Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There have always been musicians playing at the subway station; the has-been's, the wanna-be's, the guitarists that have a little talent, but only know three songs. They've been there for as long as you can remember, and you've always made sure to grab some spare change for the poor souls whenever you leave the apartment. You're well known around the subway as the guy who gives out a dollar.

For years, they've just been background noise- the last time anyone played anything exciting or worth taking the time to stop and listen to, you were seven and with your bro. And for the longest time, you'd given up on paying them any attention. Sure the casual voice singing "Hey there, Delilah," was pleasant enough, but that was all it was: pleasant, passable. Mediocre.

But one day, when you are about 20, you finally hear something fantastic.

You take time climbing down the concrete stairs, as always, hands shoved in your pockets and shades covering your eyes. For a moment, your attention is directed to the ground, counting the old (and new) wads of ABC gum stuck to the steps.

As you near the bottom, the sound finally manages to bring you to reality- music. Actual music.

It's something original, something up-beat, and nothing like anything you've heard anyone attempt to do at the station. And to your surprise, the artist is nothing more than a college student. He's got his keyboard set up in the corner, plugged into an outlet on the wall behind him. It's a decent instrument, but you can tell it's been through several moves and drops over the years, going by the smudges on the side and the worn out YAMAHA logo facing you.

His keyboard doesn't hold your attention for long, and as you reach the bottom of the stairs, you're shifting to his face and his hands and his feet. He's concentrated- you can tell by how he bites his lip- but he's got a sparkle in his eye that almost pulls your lips up in a smirk. His fingers pound away at the keys lightheartedly, playing some cliche-sounding 90's beats- techno setting and tinny drum back-beat and all. Every so often, he'll stomp on the plastic pedal, and he taps his left heel in time with his playing.

You stop at the bottom of the stairs to listen, unzipping your gray sweatshirt to get more comfortable in the heat of the crowd.

He's got a decent number of people gathered around him, but most people simply drop a coin or two in his hat on the floor and continue on their way.

You want to give them a piece of your mind.

But instead, you decide to remain superior to them; if they can't recognize good music and talent on their own, they don't deserve to appreciate it at all.

By the time you've decided to make your way over to him, he's changed his style (taken a request by the looks of the lady to his right). He switches the keyboard back to traditional piano and plays.

His fingers are slow, each movement calculated perfectly in time with the beats he's creating. You're unable to put a name to the piece and assume it's original, but you've never been familiar with piano music. Regardless, you decide it needs to go on your iPod relatively soon.

He finishes, but his fingers hover over the keys until the sound dies down. Then he smiles up at the woman and asks if that was good enough. She grins happily- you swear her mouth touches her ears- and pays him $5.

Happily, the kid pockets the money and thanks her as she walks away with her young daughter. Before he switches back from traditional music, he plays one more slow piece, earning himself a small applause and some spare change from passer-by's. He goes to move some dials, but you stop him.

"Hey," you say.

He freezes and looks up expectantly, that twinkle more prominent up close.

"Play one more." You dig into your pocket and pull out a ten, hold it up for him to see, and throw it into the beanie he has sitting on the floor.

He glances from the hat to you in disbelief. "That's not- I mean, you don't-"

"Play."

The kid swallows and nods, trying to hold back a grin- you can tell. He plays another piece, just as lovely and enchanting as the first. It's a nice break from reality and you allow yourself to doze off into some sort of a daydream as you listen. You're content.

Then he stops. And before you can protest, he starts off something new, a little quicker, in F major.

Words can't describe how perfect his harmonies are, how fantastically his chords support and complement the melody, how wonderfully his fingers work against the keys. But you know it'll stay with you; always playing in the back of your mind somehow.

Even when it ends, you swear you hear it echo somewhere in your brain.

He looks up at you, no longer making an attempts to suppress his grin. "I hope that was worth your ten bucks!"

You pretend to consider it for a moment, noting how his smile fades a little with every second you delay. "What's your name, kid?" you ask finally. You probably shouldn't be calling him kid- he's most likely the same age as you.

He doesn't seem to mind. "John. John Egbert." He sticks out his hand for you, leaning across the keyboard so he can reach.

"Dave Strider," you return, shaking his hand. His grip is strong; pianist hands. "I think we'll be seeing plenty more of each other."

His smile brightens back up and he starts babbling on about something. You're not really listening and instead dig into your pocket and pull out a pen and some paper. You step around his instrument and turn him around, using his back as a surface to write on, despite his protests. You spin him back to face you, he stumbles a bit and you can hear the rubber of his converses squeak against yours as he steps on your foot.

"Here," you say, thrusting the piece of paper towards him.

He glances down at it in confusion. "What's this?"

"My number. Hit me up later."

"But I-"

"Just do it," you interrupt. You smirk just the tiniest bit. "I promise you won't regret it."

He looks down at the paper again, then to the crowd growing impatient around him. "For... a date?" he asks. He looks afraid, like he's worried he'll be wrong and make a fool out of himself.

"Hm. Well now that you mention it, that sounds great. Call me, I'll pick you up." You wink, a little disappointed he wouldn't be able to see it through your glasses. "Catch ya later, John. You're keeping your fans waiting." You nod to the people standing around the dirty station.

He looks confused, then excited, then confused again and starts scrambling to change the settings on his keyboard before remembering that he still has your number in his hand. He goes to stuff it in his pocket, but then decides against it and throws it in his hat with the change. He grins up at you- which you return with a nod- and goes back to playing.

True talent. That's what he has. You'd like to get to know that talent, and in addition, get to know him. You're not sure which is your top priority.

You hop on your subway, already thinking of ways to record his pieces, and remix them if he'd allow. You can hear the deep bass coming from somewhere in your chest, complementing the permanent melodies playing repeatedly in your mind. You certainly can't wait.

It's all you can think about the rest of your day.

And you try to hide it, but you're ecstatic when your phone rings later that night.

Chapter Text

You stare at your phone in slight disbelief. The words UNKNOWN NUMBER flash across your screen, taunting you as you debate with yourself over answering or not. It could be anyone, after all- there's no guarantee it'll be the kid you met earlier today. For all you know, it could be some telemarketer who managed to get your cell number in his grimy, underpaid hands. Again. How do they even do that?

But just before the "Gangster's Paradise" chorus can end and send your caller to voicemail, you click ANSWER. Bringing the device up to your ear, you greet the other line with an even voice. "Dave Strider here."

"Oh good it is you!" exclaims the other voice just a little too loud. You cringe slightly and your index finger moves to the volume button in less than a second. "This is John! Um, from the subway today?"

You sit down on your bed. "Good. I was wondering when you were actually going to take me up on my offer."

"Well, we'll see. I mean, not that I don't appreciate it or anything, but you know-"

"You ever going to get to the point?" You raise an eyebrow. He must be trying to avoid the subject or something. You're not really a patient person and would really prefer if he just stopped being so fidgety.

You hear him shift around a bit. "Sorry. I'm, uh, not too good at talking on the phone."

"I can tell."

He swallows. "So were you really serious about that date?"

You hum a bit into the receiver, as if to consider it. "In a way, yes. But more importantly, I have a bit of a proposition for you. This being the initial reason I approached you this morning." You lay down, sinking into the blankets comfortably. Your free arm acts nicely as a pillow.

"Oh?" He sounds curious, intrigued.

Before you answer, you take the opportunity to keep him in suspense and kick off your red high tops. "Yeah. You have talent. You know that?"

The other hesitates. "Well, I'm not that good. I mean, my dad just taught me and-"

"Listen," you interrupt, closing your eyes. "I hear a lot of music. And I hear it daily. Compared to everyone else that plays for change on that subway, you're a god. Fuckin' Apollo up in here."

John scoffs.

"But in all seriousness," you continue, "I'd like you to work with me."

There're several beats of silence from both ends of the party; you're waiting on him to say something, and he's not all to sure of what he should be saying. "Wait, like-"

You cut him off again. "All this entails is a little music making. If you don't mind, I'd like to get some of my beats mixed with yours; it'd make a pretty sick sound." You pull your arm out from under your head and bring your hand up to your face, examining your fingers and picking at the dirt under your nails. "You'd get recognition, of course," you continue, "and pay. You'd be surprised at what an independent musician can make off iTunes and burned CD's.

"We can record here in my apartment; my bro and I have some connections, so let's just say I have some pretty equipment." You smirk a bit and glance over to the corner of your room, as if you can see through the wall to your personal recording studio.

He's silent for a moment and you almost start to wonder if he's hung up. "...so it's not a date, then?" he asks finally.

You click your tongue in annoyance. "Still hung up over that? Did you hear anything I just said?"

"Well yeah! And I mean it sounds like an awesome deal, but I just- you know- wanna make sure."

You pinch the bridge of your nose. "How's this, John- do you want it to be a date?"

"Um... I don't think so?"

"Then it's not a date."

You can hear him clicking his teeth together nervously. "I mean- let's just wait! I don't know you at all yet, so..."

"Hey, I'm a patient man," you lie. Way to go, Strider. That was the most blatant lie you've told today.

"Well... great! This sounds great!"

From there, the two of you continue on the conversation a little more business casual; he asks about the pay (you decide to split your profits 40/60 so you can continue to pay for equipment), you ask about his schedule and in about an hour, the two of you have just about finalized the details.

He'll be over tomorrow at about five with his keyboard so you can mess around with the tones and sounds its capable of making. Once you've established the limits of his instrument, you can begin to discuss details regarding the actual mixes.

You hit the END CALL button, feeling rather good about yourself and your situation for the moment. You roll over onto your side and enter his number and name into your contacts, a little disappointed you don't yet have a photo to add to his information. Tomorrow you'll have to sneak one, you decide. Or perhaps you'll just snap one whenever it strikes your fancy. You chuckle lightly; you know that's the more likely of the options.

With a heavy sigh, you push yourself off the bed and stretch, lacing your fingers together and lifting them high above your head. Your lower back pops once and you let out a very unflattering noise. But what do you care? That felt fucking fantastic. Your arms drop back to your side and you roll your neck around and shake out your shoulders a bit before making your way over to the kitchen.

The clock on the microwave reads 9:38. You decide it's too late to eat a full dinner, so instead you reach into the cupboard and take out one of those Easy-Mac things. You'd long since grown out of your pizza and take out only diet, but still kept some easy things around the house should you ever need something quick.

You sprinkle a little sugar on it once it's out of the microwave (because let's face it, that stuff tastes like shit), eat quickly, and retire to your studio.

For the remainder of the night, you out some new beats, trying to match something up to the endless loop of piano that continues to play in the back of your mind. You haven't been able to get the sounds out of your brain since you first met John that morning. Not that you were complaining. Besides, it gave your fingers something to tap along to when you were bored.

It's about 3:30 when you decide to wrap things up for the night. You switch off all your equipment, push down all the sliders in one sweep of your hand, and take the headphones off your neck. You set them down on one of your turntables and shut your laptop, clapping off your lights (literally, clapping) as you exit the room.

You sleep in until about noon and wake up in a mess of blankets. You sit up and rub your eyes, blinking furiously against the sunlight streaming in from between the blinds. Your eyes are sensitive enough to the sun as it is, but this afternoon, it seems to be brighter than usual. Squinting in an attempt to keep as much of the streams out of your eyes, you grope around your nightstand and grab your shades. You feel infinitely better once they're on your face.

You don't do much for the rest of the day- you don't have work to go to and you don't have any sort of big projects to work on, so you just lay around in your boxers watching the Back to the Future trilogy until you hear a knock at the door. A bit confused, you glance at the clock.

Oh, it's five already. How did that happen?

You push yourself off the couch, frowning as you feel your legs peel off the leather. You were sitting down for way too long, you decide. There's another knock at the door when you're about halfway there. "I'm coming, I'm coming," you call out to the other side.

Not bothering to look through the peephole before you do, you open up the door.

John stands there in the hallway, holding a YAMAHA box under his arm. His eyes flicker down to your boxers, his grin dropping. "Am I interrupting something...?" he asks skeptically.

"Only my 80's movie marathon." You step out of the way and gesture for him to step in. "Come on, man. I'll put some pants on if it really bothers you."

"It's fine, I guess," he responds, pushing past you. He pulls the box up to his chest so he doesn't whack it against the doorframe. He pauses, thinking about it for a moment. "Actually you know what, please put on some pants."

You let out a little laugh. "Yeah that's fine." You point back to the door of your studio. "Go and set up your stuff back in there. Feel free to move some of my stuff if you need to. I'll go get some pants on."

He nods and continues on, opening the door up a little hesitantly and stepping in. "Holy shit...!" he calls out once he's inside. "How much does this all cost?!"

You go to step into your room, taking a moment to yell back before you do. "More than you make a year, kid." You smirk and grab some pants off the floor, slipping them on. It's going to be a great recording session- you just have a feeling.

Chapter Text

You slip into a pair of loose jeans, not paying much attention to which ones you grabbed off the floor, and a black t-shirt. If it were up to you, you'd be working in nothing but boxers- as per usual. But for today, you would entertain your guest.

What a gracious host you are.

Bare footed against the hardwood floor, you leisurely make your way down the small hallway to the music studio. Inside, accompanied by several pieces of expensive equipment- four turntables of different sizes, three switchboards, one of those unnecessarily huge Apple brand screens, one necessarily huge Apple brand screens, two headsets, and two microphones, among other smaller electronics- stood a very unsure John Egbert.

He clutched the cardboard box against his chest, unsure if what to do. "So... where do I set up?"

You put your hands on your hips, glancing around the room. That was actually a very good question. You clap on the lights and observe the limited space. When you told him to get his things out, you hadn't quite realized the amount of equipment he would have to move to do so. "Well, we can move you into that corner there." You point to the left side of the room, the spot you mean for him to use is taken by a turntable, currently; however it wouldn't take too much effort to move.

John's gaze follows the path of your finger. He glances back to you, eyes filled with mild concern. "But there's-"

"Just move it," you say dismissively. You turn from him and start flipping switches, bringing all your equipment to life. "I think that one's on some dollies so all you gotta do is push it aside." You open up your laptop, imputing your password and pulling up several programs necessary for this evening's jam session.

After a few moments, you finally hear the squeaking of wheels behind you, followed by a relieved breath; kid must've finally gathered up the courage to touch the thousand dollar piece of shit.

As he works on unpacking, you carefully reposition all of the sliders you'd stacked down last night. Your headphones soon find themselves positioned comfortably on your ears as you achieve the most seamless balance possible for your mixes- a little more bass, a little less reverb... perfect. The tracks put together last night beat in your ears flawlessly and easily. All they're missing is a melody.

