Work Text:
You try to smile when the sword goes through your chest.
It doesn’t help the pain. It doesn’t stop the bleeding, incessant, from the gaping hole where you know your heart rests. It doesn’t make you feel any better. You think you might be trying for when your body is found later, limp and lifeless, by your best friends, one of which you had been in love with since you were nine. The sword hurts ten times worse when it’s ripped out of you and thrown carelessly, clattering against the ground not far from where you are. And then you are truly alone.
Your blood is warm and sticky, clinging to your fingers and clothes and anything it can get a hold on. One time, when you were learning to ride bike, you fell off and broke your leg -- you thought it was the worst pain you’d ever experience. You were wrong. But your dad had told you to close your eyes, breathe deep, and count to ten. Count to ten, count off ten things you like, love, ten things you’d die for, ten things you’d live for.
So you do.
Ten.
The trolls. You’d found them unbearable, but at some point, they’d become friends with you. Reluctantly, of course. And you the same.
Nine.
Your dad. He’s dead, now, and maybe you’ll see him. On the other side. If there is a place for souls to go when they die.
Eight.
Movies. You grew out of them when you hit fifteen, the cheesy ones, but there are still enjoyable ones out there.
Seven.
This game. Yeah, okay, that sounds utterly ridiculous. But you’re kind of thankful for Sburb, since you got to meet your best friends for the first time in real life.
Six.
Cake. You hate it most of the time, really, but now you just want some. You want your dad to make you cake from scratch, let you help him.
Five.
Jade. She’d been there for you through thick and thin, way before the existence of this game, and you love her. Like a sister, which, you guess she is ecto-biologically so.
Four.
Rose. She may be nosy, seem a bit stuck-up, and motherly; but you’d loved her all the same -- like a sister, again. You really can’t think of being in love with her.
Three.
Your hood. Everyone seems to think it’s really stupid, but you always found it to be pretty awesome, cozy, and basically the best piece of clothing you’ve ever owned.
Two.
Living. Your existence was short, stupid, and insignificant -- but at least you’d been able to have one at all.
One.
Dave. You love him. You love him so much, you’re in love with him, but it’s been years and you’ve stuck pretty heavily to the “no homo” thing. You’d like to have told him, but it’s too late now, so who cares?
It seems you’ve made it to the end. You force out a shaky breath, but it comes out as a half-sob, and then there are tears streaming down your face. They mix with the blood and it forms a sickening pale pink, surrounding you, staining your skin, clothes, and the ground beneath. You try to smile again. If you’re discovered frowning, would that make the situation worse that it is? Maybe. You ball your hands into fists and breathe evenly, or try to. You close your eyes and smile, wider than you ever have. Because it’s going to be the last time. You should make it count.
You feel it when your heart stops.
And then you feel nothing.
TT: Have you found him yet?
TT: Dave, I find it positively bothersome that you haven’t responded instantly.
TT: Honestly.
TT: It’s unlike you to go this long ignoring me.
TT: Has something happened?
TG: rose can you just shut the fuck up
TG: for like five fucking seconds
TT: There isn’t any reason for you to be so harsh about it.
TT: If it’s what you wish, then yes, I can.
TG: yeah thanks a fucking bunch
Yeah, you found him, alright.
His pulse is long gone. He’s probably been dead for a few hours now, and you wish Rose would’ve realized he was missing a lot sooner. There’s a smile on his face, looks forced, but it’s still a smile nonetheless. His cheeks are still glistening with the final tears he’d shed, and the blood beneath him is still warm to the touch.
TT: Am I free to talk again?
TG: rose are you fucking kidding me
TG: this seriously isn’t the time for your snarky fucking remarks ok
TG: i found john
TT: Oh, excellent. Is he alright? In need of medical attention?
TG: hes way past needing medical attention lalonde
TT: …
TT: Dave, what happened?
