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The meteor didn't have a day or a night, just a series of eternal, humming "nows." The lighting in this specific quadrant of the base was a bruised shade of violet, vibrating with the low-frequency thrum of the engines, a sound John usually found annoying, but lately had started to find... cozy? Maybe he was finally losing it. Maybe "losing it" was the only way to survive a three-year road trip through the void of space with a handful of trolls and your best friend.
They were perched on a jagged outcropping of the hull, a place they’d claimed as their "roof," despite the total lack of a sky. Above them was only the endless, terrifying expanse of the Incipisphere, swirling with clouds of Skaian grit and the distant, sparking debris of a world they weren't finished saving yet. John was in the middle of a high energy retelling of his latest run in with Karkat, his hands windmilling through the air in a way that would have been a hazard to anyone sitting closer. " and then he called me a ‘sentient riddle wrapped in a layer of disappointment and bad hygiene,’ which I think is actually kind of a compliment?" John adjusted his glasses, his eyes wide and earnest. "Like, I respect the artistry, Dave. He had to sit in his pile of horns and really craft that. That’s bespoke hatred. That’s quality."
Dave was slouched next to him, looking less like a person and more like a collection of sharp angles and expensive-looking apathy. His back was against a cooling vent, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His shades caught the violet light, turning them into twin pools of neon oil. He looked like he was posing for the cover of a synth wave album that was too underground to actually exist. "Yeah, Karkat’s got bars when he’s tilted," Dave drawled, his voice a low, rhythmic vibration. "It’s like he’s got a rhyming dictionary of pure vitriol perpetually open in the back of his brain. He’s the Shakespeare of being a huge asshole. gotta respect the hustle, even if the hustle involves screaming about your blood color for six hours straight because you dropped a spoon."
"He's just so passionate!" John chirped. "I told him he should channel that energy into something productive, like a hobby. I suggested knitting. He told me he would knit a sweater out of my own 'incompetent biological fibers.' Which, again! Creative!"
"You're the only person in the paradox space who treats verbal abuse like a five-star Yelp review," Dave remarked, but there was a distinct lack of bite in his tone. He shifted slightly, his shoulder nudging John’s. "Anyway, Karkat's just projecting. He’s got the emotional stability of a jenga tower in an earthquake. he sees you being all... you... and it breaks his brain. He can't handle the pure, unfiltered Egbert energy."
John laughed, a bright, unselfconscious sound that seemed to punch a hole right through the heavy atmosphere of the meteor. As the laugh died down, the silence rushed back in thick, metallic, and heavy. It was the kind of silence that usually made John feel small, but right now, with Dave right there, it just felt... quiet. It was in that quiet that John’s internal radar finally pinged. He wasn't moving his left arm. He realized, with the slow-motion clarity of a pogo-hammer accident, that Dave’s hand was resting firmly on his forearm. It wasn't a "bro hug" or a celebratory "nice work, man" pat. Dave’s thumb was tracing small, rhythmic circles into the blue fabric of John’s hoodie. It was a gesture so practiced, so utterly comfortable, that John’s brain had been filtering it out as "background noise" for the last twenty minutes. John stopped breathing. He stared down at the hand. Dave’s fingers were pale against the dark blue, moving with a terrifyingly casual intimacy. Dave didn't look over. He just kept staring out at the distant, swirling clouds of the Veil, looking as cool as a freezer full of dead birds.
"…Dave," John said. His voice sounded like it had been put through a synthesizer.
"Sup."
"You’re… You’re holding my arm. Like, a lot. With your hand." Dave’s thumb didn't stop. He slowly tracked the line of his own arm to where it met John’s, as if he were observing a scientific phenomenon he'd found in a textbook. Then he looked back out at the stars. He didn't flinch. He didn't do a tactical retreat. "…Yeah," Dave said. John waited. He waited for the "psych," or the ironic punchline about how this was actually a deep-layer satire of Victorian romance novels. He waited for Dave to jump up and do a backflip into a rap battle to deflect the tension. Instead, Dave just leaned a little closer, his shoulder pressing firmly against John’s. "You gonna tell me to stop, or are we chill?" Dave asked. It wasn't a challenge; it was a genuine inquiry, delivered with the same tone one might use to ask if the wifi was acting up again.
John’s brain did a frantic backflip and landed directly on its face. The internal gears were grinding, smoke pouring out of his ears. "No! I mean no, don’t stop," John blurted out, his face suddenly several degrees hotter than the core of a dying sun. "I just wondered when we start doing this? The… the touching? The weirdly nice non-ironic arm holding? Did I miss a memo? Was there a group chat I wasn't invited to?" Dave actually took a moment to consider. John could see him retreating into those mental archives of his, scrolling through months of "ironic" movie nights, "ironic" naps on the same sofa, and "ironic" heart-to-hearts that lasted until the metaphorical dawn.