You remove the headphones from your ears, letting the rest against your neck, and turn back to face John. He's already warming up. Before you can even think to stop it, a content sigh escapes through your nose; even with the small pauses and finger slips that manage to worm their way into his rehearsing, his playing is still the best you've heard in a while.

He doesn't notice you watching, he just continues on playing, testing a few cords and short melodies. You can't help but notice how his hair falls over his eyes as he plays- hair black as night, and in total contrast to your own bleach blond locks.

You bet his hair is soft.

As soon as the thought is present in your mind, you shake your head, dismissing it. John isn't interested in a relationship right now. Play it cool, Strider; your time will come. Besides, you're working now, this isn't the time to be making advances. Keep patient.

Patience has never been your strong suite, but you're going to have to do your best. For today, at least; let this session be a bit of a trial period with him. Then you can start testing boundaries later.

You feel better once you have a bit of a plan set in your mind and decide it's best now to get to work; you'd like to put an album out in the next month or so and at least half of the songs- or more- will require John's playing. So you snap him out of his concentration with a rather loud and obvious clearing of your throat.

He looks up at you, fingers pausing the moment they strike a chord. The sound resonates for a moment and fills the air of what had the potential for an awkward silence. A sheepish grin spreads across his face. "Sorry."

You shrug. "It's not like I don't like hearing you play," you say bluntly. He already knows you enjoy listening, so there isn't much point in pretending otherwise. "But I figured you should probably listen to some of the beats I mixed up last night. You know, so we can start actually creating a final product." And we'll make beautiful music together. You don't actually add that part in, but the little voice in the back of your mind makes you smirk slightly.

"Okay!" he chirps eagerly, stepping around the keyboard.

You hand off the headphones to him and turn back to your laptop, scrolling through several tracks until you find the one you want him to hear. With two quick taps of your finger, it begins playing. He lets out a surprised sound- not unlike a yelp- as soon as it begins, practically throwing the headphones off as he does so.

"Holy shit, that's loud!" He clutches the plastic in his hands and glances at you. "Do you always listen to it this loud?"

You nod. The life of a DJ is a loud one- what can you say?

"Jeez..." Carefully, he places them back on his head. "You're gonna go deaf," he mumbles.

"What was that?" you joke.

He scoffs and tells you to "just turn it down, will ya?"

Being the gentleman you are, you oblige and wait for the two minutes to end, glad now that he seems more comfortable with the volume level. You're trying to impress, not blow his ear drums to oblivion, after all.

However, it seems your sick beats don't have the desired effects.

"I don't like this one," John declared as blatantly as possible when the song finished.

You stare at him. That's it- you have no words. You just stare. You'd be lying if you didn't say you weren't damn as hell proud of that specific track. Your lips press into a thin line. You're grateful your eyes are hidden behind your shades because you're not sure what kind of emotions they're portraying. Anger, perhaps. But most likely it's just pure shock; it's been years since someone has said that to you and you definitely were not expecting such blunt honesty.

"Maybe I shouldn't say it that way, " he continues. "I don't really like the bass. I mean, it's okay, but it'd be really hard to fit in a melody around it and I think it would really overpower any piano parts we put in there."

Keep calm, Strider. Keep breathing. Slower. There you go.

Maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all; now that you think about it, you're in no way used to working with anyone on projects like this. All you know is that when something sounds good to you, the general public usually loves it. But you managed to find the one kid with talent who is the exception.

Awesome.

You keep silent, so John keeps talking, filling the empty air with his voice. "Do you have anything that's a little more... low-key? I think that's the word I want to use. No, actually it's not. Something more trance and less dubstep? Kind of like that."

You're not used to "constructive criticism". You're well aware that all he's doing is trying to help, but it's a bit of a culture shock. A rapid, unexpected change of pace.

A challenge.

That's how you're going to have to look at it, you decide as you nod and browse through your mixes. You can do this. It'll just take some getting used to, is all. Having someone else in your domain is strange, but you'll make it work. Just like you always do.

"How's this?" you suggest, effectively keeping the bitterness from your voice. You grab another set of headphones from their hook on the wall and plug them in so you can listen along with him.

As the two of you listen, he suggests a couple of changes, which you make. A few edits here and there won't hurt, after all. Overall, he decides he likes the track and you decide that with some more editing it'll be adequate. It certainly wasn't your favorite mix, and you put more effort into the first track John listened to, but you'll give him this one. Besides, his attention to small details is to be commended, you note as you make his edits.

There are a few drops and rattles in the mix you two argue over for a while (he thinks they sound tacky, but come on, those are your signature badass effects), but the product produced at the end of your argument was accepted by both parties.

It's been about two hours since John arrived. The back beats are just about finished, but you've decided to wrap that up later. Instead, you grab a couple of juice boxes from the fridge and the two of you sit down to write out the skeleton of what will eventually be his piano part.

Chapter Text

You push a box of apple juice over to John, sitting next to him on the floor. You've elected to use the coffee table in the living room as a workstation for now since you're pretty sure your partner would probably start getting anxious around all your equipment if he were to be cooped up in the studio for too long.

John's keyboard stands nearby, and your laptop sits on the corner of the table, easily within your reach. You dug out some blank staff paper for the two of you to scribble on. It's old and the ink had faded a bit, but it's better than nothing and easier than two of you fighting over a computer program.

You take a sip of your juice, chewing slightly on the tip of your bendy straw as you think. "So my beats are organized to showcase you at the start of the song," you begin. "Then as it progresses, there's gonna be a rise in the bass and I'm going to take over."

John nods. "And then I come back in, right?"

"After about a minute of those sick mixes we worked on, yes." You push against the edge of the table, stretching out the muscles in your arms. "You don't need to do much; it'll just be a simple, repetitive melody for now. In later projects, you'll get more, but let's think of this as trial run." You sit back up and take a pencil in your hand.

John just sits there, listening.

You continue. "We'll release this on iTunes as a single- see how my many, adoring fans like it- and then put again when we come out with the full album next month." You take another sip of your juice. "Sound good?"

Again John nods, shifting a bit in his spot to try and get a little more comfortable on the floor. He doodles idly in the margins of the paper in front of him. "Do you have something in mind already for treble part, then?" he asks, sketching out some basic shapes as he does so.

"A little," you reply. "You'll have to help me with writing out the actual music, though; all I've got down is a basic idea of the rhythm I want, and a rough idea of notes. Feel free to shoot down anything you don't like." You raise an eyebrow at him. "Again."

You wish he would feel some sort of guilt or something for the way he totally shut you down earlier. That would give you some of your pride left. But instead, he just shrugs. "I'll sleep fine tonight either way," he replies with a sly grin.

"Yeah I bet you will," you grumble. You cross your legs so you're sitting native-American style, or whatever the politically accurate term is nowadays. "Anyway, I was thinking it could go like this..." Using the fingers on your right hand, you tap out the melody that you had floating through your mind all afternoon. As your fingers hit the wood of the table, you hum the notes.

Even if the back track you'll be working with wasn't your first choice, it still plays in your memory clear as day, making it easier to hear how the piano part will fit.

It beings at a slower tempo- more half and whole notes that overpower your bass in a subtle way. Then quicker rhythms: eighth notes followed by sixteenth, and was that a grace note? You bet your bottom dollar it was.

Your taps and hums become more complicated, and then less so- all while retaining a common theme. Then the bass playing in your mind starts to show itself more and the piano becomes simpler still. Less... less... even less...

"And that's where I take over the show." You cease your tapping and cross your arms, looking over John's face for some sort of reaction. You hope the bastard likes it; it was mostly inspired by his own pieces for christ's sake.

His eyes are glued to the table and you can see his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he thinks, running it over and over again through his mind. Finally, his gaze flickers back up to you. "I like the concept," he begins slowly, "but it could use a little work intonation-wise."

"Well what can I say? I'm no Nick Jonas."

He gives you a look that says he's clearly not amused with your comparison. You shrug and he continues. "Anyway... It's good! But don't you think it's a little too simple?"

"Probably," you admit. Maybe you should explain. "But see, it's like I said earlier: this is more of a trial run than anything. If we want people to get a good taste for this, then the simpler the better. Besides, with my biznasty beats, anything much more complicated would make the whole track sound like a busy New York street. Hear what I'm saying?"

He considers for a moment, taking a large sip out of his juice box. "Yeah I guess that makes sense."

Oh good you two agree. It's like the clouds have opened up and the angels began their lovely chorus of hallelujah. Thank you oh mighty deity above.

"We can give you more dominance later on," you continue. You pick your pencil back up and point it in his direction. Dramatic pointing helps exaggerate your words, after all. "But first we have to spark an interest. Then we'll let the fires rage." You feel a smirk pull at the corner of your lips.

He's silent for a moment, but then smiles himself and holds up his pencil in a way that clearly tells you he's ready to start writing. "So what's the time signature again?" he inquires eagerly.

"Cut time," you respond. "And it's in C major, just in case you forgot that little, kind of important detail."

He scribbles out a few symbols. "No, that I remembered, thank you very much."

You begin the whole process over again; tapping and humming that is. The humming isn't paid much attention for now, however; John simply writes down the basic melody- all on one note for now.

The way he writes out his notes are so much more elegant and just downright prettier than yours could ever hope to be. Now you take pride in being a very manly man and all, but there's a certain class that comes with the motor skill John clearly has. His penmanship is... lovely, after all.

No one will ever hear you say that outloud, you decide. No one ever. Not even ironically.

Okay maybe ironically, let's be honest here, you can't pass up an opportunity like that should it come along some day.

Approximately an hour and half (and two juice boxes) later, you're just over halfway finished writing. You're both pleased and surprised that this portion has gone over so well. It irritates you at the same time, though, that John felt it necessary to wreak havoc over your domain, but maintain peace in his. Douche.

But he's not that big of a tool, you reconsider, watching him experiment with the new tune on his keyboard. After tinkering with the settings for about twenty minutes, you both decided that a traditional piano would sound the best. You'll add some echos in later to give the illusion of a baby grand playing in Carnegie Hall or something instead of an old, beat up keyboard in your apartment. You were always one for dramatics.

You've stretched out on the floor-one leg crossed over the other- and listen to him play, nodding along to the beat. It sounds good so far. You're not one to get excited, but you swear you feel butterflies in your stomach.

Suddenly, he stops. "Hey, what time is it?" he asks.

You dig your phone out of your pocket and check for the time. "About 8:30," you respond. "Why? Getting hungry? I can order a pizza or something." You sit up, and start scrolling through your contacts, looking for a decent place to order from.

"No, that's okay!" he says, suddenly sounding like he's in a rush. "I should get back, though. I have an assignment I have to finish up before tomorrow morning. Um..." he glances down at his piano. "Is it okay if I leave this here?"

You shrug. "Sure, man."

"Thanks." He shuffles around it awkwardly and looks around, as if to make sure he wasn't forgettin anything- not that he brought anything more than his keyboard, anyhow. "I'll text you, or something, okay?" he says, heading toward the hall leading out.

You stand. "Okay. Same time tomorrow?"

"No," he calls down. "I have class at five! I'll... well, like I said, I'll text you!"

"Whatever, college kid," you yell back. "Go do your homework!"

You hear him laugh, followed by the squeak of an opening door. "Bye, Dave!" Then the door shuts and you're left alone in the living room.

You put your hands on your hips and take a deep breath, satisfied with the day's work. Ignoring the mess on the coffee table that should probably be cleaned up, you jump back onto your couch, putting your feet up comfortably. You make a quick call to the closest pizza place and tell the kid on the other end of the line to surprise you, but no mushrooms or you'll kill the delivery man. He's used to your threaths and informs you he'll send your usual over right away.

While you wait for your dinner, you recline back in your seat, hands behind your head, eyes closed comfortably. But then realization hits you and you sit up, cursing to yourself;

you forgot to sneak a picture of John for your phone contacts.

Chapter Text

You laze around the house all day. You should probably be getting something done eventually- writing some tracks or mixing or anything, really. But instead, you've shut the curtains and put on HBO, watching whatever movie comes up on your television. John is busy the next couple of days with school work- wow what a loser- so you're without any guilt when you slack off a bit. After all, he won't be able to notice if you take a day to relax. You can work tomorrow.

Or the day after.

Eventually, though, after the third film ends (Ghostbusters) you make the decision to get off your lazy ass; laying around like this probably isn't very healthy and you're craving some sushi from that new place downtown. You've only been there once, but you'd be lying if you said you wouldn't die for their California rolls.

It takes all your willpower to push yourself off the couch and walk the couple of steps down the hall to your bedroom, but after a few minutes of pushing through groggy laziness, you're fully dressed and fully presentable. Or at least more so than you had been earlier; now you're actually wearing pants. Your decency meter goes up two notches.

Grabbing your key and credit card off the counter, you walk quickly out of the apartment, making sure the door shuts completely behind you. You take the three flights of stairs down to the ground floor, mostly because you're expecting the shitty, old elevator to drop any day now, but also because you've been neglecting physical activity for the better part of the past 24 hours.

As you exit the building, you zip up your jacket and stick your hands in the pockets. The evening air is a little cooler than you expected it to be, but it's nothing you can't handle.

As usual, you receive several strange looks from passer-bys for wearing your shades out at such a late time of the evening, and as usual, you greet them with a signature cool-kid nod. They usually hate it when you do that. It's pretty amusing. Once or twice you had some soccer moms lecture you on optical health, and you've been called a punk more times than you can count. But the best incident was when this middle school prep girl asked you what kind of drugs you were on. Needless to say, that kept you entertained for the better part of a week.

Still chuckling over that episode, you make your way down the stairs to the subway station. The stairs are concrete and bleak as always, and there's the sound of the musicians rising up from the underground station.

There's a guitarist belting out an acoustic cover of Stereo Hearts nearest to you once you touch down from the last step. You dig out a dollar from your pocket and toss it into his open case on the floor to join the miscellaneous coins he's already collected.

You hop on the next subway that heads into the heart of the downtown area.

As you walk the block and a half down to the sushi bar, you allow your mind to wander. You're able to direct your zonage away from music business for once and instead try to think like most adults your age think.

You bore of that quickly and decide to think about John instead. What do normal 20 year olds think about anyway? Hell if you know.

But back to John. You really hate to admit it to yourself, but it seems as though you've developed what you call a "one-hit crush". Normally found in young, pre-teen girls, a one-hit crush is really a flaw of nature. It's one of those love at first sight deals. Except it's not really love; give that love a puppy and that's pretty much the result. A crushee does not have to be present for long periods of the crusher's life for a one-hit. In fact, one-hits are the result of a day to week's interaction (and then you actually get to know the person and it's all downhill from there).

