Chapter Text
Now
TG: egbert I know youre there
TG: john seriously
TG: i need to talk to you
TG: to explain myself
TG: i just
TG: fuck
TG: this was never how any of this was supposed to be
TG: i mean youre my rock
TG: youve always been my rock, my best friend and confidant and whole shitty closed off world
TG: like the one paradigm i had of the outside world that wasnt clouded by my perpetual asshole goggles
TG: jesus christ egderp throw me a rope please
TG: for gods sake im
TG: ive spent the last week in a state of self destruct and
EB: i thought i told you to leave me alone, dave.
TG: thank gog john jesus fuck im so sorry
TG: i know that words are fucking shit and nothing can ever
TG: that is to say
TG: fuck
TG: im not good at this
TG: i mean i cant talk about feelings
TG: i
TG: ill rap about it though
TG: if you want
TG: I just
TG: you have to know john
TG: i never thought
EB: of course
EB: because rapping solves everything
EB: ive been sitting here nursing my black eye and broken ribs and thinking
EB: gee, i hope dave lays down some sick beats on account of the fact that his mindless mob of followers beat me within an inch of my life!
TG: i came to the hospital for you
TG: as soon as i heard you have to believe me
TG: but vantas made it a federal fucking issue and wouldnt let me see you
EB: good man
EB: ill have to thank him for that later
EB: and you dont get to rap about this dave
EB: its the shitty scapegoat you always fall back on when youre trying to charm people into forgetting that youre a douche
EB: and ive spent way too many years with that wool pulled over my eyes already, thanks
TG: john im trying to apologize
TG: im prostrate on my fucking knees
EB: can you tell how moved i am by this, dave?
TG: you didnt block me dude
TG: which tells me you want to make up as much as i do
TG: see not even so much as a make out and get over it joke
TG: i know there are boundaries
TG: and i know i pissed all over them
TG: jesus christ john
TG: im so fucking sorry
EB: you know what dave
TG: what
EB: i do feel like rapping after all
EB: you wanted feelings, here they are!
EB: in a format even you can get without your cagey reputation bullshit twisting it into something unrecognizable:
EB: Yes, you hurt me
EB: While you were lurking
EB: Kind eyes and cool words to signify the evil within
EB: Perched high on you pedestal with throngs of admirers
EB: And tails of females that make words sting
EB: I thought blood was thicker than water but I can’t stand the taste now, how
EB: Does getting swallowed whole by a bigoted mob sound?
EB: You took my honest attentions out back
EB: And lit them on fire with a gallon of gas and a match
EB: Lost in the flames of rapture that friendship sometimes attracts
EB: Lost in the heartache of cruelty, frozen stiff, I can’t react
EB: Hush now wonderful boy
EB: Chilly words and hatred made coy
EB: I’ve been punched in the face and spread out on the rack
EB: You’ve dragged me this far, now there’s no turning back—
EB: He’s a blessing from the neck up
EB: But a pestilence from the heart down
EB: Place your faith in him and you’re guaranteed to drown
EB: Out to pervert the innocence of affection in the name of his own ego
EB: But in the light of day his bite is never quite as lethal
EB: And to the power of love his scorn will never be equal
TG: egbert no i
TG: jegus christ I didnt know you could rap
—ectoBiologist has stopped pestering turntechGodhead—
TG: oh god please john
TG: i never mean to
TG: never you john
—ectoBiologist blocked turntechGodhead—
TG: i just
TG: love you
TG: fuck
TG: the only good thing in my miserable goddamn life
TG: for all these years
TG: and all i ever did was fuck you up too
Two Months Ago
Back when you two still had baby teeth to do away with in creative schemes involving tiny RV cars and dental floss, he used to call you his favorite. He’s always been the coolest kid on the block, of course, even back when it was only by proxy of his hovering brother, but he still sought you out on the playground and at silent-time, playing with plastic superheroes while you two were supposed to be watching veggie tales or spitting at every girl except Jade (“S’cause she’s an on-rary boy, duh John, have you heard how loud she can burp?”) who tried to approach you.
You couldn’t remember a day when his attentions didn’t tickle you pink. You used to pack lunches for the both of you, his Bro notoriously sub-par in all of the traditional parenting routines, and make sure dad always put apple juice in the one you were giving to Dave. You’d paw through your old toy drawers about once a week and find old plastic figurines, tiny Batmen or charmanders to sneak in there too, just for the way his nose scrunched up when he smiled at them, all pointy glasses and freckles across the bridge of his nose like the constellations of a perfect world.
