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So. There you are. Dave Motherfucking Strider. Mighty and powerful god. And you've just dropped your phone in your face.
But look. Your morning wake-up routine is important, and it isn't complete without laying in bed for an hour or four, catching up on your social feed, shooting off some sick burns and quips to get yourself ready for the day. You know, just setting the tone. And you check up on your friends, though you'd never admit that it's to see if they're okay, if they need your help, if there's anything of substance there. There never is.
You pick up your phone, pretending like nothing happened, and you almost manage to convince yourself it didn't. You've managed to open up an older chat when the screen hit your nose, and you see John's name at the top of the screen next to an icon of his big, dopey, smiling face. You find yourself smiling back, and summarily wipe the stupid look from your face, despite the fact that there isn't even anyone to see it.
But you also happen to notice that he hasn't messaged you back for three days, which is... a little unusual. He's usually pretty prompt, and you hate the way it sets you to worrying. Nah, he's fine. He's good. Not like he can die normally. But... you could also go over just to check. Just in case. That's not weird. You're best bros, you hang out all the time, and you haven't seen him face-to-face in the last week, so why not? Why shouldn't you go visit your best friend? Not like you have anything better to do. Nothing that can't wait, anyway.
To make sure it seems especially casual, you shoot him a message, using way too many words to say little more than you haven't heard from him in a while and you're going to stop by. You regret the message as soon as you send it and see how long it is. But you're surprised to see three dots flashing on the screen as he types his response. You're not sure how long you stare at those three little dots, but it feels like way too long for the response you get back:
okay
One word. Okay. John isn't as verbose as you are, but he's not usually that short, either. Maybe he's still in the process of waking up; for all you know, your message is what roused him. Even though you're starting to feel antsy, you tell yourself you're not. And you're not jumping out of bed and getting dressed in record time because of it. It's just because you want to. And–
Nah. You can't pretend, at least not in the quiet of your own home. You're worried, and it's not just because John is your friend, though that's the least of it. More than that, you've had a big fat crush on him for years, and you've never found the courage to tell him. He told you years ago that he wasn't into guys, and that was it. You resigned yourself to pining in silence until you finally found someone else to latch onto. Except... you never really did. You still haven't. You hate it, it feels vulnerable, it feels pathetic, and yet...
And you're thinking too much about it again. You hate how much you love that idiot, and hate how you'll never tell him. Too many reasons why not. And plenty of reasons why you should, probably, but if you don't think about those, then they're not real. That's how it works. So you push it down, because that's what you're good at, and decide to head out.
"Hey. Hey, Johnny-boy."
John's bedroom window is open, leaving an opportunity for you to hang from the eaves and poke your upside-down head in. The perks of being able to fly. He's there, lounging on his bed, and the way his face lights up when he sees you sends a pang right through you, and your pulse picks up for a hot second before you calm yourself down.
"Dave, hey." John slides off the bed and comes over to the window, putting his hand on the sash. "Guess I forgot to close this and now pests are getting in. Damn."
"Okay, first off, not actually in." Technically. "Second off... actually nah there's no second part, you're right. Just don't take a can of bug spray to me, alright?"
You know he's just kidding, and he knows you know, and he opens the window further so that you can slip in, setting your feet on the floor as he stands back. Despite the smile, there's something in his eyes that's not quite right. You'd like to hug him, but you're way too cool for that.
"Dude. Are we gonna have to have a feelings jam?" You say it like you wouldn't relish the opportunity. Or at least, you'd enjoy letting him share his feelings. Sharing your own is another matter. "What's wrong?"
But he doesn't answer right away, looking uneasy, shuffling in place and wringing his hands. You fix him with a hard stare, and while you don't think he can see your eyes behind your shades, you're pretty sure it gets the point across all the same. He's known you long enough. He also knows that if he says he doesn't want to talk about it that you won't press, because that's not your style, and you can see the gears turning as he decides whether to push you away or not.
"Just... feeling a bit down lately," he confesses, worrying his lower lip. "You know?"
"Oh."
Eloquent of you, but you understand. Things have been weird ever since Earth was destroyed by a metric fuckton of meteors. Everything that followed hadn't exactly made for well-adjusted adults. But so it goes.
And even though you know it wouldn't fix things, you'd very much like to gather him in your arms and just... be there? And hope that your presence can lift some of whatever burdens he's currently shouldering. The brain says that doesn't make any sense, that's not how it works. The heart says fuck you, I don't care.
"Well," you finally venture, after a long, awkward pause. You realize you were staring, and that your mouth had gone dry, so you swallow hard and recompose yourself. "We can just hang? If you want."
