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“John,” you hear, but its mostly warbled by sleep. You screw up your eyes, instantly realizing that nothing about you wants to be awake, and bury yourself further into the warm side of your boyfriend.
“John. John. John. John,” the voice is measured, but insistent. You groan, pointedly ignoring it.
“John,” the voice sings, and someone gently shakes your shoulder.
“Fuck off,” you say elegantly, the syllables slurring together drunkenly. The voice snorts.
“C’mon, man, I know you’re awake,” Dave says, shaking you distinctly less gently. You give up, squinting up at him blearily. All you really get is a mesh of colours and some vague shapes, half from the residual sleep, half from the lack of thick glasses on your face. You can see Dave’s already crammed the cracked sunglasses onto his face, despite the near-total darkness of the room.
“Guess what?” he asks, handing you your glasses. He’s practically bouncing.
“What?” you reply, still only half awake.
“It’s Christmas!” Dave roars, bounding out of bed. You blink at him as he starts getting dressed. You just flop back onto the bed
“What time is it?” you ask.
“CHRISTMAS!” he roars again, throwing some clothes at you. They lamely bounce of your face. You glance over at the helpful light-up clock.
“3 am?” you squawk incredulously.
“3 am, on CHRISTMAS MORNING,” Dave corrects, already zipping up his jacket. The boiler must’ve screwed up. Again. You two would just have to suffer until everyone went round to Jane and Jade’s later on today for the Christmas feast for the ages.
You and Dave had been dating for three years, but this was the first year you’d actually lived with him. You both lived in your Dad’s old house, a modest two floor suburban number, falling apart and riddled with little quirks. Your least favourite one was the constantly screwing up boiler, Dave’s was the way that the microwave would occasionally set fire to whatever you put in there. You were both too broke and too lazy to replace either.
Speaking of lazy, you were still curled up in a ball on the rapidly cooling bed, trying to retain some of Dave’s warmth. He always claimed that YOU were the warmer one, but who knew. There was probably some legit science behind it. Probably.
“Get dressed,” Dave said, stripping the blankets off the bed. You hissed at the sudden cold, curling up tighter.
“Can’t it wait till, like, 6? 7 even?” You begin bargaining drowsily, “Santa’s probably still here.”
“Nope, he left last night. I watched him go. Had to make sure he didn’t leave beard flakes or some shit behind,” Dave says, dragging you out of the bed. You fall to the carpeted (and extremely cold) carpet with a dull ‘thunk’. Dave stifles a laugh.
“You’re not giving up, are you?” you ask, forcing yourself into a sitting position and pulling off your pajamas.
“Nah. C’mon, John!” Dave says, disappearing behind the bedroom door, “It’s christmas!” his voice fades away, followed by him clomping noisily down the stairs. You can’t help but laugh to yourself as you pulled on your pants. Dave had this weird sort of thing where around anyone else, he had to be stoic and cool and reserved and all this shit. But when you two were alone, he was like this five year old kid who’d spent most of his life blind as a bat, and now everything was new and exciting and bright and colourful.
Like a kid waking up on christmas morning.
You hear the boiler distantly shudder into life, and everything gets warmer degree by pain-staking degree. You drag the soft, heavy blanket downstairs, where Dave’s standing in front of the stairs, waiting expectantly.
“Took you long enough. Hell, I coulda written the extended version of Les Mis while you got ready ,” he says, clearly growing impatient. You just yawned at him.
“Thanks,” you mutter, hoping you won’t have to elaborate.
“You can make it up to me by making breakfast,” he says, grabbing onto your wrist and gently dragging you the rest of the way down the stairs and into the tiny, white kitchen. You roll your eyes, getting out the pancake mix and some food dye. Dave hovers next to you, watching you expectantly behind his shades. You snort gently, using the hand that wasn’t pouring a disgusting amount of chocolate chips into the pancake batter to push the glasses up into his hair. He looks mildly disgruntled for a fraction of a second, but lets you get away with it. You guess it’s mostly because of your ‘adorable drowsy face’. Dave gives you the smallest half smile. You lean in, closing the already small gap between you two, and plant your lips softly on his.