You’re both pretty tough, for little kids, in opposite ways. Dave keeps antagonists at bay with his chilly demeanor, proficient even in the messy days of kindergarten at projecting a condescending enough visage to frighten most of the admiration and the envy away. You were just strong, even back then, in that curious, plucky, kneecaps and elbows way that spoke of a man who’d be strapping when eventually he grew into his own.
Contrastingly, Dave had always been a sliver of a boy, and you were far too guileless and without malice to injure an ant sharing your lunch, let alone another human being. You took care of each other, in this way: attached at the hip practically from the first day you met.
People said your names together: nobody ever endeavored to find Dave without expecting John in stride, and vice versa. You were DaveandJohn, the single entity, giggling and roughhousing and cajoling one another along from dusk until dawn.
And when the other kids would get jealous, asking why he let you monopolize so much of his time, his answer was sanguine and resolute: because he’s my favorite.
You were both only about two apples high back then, of course, but you’d always giggle and lean in to give him a big kiss on the cheek. He didn’t mind it, in those days, just took the little token of admiration with a testy little glare around the room, daring any of the other kids to say anything.
You two were in second grade the first time he flinched away from it. It broke your heart, if you’re being really honest with yourself. Just a little bit. It didn’t matter for long, anyhow: soon enough, he began wearing the shades you gave him religiously, as though to placate the bits of your affection that his flinching and reciting the bro-code had stranded in the cold.
Dave was a sleep cuddler anyhow, which pretty much made up for every scorned peck ever the first time Dave slept over at your house: curling into your side in the wee hours of the morning like you were a furnace, bright blonde hair sticking up every which way. You were both tiny, small enough to fit comfortably in your twin sized pirate ship bed, and when you couldn’t sleep you’d pretend that the two of you were buccaneers going on an adventure together, scouring foreign land for excitements new and exhilarating.
Even when you outgrew the bed, you didn’t outgrow the childish fantasies: Dave and John (and Rose and Jade and Karkat and everybody, though that was too much of a mouthful to have as much impact) against the world.
Things changed a bit, when you reached middle school. You were so docile, all strong shoulders and long limbs offset by a gentleness in your eyes that marked you a target, where Dave was aloof and proud, rapping and flaring and sneering his way effortlessly to the top of the social ladder. He was never mean to you, though. You sat together at lunch in a shady corner of the cafeteria, your bubbly anecdotes a stark contrast to the smooth, almost flippant (if you didn’t know what you were looking for) input of Dave.
You still packed Dave’s food. Still put Pokémon figurines in the bag every once in a while, just to see his face light up, in that barely-there way Dave’s features were wont to do.
Dave didn’t call you his favorite out loud anymore, but that was alright. It was in the curve of his shoulder when the coolkid slouched against you, the timbre of his voice when he began talking almost reverently about this new beat he was working on, come over after school today John, you need to hear this.
For all the public opinion of Dave and his fearsome countenance, you had never believed a lick of it. You knew how Dave acted, the carefully constructed façade of indifference and alienation. You also knew how Dave looked sprawled across his own apartment floor after finishing a cheese pizza near single handedly, soda pop staining his shirt as he belched and smiled when you giggled helplessly at the noise.
These two paradigms evened out your perception of Dave, you suppose. It was a point of guilty pride for you, even back then; you were the only one who got to know that bit of the infamous coolkid, the only one Dave let doodle on his backpack with sharpies or hug him without getting slugged.
Dave had never been an inherently mean person, to you. Scared, yes: scared of disappointing his brother, scared of what other people thought, scared of the monstrous crack of thunder in the night sky. He’d hide almost under you, on the sleepover nights that entailed raging storms outside, and you would tell him the truth as you saw it; that Dave was the bravest person you knew, that it takes so much courage to go out and face the world even with all those misgivings, and you didn’t know where he mustered all of it.
Dave would call you a wuss, or a little girl, without fail the next morning, but he’d also lean himself solidly against you at the breakfast table while he ate his pancakes, all wide, trusting eyes under those dark shades and contentment written in the softness of his features.
You suppose that’s why it gave you such a terrible shock, the first time you see it. Dave being mean, really mean, that is.
You were in eighth grade that year, and thick as thieves. Jade and Rose had joined your merry little band long about two years ago, a cleanly, calming influence that you enjoyed, both inherently kind and impossibly bright in their own unique ways.
When you told Dave this, the coolkid snorted.