"Yeah, I guess." He looks around the room, at the same movies you've watched dozens of times, at the same games you've played hundreds. He doesn't even need to say anything, because you know exactly what's going through that mind of his. It's the same thing going through yours. "I... don't really know what there is to do here?"
You shrug, nonchalant. "So we hang out somewhere else. Don't know if you know this, but we can fly? We can go wherever the hell we want."
John gapes at you for way too long, brow furrowed, eyes swirling with a lot of things that you can't quite read, and you wonder if maybe that was the wrong suggestion. Why is his dumb face so cute, and why do you want to kiss it so much, even when he's giving you a dumb look? Especially when he's giving you a dumb look? What does that say about you? But as much as you'd like to stay in and smooch, you can't help also thinking that maybe getting out of his room would do him some good. Come to think of it, you're the one who comes over to his place, and never the other way around. And you know he doesn't hang out with your other friends. Does he leave the house recreationally, like, at all?
As you're thinking this, you're already halfway out the window.
"Wait." You stop as John interjects, and turn back to him, waiting to see what he says. "Where are we going?"
"Pick a direction," you reply easily, with another half-hearted shrug. You do that a lot around him. Better to make it seem like you don't care than make it seem like you care too much. "I'm guessing there's jack all out there, but it can't be any worse than wallowing in bed all day."
For a moment, he looks hurt, but it fades before you can properly react, and he's pushing you out the window.
"Alright, fine," he finally agrees, and you hover outside, giving him a chance to crawl out behind you, closing the window most of the way behind him. You almost protest, until you remember that you can just get back in through the door later. Duh. "But you pick the direction."
Easy enough.
Given the fact that Earth C was made from Classic Earth, and consequently made in its image, you shouldn't really be surprised that there's a whole lot of nothing. Growing up in the city, you were always surrounded by sounds and lights and people. But you know, logically, that outside of that concrete hellscape was a whole lot of nothing. The same goes here. A small civilization had cropped up around John's house right where it landed, but once you get past the suburbs, it devolves into nothing but fields. You don't even know what's in the fields. Probably corn. It's always corn. Or cows, but you don't see any of those, otherwise you would have said so, as is legally required.
You spot a small dirt road, more of an access road than anything, and descend to alight on it. John follows, looking mildly concerned.
"What's up, everything okay?" he asks as he lands next to you.
"Nah, nothing." You shake your head, and shrug. You do that too much, shrugging. You should probably have massive traps by now. "Just thought it might be nice to walk for a bit. Get the old blood pusher pushing."
You walk along in silence for a while, just the sounds of nature around you and the crunch of gravel underneath your feet. You keep sneaking furtive glances, but John seems to be occupied with taking in the sights around him, and you think he looks a little bit more relaxed. There's a friendly distance between the two of you, and you find yourself gawking as you debate moving a little closer. That's when he looks at you and you have to quickly avert your gaze, but the amused exhale he gives makes you side-eye, just to see his reaction.
Neither of you takes much notice of the clouds rolling in, not in any meaningful way.
"This is nice," John says quietly, after a long yet bizarrely comfortable stretch of silence. "Just kind of being together? Outside and all. I don't think I've been out here before. I don't think... I've been out much at all lately."
He laughs like it's a joke at his own expense, but there's a painful undercurrent, and you decide this is it, you're going to do it. You're going to hold his hand. What can you say? You've always been a risk-taker. He's looking your way, too, waiting for a response. The moment is perfect. You just have to actually do it. Put out your hand. Wrap it around his. Easy.
You start to do just that, reaching toward his hand casually. Your heart skips a beat when he pulls it away, until you realize he's not so much pulling it away from you, as he is holding it up at an incredibly inopportune moment. His gaze turns upwards, and so does yours, and you understand why. Tiny water droplets land on your shades.
"Hey... rain," you state, as dictated by Earth C law. One must always declare the presence of certain things as soon as one becomes aware of them: Cows. Dogs. And rain.
"Oh, wow, really? I thought it was–"
"Don't you dare say piss."
John presses his lips together and holds up his hands, trying to feign innocence. But you know he was going to make some nasty joke, because that's just how you've both always done. You barely manage to stifle a laugh yourself. You're about to make some faux-snide comment on how that kind of low-brow humor is beneath you (even though it isn't) when the rain very quickly starts to pick up. You look around for somewhere to take shelter, but it's a whole lot of nothing. You do see a dark structure obscured by a sparse copse of trees, and point in that direction. Wordlessly, John nods, and you both book it.
You duck into an abandoned barn just as big, fat raindrops start pelting the field and the barn's metal roof. Despite the fact that you're both soaked through, and your glasses are starting to fog up, you're both laughing like idiots. It's not even funny, but there you are, having a good old gigglefit over something as simple as getting caught in the rain.