You've already had a day and you've spent more time than you'd like to admit wondering just how soft John's hair is. It was like Eros decided to aim a dart right at your feelings. The job was too small for an actual arrow so you took the parlor toy instead.

But hey, the first step to getting over a problem is admitting you have one.

You'll get over it, you muse as you idly kick a pebble; after all it's not the first little boy crush you've had. And good news: you didn't lay awake all last night thinking about him. That could potentially be a problem.

But no, you've just planted the seed. A seed needs water, so you just won't give the shit the attention it needs. Then that way, you and John can just be best bro friends, make beautiful music that's actually music and not some sort of innuendo, and pick and jab at each other to your hearts' content.

You decide that's a pretty good plan, and enter the sushi bar.

The next day, you wake up with a sushi hangover. You ate way too much last night. You sit up and your stomach lurches.

Yup, that's enough raw fish to last you for a couple of weeks.

With some difficulty, you push yourself out of bed, grabbing your sunglasses off the nightstand and staggering out of the room. You have to stop in the doorway to lean against the wall for a moment- you're afraid if you move another step, you'll throw up. Either you ate too much too late, or you should send a health inspector to the sushi bar right away.

Your stomach heaves again and you decide on the latter option.

Somewhere, fate stops grimacing down at you long enough for you to reach the kitchen and down some alka-seltzer. In a few minutes, the dissolved tablets have worked their miracles and you manage to eat a couple pieces of dry toast.

You still feel the lingering effects of nausea, but you can suffer through.

Nearby on the counter, your phone vibrates a couple of times before settling down. You grab it and fumble with unlocking the damn thing for a few moments ("Fuck you; that is so the correct password, you useless piece of technology").

John's texted you, informing you that he might be able to stop by for about an hour later after he's done with classes.

You text back telling him that's awesome and that there's a spare key out in the tacky looking fake plant in the hallway. You actually plan on getting some work done today, so if he can let himself in, that's more time you have to spend mixing and perfecting that back-track. That and due to the lack of outside noise your headphones let in, you can't be sure that you would be able to hear him knock anyway.

Last night was one of your rare nights of sleeping in pajama pants, so you don't have to bother with slipping anything on later when John visits. More often than not, you prefer to work in nothing but boxers- okay, you prefer doing everything in nothing but your boxers, let's be honest here- but you're too lazy to remove them and then put them back on later. So the red and black plaid pants stay firmly on your ass.

Well, not firmly persae; they're pretty loose, actually. But same difference.

Feeling a little better now that you've eaten something, you head over to your studio and place the headphones over your ears. Before you actually start working, you give the track a good couple of listens- you need to figure out what to fix, what to add, what sounds good, what sounds awful, etc. It's going to be a long process, you decide as you start flipping switches and messing with dials. There's a lot to fix, and a lot that you want altered. If you're going to get the desired product, it'll take a few hours.

You suck it up and get down to work.

Chapter Text

You're making good progress. After about two hours of work, you've managed to finish up about a third of the track. You're totally engulfed in your work, and even after the two, long hours, you literally have to pull yourself away from your laptop for a quick break.

You grab yourself a coke from the fridge and sit down on the living room couch, propping your feet up on the coffee table. It's not often that you have to force yourself to take a breather, but you know better than writing for hours on end is one of the worst things you can do. Last time you mixed for more than three hours nonstop, the who thing turned out to be a gigantic mess of drops and bumping bass.

That took days to fix.

Impatiently, you sit it out watching some horribly-written reality show on television for about half an hour. You're more than itching to get back to work, feeling more productive than usual. Constantly, you glance at the time; trying to determine how long a decent break is.

You decide that 45 minutes is long enough, and head back to the studio at about 3:00. There's only a few sips left in the bottom of the can, but you take what remains of your soda back with you, setting it on the floor so you don't spill the sugary liquid all over your switchboards.

About another hour into your work, you get a text from John; 'i'm leaving my apartment now be there soon! :B'

The text had been sent to your phone almost ten minutes ago. You suppose you should feel at least a little guilty for responding so late, but hey, you're in the zone. And that's more than an acceptable excuse.

So instead of being rude and texting back after such a long interval of time, you decide to ignore it and be even more inconsiderate by not responding at all. You figure he shouldn't be too much longer, anyway; ten- maybe fifteen minutes more? Yeah that sounds about right. Besides, you have work to do and you're too focused to pull your eyes away from your project for too long.

Yes, answering a text constitutes as "too long".

You shove your phone in you pocket and unplug your headphones from their jack- fully intending to show off the moment John walks through your front door. He hasn't seen you actually mix yet, and that's something that needs to be fixed. You mess with the volume control quickly, making it so the sound engulfs the studio, but doesn't earn you another complaint from your neighbors. Normally you wouldn't give a shit, but they're old so you give them a little bit of a break. Besides, sometimes the wife makes you cookies. And that is a sweet deal you do not want to lose.

You eventually start working on creating a new track- taking a break from the old one, and filling your ears with a new sound. You become so buried in the music that you lose track of time. And when you do finally go to check the time again, you realize that it's now been about 45 minutes now since John texted you.

Feeling it appropriate to send him a message now, you pull out your phone and shoot him a quick text inquiring of his whereabouts.

You step away from your equipment, deciding it's a good time for another break, and head out into the kitchen. You stare at your phone, waiting for a reply. Refusing to get anxious over the situation, you pull out an apple juice from the fridge.

For the next twenty minutes, your mobile remains in your hand, eyes plastered to the screen.

Still no word from John.

Admittedly, you're a little worried now; after all, he was supposed to be here 40 minutes ago and you haven't heard an explanation for his absence. You're getting antsy, if your constantly tapping fingers are anything to go by.

Finally you give up and call him. Your fingernails clack against the counter top, a constant companion to the ringing in your ear. You whisper words of encouragement into the receiver; "Come on, John... Pick up the goddamn phone... I know you hear it, come on..." After a few, heart attack-inducing moments, his voice replaces the rings.

"Hi! You've reached John Egbert's phone!"

Unfortunately the cheery greeting was that of a recorded voicemail message.

"I'm busy right now, so just leave me a message. I'll get back to you as soon as I can!"

BEEEEEEEEEP.

"Hey, man," you say into the phone, voice level as always. "Just wonderin' where the hell you are. You know, since you were supposed to be here, like, an hour ago? Okay, 50 minutes. But yeah, you said you were gonna be here an hour ago, but you're not, and that's a real problem. I mean if you're picking up food or something, then I guess it's cool. But you could drop a guy a text or something. Let me know before you stand me up, John. But if you really are just getting food that's great, but it better be all made from scratch and using nothing but your blood sweat and tears for the time you're taking.

Anyway, call me back. Or get your ass up here. Whichever's more convenient for you. Okay? Cool."

You hang up and proceed to stare at your phone for another hour, still waiting on some sort of response. You spend the better part of that hour tapping your feet and fingers, pacing, muttering to yourself... You were never good at handling things like this- waiting and such. Waiting makes you anxious. You hate being anxious. Thus, you've become quite impatient.

And John is making you very impatient.

You're about to throw your phone at the wall when it starts vibrating, the "Gangster's Paradise" chorus echoing from the speakers. Instead of lamenting over the lack of contact photo you have of him to display right now, you waste no time answering the call.

"Yo. John, where are you?"

You hear his hesitation on the other line. "Hi, Dave." He sounds sheepish. "I, uh... I don't think I'll be able to make it today."

"That doesn't answer my question," you respond curtly.

He shifts around a bit. "The... hospital?"

You pause. "...is that a question?"

He sighs a bit. "No. It's not. I'm at the hospital. The emergency room, to be exact"

"Why are you at the- no. Actually, you know what? I'll be there in just a minute."

"What?" He sounds caught off-guard. Obviously he wasn't expecting you to jump and just run off to see him. "Dave, you don't-"

"Too late."

Click.

You hang up, setting your phone down on the counter. You run into your room and grab a t-shirt, not even bothering to change out of your pajama pants. And you jog the whole ten blocks down to the hospital like that, ignoring all the odd looks that you get from the people you pass by. And you especially ignore the disapproving look the beak-nosed receptionist.

You approach her with as straight of a back as you can manage. "Excuse me..." you begin, panting slightly. "I need to see John Egbert."

She stares at you for a moment longer before deciding that you don't seem like too much of a creep. Silently, she types something in on the computer, eyes scanning the screen for information. She then picks up a phone and dials four numbers on the keypad. While she seems to have all the time in the world and doesn't mind patiently waiting for the phone to ring, you're close to bouncing where you stand. Finally she starts speaking to the other person on the other end. "Yes," she says, her voice sharp. "I have someone to see John Egbert."

She falls silent, listening to the other voice. "Oh yes, that's fine. Thank you." She hangs up, and returns her razor eyes back to you. "Your friend is almost finished. It would be better if you'd wait in the lobby."

"How long?" you demand, your words immediate.

She raises an eyebrow at you, clearly displeased. "About ten minutes, sir. Now please, wait in the lobby."

You want to tell her that's not good enough. You want to tell her that no, you've been waiting almost two hours now- you don't need to wait any longer.

But instead you thank her and take a seat, leg bouncing restlessly.

Just like Miss Prim and Proper receptionist promised, John greets you in the lobby a few minutes later. He looks alright- no signs of any black eyes or anything. And his clothes seem fine as well; from his sneakers to his blue hoodie. But then you spot it- hiding beneath his sleeve.

"What's that." you say, nodding. You know what it is. You know exactly what it is.

He avoids any eye contact with you, but raises his right hand up just enough so he can peel back the blue fabric to reveal a white cast. "I, um... I broke my wrist," he mumbles.

You stare at it for a second. "I came all the way down here in my pajamas for that?"

"You didn't let me explain first."

"Jesus, John..." You stand and reach out, gingerly taking his wrist in your hands.

He's still not really looking at you. "Sorry," he mutters.

You look up at him, confused. "Why're you apologizing to me? It's not like you went out and decided 'oh golly gee, I think I'm going to fracture my carpus today!'"

"Well, I-"

You cut him off. "How'd it happen, anyway?"

You can tell that he's frustrated by your interruption, but explains anyway. "I was on my way to your apartment. I was waiting for my subway to get to the station and- it's kind of a blur- but this man was running in my direction and I think he had this old woman's purse, so I tried to stop him, but he shoved me over and I fell. But I caught myself! You know, before my head slammed into the pavement? And... I guess that's the problem; I caught myself. My wrist bent under me funny and... snapped."

You make a face. Imagining it is bad enough, but you don't need that kind of visualization. "The lady get her purse back?"

John nods. "Yeah, her husband brought me here. I guess it was sticking out kind of funny."

"That's enough with the details, dude."

"Sorry." He smiles just a bit, but it's gone just as soon as it came. "Dave, aren't you upset? At all? I mean, this means I can't play."

In all honesty, you'd forgotten about that. "Oh shit." This day just keeps getting better and better. You let go of his wrist and run a hand through your hair. "Shit. How long are you looking at?"

He shifts his weight in between his two legs nervously. "Doctor said six weeks minimum."

You groan. You wanted more than anything to get that album out by the end of this month. Now you're looking at maybe two-three months.

"I'm really sorry," he says, his voice pleading. "You don't have to wait for me to heal! I mean, you can find someone else, or use one of those computer programs to imitate-"

"First of all," you interrupt. "I'm not replacing you. Not with some kind of amateur, or program. Those programs suck ass; you can't get any emotion out of that." You pinch the bridge of your nose. "We'll just wait this out. We can still work. You can help me write and put together the tracks. Recording will just have to be put off for a few weeks. But we can finish everything else up by then..."

He finally looks up at you, searching for your eyes behind your glasses. "You really mean it, Dave?"

"Well of course. You're not getting rid of me that easily."

He smiles. "Thank you."

Chapter Text

You offer to escort John out and he agrees, as you figured he would. First he makes a quick phone call to his father off in Washington, explaining his situation and apologizing about, "Yeah, sorry about the bill..." But from this side of the conversation, it sounds as though his dad is more concerned with his son's bravery rather than his broken appendage.

Bro would've called you a dumbass.

Weird how families differ.

He ends the conversation with a, "Sorry dad, my phones's gonna die!" and hangs up, slipping the phone back into his pocket and sighing quietly. He glances up at you, trying to put on his normal go-lucky smile; but you can see he's just as upset about this as you are. "Ready when you are," he says weakly.

You nod. "Then let's go." You turn and head for the door, eager to get out of the hospital- the receptionist has been eyeing you suspiciously this whole time and you're not sure you can hold back the urge to flip her off for much longer.

However, you do give in and flash her your middle finger when she calls after you in an uppity, sarcastic tone to "Have a lovely evening."

John follows after you, snorting.

The two of you are silent as you walk down the street. He still looks as forlorn as ever; positive he's screwed this up. Well, he has kind of screwed things up, but that doesn't mean you can't fix them. You're not all too sure what all there is for you to be saying right now. There are, of course, a few generic topics to bring up in a situation like this, but most of them revolve around the well being of his wrist and you're pretty sure he's not too eager to talk about it. Especially with you.

By the time you reach the subway station, you've long given up think of a good conversation topic. If John wants to sulk in silence, then you'll let him. It's better than listening to him apologize over and over.

You offer to take him out for a quick dinner or travel the way to his dorm with him, but he just shakes his head, politely rejecting your offers. You at least wait for his train along with him, though, watching as a violinist nearby packs up for the night. You go to reach into your pocket for a buck or two, only to realize you're still in your pajama pants.

"Sure you don't want to take me up on either of those offers, huh?" You're trying to make him feel better. "We could grab some chili dogs or something just down the road. I have to get some real pants on, but I can pay and whatever."

"No," he replies. It's hard to tell if he's appreciating your efforts at all. "I think I'll just stop by the dining hall and grab something. I have that paper I should be working on, anyway. I wanted to get some more research done for it tonight."

You hear the rumbling of an approaching train. "Well, if you change your mind-"

"I'm good."

You officially give up after that and cross hook your thumbs on the waistband of your pants, making up for the lack of pockets. "Okay then, dude."

There's only a few more hesitant, silent seconds between the two of you before his train arrives. You exchange goodbyes and he's off.

You walk the rest of the way home.

You have to use the spare key to get into the apartment; in your hurry down to the hospital, you'd forgotten to grab your usual keyring off the counter. Feet hardly leaving the carpet, you trudge straight to the bedroom, flopping face-first onto the bed.

You kick off your shoes and roll onto your back, squeezing your eyes and pressing the heels of your hands against your forehead. Your thoughts whir. This is a tricky problem. You're going to make it work. You will. Somehow.

