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He was your rock, the firm and strong willed support you leaned on when times got tough. He was your best friend, and the absolute one hundred percent certain love of your life. He was John, and he always seemed to control his emotions in a way you both envied and worried over in equal amounts.
The game had done a lot to both of you, and to everyone who'd played it. Things had changed for the better and for the worse. The entire world as you knew it was gone, and sometimes the little things got to you- like the way you'd never be able to browse aisle after aisle of junk food at a Wal Mart, or how you'd never get to explore internet forums long lost to the tests of online drama and time, or experience playing a video game that had just come out. (Although, you have a feeling even if video games did still exist, you'd be too freaked the fuck out to play even one as innocent as Pokemon.) There were upsides as well though, like that whole abolished social structure thing, and no more waking up at three AM for a strife on the roof. Nobody looked at you weird for being into guys, you didn't deal with racist bullshit anymore. You weren't complaining about that. It was a trade off, after all. Especially when none of you were quite ready to start reproducing the human species, even if that reproduction only involved pressing some buttons and shitting out a slime baby, the whole idea of having to plan the family tree and cleaning diapers turned you guys off it for a little while.
That said, the new world was pretty sick. Dad, the name he'd insisted you all call him, had gone off the fucking rails building a home for all of you, with John and Jane following him around, hefting up objects with such ease your heart did a little flip. You would've helped more, but you spent a bit too much time oogling them both, enjoying the image of John walking around shirtless and muscular, and photographing both of them as they worked, trying to keep the drool to a minimum as you did.
By now, a whole year and a half after Sburb ended, things had settled. You had a bedroom that was officially John's and unofficially yours, the two of you, considering your own room was practically a photo studio and you had trouble falling asleep without his soft breath whistling in your ear. Somewhere around the six month mark you'd managed to confess to him, and you'd started down the rocky road of navigating romance with a sexually confused dude, who knew that he liked you and then knew jack shit else. You'd made it work though, and labels weren't too much of a worry when there were less than twenty of you and it was pretty fucking clear John had eyes for you alone. (God, when did you get so lucky?)
Through being with John, and sleeping with John, and spending a metric fuckton of time with your boyfriend, you learned a lot about him. At first glance, he seemed open about his feelings- you'd watched him throw hilarious temper tantrums and giggle uncontrollably when he was planning a prank, after all- but then you'd realised how much shit he was hiding. It wasn't surprising, but it was pretty sad to know your friendleader was holding onto so much shit.
It took a hell of a lot of time to get him to open up, and when he did that was the first time you saw him cry. He sobbed, and yelled, and held onto you until he fell asleep, fucking exhausted from letting it all out. Then, he'd walked with his head held higher, and you patted yourself on the back for helping him find that release.
After that, you didn't see him cry again. At least, not really. He'd do it during a movie, and if he injured himself or laughed too hard a few tears might fall, but he never felt the need to have a good cry. It seemed weird, since you'd taken up crying as catharsis, holing yourself up in your room to cry on his pillow about whatever was bugging you- whether it was Bro's birthday or the sight of blood or a damned, fucked up nightmare- most common when you made the mistake of falling asleep in the sun without someone beside you.
It made the sensation of him shaking with silent sobs at three am that much worse, a mixture of that sort of surreal that laid over the air after two am, and the cold pit of dread that hit you once the empathy kicked in and your sleep addled mind realised that the thing you'd been woken up by was John, the person you love the most, crying.
He must have been trying to keep quiet and let you sleep, and he jerks when you drape an arm around you, turning away. “Hey, shhh, Egbert, m'here, s'kay...” You're definitely slurring with sleep, but he listens, his shoulders letting go of the tension they'd taken on. “There ya go. C'mon, big breaths, let it all out.”
You start up a solid rhythm of breathing in and out, letting him focus in on your breath. The air gets a bit colder as the wind picks up around him, but you don't mention it as you keep breathing, pulling him out of his curled up position to swipe away the tears trailing down his cheeks, staring at him earnestly. He looks so much younger with his nose red, eyes puffy and free of their glasses.
Time moves differently at night, and it's only due to your status as a god of it that you can say it took ten minutes for John to start breathing properly, the shudder that wracked each breath smoothing out into a quiet motion that mirrored the sensation of the ocean licking at the shore, rather than rain slamming down on an old tile roof. He looks like a mess, and you kiss his cheeks softly, treating him like you always want to be treated, as fragile as glass with touches as soft as pillows. He deserves that much at least.
“Wanna talk about it?” Whatever it was, you want him to know he can discuss it with you. Which you figure he must want to, considering he nods and closes his eyes.
“It's just...” You hum encouragingly when he falters, cupping his cheek. “I had a nightmare, and I was another John in it,” you're glad he's closed his eyes, because you visibly wince, well acquainted with those types of nightmares. You thought they were a time player thing, guess that was untrue.
“It happens,” you offer, pulling him closer until you're all tangled together, your arms wrapping around him despite how much smaller you are. You'd want the same thing, and judging by the way he curls in you think it helps.
“But Dave,” his voice wavers, and you kiss his forehead right before he continues, “I- I watched you die for me, and you were- were bleeding, there was so much blood and it smelled like iron and I said p-p-please, don't, don't die, but you did, and it was heroic and-” he cuts himself off, crying again, and you shush him over and over as you silently curse yourself for whatever shitty timeline happened that stuck that image in John Egbert's head and shook him up inside so hard his level headed jar of emotions erupted all over the counter of his mind.
You can't exactly push the tears back in, so you wipe at them some more instead, pulling him back from where he's trying to hide in your shoulder so you can stare him in the eyes. “Look at me,” you insist, kissing his forehead. “I'm not going anywhere, got it? We beat the fuck outta that game, and it ain't gonna get us- nothing's gonna get us. Rose, Callie, TZ, they're all making sure shit ain't gonna go sideways.”
“A-And if it does?”
“You zap on back to the start and take me with you this time, jackass. Boyfriend gets first priority.” A sad laugh bubbles out of him at that, and you kiss him briefly, pulling him into a tight hug. You can't really say you blame him for being broken up about it, you know full well he saw shit go to absolute hell in another universe, and you owe him everything for showing up when you could've lost him forever. But he doesn't have to worry constantly, and goddamn do you wish you could just scoop out all those bad thoughts and what if's and everything that makes him upset so he can stop thinking about Sburb. Out of all of you, you think he deserves that freedom the most.
He still cries for a while longer, whatever residual upset he's got going on melting away, and you rub his back and hum one of his favourite songs until he's limp in your arms, calmed from loud sniffles and sobs to quiet breathing. You figure he's asleep, and nuzzle your face into his hair with the intent to join him. “Love you.”
He lets out a soft sound, and you smile when you realise he was still awake to hear, pressing that much closer to you in his attempt to cuddle up. “Love you too Dave. The most.”
Honestly, you can't say you know how often he has nightmares- it's something you'll mention later. All you can do aside from that is be there for him, and damn well make sure not to get hurt too bad and hurt him in the process.