Dave instinctively brings his hand up to cup your cheek, absently running his thumb over your bumpy, acne-scarred skin. You wrap your arms around his waist, trying to get closer. Like that’s even possible. Every breath he takes you feel, through the air rushing from his nose and his chest pressing against yours. You kiss him over and over, pulling back just enough to get at his face again and again. After forever, he blinks blearily at you, pulling away just enough that you can accurately focus your eyes on him.
“Marry me,” he says, almost too quiet for you to hear.
“Okay,” you say instantly, just loud enough for him to hear. He just looks at you for a moment, caught off guard, the ghost of a smile sitting on his face.
“Pancakes,” he reminds you, gently stroking your cheek.
“Yeah yeah,” you grumble, but your face is breaking out into a bucktoothed grin, “coming right up, your highness.”
“And three rashers of bacon, if you would be so kind, slave,” Dave says, sitting himself down on the terrible ikea chair that faced the terrible ikea table. You laugh quietly, and go back to making Christmas Pancakes.
They were the same as every other pancake you’d ever made, but they were red and green, and had a dash of cinnamon. You’d made two dozen, and you both wolf them down disgustingly fast.
“Bruh,” Dave says, after his plate has been mopped up of any residual maple syrup, “why don’t you make Christmas pancakes EVERY day?” He leans over, trying to section off a little of your one remaining pancake. You fend him off with your fork.
“Because then they’d be NORMAL pancakes, Dave! Not SUPER SPECIAL CHRISTMAS ones. Duh,” you say, like he’s stupid. He nods sagely.
“Wise words from a wise little elf-guy,” he says, trying again to steal some of your pancake. You just give up, cramming the whole pancake into your already disgustingly full mouth. You grin triumphantly at him, your cheeks bulging with the cakey, thick pancakes.
“No fair, dude,” Dave moans, throwing down his fork and leaning back sulkily in the chair, “You come into MY house-”
“It’s mine,” you say, but because your mouth is so damn full, it comes out more as ‘Ith mone’
“You steal MY pancakes,” Dave continues, like you hadn’t said anything.
“That was mine too,” you said, swallowing the massive mouthful.
“On THIS, the day of my daughter’s wedding,” Dave just keeps going. You gently kick his shins under the table. He shuts up, running out of quote.
“So, what now?” you ask, leaning forward, “in the strider household, does it usually start off with a strife on the roof, or do you guys open presents, then strife on the roof. Dave snorts.
“Christmas day is a truce day, Egbert. Duh.” You heave a sigh, eyes getting heavy. A glance at the clock tells you it’s 3:45 am.
“Do you guys normally wake up this early?” you ask, rubbing at your eyes under your glasses. You hear Dave chuckle a little, leaning forward so his face is only about five inches from yours.
“D’awww. Is widdle Johnny gettin’ sleepy?” he ask, pouting. You hang your head, cradling your face in your palms.
“No,” you mumble unconvincingly. Dave laughs quietly again, running a hand through your hair.
“C’mon,” he says after a little while, “Presents.”
“Can’t we do it when-”
“Presents, presents, presents, presents,” Dave chants, almost menacingly. You grumble, getting unsteadily to your feet. Dave takes your hand again, dragging you into the living room. You follow loudly behind him. The boiler was working well by then, and you could manage to at least unzip your jacket a little. You collapsed onto the couch, pulling Dave down to sit next to you.
The living room was set up very christmas-y. The (extremely large) tree sat right in the middle of it, next to the sofa. It was surrounded by a small collection of presents, from Rose and Jade, from Dad and Bro, and Dirk and (most importantly) from Dave and you. It was a pretty sight, especially with the old, amazingly impractical lights (they were connected in series, and when one went out they ALL went out. Truly a great way to spend an evening), the molting tinsel, and the few last minute SBAHJ decorations Dave pulled out of nowhere. You couldn’t quite get the star on top, so you’d sort of lamely stuck it onto the second tallest branch. You’d spent a long time looking at it, reflecting how much better it was than the little christmas trees you’d been living with for the previous two years.
You didn’t realize that you were nodding off until Dave jolted his shoulder. You sit upright, blinking at him a little blearily.