...but how?

You let loose a frustrated noise and rub circles into your skin, trying to calm yourself down. It's not often you get upset like this. And it's not that you're mad at John; no, you're mad at the situation. You're very mad at the situation. Now that you're thinking about it, you see just how difficult it's going to make this project. It's stressing you out and you really don't like to be stressed.

In a huff, you push yourself off the bed and go to the kitchen to make some fucking tea.

You don't even know or really care what kind of tea. You just heat some water, throw in a bag, and dump a shit ton of honey- probably enough to sweeten your way to diabetes. You consider grabbing a beer or something too, but decide against it. If your bro ever taught you anything, it was that alcohol doesn't solve problems.

That and that safe sex is good sex- if you were to ever walk though his door with an STD or a pregnant chick, he'd probably cut off your dick.

It's about 8:00 when you finally calm down. You just kind of lay sprawled out on the couch, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about the obvious and most current issue in your life. After a while, you turn on tv, the mindlessness of reality television distracting you from your problems.

Suddenly, there's a knock at the door. Five knocks to be precise.

You sit up and listen carefully, making sure it wasn't the neighbors or some trick your mind thought might be fun to play on you in your hour of unhappiness.

But your suspicions are disproven with another couple knocks.

You jump up and make your way leisurely to the door, unlocking it and swinging it open. The visitor catches you off guard. "...John?"

He shifts sheepishly, looking at the floor. "Hey, Dave. Um... I know this is probably gonna sound weird, but," he shifts his gaze to you, "do you think I could crash here tonight?"

You blink, confused- it's pretty late for him to be asking for a sleepover. "Uh... John, what time is it?"

He continues. "About 1:30... Please? Just for tonight! ...let's just say that I found this on the doorknob." He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a sock, holding it up for you to see.

Oh.

"I figured you'd still be awake and not busy or anything, so I just kind of came here."

You nod, understanding. "Come on in, man." You step aside, gesturing for him to come in. There's no way you're going to push him away. Poor guy. "Been a rough day, huh?"

He huffs and steps inside. "You have no idea."

"So does your roommate bring home people on a regular basis, or is this a surprise?" you inquire, shutting the door behind him. Maybe you shouldn't be prying, but what the hell?

John just shrugs, and follows you into the living room, not seeming to mind your invading his privacy. "Well it happens more than I'd like. Usually he throws some of my stuff out in the hall for me to find- like a pair of pajamas or something- but he didn't even bother with that tonight." He sighs lightly, letting the breath escape through his nose.

You sit on the couch. "You can move in here," you say, the words coming out before you have time to think.

He gives you a weird look.

Well. That happened.

"I mean, we're not too far from your school, right?" Strider, stop. Stop talking. "And it would make working on this album easier." Think about what you're saying, you dumbass! "You'd just have to help pay rent, but with two of us it wouldn't be that much." Well great. Now you can't take back that offer.

"Dave, I've known you for like, a week."

"What's your point?"

"...are you serious?"

"Why not?"

Maybe it's the fact that you're harboring that small crush for him; that's probably what's doing the talking here. But what happens if he agrees? Then you lose those feelings and eventually grow to hate him. Maybe hate is putting it to an extreme, but you've seen this kind of thing before and it didn't end well.

Even though you know this, it's like your mind is disconnected from your mouth. You keep talking, trying to convince both of you it's a good idea. "I mean, if your roommate pulls this kind of shit on you, I don't see why you wouldn't want to get out. See what I'm saying?"

He looks like he's beginning to consider it. "It's not like I dislike him..."

"But he's not your favorite person."

"Neither are you."

"Ouch."

He rolls his eyes, then starts thinking about it again, probably weighing the pros and cons of living with a weirdo like you.

A weirdo who can't keep his mouth shut.

"I'll see how tonight goes," he says finally, though he still sounds like he's lost in thought. He looks up at you. "Then we'll see, okay?"

You shrug. "Yeah sure." No. "Sounds fine to me."

No, it sounds awful. Dave Strider, you are the biggest idiot ever to walk this planet. And you know it well.

He nods. "So I'll just take the couch tonight, then?" he suggests.

"Oh no. No couch for you."

"Okay so you'll be taking the couch."

"No one's sleeping on the couch, dude. I tried that once and I'd ended in disaster. Screwed my back like a bitch. I couldn't walk right for a week." It's true; you resembled the hunchback of Notre Dame for about eight days. There's no way you're going through that again, and there's even less of a chance you'll subject anyone else to that. Especially John.

He looks at you skeptically. "Sp we're sharing your bed?" He doesn't sound thrilled by the idea.

"Look," you say, putting his doubts away, "I'm not gonna try anything. I swear on my life I won't. You sleep on your side, I sleep on mine, end of story and sweet dreams."

John still looks suspicious, but a little less so. "Okay," he agrees after a moment. "But I have just one question."

"Shoot."

"You don't sleep with your shades on, do you?"

You can't help it, you let out a short laugh. "How long has that question been burning, dude?"

He smiles a bit. "A while."

You shake your head, biting your lip to keep from smiling too wide. "No, I don't sleep with my shades on. They're just on the rest of the day."

"Are you hiding them?" he asks. Looks like it's his turn to get nosy.

"They're sensitive to light," you say, not giving all of your eyes' secrets away. "Natural light, electric... it hurts like a bitch." You can't let him know that they're red. Not yet at least. You've freaked out more than one potential partner that way. No, that's a trust he's got to build up.

He nods slowly. "Don't they have a surgery or something you can do for that?"

"I'm sure they do, but I'm not too fond of the idea of a lazer cutting through my cornea or anything."

He grimaces.

"Exactly my thoughts on the subject." you say in reply to his face. "But changing the subject now, I'm assuming you'll want to borrow some pajamas? You're a little bigger than me, but I think I can find something that'll fit." You're a stick. Let's face it. A tall, lanky stick.

John is not. Not to say he's fat, but he doesn't look like he's about to waste away at any second. You swear that if you turned sideways, you'd disappear.

"That would be great, actually," he replies, finally accepting one of your offers. "Thanks." He cradles his arm carefully. "Here's hoping I don't lay on this funny tonight. You don't move a lot in your sleep, do you?"

"Mh, not too much. I usually toss until I get comfortable. Then I'm there for the rest of the damn night." Unless you have nightmares, but you don't mention that part. The last time you had a nightmare, you woke up on the floor and you had managed to all but wad up all of your blankets. But that was a couple of weeks ago and you haven't had an incident since. You're hoping that you don't tonight.

"Well," he says with a shrug. "Show me to the bedroom."

Chapter Text

"Now unless you're the kind of guy who prefers to sleep in his boxers and or jeans, there're some sweat pants in the dresser- bottom drawer."

John is probably too busy looking around your bedroom to be paying you any attention. You're not too sure what all he'd find very interesting; it's by far the simplest- and cleanest- room in the apartment. You're hardly ever in your bedroom, so there really isn't anything besides the essentials: bed, dresser, nightstand, a bag of Doritos...

"Did you take all these yourself?" John asks suddenly, studying some photographs you've taped up on the wall. There are only ten up tops, but each photo differs completely. There are a couple of you and your cousin Rose, a few you took whilst people-watching one afternoon at the subway station, and one of a crow you managed to lure into your apartment with some Cheetos last month.

You cross your arms so they rest comfortably over your chest. "Yeah," you say passively, not really considering it that big of a deal. "It's been kind of a hobby of mine since I was, like, 12. But most of my shit back then was beyond hipster; all black and white and obscure angles." You wave a dismissive hand. Most of your photography back that was all for the horrific irony, but then you actually took an interest in the art and studied up.

You still hold an avid love for it and make a point to pick up the camera when you get the chance, but the days of your own makeshift black room and stringing pictures from wall-to-wall are long gone.

A small smile creeps onto John's face as he scans them further, taking in every detail. "These are cool," he says. "Is this your sister? She's pretty." He points to a picture of you and Rose. It's just one you two did for shits and giggles a couple summers back- the camera is angled above you so you're both staring up at the lense, Rose giving it the most intense look she can manage, and you the middle finger.

It describes the two of you and your relationship quite well, actually.

"Nah," you reply, drawing out the word. "That's Rose- my cousin. She's pretty cool, but don't get any ideas. She lives halfway across the country and has a boyfriend. Or girlfriend. I guess it doesn't matter much who she's doing this week, but she's taken."

John throws you a look. "Thanks for the warning," he says sarcastically.

You shrug. "Not a problem, dude."

He rolls his eyes and turns his attention away from the pictures. "So where did you say the sweats were?"

Despite his wariness earlier, John seems more than content to crawl into your bed. It seems that weariness triumphs over most else- and the poor kid has had a hard, long day. He settles down under the blankets, careful not to bump or lay on his injured wrist.

You sit down on the side opposite to him, removing your shirt, but leaving on the pajama pants. You'd rather sleep in just your boxers, but the unspoken laws of common courtesy dictate otherwise. The shirt is thrown somewhere onto the floor and clap off the lights.

John snorts. "You're such a loser." He glances up at you. "Why don't you get some normal lights- you're 20 not 70."

You slide off your shades, setting them next to John's glasses on the nightstand. It's too dark for John to be able to see your irises, so you don't have any problem looking in his direction. "Because fuck you, they're awesome."

"No, you're just lame."

"Go to bed, will ya? I think I like you better when you're not insulting me. It's okay to be jealous, but don't he a hater John."

"Whatever," he chuckles, leaky whites barely visible in the darkness. "Night, Dave. And... thanks again."

You swing your legs to rest on the bed and pull the blankets over you, tugging them close to your chin despite the fact you'll probably be kicking them off sometime during the night. "No problem, man. But sorry in advance if I kick you. I mean, I'm not really known for being a restless sleeper or anything, but with your luck today, who knows what could go down."

You turn onto your side to face him and continue on with your monologue, but he's already knocked out- breathing heavily and clutching the pillow tightly with his left arm.

You allow yourself a small smile. He's adorable. During his waking hours- and when he's got his glasses on- he's still cute to a point, but handsome would be a better word to describe his waking self. You shift slightly and move a hand to his hair.

It's soft. Just like you expected it to be.

But soft as it is, you only get one touch. After all, you'd promised not to try anything, and you won't. He's trusting you to do that much.

Thoughts of your idiocy start to worm their way into your mind- You invited him to live with you! You fucking moron! Do you know how badly that could affect your chanc...- but you push them away earnestly. For now you'd just like to enjoy the moment- admire John's silent, sleeping form.

What you wouldn't give to be able to hold him.

But you'd double that offer to get rid of this crush; he's already indicated his disinterest, and you're convinced it will end badly. And when it ends badly, you'll be left without your talented keyboardist.

No, you decide, it's better to just enjoy these short moments of pining and just let it fade away. Friendship is a much more stable form of relationships, anyway. Or at least it has been in your experiences. So that's what it is: John Egbert. Your friend.

Your friend who's sleeping in your bed.

Your friend whose presence makes your chest ache.

Your friend whose rhythmic breathing eventually lulls you to sleep.

But that's all he is; your friend.

You're awake by 9:30, and- as expected- you and John have stayed on your respective sides throughout the duration of the night. It's not like the idea of waking up cuddling with each other had even crossed your mind; it isn't like your life is written by some fanservice-engrossed teenage girl with nothing better to do with her day.

That'd be ridiculous.

You push yourself up and blink heavily against the sunlight. It's weak, and only a few streams make it through the curtains, but it's enough to make you want your shades. Once they're on your face, you instantly feel better. You don't feel like you'll be able to get back to sleep with the sun, so you skip the step where you try and fail, and just push yourself out of bed, careful so as not to wake up John.

Almost mindlessly, you shuffle to the kitchen. Coffee sounds good, but you don't feel like spending the time on it and just grab a juice box instead. The sweet liquid tastes wonderful- washing away any sort of nasty morning breath tastes lingering in your mouth. God you hate that.

With the little straw poking through your lips, you make your way over to your recording studio. You shut the door behind you as quietly as you can manage and take your place in front of one of your huge Mac screens to do some editing and mixing, not feeling much like working on your laptop. You've been told on multiple occasions by multiple people that having so many computers is a waste of space and money, but it's times like these you beg to differ; a larger screen makes it easier to see more of the track and edit more than one variable at one time.

You only make a few minor changes to one track before you decide that you really don't feel like doing this today. You lean back, sucking at the last drops of your juice thoughtfully. Your eyes drift over to your turntables. It's been a while since you've mixed something just for the hell of it; everything else you've worked on had some sort of purpose and you haven't had a DJ'ing job in weeks.

Maybe a little bit of messing around couldn't hurt.

You stand up, leaving the juice box on the desk and shuffle the couple of steps over to one of the tables. It's one of the smaller sets, but it has enough switches and dials and sliders to make up for it, and boy is it fun to play with. You grab a pair of headphones and plug them in so as not to wake up John and set up your laptop nearby.

Within minutes your fingers are flying. You may not have keys for your digits to dance on like John, but this is your domain and you rule.

You start playing the track- quick synth bass with low drums and hi-hat accents. You give it a few beats before adding another layer to the track, bringing this high-pitched synth at a lower volume, then slowly building it higher and higher, your finger pushing up one of the sliders up gently and with experienced patience. With your free hand, you bring in an effect that sounds like a cymbal crash. The effect hits once a measure, then twice, then four times, and so on until your finger is pounding and the slider has reached its peak.

Then you drop the sound- pulling the slider down suddenly and echoing out the track to create a sound that rings through your ears.

The echo dies away and you smirk, feeling your foot start to tap eagerly. You start the tracks again, this time at an equal volume and adding another synth track that runs quickly up and down scales. You give that a moment before adding in some lyrical tracks. You add in an 'Oh yeah!' here and there and a few bars of Dev's "Bass Down Low" soon following.

A little bit of rising action, some new drum tracks, sudden drops- you're going all out on this one.

There's a movement out of the corner of your eye that catches your attention, but you quickly shift your focus back to your work.

John shuffles in, shutting the door behind him. He sits down at your desk, spinning the chair around so he can watch you. He nurses his wrist in his left arm, but otherwise all his attention is on you. He motions for you to unplug your headphones and you happily oblige, shifting them to rest around your neck instead of on your ears. It's much more comfortable that way, anyhow.

