re currently getting carried away yourself, watching the sinewy muscles of his arms flex as he applies just the right amount of pressure. Damn. Swingin’ that ridiculous hammer had some lasting effects.

“It’s, uh…been a while,” John admits quietly.

“Same,” you respond, voice rough from inactivity because, yeah, it’s been a while for both makin’ out and verbal conversation. But you figure it doesn’t matter much anymore. Not when John apparently transcends the reasoning behind your silence.

That and you’re just really too blitzed out in a cloud of euphoria to care.

You see the exact moment John registers the sound of your voice for what it is, looking up from your now orange-stained tee, mouth hanging open in an exaggerated state of shock.

“Did you just say something? Or am I going crazy?”

“Crazy is relative,” you tell him, clearing your throat. Okay, now you sorta wish you had that drink to wash down the cobwebs. “But yeah, I did. Surprise?”

“Why?” John sputters, scrambling to his knees. “How?”

“Do you really want to waste time discussing the complicated delicacies of the human larynx?”

“I don’t know! Do you want to waste it being an ass?”

It’s hard to take his insult to heart when he’s beaming at you like that. Shit. You’re pretty sure you can make out actual stars in his eyes. Make sense, you guess, given that they’re bluer than any sky on Earth-C. See? This is why you stick to being an asshole. Can’t exactly say sappy shit like that without jeopardizing your reputation for being a stone-cold badass.

“Guess not.”  

“Okay, not that I’m not thrilled to hear you speak—I mean, I’ve been dreaming of it for months now,” John pauses, flustering. “Forget I said that.”

Too bad. You heard it. Locked that tidbit right into your memory box.

“But…Dirk. What’s going on? First, you go radio silent, like actually radio silent, and destroy your house and your phone. Now you’re talking? I’m not going to lie to you, this feels like an episode of the Twilight Zone.” He taps his chin. “Or maybe I fell off your lap and hit my head and now I have a concussion, and this is a freaky Wizard of Oz situation.”

You want to ask him if he only knows how to comprehend what’s happening around him by equating it to overhyped, retro media but decide maybe that’s a little too far over on the asshole scale. Instead, you settle with, “I guess that makes you the scarecrow then and me, the tin man?”

“If I only had a brain,” John deadpans.

“If I only had a heart,” you say right back, knowing the irony of that’s probably lost on him. It’s more like, if only you didn’t.

He laughs anyway, and you can’t help but think how much he sounds like Jane. Only, you figure his chuckle is more of a hee-hee than a hoo-hoo. That’s interesting.

“Okay, very funny. Now stop deflecting!”

You’re not—okay, you’re making a mental Venn diagram of Crocker-Egbert laugh tendencies. Of course, you’re deflecting.

Fine. You take a deep breath and decide to start somewhere at the beginning, which is, coincidentally, the end.

“After the game, the threads of our narrative became tangible to me. I could tug at them, swaying the pendulum of favor in my direction. Already, that’s dangerous business for a guy like me. But soon, I realized that I could do more than that. Not only was I manipulating the narrative, but I was also writing it. And fuck if that’s what our new world needed.

“It scared me. I didn’t know what was real anymore. Do my friends actually give a shit? Or am I just compelling them to think that they do? The latter wouldn’t have surprised me, but I digress. I couldn’t keep going on like that.” You rub your hands over your face, pressing the heel of your palm against your eyes. It hurts, to pick open a wound you thought you’d closed.

“Deep down,” you continue, voice quieter, “I know that my efforts have no real impact, that I’ll always have this metanarrative control of the people around me, but I figured if I stopped talking, the odds of abusing that could lessen.”

John stares at you with severity that you’re not used to him wearing, eyes glazed over. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks bored. He doesn’t say anything but you, on the other hand, can’t stop talking.

“I know I’m not a good man, John. I know what I’m capable of. I’ve seen it first-hand—from my splinters, from myself. There are versions of me out there that have ruined the lives of people I care about.” Placing a hand against your chest, you curl your fingers into the fabric of your shirt, just above your heart. “I feel like I’m a ticking timebomb.”

“Dirk,” John says; still grim, still serious. “That’s…”

He takes a breath. You hold yours.

“…the most melodramatic thing I’ve ever heard.”

You blink, hand falling limply from where it’d been clutching your chest in a fashion that you wouldn’t describe as melodramatic. John huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head fondly like he’s a sitcom dad, and kids, well, they just say the darndest things!

“And that’s an accomplishment! I grew up with Rose—Dave too. Honestly, your whole family can be pretty theatrical when given the chance.”

Okay. He may have a point. A small one. A needlepoint, if you will.

You cross your arms, John pats your knee.