Your hand is shaking so badly now you can’t even type, and if you tried it would probably just be a big wall of jumbled text that would make zero sense. You opt for burying your head in John’s chest and crying, even though it’s a totally uncool reaction to this kind of situation. Blood probably stuck to your hair, but you could care less. He’s dead, he’s gone, and it’s all your fault because you weren’t fucking there. You never even got to tell him...
how much
you loved him.
Love him.
TT: Oh my...Dave, is he dead?
TT: Dave, please -- don’t tell me John’s died.
TT: Please.
TG: maybe it wont be real if i dont lalonde
TT: You never got to tell him.
TG: yeah thanks for fucking pointing it out
TG: rocket scientist arent you
TT: I assume he’s beyond the point of reanimation?
TG: unless you count taxidermy
TG: then yeah its way fucking late
TT: I’m so sorry.
TG: it doesnt fucking matter anyway
But it does. It matters so much, way more than you’d ever admit. You let out a sob before finally realizing how ridiculous this is, how cliche it is, and how much you hate it. How much John would hate it. You lift his body and cradle it to your chest, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. His blood stains your lips and leaves a disgusting metallic taste in your mouth. “Fuck, John. I love you so much.”
TT: Will you be disposing of the body yourself?
TG: well im not fucking bringing it back so you can all cry like babies
TG: so i guess thats a yes
TT: Should I tell the others?
TG: you can do whatever you fucking want lalonde
TG: tell whoever you want
TG: honest to god i could care less
TT: You’ve been crying, haven’t you?
TG: what the fuck does that have to do with shit
TG: of course i wasnt
TT: It’s fine if you were, Dave. The loss of the love of your life would be a destructive force to anyone, no matter how “cool” they were.
TG: just shut the fuck up
TT: As you wish.
TT: I want you to realize crying is a natural reaction, though.
TT: It’s fine to cry.
TG: did i not just say shut the fuck up
TG: like wow i guess youre deaf
TT: Sorry.
TG: whatever
You don’t want to carelessly dispose of the body, but you also don’t want to leave it here for another person to find. You burn it with a spare match, and shut your eyes so you don’t have to watch it be consumed by flames. Once it’s become nothing more than a pile of ashes, you wait for it to be carried off by the wind. Doesn’t take long before a strong gust passes through, and you watch the ashes float away, just like...
like
John
could.
You drop your stoic expression. You’re alone, anyway. You cry, you laugh, you smile, because you don’t really know what to feel right now -- you’re feeling a jumble of emotions that no Strider is prepared to deal with.
TG: bodys fucking gone
TG: none of you wimps have to see it
TT: You’re crying, Dave.
TG: are we back to this shit
TG: are we really back to it
TG: i told you i wasnt
TT: But you are. Even the most emotionally guarded cry when someone they love dies, and that isn’t psychology -- that’s simple fact.
TG: ok fine
TG: im crying like the fucking sissy i am
TG: are you happy
TT: Yes, but you aren’t a sissy.
TT: You have a heart.
TT: Even if you’re good at hiding it.
TG: yeah thanks i guess
TT: Would it make you feel better to type his name one last time?
TG: what the fuck lalonde
TT: If you got to type John’s name. One last time. Do you think you’d feel any better?
TG: probably not no
TT: Well, try.
TG: how about fuck no
TG: no with no on top
TG: no on a silver platter
TT: Dave, please.
TT: This is what I’d do if someone I loved died.
TG: dont fucking say loved
TG: like its past tense
TG: i still fucking love him
TG: would you stop loving kanaya if she died
TT: Of course not. I’ll love her even if she isn’t living.
TG: exactly
TG: so dont say loved
TG: like i dont fucking love john anymore
TG: because i do
TT: Then say his name.
TT: One last time.
TT: For the sake of your mental stability, Dave.
You stare at the screen. At Rose’s pervasive violent font, the one that always used to annoy the fuck out of you, the one that still does. You sit down on the ground, cross your legs, and with shaky hands you type -- slowly. This is the slowest you've ever typed, the longest it's ever taken you to send a few messages.
TG: john
TG: i love you so much
TG: i do
TG: not i did
TG: i still do
TG: i wont stop ever ok
TG: john