You waste no time showing off to your new audience member. You silence all tracks save for the "Bass Down Low", letting the female's voice resonate through the room for a moment before starting up again with a dubstep-backtrack accompanied by a simple drum/cymbal combo. The wubs and grinding noises from the dubstep track start out soft, but you shift it to quickly overpower the lyrics. Soon her voice is no longer heard and you silence her track, hand moving to the silver, spinning disk on the right. You barely touch the equipment; only your fingertips push against it. But it's enough and soon you've got a nice scratch effect, moving back and forth on the track, your other hand flicking a slider back and forth as you do so to create a better sound.

Once more, you bring in a 'Yeah!' and end the track with a shattering sound effect.

You glance up at John, not sure you have anything worth saying. You want to know what he thinks. You've admired his fingers on multiple occasions now, and it's finally his turn to marvel at your handiwork. Of course, that's what you thought last time when you had him sample your tracks for the album. That hadn't gone quite the way you planned, but hopefully this would go over better.

John just kind of stares at you- at your hands. He looks as though he's trying to find the words he wants to say. Finally he speaks. "That was..."

You raise an eyebrow. "Was...?" you urge.

"That was really... really cool."

You chuckle. "Don't sound so impressed."

"No, really! It was cool. I haven't really seen anyone do anything like that before! And I'm going to be honest with you, here; I never really considered DJ'ing actually, like..." he play with his fingers, but keeps his gaze on you, "a way of making music? But I guess it was because I'd never really seen it done. I just kind of figured it was all loaded into the computer and mixed there and then you just kind of switched tracks or scratched records or... stuff..." He trails off, seemingly at a loss for words again. "But you proved me wrong, Dave Strider. Congratulations." He grins up at you.

You snort. You're used to people making assumptions like that- it's a common misconception, actually. "Nah, man I totally get where you're coming from. Maybe when your wrist gets better I can teach you some stuff, huh? Get you out of the classical world for a while."

His smile grows. "I think I'll have to take you up on that."

Chapter Text

You offer to get him breakfast; as much fun as it would probably e to watch him try and pour milk over his cereal with his weaker, left hand, you're not that much of an asshole.

Well that, and you'd like to keep the counters relatively clean.

All you have in the cupboards, as far as cereal is concerned, is Cinnamon Toast Crunch. John doesn't seem to mind your juvenile taste in breakfast foods, which is good because Cinnamon Toast Crunch is the shit. Not so much as Cheetos are, but you're pretty sure your guest wouldn't take too kindly to cheesy... almost chip... things, for breakfast.

You've just barely started to take your second bite of the sugary stuff, when you hear the front door open and slam. Before you can even react to what sounds like a breaking-and-entering, there's a tall man leaning on your shoulder.

"Oh my god," is all you manage to squeak.

"Sup, lil man?" the familiar voice says- it's a deep baritone and it makes you want to kick his ass. That wish increases drastically when you feel his arm wrap around both of your shoulders.

You try to remain calm for John's sake. "How the hell did you get into my apartment?"

"What, you think a lock's really gonna stop me? Not when I haven't heard from you in months." He pinches his nose dramatically, just under the bridge of his stupid glasses. Oh you want to snap those shitty plastic things in half. "What's a brother to do? No phone calls, not even a text..."

You frown. "Get out."

"If you really think it's gonna be that easy-"

You shrug his arm off your shoulders and cut him off. "I dont' want to hear it. Out."

A small "um" catches both of your attentions and you suddenly remember John's presence. He stands awkwardly on the other side of the counter, clearly at a loss of what to do. And you don't blame him.

You start to say something to him- something along the lines of run for your fucking life- but Bro beats you to the punch, speaking up before you can even start forming your first syllable; "Who's this?" he asks, leaning in towards John, as if trying to make the poor kid even more uncomfortable than he already is. Bro grins back at you. "He your boyfriend."

You snap. Your cool is so far from lost right now. It might as well have never existed in the first place. Why you even bothered to try and keep your composure is an absolute mystery at this point. "Bro, leave!" you practically shriek, your cheeks warming despite every effort to keep them from turning red.

"So, you guys fuck last night?"

Oh that's it. You aim a fist at his face, fully intending to smash that cocky ass right in the jaw; but he catches your wrist just before you can collide with that smug grin of his. You struggle against his strong hold, your thin wrists clearly no match for his giant hands. So you resort to yelling at him. "Get out, get out, get out!"

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see John shuffle off to the side awkwardly. "Im just gonna go to the bathroom..." Jesus, his face is even brighter than yours at this point.

Needless to say, you feel awful.

As soon as he's out of view, Bro leans in close to you, finally releasing your sore wrist. "He's cute."

"Shut. Up." you hiss, your eyes narrowed dangerously behind your shades. It's almost a shame you can't take them off and let him see just how much you hate his guts, but from years of experience and similar situations, you're positive he knows exactly how venomous your glare is. "He's working with me on an album. And that's it."

Your brother crosses his arms over his chest. "So what was he doing here last night, huh?" He raises an eyebrow skeptically, obviously not believing you two are just partners.

"Sleeping," you snap. Then you force yourself to take a deep breath. "It's a long story. He got kicked out of his place last night and came over here. Nothing happened. And nothing ever will happen. Got it?"

Bro says nothing in response, but he does take it upon himself to rummage through your fridge. "Don't you have any good beer or anything?" he chides, pulling out a juice box. Apparently, juice is the closest thing to the alcohol he wants.

"I don't shop for you, asshole."

He pokes the straw through and takes a long sip, pretty much slurping up half the liquids in one go. "So he's not your little boy toy, huh?"

You glare at him, lips pressed tightly together. You resist the urge to smack him, but that's mostly because you know he'd stop you before you even got close. "No," you say slowly. "He's not."

"Not yet, anyway."

You go to protest, but once again he cuts you short.

"Don't even try me, lil dude. I know you. And I also know you've got it bad." He smirks and takes another sip of his juice, knowing you can't refute him.

He's right. You both know it. Sometimes you swear he knows you better than you do- most of your close family is like that actually- both Rose and Bro can always seem to read your mind. It's creepy and you hate it. "Shut up," you mutter quietly. This was probably the last thing you wanted to happen.

Bro laughs. "Oh, man. You can't even pretend to tell me otherwise! You do got it bad."

"I said shut up!" you hiss, pushing him. "What if he hears you?"

"He should know eventually, shouldn't he?"

"No. It'll pass. It's just a stupid crush, that's all." You're not sure if you're trying to convince yourself or your brother more of this at this point. After all, you've been telling yourself that you aren't in love or infatuation, or anything with John. Especially considering how little you actually know him. But the more you've gotten to know him, the worse it's become. And its starting to scare you a bit.

Bro seems to understand this. "Mmh, I'm not so sure it will this time, lil man. But maybe something good will come out of it in the end."

He looks like he has more he wants to say, but John awkwardly shuffles back into the room, taking his place back on the other side of the counter. His face doesn't quite resemble that of a flustered schoolgirl anymore, but he still looks at a complete loss of what to say or do in this situation.

Surprisingly enough, it's Bro who breaks the tension. "Sorry about earlier," he says to John, not sounding sorry at all. "I may or may not be a little drunk."

You roll your eyes.

"You can call me Bro," he continues, holding out his hand for John to take- which he does. "I'm Dave's brother, and his superior in every way imaginable."

"Fuck off," you comment with a scowl. You get that cocky grin shot back at you in response.

Because John was probably brought up real well- any parent that teaches their kid piano must've taught them manners as well, right?- he shakes your bro's hand, despite his recent injury. It's almost amazing how lightly Bro holds his hand. It makes you feel a little better about the situation, but also manages to piss you off more for some strange reason. "I'm John," he says, albeit shyly. "I'm helping Dave out with his new album. And I guess I'm a potential roommate now, too."

You groan to yourself, wishing he wouldn't have brought that up.

Bro glances at you with a raised eyebrow, the corner of his oddly-colored iris just barely visible behind the arm of his shades. He says nothing, but you almost wish he would; it's better he say what's on his mind rather than you trying to guess all the possible things he could be thinking at the moment. And you could probably come up with a very long list of probable arguments he's cooking up right now.

It's going to be a very long and hard day today.

Chapter Text

"Potential roommate, huh?" Bro repeats, pulling his hand back away from John's grip and folding his arms over his chest. He leans back against the
fridge, taking a deep breath in through his nose while he waits for some sort of an answer.

When you don't offer one, John does; "Yeah," he replies, glancing back and forth from you and Bro awkwardly, wondering if he had made the right decision in explaining. "My roommate. He, to put it bluntly, really likes having sex and locking me out of the room. It happens a lot, so Dave offered to let me stay with him for a while. We can work on our album easier that way, too!" Obviously he's trying to give your brother a better impression of the situation.

Bro doesn't look impressed. He knows you. He knows how work. "So you're sexiled, huh? That's the riveting and exciting plot twist that brought you into my brother's bed last night?"

"Bro," you hiss warningly.

He just shrugs. "What? Even I know your couch is shit."

"Yeah well, you're shit. Didn't I tell you to get lost?"

He leans in close to you and you can smell his most recent beer in his breath- it's a stale smell and probably is still left over from last night. You wrinkle your nose as he begins to speak, and it's not just from the rancid odor. "Yeah?" he tests. "You wanna prove that? This place got a nice roof?" He's got that awful smirk on his face that you absolutely loathe.

You lean in just as close, just enough so you can make out the shape of his eyes behind his shades. "You wanna go?"

John takes a step away, looking a little concerned. "Um, should I leave?"

Both of you turn your gazes to face him. "No, stay here," you both say at the same time. Bro just wants him to stay so he can be used as a potential teasing device- directed towards you, of course- and you just want him to stay mostly so you don't attempt homicide today. If you weren't on the edge of attacking your brother and his douchebag face, you would rather John get out and save himself from the- mostly- harmless bickering you two are prone to.

He just kind of deflates. "Okay?" he answers quietly.

You glance back to Bro, eyes narrowed. "You, however can leave."

Bro glares back at you, his intensity far outmatching yours despite years of perfecting your sour looks in the mirror. Finally, he straightens, saying nothing more in retorts. "Fine," he agrees with a sarcastic chuckle, putting his hands on his hips. "If you want me out of here so bad, then I will leave. I'll be back tonight, though. With good beer." He turns to leave you two.

You cross your arms, jaw set square as you respond as coolly as you can manage. "You're sleeping on the couch."

"Fuck that shit!" he says with a laugh. "I'd rather sleep on the floor."

"You're sleeping on the floor then!"

He laughs again. "Fine, fine! The floor then, lil bro." And then he says nothing else and he's gone.

You've never been so happy to hear your door close.

You slump over the counter, wishing that the tile was suitable for burying your face. What you wouldn't give for a pillow right now. "I am so fucking sorry," you mumble, peeking up at John, sunglasses slipping down a centimeter or two. "I can't even give him an excuse; he's always like that. By the way, in case you didn't figure this out already, you can't stay here tonight." Bro had done enough damage just in the first few minutes he'd been here; imagine how much he could do in a night. You almost shudder at the thought.

"That's alright," John answers with a shrug. He doesn't look nearly as traumatized as you would've expected. Good. "No offense, but I don't think I like your brother all that much."

"No one does." That's a lie. Just about everyone on the planet adores your brother for some, god-knows-why reason. You and John- you're the 1%.

John laughs a little bit. "But really, thanks for letting me stay last night. I appreciate it."

You haul yourself off the counter, pushing your shades up before they decide to slip down too far. "It's not that big of a deal, dude," you say. Your eyes land on your bowl of cereal- forgotten. Soggy. You frown and decide that Cinnamon Toast Crunch didn't sound that appetizing anyway.

"It's so a big deal," John responds stubbornly, intent on making this a bigger deal than you'd like it to be. "And you know, there's that whole offering to let me stay thing. That's kind of a big deal, too."

You go to protest, but he cuts you off before you get the chance.

"And don't even try to tell me it's not, Dave Strider. Because it is. So anything you against the matter is automatically invalid."

You roll your eyes, letting him have this argument. "Yeah yeah, whatever," you say, taking your bowl in hand and dumping the contents down the sink. God, you hate soggy anything. Especially cereal.

"Heh, good! Oh, and Dave?" he asks suddenly. "Do you have any painkillers or anything? My wrist is starting to bother me."

You load the bowl and spoon into the dishwasher, to be washed later. "Sure, man. Ibuprofen alright? If not, you're pretty much screwed because I think that's all I've got in the cupboard at this point."

John shakes his head. "No, that should be fine!"

"Alright. Wait here and I'll grab you some from the bathroom, then."

He smiles. "Thanks, dude."

John stays a little while longer for a new bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee.

You stay away from the topic of your brother and try to stick to more "exciting" subjects like living arrangements should he decide to move in. You know; splitting costs, groceries, his class schedule, where the fuck everyone's going to sleep- you both agree that sharing a bed isn't out of the question considering it's big enough for two to be comfortable, at least until you can work out something else.

Then you lend him a new t-shirt to wear along with the sweats he borrowed last night, he gathers his things, and leaves for his own place, leaving you alone in the apartment.

Naturally, you pull out your copy of Left 4 Dead to release some of your anger before Bro arrives; the more stress you relieve through shooting and killing things now, the less inclined you'll be to actually shoot or kill your brother later. You die more times than you'd like to count in the couple of hours it takes for your darling sibling to return.

He walks in holding a case of beer- as promised.

"You sure took your sweet time," you say, not looking up from your game or bothering to move from your spot on the floor.

You hear the door shut behind him, followed by his footsteps on the linoleum on the kitchen floor as he goes to put his drinks in the fridge. "I was hoping you'd make the right choice. So I gave you some time to pour your heart out to the kid." His bottles clink against the plastic shelves in the refrigerator as he speaks.

You frown, grimacing as your health levels go down. "I told you already I'm not going to tell him, didn't I?" You're not too great at this whole holding up a conversation while battling zombies thing- your character is dying at an alarming rate. "I thought I made it clear it'll just pass." Your character runs out of bullets, causing you to curse several times under your breath.

"Yeah. About that," Bro says, taking a seat behind you on the coffee table.

Your character suffers a violent death and in an act of video game-induced rage, you turn off the console.

So much for stress relief.

Bro hands you a beer, which you take with a muttered, "thanks" and take a big swig of. Beer was never your alcohol of choice, but it wasn't unwelcome every so often.

Your bother continues while you try to look like you're ignoring him- taking an interest in the bottle in your hand and the liquid it contains. "Time for a little heart-to-heart, man. Why didn't you tell him?"

You loathe it when Bro actually acts like a parental figure and tries to give advice. It never happened very often while you were growing up, but as you got older and had more problems, they became more and more frequent. You hate talking about your feelings and you hate getting advice from people; but more importantly, you hate these "feeling jams" because Bro is usually right.

And you usually don't take his advice.