“Not talking again?” he asks, smiling. You hadn’t realized you slipped into old comforts. “That’s okay. Just so we’re clear…I don’t think you finding security in the whole perma-silence thing is what’s so ridiculous. Whatever feels safe, right? It’s just your logic behind it, I guess.”

Just your logic? Ah, yes. That’s so much better. You roll your eyes.

“Dirk. A bad person wouldn’t be so bent out of shape about being a bad person,” he says.

And just like that, you’re on a rooftop with Dave while he tells you the same thing.

DAVE: i dunno if truly bad people wrestle so much with whether theyre good or bad

You swallow. Alright, maybe that point is a little larger than a pin needle. 

“So, you know, I’m not trying to invalidate how you feel or whatever, that would be super shitty of me! But I have to say, I don’t think you’d purposely try to manipulate anyone in like…a bad way? Not that there’s really a good way, but if you’re just like making the line a little shorter at the store, who cares? Do you think I haven’t used my retcon powers for some frivolous—”

He’s still talking, but you tune him out to hyper-focus on that pearl of information. Retcon powers? Right. That explains why he’s so resistant to your narrative pull. He could unravel anything you spun, couldn’t he?

Interesting.

“—The point I’m trying to make here, is you need to talk to your friends and tell them what’s up! If you don’t want to actually talk, that’s fine. But I think Dave, at the very least, deserves to know. He’s your brother…son? Oh. Oh, jeez. Sorry, I think I just realized that if we started dating, I’d be like—”

Dating? He wants to date you?

“—But I guess you already technically dated my dad—”

You slap a hand over his mouth. “Let’s go ahead stop that train from leaving the station.”

Nope. Not even going there. None of this ectobiology shit makes any sense, and you refuse to think of yourself as “John’s dad’s ex-boyfriend.” Hell, you don’t even think of yourself as Dave’s dad. Can’t. That’s a whole other level of fucked up that you don’t care to unpack right now, or ever.

John mumbles something against your palm, slapping the side of your leg until you finally let up. He gasps for breath. Now who’s being melodramatic?

“Okay,” you say before he can continue his bizarre pep talk. “I’ll think about it.”

Those big, bushy caterpillar brows furrow, overbite bearing into his bottom lip. You think he’s trying to look intimidating but damn if you don’t think it’s the cutest thing this side of the Consort Kingdom.

“Okay,” you say again. “I will. That better?”

“Yes.”

“But I can’t promise that I’ll do it like this.” You point in the vague direction of your mouth. “I don’t know if I can.”

It’s not an easy thing to admit. You know John has a point—several points, actually, you’ve more than narratively established this—but it still flips the bad switch in your brain to imagine speaking out loud in their presence. The last thing you wanna do is disappoint them and breaking your vow would feel like a failure. John’s different, you figure. He’s the immovable object to your unstoppable force. But to be honest, you still don’t know if you’re gonna be able to do this again.

Maybe one day. Maybe if you can get your shit together.

“That’s okay,” John tells you, and you can tell he really means it. “You don’t have to ever talk again if you don’t want to! But, man, I just hate that you feel that way? You don’t have to live your life like you’re one screw up away from being a shitty anime villain.”

Damn. That one cuts deep.

“I’d be the best shitty anime villain, Egbert. Don’t act like I wouldn’t.”

John makes a sound of indifference. “Maaaaaybe.”

That one cuts even deeper. You’d been thinking of customizing your god tier fit but, on second thought…No sense in wasting a perfectly good pair of poofy asshole pants.

“Oh! You never actually explained all of—” John waves his hands around your living room. You’re not sure if he means to conjure a small cyclone of junk, but he does. “—this?”

Right. Shit. This is going to be embarrassing.

“This is going to be embarrassing.”

John beams. “Great!”

“I kinda got Dave all riled up that night, poking fun at his old crush on you.” You watch all that sunny enthusiasm drain from John’s face. Oh, so he didn’t know about that one? Oops. “Anyway. Sorta started implying that me and you were more than friends. Just teasin’ and being a dick, the usual. Then, Dave went and accused me of performing some gay witchcraft on you, and…”

“You believed him,” John finishes for you, barking out a laugh. “Holy shit, Dirk. You know he was just talking out of his ass, right? It’s Dave. Just earlier he accused me of having a slime kink!”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you have a slime kink?”

John chokes on what you assume is air. “N-no!”

Yeah. He totally has a slime kink. You’ll be sure to save that nugget for the second or third date.

“Also!” John chimes, playfully punching you in the arm. “That’s for telling Dave that you and I had, you know.” Here, he mimes the most awkward blowjob impression you’ve ever seen. “It sounds like you were getting a little ahead of yourself!”

You’re Dirk Strider, and you don’t blush, but if you did…that’d probably do the trick. Your cheeks, however, do get a little warm. Look, you’re human—god-tier status notwithstanding. So, what if your face gets a little pink? Is it a crime to be flattered? The guy you like just implied a blowjob wasn’t off the table, and you haven’t forgotten that he’d implied he wanted to date you either.