“Keep up, Egbert,” he says, grinning. Quick as a flash, he jumps off the sofa, tossing you a present.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you this active since...ever,” you remark, yawning a little.
“That’s because you’ve never had a Christmas with me!” he says, grabbing one for himself and throwing himself down on the sofa with it. He pulls his knees up to his chest, looking at you expectantly. You can’t help but grin, shaking the present a little. His enthusiasm is really contagious. The (flat, large) present’s wrapped in red paper, and on it, written in Dave’s signature terrible handwriting, is ‘To: Dork, <3 Non-Dork.”
“Puppy?” you ask expectantly.
“Just open it,” Dave says, shaking your arm a little. You start picking at the tape, with agonizing slowness. Dave groans.
“I will kill you in your sleep,” he says. You laugh and rip the paper off, like you should. Your eyes widen.
“Dude,” you say, staring at it. You flick your eyes up to Dave, who’s grinning like the devil.
“Dude,” you say again, glancing back to make sure that it IS what it is. It’s a framed picture of Cameron Poe, signed by the man himself. You hadn’t seen Con Air in ages, but the nostalgia of even thinking about it made your chest swell with a weirdly intense sense of vague happiness.
“Merry Christmas, ya nerd,” Dave says, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. You gently set the thing down on the coffee table, and tackle Dave against the sofa, practically choking him with how hard you’re holding on.
“I love you I love you I love you I love you,” you say into his neck. Dave laughs, holding onto you with equal force.
“I love you too. Now lemme up so I can open whatever shitty present you got me,” he says, kissing the top of your head. You push yourself up so you’re suspended above him, face daringly close. You glance at the present he picked up.
“It’s not a shitty present,” you say, sitting back on the sofa.
“I CLEARLY got you the best present,” Dave scoffs, starting to peel off the wrapping paper.
“I dunno,” you say, looking at the cracked and chipped shades still pushed up in his hair.
They’d fallen out of the window a little while ago, then onto the road, where they’d been hit by a car. Dave had been heart-broken, not wanting to go and buy a new pair. He’d gotten these things in some small ass store in Texas, when he was like, seven. Nothing could possibly replace them.
Dave unwraps the little glasses case, and looks at you quizzically.
“Open it,” you say, biting your lower lip to try and contain the grin seeping over your face. Dave does, and his jaw drops open.
“Shit man,” he says under his breath, pulling the shades off his head for comparison, “how the hell did you...How...I...” You laugh, watching him struggle to put the pieces together.
“I need to send a thank-you card to your brother,” you explain. Dave grins at you, discarding his old shades and sliding on the new, completely identical pair.
“How do I look?” he ask.
“Like a big dork,” you reply, sticking out your tongue. He shoves your face away, gathering up more presents.
You two spend the morning like that. You and Dave get (unsurprisingly) a smuppet from Bro (you laughed, he cried), some recipes from Dad, loads of movies from Jake, matching sweaters from Rose and Kanaya (you both silently agreed to wear them to lunch), some chocolate from Jade, some chocolate from Dirk, five pounds of gummy bears from Roxy, cookies from Jane, and a crudely drawn card from Terezi and Karkat. They’d written a very long letter (which required a whole extra page stuck into the card) about how christmas was dumb and a prime example of westernization and how the turkey wasn’t even that good and blah blah blah. Half-way through, it dipped into Vietnamese, so the dramatic ending was tragically lost to you.
“We’re framing this,” You say, putting it next to all your other sweet loot. Dave just nods, vaguely drowsily. You laugh, leaning forward.
“Awww. Is widdle Davey getting tired?” you ask, your voice sickly sweet. All you get was a muffled reply that sounded a lot like ‘fuck off’. Getting up at 3 am was finally taking its toll. You laugh again, getting up to pull your extra blanket out of the cupboard. You liked to keep these things around the house, because you’d never come across a time when a situation couldn’t be improved by a blanket. You drag the large, soft thing over to the sofa, where Dave was currently nodding off. You threw it over Dave, who had reclined over the entire sofa, legs stretched out in front of him. It fell over his face, leaving a weird sort relief of Dave. You laugh, he lazily pushes it off his face, sighing a little.