"I'd just really rather not," you snap in reply, throwing your controller off to the side.

"Why not?"

You make a noise not unlike a growl, kicking your feet out in front of you. "Because we've got a pretty good thing going on here right now. We're the best of fucking friends and we've got a sweet business deal, okay?"

"So you'd rather have him live with you than go out with you." It wasn't a question.

You take another sip of alcohol. "Shut up. I didn't mean for that to come out when I offered, but I couldn't take it back after I said it." Not that you are completely opposed to the idea, anyway; but that's not the point.

Bro's quiet for a moment, trying to figure out exactly what it is he needs to say. "Didn't I spend half of your life trying to teach you to think before you act?"

"Asshole. Shut up."

"You realize that if he moves in, it's just gonna get worse, right?"

You take another long drink of your beer. "I don't see how that's possible at this point."

"Are you sure about that? Do you even really know anything about the kid? What's his favorite color?"

Um. "Blue." You're totally guessing; isn't that the generic favorite color or something like that? Doesn't everyone like blue?

"What's his favorite food?"

"Uh...."

"Do you even know his major?"

"Well...."

"What color are his eyes?"

"Blue," you answer confidently. This one you're positive of; how could you not notice those lovely eyes of his? They're actually very, very bright now that you think about it. Bright and deep.

You hear the sloshing of Bro's beer in his bottle as he takes a large gulp of the liquid, setting the bottle down on the coffee table. "Why don't you do me a favor here, huh? Get to know the guy, why don't you? Actually know him. As more than a business partner. Then you can either fuck him-"

"I'm not-!"

"Shut up. Then you can either fuck him or come to me and tell me it'll pass. Deal?"

You stand up, setting your own empty bottle next to his on the table. "I'm going to bed," you say grumpily.

Bro says nothing, he just watches leave and walk over to your room. As soon as your door is closed behind you, you hear the sound of the TV and your game turning back on. Jackass.

You kick off your socks and crawl into bed, not bothering to change out of the pajamas from last night. Your shades are removed and set on the nightstand and you flop down onto your side, uncomfortable by how empty your bed feels after John as left. It shouldn't feel like something's missing; he stayed over one night. And yet, it does.

You hate it.

You hate it a lot.

You grab the spare pillow from the other side of the bed and clutch it tightly to your chest, pleased when you find it still kind of smells like John. You bury your face in the fabric and inhale, allowing yourself to sink comfortably into the mattress as you exhale. You don't care if it's creepy or weird- the pillow smells nice and you're going to sleep like this.

So you do; despite how early it still is.

It's the best you've slept in a while.

Chapter Text

To say you're pleased when you find you're alone when you wake up is an understatement; with Bro gone, you allow yourself to relax a little. You really hate having him around. He can be cool- everyone has their moments- but more times than not, he pushes you and taunts you and just teases you in the ways he knows you hate most. Forget about the traumatized years filled with puppets- the things he said were even worse; as demonstrated yesterday.

You find a note left for you on the fridge. Apparently, your privacy will be short-lived if the 'I'll see you tonight' is anything to go by. That is, if you're even reading it correctly; Bro's handwriting is even worse than yours. And that's saying something.

With a sigh, you tear the sticky note from the refrigerator, crumpling it before tossing it in the trash. So much for having the apartment to yourself again. You suppose though, that it wouldn't be too horrible if he's not coming back until later tonight. At least that's something, you think as you go about starting some eggs for breakfast.

As you crack the shells, you can't help but allow your mind to wander- thoughts traveling back to what your bro had said last night about John. Or at least what he had said about getting to know the kid.

You pause, staring at the eggs as they cook on the hot pan.

Maybe he was right?

You shake your head, grabbing the salt and pepper off the counter nearby. You hate it when Bro is right- you absolutely loathe it when he's right- nothing gives you more pleasure then when the guy is wrong about something. He threw some of the seasonings onto the eggs, frustrated, before returning them to their place.

But you take the time to entertain the idea, daydreaming about what it could possibly be like if, if something did end up happening between you and John. So much so that you almost burn your breakfast. You're kind of getting sick of this emotional battle with yourself. It's only been a few weeks since you first met the kid; but whether you like it or not, and despite all the effort you've put into pushing away those feelings and all the times you've told yourself that this was all just a phase, you actually were attracted to him.

And it wasn't just a physical attraction, either.

You remove the pan from the burner and away from the heat, slumping back against the counter angrily. Though as angry as you were with yourself, it was almost a relief to finally be able to admit that- yes, you kind of really like John.

It's then and there that you decide you're actually going to do something about it.

If it works out- great.

If it fails- well, it won't be the first time.

You sit down on the couch with a plateful of eggs and a glassful of apple juice, phone in your hand. You're reminded of the first encounter you had with your pianist- how awkward he was during that first exchange of words, how amazed you were when he actually called you... Looks like it's time for you to be the one making that call now.

Before your mind has the time to actually wake up fully and comprehend what you're doing, you make the call- not waiting for nerves to change your mind. They start catching up to you, though; getting closer and closer with every ring that sounds in your ear. "Pick up..." you mutter under your breath. "Come on, pick up..."

Then- "Oh hey, Dave!"

Thank the lord. "Hey dude. You have any plans tonight?" you ask, keeping your voice level and your cool under control. You have to keep your composure. You didn't mean to get right to the point like that, but perhaps it was better for you to just ask him right out instead of dancing around the subject and never getting to it.

"Um..." he pauses, taking a moment to think. "No, I don't think so! Why do you want to work or something?"

Yeah. Or something. "Well kind of. There are some things I want to talk about and work out before we start getting back to writing and all of that jazz." Can you go on a date and still be talking business? That seemed like a plausible thing to do.

"Okay! What time do you want me over, then?"

You hesitate. "I was actually thinking we could talk it over over dinner."

You can almost hear the confusion through your phone. "Dave are you asking me out on that date now?" John asks a little skeptically. "Because I know we talked about that the first time we spoke, but I didn't actually think that-"

"No not a date," you say, cutting him off before you can stop yourself. Well so much for the date you were planning on making official. "I just felt bad about my brother yesterday. And he's staying another night, I guess, so I need to get out of the house. I'll pay and everything so don't worry about that."

It's John's turn to hesitate. "Well I guess that'd be fine!" he says finally. "Just nothing too fancy, right?" He laughs a little bit. You can't tell if it's nervous or not and it worries you.

"Nah, I don't do fancy. Why don't we meet down at that little diner on 3rd? Get a burger and some fries and stuff? I'll meet you there around six."

"Okay! Six it is. I'll bring some blank sheet paper in case we want to work on writing!"

You nod, almost forgetting that John can't see the gesture. "Sounds good. I'll see you later."

The phone call ends and you're left feeling a little disappointed in yourself. It seems the nerves had caught up with you after all, despite the effort you had made. You had been feeling rather proud of yourself a moment ago, and more than confident in your abilities to score a date. But now you didn't feel so sure.

It wasn't a very good feeling.

You pick at your eggs, not so hungry anymore.

"Come on, Strider," you say to yourself, deciding it was time for a self-pep talk. "You're just trying to get to know him, right? Not actually date him yet. Yeah. Just getting to know him. You can get some work done tonight and then you can talk and... and it'll be fine. It'll be fine." You keep telling yourself that- it'll be fine, it'll be fine. Maybe this was a better way to approach the situation, anyway; you'd be making progress in more than one area, and maybe even Bro would be happy.

You laugh. Like Bro would be happy.

Well dammit, he was going to have to be happy. Because Dave Strider was tired of playing the infatuated business-partner; Dave Strider was on a mission to get him a man.

And now that you had made the decision to make this happen, there was no going back.

Chapter Text

It's a date.

It's totally a date.

John doesn't even know it. But it's a date. You'd set yourself up for a date.

True you had already made it clear to John- not so much to yourself, but you were working on that- that this was, in fact, just talking business over dinner. While it was to be a very casual dinner, you had invited him. And you already put the bill onto your shoulders.

You're pacing around outside Donna's Diner, doing everything in your power to not tear out your hair out as you negotiate with yourself. It's almost 6:00- the time you told John you'd meet him- and with every passing minute, your freak factor raises about 5-10%. You're currently at 65% and still have yet to convince yourself this isn't a date.

Because it totally is.

Finally after a few moments, you manage to pause your pacing back and forth long enough to take a deep breath and adjust your jacket. You made sure to look at least somewhat nice- throwing on a pair of your reddest, most worn out tennis shoes so you didn't look too nice. As much as you like a classy outfit, you deemed it safer not to go overboard tonight.

You do your best to calm yourself down. The last thing you want is for John to catch you while you're in full on freak out mode- because freaking out is not a thing you normally do. You don't even really know why you're getting so excited over this and that's freaking you out even more. Long story short, you're an emotional mess.

There's suddenly a hand on your shoulder and it pulls you back to reality. The hand is a combo deal and comes paired with a, "Hey, Dave!" The voice continues as you turn to face its owner. "I wasn't sure I was at the right place, so I'm glad you decided to wait outside for me! I've never been here. Is it any good?"

The babbling voice, of course, belongs to John. And while you expected for his entrance to wind you even tighter, you actually feel relieved when you see him standing in front of you. Maybe this was going to be easier than you thought.

"Yo," you say in the calmest tone you can muster- allowing for yourself to relax. "Yeah man, this place is great. I swing by here whenever I need a good, cheap burger. Come on," you say, nodding towards the door, "let's go see if we can't get a seat at the counter."

The red stools set up at the counter are occupied, so you and John take a seat at one of the booths- not that either of you are really complaining. This little diner is, without a doubt, one of your favorites. It looks like it's pulled straight out of the stereotypical 50's; there's a jukebox, the floor is checkered, and the waitresses wear aprons over their brightly-colored skirts. Of course, it isn't just the atmosphere you love, but the food definitely ranks somewhere in your top ten.

"I recommend the chocolate milkshakes," you mention to John as he gives the menu a good once-over. "Those are great for dipping your fries- forget ketchup." You don't even need to look over your options at this point; you've been ordering the same thing for the past two years or so.

He makes a face. "Oh so you're one of those people, huh?" he asks. Though he's grimacing, it's hard to miss the amusement playing on his face.

"What people?"

"The kind of people who dip their fries in their shakes!"

You snort. "Well yeah. That's the best way to eat them, after all. It's fucking delicious, don't you know?"

John just kind of shrugs, eyes scanning over their rather large burger selection. "I've never actually tried it, to be honest. It's kind of weird!"

"...what?" you practically gasp, mocking something akin to offense. "Jonathan Egbert, I expected better of you." You really did. "You of all people should have been exposed to this years ago."

"Me of all people?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow at you over the top of his menu.

"Well you're kind of weird."

He grins, closing his menu and hitting you lightly over the head with it. "Shut up! You're weirder than I am, you know!"

Before you can counter with some sort of great, hilarious, witty masterpiece, your waitress interrupts you to take your orders. You just get your usual- a plain cheeseburger with a side of fries, a tall chocolate shake, and an ice cold Coca Cola to sip on while you wait for your food. John order's similar, but he piles on just about everything imaginable onto his burger. He is also without a milkshake until you tell the waitress he'll have one, too. That earns you a snappy, "Dave!" and an eyeroll, but if it means you can introduce your bro to the delicacy that is fries in a milkshake, it's totally worth it.

Shortly after your order's been taken- and you've been presented with a glass of cola- John pulls out some blank staff paper and starts talking business. Suddenly, you remember why you were getting worked up earlier and the tension starts rising again.

You cut him off mid-sentence. He was just talking about keys and time signatures- nothing really important. "Hey, dude," you begin, putting a hand over the paper. You kind of slide it out of the way and to the edge of the table. John watches you with a confused look. "I was thinking. Maybe we should take some time to talk, well, not music?"

His confusion visually grows. "What do you mean?" he asks slowly.

In high school, you had grown really great at bullshitting answers when called out in class. It was a skill you hadn't expected to ever be useful in the real world. And yet, you used that talent for all it was worth. "Well see, like, I don't know hardly anything about you, and you don't really know that much about me either, and if we're going to keep working together, I think that getting personal- no, not like that- would be good for our dynamic, you know? And especially if you're actually considering moving in with me, then we gotta know that one of us ain't gonna kill the other in their sleep or anything. Like, this is important stuff. Long story short, I want you to talk about you, and me to talk about me. Sound good?"

Nailed it.

John gives you a look that says otherwise. "So... this is a date, then."

"What- no." you say hurriedly. "I already said it's not a date."

He's unphased and raises his eyebrow at you once more. Wow, you're getting that more than usual tonight. "Dave, what you described just now? That's pretty much a date. Isn't that what you do on a date? Eat food and talk about yourself? Get to know more about a person you like?"

Before he can continue, you cut him off- panic rising a little. You hold up a hand in defense. "Woah, woah, woah. Now who ever said I liked you like that?"

"You did," he says without skipping a beat.

You go to defend yourself, claim you never said that. But then you realize that holy shit, you have said that. Only once out loud, but you said that.

"The walls in your apartment aren't exactly soundproof, Dave," John confesses a little quieter than before. He shrugs, trying to make it seem like it's all no big deal. "But I heard you talking to your brother the yesterday, and... well."

You're silent for several moments, and you begin to wish now more than ever the waitress would interrupt you again. She doesn't, of course, and you're forced to speak up. "...oh my god," you finally manage. You have never felt so stupid in your life. Of course he heard your conversation- there's no way that he couldn't have heard your conversation. Way to go, dumbass. "I'm so sorry, look, if this makes you uncomfortable, then I understand if you don't-"

"Dave, it's okay!" he practically yells, grabbing the attention of a few more of the customers sitting in the diner. "I mean, when we first met each other, you all but asked me out right then and there. I can't really say I didn't see this coming."

It's at this point that you've become convinced everyone else knows you better than you do.

John continues. "So... come on. Admit it. Was this a date or not?"

"Maybe? Kind of? Sort of? A little?" you mutter, your voice getting quieter with each phrase. You glance down into your glass, taking a sip of your soda from the red and white bendy straw awkwardly.

"So it is a date. It would've been nice to know that beforehand!"

You glance back up at him. "But would you have come if you knew it was going to be a date?" If you're going to have this conversation, then you might as well get some answers while you're going at it. You just hope you don't regret asking these questions later.

John shifts a little awkwardly, folding his hands on top of the table as best as he can with his cast. "Well..." he begins, twiddling his thumbs. "I mean, I wouldn't have blown you off if that's what you mean! And... I think I might like you like that. But I don't think I like you as much as you like me and that's... well that's not a good start. Plus there's the whole moving in with you thing- what if we don't end up working out? Then we have to deal with hating each other and living together until I find a new place." He looks back up to you. "It's complicated."