“Did you want to give it a try?” you blurt out. John’s eyes go wide, and it’s his turn to fluster. Context, Dirk, you idiot. “The dating thing. Not the—”

“Oh!”

“Yeah.”

“I think so?” John’s mouth tilts, thinking. “I don’t really have a lot of experience with dating, to be honest. I dated Roxy a little bit before…well, before everything became too much. But that wasn’t very serious. I think maybe I was hate-dating Terezi too? But that was never official. Then there was Vriska…”

God, you’ll never understand how this dweeb pulled three of the coolest chicks around. Now he’s about to pull you too—arguably the coolest dude. That’s some powerful magnetism.

“My only relationship experience is with Jake English and we all know how that ended up.”

(And it’s maybe a tiny reason why you’ve been so afraid of manipulating John.)

“That’s good though! It can be something we navigate and figure out together. You and Jake were just dumb kids when you dated, and the circumstances were sort of wacky. To be fair, I don’t think any of us should have been worried about romance, or quadrants, or any of that junk while trying to take down Lord English, and Jack Noir, and my alternate-timeline evil fish mom.”

“It sounds so simple when you put it like that.”

John grins, big and goofy. “So, what do you say?”

You’re not sure you can say anything, except—

“Yeah. Okay. Let’s do this.”

He leans in and kisses you, and you know that no part of you told him to do it. He’s kissing you because he wants to—because you can’t make John Egbert do anything, and holy shit, that’s freeing. For the first time, you feel truly wanted, there’s no demon drilling intrusive thoughts into your head. There’s no cracked robo-splinter of your psyche working against you. It’s just you and John.

But there’s just one more thing you need to clear up before the two of you dive headfirst into some real emotionally scary shit.

You pull away, just barely, swallowing hard.  “It won’t always be like this. Even when it’s just us.”

“Hm?” John hums, blinking the languid euphoria from his eyes. “Oh, you mean talking?”

“Yeah. If that’s a dealbreaker, that’s cool.”

John smiles again. You love when he smiles. You hate that he spent so many years alone not doing it.

“Dirk, not to be a jerk,” he says, prefacing what can only be a jerk move, “I didn’t just decide that I wanted to date you like thirty minutes ago when you started talking. Why would that be a dealbreaker? I mean it. This could be the last thing you ever say to me out loud, and that’d be fine, as long as your silence brought you comfort. But if talking to more people is something you want to work on, we’ll get there.”

There’s no way you deserve him, but you’ve always been a bit of a selfish bastard, so you’re going to take him anyway.

“Plus,” he says, shrugging. “You might not realize it, but you’ve helped me a lot too. I’m not going to pretend like I don’t still have shit to work through, but I’m starting to feel like maybe I do belong.”

Oh.

You reach over, brushing your fingertips against the back of his hand. He turns it over, offering his palm like it’s a reflex. When you slot your hand in his, you can’t help but think he’s right. He does belong, and maybe so do you. This new existence is crazy and confusing, and you’ve gone from having no one to having everyone. You understand where he’s coming from. It’s a lot.

But right now, it’s still just you and him.

Chapter Text

Two young men stand in their bedroom. It just so happens that today, the 10th of November, is their anniversary. Though it was three years ago that they were given tentative amorous titles, it is only today that they will take their relationship to the next level with questionable roleplay!

John Egbert ==> Be a sexy ghostbuster.

“Alright, big guy. Come over here and slime me.”

You stomp your foot like a petulant child, lowering the precise aim of your proton pack hose away from your distractingly hot boyfriend. Clad only in lime green boxers, Dirk’s stretched out on your bed, doing his best to ruin what should be a very beautiful moment between two lovers, thank you very much!

“Dirk! I’m not the one doing the sliming and you know it!”

He smiles, smug, because yeah. He knows it. The asshole has a bucket sitting on the nightstand full of a recipe he’s been perfecting and tweaking for weeks. And he’s laying on a tarp, of all things!

“You’re ruining the illusion,” you grouse, readying the hose again. “Now say something Slimer would!”

He rubs his fist over his bare chest apologetically. “Sorry.”

And then—

“Wait. Do you want to fuck—?”

You groan loudly, and he stops mid-sign to laugh. And okay. It’s pretty funny, and ridiculous. You don’t actually want to roleplay sexy Ghostbusters, you just kinda like it when he goes all out for you. Is that so wrong? Dirk likes doing weird shit like this because he’s a weird guy, and you love that about him.

You love him so much.

So, you tell him with a simple hand gesture, one you now know by heart: “I love you.”

Dirk’s laugh tapers off, leaving a fond, lazy smile. “I love you too,” he tells you.