“You going to sleep?” you ask innocently, leaning over the sofa. Dave nods sleepily. The clock on the wall reads ’07:00’. You laugh quietly, gently taking Dave’s new shades off and placing them back in his case. You took off yours, placing them down next to his. You awkwardly crawl your way under the blanket, which Dave helpfully flipped open for you. You collapse over him, your head nestled happily in the crook between his head and shoulder. You look up at him. He glances down at you, smiling ever so slightly.
“Hey,” he says, his voice thick and drowsy.
“Hey,” you reply quietly. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, and flips the blanket back over the both of you. His oddly skinny, warm arms weave their way around you, one across your shoulders, one over your lower back. You snuggle down, trying to get closer to him than you already are.
Dave is not an intimidating looking person. Sure, he’s got piercings and tattoos and stuff, but he’s like Mike Teevee from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory after he went through the taffy stretching machine. Whenever you guys go out, you’re always worrying about the 6”5 guy walking next to you. Looking at him doesn’t really inspire a great sense of safety. But at times like this, when you’re lying on top of him, or next to him, or anywhere near him and his arms wrap around you like he’s clinging to a tree, that’s exactly what you feel. Safe. Sounds cheesy as fuck, but it’s true.
You doze off a little while after him, falling asleep to the gentle sound of his snoring.
You woke up a long while later. Glancing at the clock, you realize that if you two wanted to get to Jade’s on time, you had to leave ten minutes ago. You groan, separating yourself bit by bit from Dave. He grumbles in protest.
“C’mon,” you say, tossing him his sweater, “Jade’ll cut us a new one if we’re late.”
“I’ll cut your mom a new one,” he mumbled, and rolls onto his side. You laugh a bit, grabbing his ankle and slowly dragging him off the couch. He crumples listlessly to the floor. There’s a moment of silence.
“You getting up?” you ask sweetly.
“No,” he grumbles, sitting up.
“Let’s go,” you say, dragging him out the door. You stuff your phone, wallet and keys into your pockets. You attempt to open the door, finding it oddly difficult. You realize with a sinking feeling what that means.
“Motherfucker,” you say under your breath.
“What?” Dave asks, finally having returned to the waking world.
“It snowed,” you sigh, throwing your whole weight against the door. Eventually, you get it open, and your worst fears are actualized.
“Holy shit,” Dave says. You just nod, scowling.
It must’ve snowed three feet. One and a half, at the very least. Jade doesn’t live too far away, but you’re already running late, and now you have to deal with snow up to your shins.
“Y’know how poems always describe snow like a blanket? This ain’t a blanket. This is a fucking mattress,” Dave says, nodding sagely to himself, “just everywhere, and a shit tone scarier.”
“Welp,” you sigh, wading into it, “let’s get going.” Jade didn’t live too far away, and it wasn’t too cold, but the wind was blowing something fierce, and the snow came up to your knees in some parts. Dave laughed, but after five minutes you were both exhausted and freezing.
“John,” Dave whines, waiting for you to catch up (curse his massive legs), “I’m cold.”
“Jade’s will be warm, okay?” you say, for probably the millionth time that day.
“But you move slower than a fucking melting stick of butter,” Dave groans, bouncing a little.
“Shut up!” you snap, finally catching up, “it’s like walking through syrup, except the syrup is cold and so your legs go numb!” Without any warning whatsoever, Dave scoops you up and slings you over his shoulder. You sputter and squirm, trying to escape the mildly uncomfortable position.
“Dude,” Dave says, slapping lamely at your legs, “chill. It’ll be faster this way at the very least.” You cross your arms huffily and let yourself hang, pretending that you’re not enjoying it as much as you are.
~
When you finally got to Jade’s house, you were fifteen minutes late. Dave set you down on the front porch.
“Okay,” you say, dusting yourself down, “we were trapped in the house by the snow, and it took us too long to actually get out of the house, which is why we’re late. Understand?”
“Crystal clear,” Dave says, nodding. He rings the doorbell, and Jade is already standing there. You grin.
“Hiya Jade! Sorry we’re late, we kinda-” you don’t get any longer into your story, because she grabs you both by the ear, dragging you inside.