You hate this. You feel like you're back in high school confessing your love to some girl that doesn't want you, and you feel like this whole evening is just falling apart in front of you. You've got to think fast. You've got to put the pieces back together. Make this work somehow. You always do.

Forcing yourself to take a deep breath, you wipe any emotion from your face as you had practiced so many times before. You take a long drink of your Coke, and finally, you begin to speak. "Well, it's like you said, isn't it? Dating is just a way for two people who like each other to get to know each other. So, let's date."

He looks like he wants to say something, but he changes his mind at the last second and hears you out.

"I'm not saying let's be in a relationship. That's not at all what I'm saying- what I'm saying is let's find out more about each other. Let's see if we really dig each other, you know? We don't have to share a bed, or hold hands, or hug, or sleep together, or anything. I would like to do all of those things," you admit, your voice cracking a little nervously as you do so, "but I don't think you do as much. But that's the beauty of this; I can change your mind about that for the better. We need something to do while your arm heals, anyway, don't we?" You allow yourself a small, small smile- pretty proud of yourself, actually.

John takes a moment to think, his blue eyes flicking from his hands to your coke to the napkins on the table to your face. "I think...."

He's interrupted by the waitress. She hands off your plates of food and your milkshakes, asks you if you need anything else, and goes about her merry way once more.

You're a little worried John might not continue his thought, but he does.

"I think that might not actually be a horrible idea. I mean, it makes sense for the most part."

Nailed.
It.

You allow yourself a celebratory french fry dipped in chocolate milkshake. John gives you a weird look, but you just kind of chuckle it off. You don't even really much care what happens for the rest of the day. Because this is now a thing that's happening.

Chapter Text

"Come on, man," you say, waving a fry in front of John's face. He frowns and leans away from the food in your hand. "Stop being a pussy and eat it."

John pushes your hand away from him, but you insistently push back against him. He's not going to get out of this. Not if you have anything to say about it. "Dude, no way!" he halfway laughs. "It's gross! You dipped it in a chocolate milkshake. Do you know how messed up that is?"

"You've never even tried it- don't give me that 'it's gross' shit."

"What you're doing right now? That's the equivalent of dipping a potato in chocolate. I thought your eating habits were better than this! I'm almost disappointed in you, Dave Strider."

You frown, pulling your hand back and biting into your shake-covered fry. "Hey," you protest. "Don't question my eating habits."

He rolls his eyes at you and picks up the remaining half of his everything-burger. Really, though, you have no idea how he can manage to fit the thing in his mouth- what with it piled high with onions, pickles, lettuce, tomatoes... the whole nine yards. And yet he does. Granted, he kind of makes somewhat of an attempt to crush it all together before he bites into the damn thing- his fingers almost struggling to do so with the restricted movement of his cast- but still. "Oh, it's too late for that," he says, taking a bite. He chews slowly, clearly thinking as he does so. And then he swallows. "So what kind of other weird things do you eat?"

You barely let the words get out of his mouth before you reply with a quick, "Nothing," grabbing another french fry. Your taste in food is revolutionary- an avant garde of culinary perfection, if you must say so yourself.

"Really, Dave?" he says with eyebrows raised.

Pausing in mid-bite, you glance up at him. "...what?"

You hadn't been sure it would be possible, but his eyebrows shoot up higher. "I thought you wanted us to find out more about each other! Here I am trying to start a conversation, and you shoot me down. " It's easy to tell that he's not really annoyed; his tone is still playful and amused enough.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

You lean back in the booth seat, taking a deep breath and thinking as you continue picking at your fries. The scraps of your burger remained uneaten on your plate, and will most likely remain as such. "So the first thing that came to your mind was my appetite," you question, reaching for the plastic ketchup bottle and squirting a little bit onto your plate.

John just kind of looks at you expectantly, hoping that you'll say something more than just that.

But before you speak, you make a show out of dipping two fries in the ketchup, eating them slowly as you think about how exactly you want to string your words. "Well I've been told sugar on my mac and cheese is pretty fucking weird," you say. What eloquence.

He wrinkles his nose, and you laugh. "You're joking, right?" he asks slowly, disgust apparent in his voice. "Why the hell would you ruin a good bowl of macaroni and cheese?"

You shrug. "Not a joke, man. You should try it sometime. There aren't enough people in this world who actually take my word on this. Why don't you be one of the first?"

"It just... sounds terrible! It's cheese! With sugar on it! It's almost as bad as your chocolate-covered potatoes!"

"Your opinion is void until you actually dip one of those fries in your shake."

He glances warily to his glass- it's almost empty, and what's left is just about melted from sitting unattended in the cup for way too long- and then turns his gaze back to meet yours. You can plainly see in his eyes how badly he does not want to mop up melted milkshake with a cold french fry. Of course, you give him no sympathy, meeting his pleading stare, with a colder look of your own- willing him to take at least one bite.

John's stare grows even more pathetic- trying to convey to you that he really does not want to do this. You cross your arms in retaliation, your own gaze unwavering. If this is the way he wants to battle you, then so be it; you've won more silent competitions than you can count. If there's one thing Bro did right, you'd probably place your bets on training your emotions. Though you would also bet this wasn't the situation he had in mind for you to use such training on.

You can see his resolve chipping away slowly- his big, beautiful eyes telling you all that you need to know- he's crumbling.

Finally he gives up, all but throwing his hands up in surrender. "Fine, fine! Jesus, I'll try your stupid chocolate-potato."

Wow, you are on fire tonight. Four for you, Dave Strider.

The poor kid is reluctant to actually dip the fry into his glass though, the fried piece of food hovering over the chocolate hesitantly. You help him out, taking his wrist gently in your hand, pushing it down with enough force to get the job done for him. The next part of the process, however, you can't do for him. As much as you would love to eat it in his stead, that simply isn't an option.

Glancing at you one final time, in hopes that you'll be merciful, John raises the fry to his mouth. You nod once in encouragement. He wrinkles his nose yet again as he takes a bite, closing his eyes as if he thinks that'll have any sort of effect on the taste.

He doesn't spit it out, so you guess that's a good sign. Instead he just kind of chews it really slowly, swallowing with what appears to be a little difficulty before peeking back at you.

"Well?" you inquire, eager to hear his opinion.

John is quiet for a moment, staring at you in thought. You're about to repeat your question, or maybe wave a hand in front of his face in an attempt to pull him back to reality when he finally says something. "Why didn't you make me do that sooner." he deadpans.

You can't help it- you laugh. Why this is so goddamn amusing to you, you have no idea. But it is. He whines at you for laughing at him and you tease him just the smallest bit. The waitress comes around again, and before John can even think about protesting, you're handing over your Visa credit card. You did make it clear you'd be paying, after all- tip included. You are such a fucking gentleman.

"We didn't get anything productive accomplished, you know," John slips out nonchalantly as you two exit the diner.

You quirk an eyebrow at him. "What do you mean? I introduced you to culinary perfection. It was totally productive."

"It was a fry dipped in a milkshake," he reminds you. He reaches into the brown messenger bag hanging off his shoulder, pulling out a blank piece of staff paper. "And I was talking about this! You want to get this done, don't you?"

You click your tongue.

"Or am I too distracting for you?" he adds sarcastically, clearly amused by his own joke.

You open your mouth to protest, but close it quickly instead, frowning. Because as much as he probably thinks he's joking, you realize that he's actually right. Goddammit, he's right.

Goddammit, you're pathetic.

Goddammit.

"Hey, Dave? You okay?"

Quickly, you refocus your attention back to John. He looks mildly concerned. You change your frown into a small smirk, changing the subject as fast as you dare without it seeming too weird. "Yeah, I guess you're right," you say, ignoring his question. "What do you say we chill at my place tonight?"

"Tonight?"

"Yeah, that's what I said. Tonight."

"Like... all night?"

"If you want."

"Is your brother still there?"

"I can kick him out."

He gives you a weird look, like he clearly doesn't believe that you actually have the ability to kick your brother out. He's probably right about that, too, but you choose to ignore that. "How about we just see what happens?" he ventures instead.

Not the answer you were looking for, but you'll take it. "I don't see why not," he says with a shrug. "You do what you want." Hopefully that whole 'do what you want' would be exactly what you want, too. And that would be for him to spend the night again.

That pillow may or may not have stopped smelling like John sometime during last night.

It's subtle, but you can see he brightens up a little bit. Maybe the night will go your way after all. "Well, okay! Just so long as we get some work done, though okay? I want to have something to play when my wrist finally heals up!"

You nod. You would like for him to have something to play as well. You've been focusing too much on him, you decide, and not enough on his talent. Somehow you're going to have to try and find some of balance between your work and your possible love life. God, you feel like this is such a repeat of high school. "Well then let's make sure we get something down tonight," you agree.

He stuffs the paper back in his bag and the two of you start walking the way back to your apartment- side by side- strategically placing yourself on his left side.

Cautiously, you bump your hand against his a couple of times. When he doesn't say anything, or show any visible signs of protest- and you make sure to watch his face for any sort of discomfort- you wrap your fingers around his hand lightly. His skin feels nice. It's not really soft like you kind of hoped it would be, but calloused and rough, and yet still perfect at the same time. Definitely not like any girl's hand you've held. Which is probably a good thing.

John looks up at you, surprised more than angry.

"This cool?" you ask as coolly as you can manage. The words come out smooth as always, and you're relieved because your heart is actually fluttering like your the schoolgirl-star of some shitty Japanese anime.

He tries to hide it, but he smiles a little, lips pulling back despite the obvious attempts he's making- biting his bottom lip ever-so-slightly. "Yeah. Your hand's warm," he replies, turning his attention away from you.

Holy shit you are making this happen.

Chapter Text

You lay down on the couch, crossing your ankles and lounging back comfortably, staring at the ceiling. The apartment is unusually quiet- the only significant sound being a couple of sad, disheartened plinks of piano keys.

You tilt your head slightly to get a good look at John. He's been messing around on the keyboard for about half an hour now, growing more and more pathetic the more time he spends on playing with it. His left hands works out just fine, and he's at least able to entertain himself with playing some beautiful melodies and rhythms with the lower half of the notes he has to work with; but his right hand is just about as useless as you would be at a piano. He has to poke at the keys individually, effectively making himself less and less happy.

Finally, you speak up in an attempt to ease some of his suffering. "Hey, you wanna work still?" you venture, hoping to get his mind off his hand. John had come into this night under the impression he would be working on writing some more- you figure you owe him a good hour or so of actual productivity.

"I want to play..." he mutters, clearly frustrated. He makes an attempt to position both of his hands and play correctly, fingers forced to spread out from under the cast. The pain is clear on his face, and he's forced to pull his hand away from the keys, sighing.

You sit up, watching him carefully- ready to stop him should he decide to try that again. Instead, he comes to sit next to you on the sofa, trying to rub his wrist through the cast. "I shouldn't have let you get out the keyboard, huh?"

He shakes his head with a weak laugh. "Probably not."

"Do you want some ibuprofen?"

John hesitates. "...yeah. That'd be nice."

You're up in almost literally a flash- on the couch one second, and rummaging around in the bathroom cupboard the next. Then you're in the kitchen filling up a glass of water. While you're thinking of it, you open up one of the drawers under the sink- the junk drawer- and pull out a red sharpie.

Just a few more seconds and you're back on the couch, handing off the pills and water to your almost-kind of-not really boyfriend.

He thanks you and takes them from you gratefully, swallowing the two pills down quickly with a small sip of water to follow them down. "So what's the sharpie for?" he asks, setting the glass down on the table.

"For your cast," you say simply, uncapping the marker. "I noticed you aren't rocking any signatures and that's some bullshit that needs to be fixed right now. Gimme your arm." You hold out your hand, hoping and expecting that he'll maybe for once do what you want him to.

Instead of giving you his arm, of course, he gives you his signature weird, suspicious look. "Yeah, I know I don't have any signatures. This isn't grade school anymore, you know!" He almost sounds serious enough to convince you that he actually means it, but the look on his face says otherwise. Is that a whisper of a grin you see there? Oh yes it is. Time to make your almost-kind of-not really boyfriend feel better again.

"Come on, dude, gimme your arm. Seriously."

"No, you're not going to write on my cast! Seriously!"

"That's bullshit and you know it. Learn to live a little." You reach over him to make a grab for his arm.

He pulls away out of your reach. "No way! I live just fine, thanks very much!" Aha- he's starting to grin again. There it is. Well done, Strider. Even still, you're not going to give in just yet. Oh no.

"You don't live until you have my autograph on your arm." You swipe for his arm again, leaning over him a little bit more now. "Do you even know how big of an honor this is? Do you know how many girls would kill for the chance to have my signature on their arm? At least seven."

John backs up, pushing himself away from you until his back is back against the arm of the couch. "Wow seven whole girls?" he laughs, clearly not impressed with your statistics. "You could start a religion with all those people, Dave." He pulls his knees up to his chest, prepared to kick you off if need be. It's really cute he thinks he can actually get you off.

You all but lay on top of him, ignoring the feet in your gut and his pushing and playful struggling from under you- still reaching for his arm. "I'll make sure to look into that," you respond with a little difficultly. He's got his arm extended out away from you, but you're not through with this yet. You reach your arm out as far as you can, holding just the very end of the marker with your fingertips in an attempt to get something- anything really- drawn or written on that blank white cast.

What happens next is this: you manage to scribble out some shape resembling some kind of demon smiley face; John- laughing at this point- notices your triumph and doubles his efforts in removing you from his person; he accidentally kicks you really hard in the stomach; you drop the marker and instinctively roll off of him- landing on the floor. You can't imagine what the people downstairs think you're doing.

They've long ago given up on asking.

"Oh my god!" John leans over you, left hand gripping the coffee table so he doesn't fall on you. "Are you okay? I'm sorry! I didn't mean to actually kick you!"

You groan- it's mostly for dramatic effect; you're not actually hurt in any way. It was more surprise than anything that left you a little stunned. And you've got to give it to the kid, you're not an easy one to stun. "I'm fine, I'm fine," you say, raising an eyebrow at him. "You play football in high school?"

John quirks a small, crooked smile. "Soccer, actually. Freshman and sophomore year."

"I think I need a kiss to make it better."

"Nice try," he half-laughs, pushing himself back up to sit on the couch. You sit up yourself and fix your shades to rest more comfortably on your nose. "But no kissing on the first date. I guess I can let you sign my cast to make up for, you know, trying to kill you."