"Uh," Dave said finally. "somewhere between the mutual emotional reliance and the ironic flirting that stopped being ironic about four months ago. probably around the time you started letting me ramble about taxidermy for three hours without hitting me with a pillow." John processed that. He thought back. Really thought back. He thought about the "ironic" movie marathons where they’d end up tangled together under a single scratchy blanket, Dave’s head resting on his shoulder. He thought about the way Dave had started making him tea exactly the way he liked it, two sugars, no exception, and how he’d always leave the mug on John’s desk without saying a word. He thought about the way their fingers would brush whenever they passed a game controller back and forth, and how neither of them ever moved away quite as fast as they used to.
"…Oh," John said, the realization hitting him like a falling anvil. "Wait. Dave. Are we dating? Like, for real? Like the movies where the music swells and then they go get milkshakes?" Dave finally turned his head. He lowered his shades just an inch, a massive concession, letting John see the tired, soft expression in his eyes. There was a tiny smile there, one of those rare, non-performance ones that Dave usually kept locked in a sub-basement vault. "John," Dave said, his voice dropping into that quiet register he only used when it was just the two of them. "We literally held hands for three hours during that doomed timeline jump, and you cried into my shoulder about your dad for like, an entire afternoon. I think we bypassed 'dating' and went straight into 'old married couple who survives on spite and fruit snacks.'"
John’s face went nuclear. "I CRY ABOUT MY DAD ALL THE TIME! THAT’S JUST A THING I DO! IT’S A HOBBY! IT'S LIKE STAMP COLLECTING, BUT WITH FEELINGS!" Dave squeezed his sleeve. It was a grounding, gentle pressure. "You asked if I’d stay. remember? In the lab? You asked if I'd stay, like, forever stay. Not 'stay until the game is over.' Just stay." The memory hit John like a hammer. The quiet of the lab, the crushing fear of the future, and Dave’s hand on his back as he’d promised, yeah, man. nowhere else I'd rather be. "Oh," John said again, his voice small and breathless. "I thought you were just being a really, really, really good best friend. Like, the best friend of the year award winner. I was gonna get you a trophy."
Dave snorted, pushing his glasses back up. "I am a great friend, but I don't usually spend my free time memorizing the exact way someone likes their ghost-themed birthday cakes unless there's some kind of romantic incentive involved. That's just basic math, Egbert. Check the spreadsheets. The data doesn't lie." John looked at Dave, really looked at him, and felt a wave of relief so massive it made his knees weak. He didn't have to overthink it. He didn't have to wonder if he was being weird. He reached out and, with a bit of a clumsy fumble, laced his fingers through Dave’s. Dave froze. For a second, the coolkid exterior cracked, his fingers twitching in surprise before he realized what was happening. His pulse, usually hidden behind layers of irony, was visible in the way his hand shook just a tiny bit.
"…John."
"Is this okay?" John asked, suddenly shy, looking at their joined hands. "Because if not, I can just go back to the arm-rubbing thing, or we can pretend I tripped and my hand just... landed there. Very ironical like. A total slapstick accident." Dave’s grip tightened instantly, his knuckles turning white as he locked their fingers together. "Don't you dare let go now. I will emotionally shatter, but in a very cool, detached, ironic way that involves me never speaking again and possibly becoming a hermit in the engine room. I'll be the phantom of the meteor. It’ll be a whole thing."
John laughed, leaning his head into Dave’s shoulder. The violet light didn't seem so weird anymore. It felt warm. "So. Boyfriends? For real?" Dave tilted his head, his shoulder bumping John’s. "Yeah. I think the paperwork is pretty much finalized at this point. I'll have my people call your people, but we're officially 'a thing.' Keep it on the down low, I have a reputation as a cold, unfeeling machine to maintain. If Karkat finds out, he’ll never let me hear the end of it." John grinned, wide and bright, the kind of smile that could power a small city. "Wow. I can’t believe I accidentally got a boyfriend. This is so much easier than I thought it would be." Dave smirked, leaning his head back against the vent, closing his eyes. "Classic you. Tripped over a pebble and fell headfirst into a lifelong commitment. You’re a disaster, Egbert."
"Yeah," John whispered, closing his eyes too, listening to the steady thrum of the meteor beneath them. "But I'm your disaster."
"Ugh. Shut up. Don't make it cheesy. You're ruining the aesthetic."
But Dave didn't move away. He just held John’s hand tighter, his thumb resuming its slow, rhythmic circles, and for the first time since the world ended, the meteor finally felt like home.