“Fifteen minutes!” she cries, dragging you into the living room, “do you know what you can even DO in fifteen minutes?”
“Watch an episode of a kid’s cartoon?” you offer.
“Overthrow the monkey king of the third dimension?” Dave says.
“LET A WHOLE TURKEY GET COLD,” Jane yells from somewhere else in the house. Jade releases you both, clearly not as angry as she’s pretending to be.
“Nice of you to finally join us, Strider,” Karkat grumbles from the sofa.
“Oh yeah?” Dave says, raising his eyebrows, “When did YOU get here?”
“Two minutes ago!” Terezi laughs. Karkat slaps at her shoulder, yelling something angrily in Vietnamese.
“Well at least the sweaters fit,” Rose smirks.
“Yeah!” you say, efficiently stopping any snide comment Dave was about to make, “Thanks, Rose!”
Everyone’s gathered in the little living room, crammed in as close to the roaring fireplace as they could manage.
Rose and Kanaya are perched on the couch, sitting as close to each other as they could manage without being on top of each other. Jake and Dirk are sitting as close to the fire as they could without getting third degree burns.
Roxy was taking up whatever couch space wasn’t currently being occupied by Karkat and Terezi, but was now barreling towards the both of you with all the speed of a steam engine. She somehow managed to get her arms around the both of you, knocking you both off balance and sending you all into the carpet. You loose track of what she’s saying exactly, but you’re pretty sure it was something along the lines of ‘been too long’ and ‘too good to see you’ and ‘where’d you get the sweaters omg’. You laughed, attempting to pry her off you two. Roxy had been all over Europe doing some sort of reporting something, and whilst she’d loved it, she couldn’t talk to anyone except her camera girl who didn’t really want to talk much anyway. Whenever you got messages from her, it was something along the lines of ‘eat my own brains out’ and ‘so ufcking borreedddddd’. Good ol’ Roxy.
By the time she eventually let you up, Jane was yelling for you somewhere else in the house. You groan, getting to your feet.
“Gotta go,” you say, giving a vague, general wave to everyone in the room, “talk to you guys later!” You dash out of the room, sensing that Jane was already pretty mad at you. You burst into the kitchen, where plates and plates of steaming potatoes, carrots, beans, gravy and a turkey the size of Texas.
Jane turns to you, a huge Christmas pudding in her oven-mitted hands. Jane was a large, plump, vaguely intimidating black woman, who was always, ALWAYS cooking. Any opportunity she got, she’d cook. Thanksgiving? Feast. Valentines day? Feast. Christmas? Big ass feast.
“What time do you call this?” she asks, in mock anger.
“Sorry, Jane, we kinda got stuck in the snow,” you say, picking up a salad, “You want this out?”
“No,” she says, taking it off you and putting it back where it had been, “Don’t touch anything.” You blink a little.
“Okay...so...why am I here?” you ask, leaning on a counter.
“No reason!” Jane chirps happily. You grin, watching her do whatever it is she needs to do.
“You’re hiding something, aren’t you?” You ask, nudging her foot gently.
“What leads you to that conclusion?” she asks sweetly, in a way that says ‘Yes I am definitely hiding something’.
“What is it?” you ask, leaning forward.
“It’s a secret,” she says, turning to you, with the biggest shit eating grin on her face.
“Is it a Christmas secret, or a ‘I’m gonna dump a bowl of water on you’ secret?”
“It’s a secret,” she says, shoving the salad into your hands, “Put this out on the table”. You rolled your eyes, and started to head out the door. A huge, ear-splitting squeal comes from the sitting room where everyone’s gathered, and it startles you both. You turn to look at Jade, who’s just shaking her head.
“Go get ‘em before they burn down my lovely house,” she says, picking up the turkey. You run down, and get the strange feeling that everyone had been talking about you before you came in. Everyone uproots themselves, heading out to the dining room. Dave slips his hand into yours.
“What was everyone screaming about?” you ask quietly.