Your mutual amusement dies down. The rain does not, and you turn your back to take off your shades and wipe them off on your shirt, leaving big ugly smudges that are going to bother you more than the water droplets would have. When you turn around, you find John leaning against the wall, arms folded behind his back, glasses removed and hung on the neckline of his shirt. You think for a moment that it's a good idea. You think a moment later that you're not sure you can be that vulnerable, even around him.
"Okay," he finally says, as you realize you've been staring. "...now what?"
Thank fuck he didn't call out the staring. You aren't ready to address that and won't be any time soon.
"Dunno," you mumble, rolling your shoulders because you don't know what else to do with your body. (Why is he so cute with his wet hair all floppy over his forehead? Yours must look like a ratty bird's nest...) And you pointedly saunter over, making sure to lace your saunter with a little swagger for good measure, and lean against the wall next to him. "Guess we wait?"
Succinct, at least. Which isn't your usual modus operandi but you've glanced to the side and caught sight of bright blue eyes staring back at you, and any sarcastic quip you had just leaves you. You flash your best, detached half-smirk, but you're not feeling it. It's all muscle memory. All you're feeling is your heart thrumming in your ribcage, ready to burst out if you don't get a handle on it, and soon. Very soon, because you're a Strider, and Striders don't get flustered. They just don't. It's like, some unassailable law of the universe, or something. And yet...
John laughs, and diverts his gaze upward, giving you a moment's reprieve. "Guess we wait."
You're both silent for a long stretch that feels like an hour, but in reality, is likely only 20 seconds or so. You cross your arm over your chest; John fidgets, as he's wont to do.
He breaks the awkward pause first.
"I think... this is the part of the movie where the two star-crossed lovers reunite in the rain, and they run towards each other, fall into each other's arms, and say how they could never live without the other? It worked for Gwyneth Paltrow," he muses, and you wish, oh you wish you could just go back to the awkward silence. "Hmm, except we've already run in here, out of the rain. I think it could still work though. Maybe if we just stepped back outside... but the dramatic tension is lost. But we're still soaked so I think that counts. Does it count? Can we still do the thing?"
You can feel a twitch building at the corner of your eye as John goes about his stream of consciousness, talking about love confessions and kissing. You're glad you decided to keep your shades on, smudges and all. Why was he even thinking of that? John's tone is heavily weighted with sarcasm and maybe it's a gentle jab at his own love for bad movies, even if romance was more Karkat's territory. Maybe the nubby-headed bastard was starting to rub off, for all you know. Whatever it is, you want to scream at him, punch him, and kiss him, all at the same time. Of course, one of those things is not like the others, and if preceded by the other two options, probably wouldn't go over well.
So you do the only other thing you know how to do. Be an ass.
"You know what? Sure." You can hear the dare in your own voice. "Go on, make with the love confession, Egbert. We don't have all day. Or we do, I don't control the weather, but hey, let's not waste any time, we gotta keep the run time down or the studio's gonna make us cut this thing to hell and back. Then we'll have to wait a few years to release an extended director's cut, it'll be a mess."
That was far too many words trying to goad John into saying the one thing you equally do and don't ever want to hear him say, but he just laughs it off, because of course he does.
"Okay, hmm, I actually wasn't prepared for a full-on love confession," he chuckles, playing along, and he glances your way. Your skin pebbles and you're thankful to be wearing a long-sleeved shirt. He clears his throat, snapping you back to reality. "David Marie Strider, I knew the day that I met you that you were special, and I never should have let you leave! Please, please tell me you'll be mine! I looooove you!"
Oh. There goes gravity...
Untimely white-boy hip-hop references aside, you lock up, as he stares at you with big, round eyes, brow upturned, and feigning infatuation. He's cute even when he's being sarcastic... especially when he's being sarcastic. And he even put on a stupid fake-Southern accent that Dave has heard way too many times; he hates it coming out of Nic Cage's mouth, but out of John's? None of that bodes well for your sincerely besotted heart, which melts a little, much as you're loathe to admit it. Your mask of stoicism is only maintained by a dirty pair of aviators, but those can only get you so far. And he's looking at you so expectantly...
"Psst," he whispers. "This is where you kiss me?"
You're not sure exactly what he's thinking because of course you're not actually going to kiss him. And he doesn't actually want you to kiss him, either. Right? Right? But you have to do something, and you have to think quickly of something within the bounds of the completely platonic and brotherly love between the two of you. So you push off the wall, and pivot so that you're standing right in front of him. You place your hands on his shoulders, letting them fall heavily. You lean in.