“Yeah, they’re special snowflakes alright, Egbert.” You just waved the vitriol off, smiling and nudging at Dave with your shoulder until, with a great, mock put-upon sigh, the other boy began nudging back.
Dave was inherently kind, in his unique way, too. Most people just couldn’t see it, not like you could. Most people went through their entire lives with blinders on, and never bothered looking sideways.
You remember with startling clarity the day this viewpoint of your friend was shattered, even if you wouldn’t admit it to yourself back then. You were in the downstairs math hallway, strutting proudly through the parting sea of kids like the middle-school upperclassmen you were, chins high and eyes bright.
Dave had begun… ribbing a kid in your shared fourth period, for lack of a more descriptive word—shooting snide, uncalled for comments across the table and letting the lemmings who hung off his every word like ‘cliffhanger, hanging from a cliff’ (Dave always gives you shit about using memes from the tv shows you watched as a toddler, but you know he totally finds it hilarious) and continuing the vicious little cycle of ‘call a name, watch him flinch’ like it was prime time television.
It was… unusual, for Dave. Generally his scorn was a one-off type of thing: do something to piss him off and feel the whiplash of his words, but then it was over with, clean slate.
Derrek, you thought, that was the guy’s name. With Derrek, it was like Dave was poking at a raw, angry wound, just to see how far he could push before it got infected. It made you uncomfortable, in ways you weren’t adept enough to name: mostly because you couldn’t pinpoint were the ridicule was stemming from. Derrek was quiet, normally, and unobtrusive. He was in a couple of the photography clubs, he helped out backstage with the school plays—it was nothing to warrant the dogged intent with which Dave was going at him, like a wolf with a bloody steak.
You’re getting off track, though: back to the hallway. Derrek was walking towards them, in the loud and rowdy throng of kids, head down while he focused on something in his hand, oblivious to his surroundings.
You saw the impending collision in slow motion, just a second too late; watching Derrek stumble into Dave’s shoulder like a pedestrian watching a car crash.
You grabbed Dave just in time to stop him from crashing to the ground, getting one fistful of shirt and another of backpack and holding on tight until Dave regained his balance.
Derrek, unfortunately, had no such boon to grasp him, and went sprawling to the floor in an undignified heap, supplies launching themselves out of his half open backpack to skid haphazardly across the linoleum floors.
Quiet kid, Derrek, and nice as can be.
In no way warranting the repulsed sneer Dave gave him as the blonde reached into his backpack, pulled out what was left of the bottle of apple juice you had brought him with lunch (“Seal’s still intact, dude, looks like Mr. Mandel hasn’t gotten to it yet!”) and poured it all over Derrek’s prone frame.
The laughter was the worst, you think in retrospect. Like a pack of hyenas, the kids around them began cackling, Neanderthalic huffing noises from people too insipid to form their own opinion.
And you were appalled, but couldn’t do anything, couldn’t say anything, petrified by mob mentality and a hundred good dogs together gone wild, hooting and hollering around the spectacle.
Later, when you two have escaped the pressing clutches of your peers and are lounging on the couch in his apartment, you ask him about it.
“That was terrible, you know. I’ve never seen Derrek do anything to anyone that would warrant that.”
For a split second, a guilty, cringing sort of shame appears across Dave’s features, made uncomfortable by the shift in your esteem for him. He’s always cared about what you have to say, no matter what his arguments are to the contrary—it’s something you appreciate endlessly.
The expression is gone just as fast as it appears, though, smoothed out and hidden well under a stony poker face that seemed to fool everyone but you and Bro.
“Missed the clue wagon, did you Egbert? And this is why you need your bro Dave around, lookin’ out for you: dude’s a faggot. Flaming fudge-packer, GSA enthusiast, the whole nine yards.”
You look at him blankly for another ten seconds, trying to work out how in the world Dave thought Derrek’s sexuality in any way related to the topic at hand. You’re not naive enough not to be aware of homophobia—it just never really occurred to you that Dave might be one of those people.
Dave was…
Dave was Dave.
The lack of relevant comprehension on your face makes Dave start squirming again, mask cracked and fractured at the lack of easy acceptance and cuddly camaraderie you were famous for. His voice is small when he talks again, obviously fishing for an out. “I’m sorry if I upset you, bleeding heart-bert.”
You didn’t want him to be sorry he’d upset you; you wanted Dave to be sorry he’d done it. But you didn’t tell the other boy that. Just nodded and let your head sag, a black iron ball weighing heavy judgment in your gut.