“Tell you later,” he grumbles. You glance up at his face, and you’re pretty sure that the smallest peppering of a blush
You and Dave overeat. But that doesn’t quite cut it. You eat so much that Dave can’t even get up from his seat, and you can’t even move your arms to get at the cutlery. It’s okay though, because whenever Jane cooks EVERYONE overeats. Karkat eats so much that he struggles to argue, and Dirk can’t even grossly hit on Jake while everyone watching like he normally does. The afternoon is hazy, difficult in a pleasant way, like wading through warm water that comes up to your chest. Jade actually goes up to her room and falls asleep, leaving Jane to kick everyone out of their house. You’re extremely tempted to go back home and sleep yourself, but you remind yourself.
It’s christmas. You promised. He probably doesn’t remember you promising, but you promised, and so you’d go.
~
The hospice smelt like a really gross mixture of disinfectant and lime-dishwashing liquid. The staff was bustling around, re-taping tinsel to the ceiling and talking non-stop. You felt bad for them, having to work on Christmas, but most of them looked Indian or muslim. People who wouldn’t really celebrate Christmas.
“Hiya John!” the woman at the desk chirped. You’d been in every Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday and Saturday, plus holidays for the last month. The staff had started to recognize you. You felt Dave glancing anxiously at you. You forced a smile, turning to him.
“You can go home if you want,” you said, heading towards the front desk, “I won’t be long.”
“Nah,” was all he said. He sat down on one of the crappy chairs in the front lobby, and you went off to find Dad.
Room 4013. East wing, thirteenth room. It was a nice room, it had a large window. He liked that. He told you that whenever you came around. Dad was in what the doctors called ‘Late-stage Alzheimer's’. To you, it was just the end of his life. He sat in the blindingly, oppressively white room, watching snow fall outside the window. The bed had been inclined a little, just enough for him to sit up comfortably. He’s watching the snow fall, a small smile on his face.
“Hiya Dad,” you say, quietly closing the door behind you. He turns, just realizing you’re there.
“Hello, uh...” he says, pausing. His brow furrows a little as he fishes for your name. You try not to let it get to you.
“John,” you say, forcing a smile. You sit down in the crappy plastic chair near his bed.
“John,” he repeats, nodding a little.
“It’s Christmas,” you say, smiling, “I told you I would come, remember?” He nods in a way that tells you he doesn’t actually remember, but doesn’t want to hurt your feelings.
“Yes...Yes I think I do, yes,” he mutters, “I got your present.” You glance over to the little scented candle on his nightstand. They’d never let him light it, but he’d be able to smell it whenever.
“I got yours,” you say, remembering the recipe cards. When he’d first gotten diagnosed, Dad had gone out and bought birthday and Christmas presents for you for the next five years. When he ran out of whatever he’d bought, he started wrapping whatever. Pie tins, ties, just stuff. You had enough to last you until you were thirty. He’d been diagnosed when you were fifteen. He’d been in and out of hospitals for the last three years, but the hospice was new. The hospice was just the last month. Which is because you can only get admitted to a hospice if you have about six months to live. You push that thought out of your head.
“Was it nice?” he asks, blinking owlishly up at you.
“It was really awesome,” you say, grinning, “thanks, dad.” He nods a little, brow furrowing again.
“You’re dating someone,” he says, looking down as if it’ll help him remember who.
“Yep,” you nod, “Dave.” He looks up at you.
“You’re gay,” he says, like he was just remembering something, “I’m alright with that.” You laugh a little. Coming out once was hard enough, but now you had to do it every time you came around.
“How are things going with David?” he asks.
“Great! Really great. He’s great. He moved in,” you say cheerily.
“That’s good,” he says, going back to watching the snow. You catch sight of a nurse in the doorway, gently tapping her watch.
“I’ve gotta go, Dad, okay?” you say, patting his shoulder, “Merry Christmas.” You get up.
“Merry Christmas, Jake,” he calls weakly after you. You take a deep breath and leave.
Dave gets to his feet as you came down. The stupid glasses hide his eyes, but you can tell from a mixture of his posture and the way his head tilted that he’s worried.
“I’m fine,” you say, maybe a little too forcefully. You force a smile and wave at the lady at the front desk, and head out the door. Dave trots along behind you.
“How is he?” he asks gently, like he’s walking on broken glass.
“How do you think?” you snap, but instantly regret it. You pause, stopping your angry speed walk, sighing.