And give him a big, wet kiss on the forehead, just as slobbery and sloppy as you can make it, pulling back with a loud smack. This only elicits more laughter, that stupid, adorably bubbly laughter of his, and you sort of regret playing into the joke.
"Hmm, that's not quite right," he chides, a slight tilt to his head. "Try again. Come on. I know you can do it!"
So you do. You lay another moist, grandma-esque kiss... on his cheek. And the opposite temple. And the bridge of his nose. You even stoop in to get his chin, before he half-heartedly bats at your shoulder, wiping away your slobber from his face on the back of one hand.
"Gross, Dave!" But he's still, still laughing in between words, just little giggles here and there. His eyes are squeezed shut, the corners creasing a little too much for someone so young, and yet endearingly all the same. And his smile is so wide, it's a wonder he hasn't sprained his face yet. "Don't tell me you're even more of a virgin than I am, at least I know how to kiss."
"I know how to kiss," you protest. "I just did it. You didn't tell me how to kiss you, just to do it. So I did it."
Now's the part where you would pull away and go back to leaning on the wall, like the aloof badass you're supposed to be. Except that his other hand, the one not covered in your spit, has grabbed at the back of your neck, and you stare wide-eyed into his dopey, half-lidded gaze. Because you can read a room, but like a salacious tabloid expounding the existence of Bat-Boy, you can't really believe what you're reading. You want to, because a real-life Bat-Boy would be sick as hell, but you can't.
Also, the thought of John Egbert trying to be seductive doesn't really do it for you. You fell for all his stupid jokes and dumb faces, after all.
"Prove it." Two words; he's egging you on.
Ha. Egging. Egbert.
You're trying to stall, even within your own train of thought, and this is clearly the exact kind of pivotal moment you were both joking about just a second ago, except now it seems less like a joke, and more like a convenient lead-in to something you convinced yourself was never going to happen. Maybe it still wasn't going to happen? What is even going on, why is he looking at you like that, what is your life, and what are you (individually and collectively) doing here, exactly?
As you're trying to make any kind of sense of the stupid rom-com scenario you've found yourself in, John takes the initiative, apparently tired of waiting for you to get your act together. Though as your best friend, he should know you're in a perpetual state of getting your act together. Regardless, he pushes himself up on his tiptoes and pulls you down the rest of the way, pressing his lips against yours in a far more sincere kiss than you ever could have imagined. It takes a second for your brain to catch up with present events, at which point it promptly begins melting out of your ears, and you go on instinct alone, which is to lean in and just... kiss him back.
It's hesitant and chaste, a gentle brush of lips as you feel each other out. You're certainly not going to be the one to take it further, and when you separate, you just feel... bewildered. Lost. Confused. Enraptured. And, most importantly, stupidly in love with your aggressively straight best friend.
"That's a little closer. Good enough, I guess," he says with a shrug. His grip on your neck loosens but he doesn't let go. And he hesitates, worrying his lower lip, and you'd do anything to make him stop, to reassure him that it's okay... except actually doing that. He interjects before you have the chance, anyway. "Do it again?"
There's hope in his voice, and you can practically hear a crack as the layer of ice around your cold, dead heart shatters into a thousand little pieces. And you almost do, you're almost lured right back in by his conspiratorially hushed tone and coquettish glance, but this time, you manage to stop yourself, for your own sanity's sake.
"Wait. No. I mean, yes but also no." You stumble over your words; he just stares quizzically, and you take a deep breath to try and gather yourself. "What? No really John, what?"
Maybe it's the note of panic that you just can't keep out of your voice, but his expression softens, and he shifts, circling his arms around your torso in a loose hug.
"Mmm... I just got tired of watching your constant state of gay panic whenever we hang out," he says, as though it's nothing. "You were doing it back at the house, and while we were walking, and in here. I think you think I don't notice, but I do. So now seemed as good a time as any, I guess? I dunno, should I... not have?"
"No!" It comes out quicker and louder than you intended, both ungraceful and utterly uncool, and you swallow hard around the building lump in your throat. "No, I just. I just didn't think you were into guys. Since you... basically said as much. When a bro says they're not into guys, you don't push it, right? Even if you've had a big stupid crush on him since we were like, 13 or whatever, you just gotta move on, other fish in the sea and all that... we put fish in the sea, right?"
Deflecting again, now bringing the mechanics of Earth C into question like the smooth operator you are. John doesn't flinch. He's too used to your bullshit.
"I mean, I'm not into guys," he admits, and you deflate a little. You're ready to ask if this was another stupid prank, but he manages to continue before you can get a word in edgewise. "I am into you though. If that makes sense. I don't exactly look at you and think, wow there's a really hot dude, I super want to jump on his boner—"
"Jump on his boner?"