“Sorry, I just-” you start.
“It’s fine, dude,” he says, shaking his head, “I get it.”
“I just-” you try again, your voice breaking a little. You stop before you do anything embarrassing. Dave winds his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him. God damn, he’s warm. You swivel around to wrap your arms around him, burying your face into his chest.
“He called me Jake,” you say, laughing humorlessly, “that one’s new.” It’s so muffled by the mouthful of Dave’s shirt you get when you open your mouth that you doubt he heard you. Of course he did, and tightens his grip on you ever so slightly. You two stay like that for a while, you letting out a shaking sigh every now and then.
“‘M okay,” you say after a long while. You push yourself out a little, looking up at Dave.
“Sure,” he says, squeezing tighter.
“Dude. Dude I’m fine,” you say, starting to wriggle out from his grip.
“Sure,” he says, a thin smile pulling at his lips. You realize with a sinking feeling what it means.
“No, no no no no no c’mon man,” you say, squirming with renewed energy, “not here, not-” the end of your sentence is lost when Dave digs his cold fingers into your side, causing you to do the weird laugh-scream you do whenever you get tickled. You manage to kick his legs out from under him, and you both collapse into a large snow drift. Dave’s laughing a little, you’re still making the hideous noise you make when you get tickled, and by the time you squirm free you’re both soaking wet.
“You ASSHOLE,” you yell, getting up and dusting yourself down.
“Hey, it worked,” he says, struggling to his feet.
“Yeah, well,” you say, struggling for a come back, “shut up.” ‘
“C’mon, can we just go home?” he asks, heading down the sidewalk, “I’m gonna get fucking hypothermia.”
“You and that wussy Texas blood,” you say, walking along beside him.
“I ain’t a wussy, you’re a wussy,” he says half-heartedly.
“Prove it. Oh wait, you can’t, cause you’re a wussy,” you say cheerfully. It goes back and forth like that until you get home.
~
Dave’s shivering by the time you make it home, the poor bastard. He makes a bee-line for the bathroom. You hear the shower sputter to life and Dave curse as the probably boiling water hits his skin. You laugh, going upstairs to change into something less soaking wet. You manage to go downstairs, make hot chocolate, a large bowl of popcorn and load ‘The Grinch who Stole Christmas’ onto the TV by the time Dave emerges.
“Evening,” you say cheerily. He’s wearing a freaking jacket indoors. You roll your eyes.
“It’s not THAT cold,” you say, throwing a piece of popcorn at him. He manages to catch it in his mouth.
“Speak for yourself, ice demon,” he grumbles, sitting down next to you.
“It’s like seventy degrees, man, it’s really not that cold.”
“Yes it is. Besides, this jacket’s...comfy.” You narrow your eyes at him.
“You’re hiding something, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“You AND Jane! I bet it’s the same thing, isn’t it?”
“Jane told you?” Dave asked, sitting up straight.
“It IS the same thing!”
“Did she tell you?”
“Nope. But you could guess,” you say smugly. He slumps back down, almost relieved.
“Let’s just watch whatever shitty movie you picked,” Dave says, taking a long drink of his hot chocolate. You lean over, flicking the glasses up into his hair.
“It’s the Grinch who Stole Christmas,” you say, almost defensively.
“Now THAT isn’t a shitty movie. Well done, Egbert. You’ve graduated into the realm of ‘Less Shitty movie lover’,” he says, rambling on and on.
“You’re rambling,” you point out, shoving a fistful of popcorn into your mouth.
“So? I ramble all the time. You find it adorable. You said so yourself, like it’s some kind of-”
“But you REALLY ramble when you’re nervous,” you say around a mouthful of popcorn.
“Just shut up, would ya?” he asks, turning to you. His face is burning red. There’s a moment of silence.
“You’re blushing,” you say when your mouth has been freed of its butter-y popcorn burden.
“I KNOW,” he snaps, sinking into the sofa. You laugh a little, putting the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. You lean over him, resting your chin on the cushion right next to his shoulder.
“Hey,” you say. You can tell he’s screwed up his eyes.
“Yeah?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
“Calm down,” you tilt your head a little. He gives a small sigh.
“I just-,” he starts, but quickly becomes uncertain on how to continue. You roll your eyes a little.
“Okay, so, start small. If you tell me, will I cry?” you ask, inching forward.
“Probably,” he says after a long while. You push the shades up into his hair.
“Good tears or sad tears or what?” you ask.
“Happy tears, maybe,” he says, shrugging ever so slightly.
“Alright,” you say slowly, resting your chin on his shoulder, watching his blush slowly fade away. Dave got flustered really easily. It was hilarious, but he basically became a non-functioning puddle when it happened. You’d figured out how to help him out pretty quickly.
“So why don’t you tell me?” you ask quietly.
“Timing,” is all he says. You groan a little.
“C’mon, Dave. It’s Christmas. C’monnnn. Just tell me,” you say bumping your nose awkwardly against his cheek.
“No.”
“Please?”
“Nope.”
“Pleeeaassseee?”
“Not a fucking chance, Egbert.”
“But DAAAVVVEEEEEEE”
“Nope.”
“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-”
“Not gonna happen.”
“-aaaaaaaaaaavvvveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.” That was followed by a pause.
“No.” He said, a small smile on his lips. You huff, sitting back so there’s a little distance between you.
“You’re no fun,” you grumble.
“Marry me,” he says, glancing over at you.
“Okay,” you reply instantly. It’s not something out of place. He says it all the time. When you’re brushing your teeth, watching one of your (totally AWESOME) movies, when you’re arguing, whenever really. You always say the same thing, and the matter is dropped. But not today.
“No, John, I’m serious,” he says, turning his body slightly more towards you.
“So am I?” you say, not sure of yourself. Or of Dave. Or the situation.
“For fucks sake, John, I’m actually being legit here,” he says, exasperated.
“I...what?” you say, squinting a little.
He fishes around in his jacket pocket, pulling out a small black box.
Your eyes widen.
“Your eyes look like dinner plates,” Dave laughs. You would’ve had a snarky comeback in any other situation, but now it was just shellshock. You stare too long, because you manage to see Dave shifting uncomfortably.
“I uh, I get that this is pretty sudden. And totally unromantic. But uh, If you’ll have me, I’ll have you, so....yeah,” he says, coughing a little. You force yourself to snap out of it, grinning up at him.
“That was your big romantic ‘marry me’ speech?” you ask quietly.
“Yep,” Dave says, face red as a tomato again.
“Can’t say I would’ve come up with anything better!” you say, laughing. There’s a pause.
“So...”
“Yeah,” you say, flinging yourself at him. The box cluttered to the ground, as Dave wrapped his arms around you as tight as he could.
“Yeah, I’ll marry you. Big Dork.”
You’d seen Dave smile like that a grand total of twice. The first time was when he got the call from the hospital telling him his older brother was going to make a full recovery. The second time was when you agreed to marry him. Dave had a very distinct way of smiling. It spread over his face slowly, first just pulling the lips taught, and then eventually revealing only his top teeth. He also looked down, like he was embarrassed by it, trying to pull his lips back over his teeth, to try and hide his happiness. The smile lasted a long time, flipping back and forth between him actually smiling and him pretending he wasn’t smiling.
He was so busy trying not to smile, and you were so busy watching him smile that you’d both forgotten about the ring itself. You pick it up after Dave lets you go, looking at the seemingly elegant band of silver. Upon closer inspection, tiny dicks had been engraved into the metal. You laugh, Dave laughs at the fact that you’re laughing, you slap his shoulder for the ‘penis ring’. But you’re actually thrilled. It just seemed so much more...you. Anything that was legitimately sincere from Dave would’ve felt off. Wrong. Sincere wasn’t his M.O. It wasn’t yours, either. The penis ring was perfect. Dave was perfect. You were perfectly happy.
“Best Christmas ever?” Dave asks, half-way through the movie. You’re curled up, pressed against his side, and his arm’s pulled around you protectively.
“Eh. I’ve had better,” you say with a shrug. He glares down at you, you smile cheekily up at him. Gently, he presses his chocolate-stained, popcorn-y lips to yours.
“Okay,” you say against him, “maybe NOW it’s the best Christmas ever.”