"—you know what I mean! I just see my best friend, who's been there for me for the better part of a decade, the one who always comes to check in on me when I'm down, not that I'm mad at our other friends, but you... it's different with you. Does that make any sense at all?"
"That's a lot of words just to say, I'm not gay but I can make an exception," you quip, the thought leaving your lips before you can get a handle on yourself. Luckily, John seems to be endeared by your obnoxious aphorisms. "But... yeah. I see it. I've... I think I've seen it for a long time, actually."
You press your forehead against his, and circle your arms around his neck, letting yourself sink into him. Letting yourself enjoy something for once. Somewhere at the back of your mind, you're still waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it doesn't matter what he says. You might always be waiting for what feels like the inevitable. But that's just the general state of your life, and you've become adept at pushing past it just long enough to enjoy some things. This, you decide, is going to be one of them.
"So..." There's a gentleness in John's voice when he speaks up again, after giving you a moment to bask; you respond with a quiet hum of your own. "Do you wanna try again or not?"
Oh, right. You'd forgotten that was on the table.
"Sure— wait." You stop yourself, eager as you are, and he watches curiously as you pull your phone from your pocket. "This is so romantic. Siri, play I Don't Want To Miss A Thing by Aerosmith."
You reach behind him to place your phone on one of the crossbeams in the barn's frame, as the hit power-ballad from the 1998 sci-fi disaster film Armageddon starts blasting through the tinny speakers of your phone. Even as you dip in to kiss John again, he's laughing against your lips, mumbling something about idiot and dork but his arms are still around you as you both meet in the middle, swaying slightly to the music like two teenagers at the homecoming dance you never got to attend.
Eventually, the rain lets up. And so do you.
As you pull back to give John some air and a little space, you feel a sharp pang of emptiness that you can't quite place. Like, this was fun and nice and everything you'd dreamed it could be, but it's done now, and it's never going to happen again.
"What's wrong?"
And there's John's perceptive ass calling you out. It's a nice ass, for sure, but you don't want it calling you out. You feel like talking about it is just going to make it worse.
You shake your head. "Nothing."
"Bullshit." It is, and you don't even have the means to defend yourself, because it was way too obvious. You walk side by side with his hand at the small of your back, rubbing comforting circles, as you both make an exit from the barn.
Above, the clouds are starting to part to blue skies, even as the sun starts to set. The clouds that remain just above the trees on the horizon are still dark and threatening, but they're someone else's problem now, not yours.
"I dunno," you try, but by the way John screws up his face, you know he's not buying into it. "That was nice, though. Thanks."
"You're welcome," he says automatically, an ingrained reaction. "But also, what's with that? Thanks? Like, what, thanks for the makeout sesh, it's been fun but I'm outtie?"
"No, just—" You cut yourself off and groan, pushing your shades up to pinch the bridge of your nose, letting them fall askew as you drag your hand down your face. "What is this? What are we doing? Not in this exact moment, because I know that's going to be the next smartass answer out of your mouth. Just in general. Are we... still friends?"
John's lips press together in a thin line, and he tilts his head to look up at you, even as you walk. "Of course we're still friends. If you want to be friends. Or more than friends. Or whatever."
Or whatever is right. But you're quiet for once in your goddamn life, as the words swirl around your head, and you could say in all honestly that yes, you absolutely want more than friends. But you wouldn't be doing right by him to just jump into a relationship head-first. This is new and new is scary. New is dangerous. And if there's one thing you've ever feared more than having your romantic advances rejected, it's losing this friendship.
"Best friends," you finally say, adding the very important qualifier. "As far as 'more than friends' goes, maybe we figure it out as we go."
You're not sure what to expect, whether he'll be put off by your hesitance, but he just smiles that stupid smile of his.
"Best friends and maybe more but later," he summarizes quite aptly, and he sounds pleased with the outcome. "Yeah, I think I can work with that."
Against your will, you feel the corners of your lips twitch upwards in something like a real smile, and you throw an arm around his shoulders. Your feet hit the dirt and gravel road and you turn down it, back in the vague direction of John's place. You could both fly back if you wanted to, and you probably will at some point, but you think you're both enjoying the nice walk in the balmy summer evening.
You're no more than a few dozen yards down the road when something occurs to you.
"Hey John?"
"Yeah?" He sounds almost like he's lost in a dream.
So you hate to say it, but...
"I left my phone in the barn."
As the moment dies and you both do an about-face, he laughs. You realize that, for the moment, he's happy, and you're responsible for that. You think you'll never get tired of that sound.