Alright. Totally not what you were hoping for, but you'll take it- 'not on the first date' didn't mean 'never ever'. You snatch the marker off the floor and drop yourself back onto the couch next to John, once more reaching your hand out. This time he obliges, and places his arm in your grasp with a sigh, watching you as you scribble out your masterpiece. Of course you sign your name first- a brilliant red signature that takes up the entire top of the cast.

But then you start doodling; he doesn't protest, so you don't stop. Some SBHJ references here and there- only the hardcore fans will get most of them- a couple of shitty records and stuff in addition to everything else. You forgo the giant dick this time out of the pure kindness of your heart.

John continues watching you silently, looking more amused than anything. You can work with amused. So he doesn't recognize your creative genius just yet- that's alright. It's an acquired taste, after all. As you continue doodling, you decide to bring up working again. You've been seriously neglecting productivity, and you really need to get back into the habit of writing and mixing.

As soon as you begin to open your mouth and suggest working- now that John's in a better mood- you hear the door to the apartment creak open. All hopes of your evening being anything close to decent fly out the window.

You groan, capping the sharpie. "Bro!" you call. "Go away!"

"Nah, man," you get in reply, "you've still got my beer in your fridge."

You stand up, muttering to John that you'll be right back, and all but stomp to the front door. "Bro," you hiss. "Get out of here. Things are going really fucking great right now. Without. You."

He leans his shoulder up against the wall, crossing his arms and looking down at you expectantly. Goddamn, you wish you had some height on him. It would make arguing and looking intimidating so much easier. "What's the situation?" he asks nonchalantly.

"He may or may not be staying the night." You don't actually know yourself.

"Uh-huh."

"Also, we are- more or less- a kind of thing," you say quietly, not wanting John to accidentally eavesdrop on your conversation again. You find no use in trying to hide it at this point; you know he's going to find out sooner or later. Might as well tell him now so you can kick him out all the quicker.

"More or less."

You groan. "Yeah, more or less," you snap. "We're dating, I can hold his hand, but that's the extent of anything that's happening right now. Now will you please, for the love of god and jesus and all that is holy, leave my apartment?" You actually sound kind of desperate at this point, and you're sure you'll get some shit for it later, but you really don't care.

He stares you down for a few seconds. It feels like hours, and you start growing more and more impatient with each moment of tense silence that passes between the two of you.

And then finally, "I better get a call within the next two weeks."

"Fine, fine, you'll get a call! Now go!"

Bro leans close to you, and you can just barely make out his eyes behind his shades. "Alright," he says in a low, daring voice. "I'll leave. But if I don't get a call..."

"You'll get your fucking call."

He straightens, walks over to the kitchen, takes out the last beer in the fridge, and makes his way back to the door. All without saying a word, but that smug looks on his face says it all- I was so fucking right.

"Don't you have any shit to take with you other than that beer?" you ask, your tone a little more bitter than you meant it to be.

His grin widens just the smallest bit. "Nah, it's all in the car. I was planning on leaving tonight anyway. This just gives me an excuse now." He opens the door, stepping out." You're glad to see him leaving, but before he actually closes the door behind him, he makes sure to yell out, "Use protection!" and then slams the door behind him.

You swear you hear John laughing somewhere behind you. The whole world is against you, you swear it.

Chapter Text

"We didn't get much work done today, you know."

"Hey- you're the one who brought up movies. It's all your fault."

"Well you're the one who said- 'Yo, I have Citizen Kane in the DVD player'!"

"Yeah. But you agreed to watch it, so..." You flip over onto your side, the mattress creaking under your weight as you shift. All the lights are turned off in the room and your shades are off- laying on the nightstand. It's dark enough where you're comfortable enough to have your eyes exposed; there's no way he could come to the definite conclusion of their color in this light.

John lays there clutching a pillow to his chest, grinning happily- his white teeth easily standing out in contrast to the darkness around him. "You convinced me we could work and watch at the same time!"

"Yeah, why'd you let me do that?" you tease with a small smirk of your own.

He hits you lightly in response- his warm hand pushing against your shoulder as he laughs. "It's not my fault!" he insists. John turns onto his back, smiling up at the ceiling, letting out a few chuckles before he calms down.

You're comfortable enough just in the brief silence, tracing the outline of his features in the dark with your gaze; but he speaks up again once more, glancing back over at you. He takes a few, long seconds to stare at you before he finds exactly what it is he wants to say. "You should try and wear your shades less, I think," he says slowly. It's a suggestion, nothing more- you can tell by his tone. "We could keep the lights dimmed! Curtains closed when we work, and stuff...."

You pretend to think about it. "Tempting," you say, just to please him. It's actually not really tempting at all. You really hate making a big deal out of your eye color, and you know that's how it's going to go. You'd really rather not go through all that shit. "But I think I'm gonna pass." You roll over onto your other side- part of you afraid that you were wrong about John being able to make out the color.

"Aw..." he whines. "Come on, Dave! Just once? Can you at least try? I bet you look really nice without them on! I mean... you look nice either way, but-"

"Yeah anyway," you say, cutting him off. "Let's talk about something else."

He's reluctant to switch topics. You can tell. "Like what?" he says, his tone giving away the fact that he's clearly just doing this to entertain you for once. He and that attitude of his sure have come a long way from the first time he was over.

"What's home like?" It's the first thing that comes to your mind, and you're not sure why. Maybe it's the fresh memories of your bro's recent visit and departure. He has managed to sneak a glance at your life- whether you wanted it or not- it seemed only fair that you be granted the same courtesy. At least that's the logic you use with yourself to justify your curiosity.

You're pretty sure you can feel John raise an eyebrow at you. "What's home like?" he repeats. "That's all you could think of."

"Hey, I'm just changing the subject. I wanna know, alright? And I seriously doubt it's a touchy subject, so just tell me already."

He moves around a little bit- you're pretty sure it's not out of nervousness, but it still makes you a little anxious. "Well I miss it a lot, that's for sure!" he says after a moment. He sighs and it sounds more content than anything. "I don't have any siblings like you do. I'm kind of jealous, actually! I think you and your Bro get along somewhere deep down."

John pauses and you say nothing, waiting for him to continue.

"It was always just me and my dad. Of course I never had too much trouble with that! My mom left us pretty soon after I was born." His voice gets a little quieter, talking just above a whisper. You can feel him playing with the sheets as he talks- the fabric of the sheets moving and tugging from underneath you just the smallest bit. "Dad never really talked about her much, and I never really asked. He did really well as a single dad, I think! He baked too many cakes and cookies, though; he really overkilled the whole 'mother baking' thing!" And then he laughs a little, remembering some fond memories you may never get to hear or be a part of.

"You say that like it's a bad thing. I never got cake, dude. Consider yourself lucky, I'd say."

"Yeah, but I got cake, like, every single day!"

"And...?"

"I'm lucking I'm not morbidly obese! Not to mention, I really hate frosting now...."

"I'm pretty sure that's a sin."

"What?" he returns playfully. "Hating frosting?"

"Yes, hating frosting. What the hell is wrong with you?"

John laughs. He moves to sit up, deciding that he's tired of laying down, you suppose. "Nothing! I've just eaten it way too much, you know! I'm sure there's something you hate because you ate it all the time."

You actually think about it. Pizza? No, you still love that stuff. Definitely not Chinese food, either. Or those snack cakes you used to eat all the fucking time; those still taste like heaven. "Nah man," you decide finally. "That's not a thing that happens."

"Wow, dude. You're supposed to come up with something so that I'm right! You suck at this."

Suddenly you have an idea- it's totally out of nowhere, but it's the best one you've probably had all night. "Hey," you say, turning the conversation around 180. "You should ask me a question."

"That was random."

"So? I thought you'd be real excited about this whole 'getting to know each other before we actually kiss and stuff' kind of thing."

He snorts. "Fine, fine. I'll ask one and we'll go back and forth then?"

And that's what you do. He asks a question, you answer, the two of you have a little bit of conversation, and then you move to ask your own question. It's nice actually; you're not too big on people prying in on your life, but with John... well... it feels comfortable. More comfortable than you would probably like to admit. Sharing things with him is easy. He doesn't try to dig too deep, or go into territories that you would normally avoid. It's just little things the two of you exchange, but it's enough; you're getting to know each other.

John is majoring in some branch of biology or something with a fancy name- he wants to improve prosthetics when he knows enough. You also find out that his favorite color is a shade of lime green. He just plays it off as blue because his cousin Jade once made a deal with him when they were young that green was her color and hers only. It's not something that you really understand, but hey, families work different in ways.

He hates cooking because he's terrible at it, and he has sworn on his grandma's grave to never even attempt to bake a cake. He also really likes reading fantasy novels because he's a big dork.

Each little fact he shares about himself is accompanied with a small story; everything has some sort of reasoning behind it, and you're more than eager to listen to all he has to say. Some of his answers take a good 15 minutes or so for him to fully cover the back stories- your favorite story so far is how he hates camping because he wiped with poison ivy once on a boy scouts trip- and some of them are just simple facts.

Your stories aren't as lengthy, and aren't nearly as interesting as his are. But you share them anyway- how long you've been rapping and mixing. He asks you about your reasons for dropping out of school. You explain that you really just didn't feel the pull to continue; you're doing well enough without that extra degree so far.

He hears about your general hatred for swimming- due to an, probably, irrational fear of drowning. He takes great interest, though, in your deep, dark, secret love of poetry. Hardly anyone knows about it, and you often find yourself forgetting about the couple of books you have stored away in your nightstand. But you have always found poetry to be a good source of inspiration when writing raps.

"But more importantly," you explain, "it's where I really got the hang of metaphors and shit. I don't know if you know, but poetry is filled with all sorts of good stuff."

That makes him laugh.

His laugh makes you smile for about half a second.

At about 3:00 in the morning, he falls asleep on you talking. You were in the middle of explaining why you had such an unhealthy obsession with apple juice- "it's the drink of the gods, John"- when his breathing finally slows, and he becomes unresponsive to your voice. You can just barely make out the relaxed features on his face. He looks kind of odd without that ever-present grin of his, but calm certainly isn't an unwelcome look.

It's at this point that you do what you've only dreamed of doing these past couple of weeks- you reach out and you run a hand through his hair.

And holy fuck.

It is definitely as soft as you had been hoping it would be.

You're pretty sure the gods had worked on these soft locks for centuries before they even came into existence.

The moment is short lived, however, when he stirs under your touch. You pull your hand back and set it down quickly at your side- pretending to be asleep should he actually wake up.

He does. "Dave?" he mumbles, raising his head off the pillow just the smallest bit. "I think I fell asleep...."

You resist the urge to laugh a little. "Yeah, you did," you say, deciding not to leave him hanging without an answer. "But it's cool. Go back to sleep, man."

John is silent for a couple of long seconds, trying to process the meaning of your words- maybe you should've limited yourself to one sentence. But then he nods, closing his eyes and letting out a quiet, "Okay....". He rests his head back down and scooches his body closer to yours. He doesn't offer an explanation, he just curls up next to you before he falls back asleep.

You drape an arm over him, deciding that you can blame it on being a sleep-cuddler or something if he has a problem with it when he wakes up. Besides, you held his hand today- you're pretty much dating now.

Chapter Text

You are pretty much in love.

It's probably somewhere around 4:00 am, but you're not really tired. You could probably fall asleep now if you wanted to, but that thought doesn't really interest you. Especially when you've so recently discovered that John is a cuddler.

Yeah, all of your dreams are definitely coming true tonight.

Not long after he fell asleep, he clung onto that pillow in between the two of you tighter than you used to cling to your bro's leg. You spent a good 15 minutes or so trying to loosen his grip from the cushion. You do so and he moves, almost immediately, grabbing onto your arm. Damn, this guy is so unreal.

His grip is tight on you, but not tight enough to be unbearable. You would've preferred that his arms be around your waist or something romantic like that- because that's totally a thing boyfriends do right?- but you don't have a problem with this, either, you guess. He presses his cheek against the crook of your elbow, breathing slow and heavy. He mumbles something occasionally, but you never seem to be able to make out what he's saying.

You doze off a couple of times for a few hours, but never actually fall asleep. You're tired, but not actually tired enough to care or do anything about it. You figure that your body will sleep if it really wants to. But if you can just lay there contentedly without facing exhaustion, then hell you're gonna do it. You want to be able to remember the way that John clings to your arm later; who knows if or when this is ever going to happen.

At maybe 7:30 or so, you do finally fall into sleep. You flipped onto your side, swinging your free arm over John's torso and scooching him closer to you. It's like one big cuddle-fest, and you've never had such a comfortable two hours of sleep in your life.

You're awoken by John stirring at your side. First he tightens his grip on your arm, and then loosens it, stretching his body out and hitting your knees and shins a couple of times with his feet. He groans a little bit, unhappy with himself that he's awake now.

Exhaling unhappily, you tense and manage to pull his body even closer to yours. You feel his arm trapped between your two chests, but you choose to ignore it. Sleepily, you blink your eyes open and squint at him- figuring it's dark enough still that making out your features will be difficult. He looks at you lazily in response, lips quirked slightly in a smile that says he slept well last night. You can't help but smirk in return.

"Good morning," you croak- voice hoarse from sleep.

Needless to say, you expected a vocal 'good morning' in return. You hadn't been expecting him to lean forward and plant a short kiss on your lips.

But that's exactly what happens.

You stare at him, eyes a little wider than they probably should've been with your shades sitting on the nightstand and not on your face. You start to say something, but before you can even begin, John sits up faster than even you have ever moved, and jumps off the bed. "I- that... that wasn't supposed to happen... pretend that didn't happen...." He starts pacing around the room.

Before you can go over and say something, you grab your shades and cover your eyes, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. You take a short moment to stretch out your sore muscles, ignoring the frazzled, babbling Egbert for at least those couple of seconds. You stand and give one more stretch before crossing your arms over your naked chest, ready to begin what is bound to be an interesting morning. "You know, if I hadn't taken you out to dinner last night, I might be upset right now."

John freezes, suddenly remembering that you're still there. He makes eye contact with you before shouting a rather loud, "Shut up!" and all but runs out of the bedroom.

This is going to be an interesting morning, indeed.

You follow after him at a leisurely pace; not too worried about losing him in the tiny apartment. And he makes it easy enough to find him- he's taken refuge curled into a ball on the couch. "Dude," you say, taking a seat next to him, "you need to calm down."

His head is buried under his cast and nuzzled against the black leather arm. "That wasn't supposed to happen," he mutters into the couch.

"So why did it?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

John sighs and is silent for a beat before pushing himself up into a normal, seated position. He rubs at his eye, which is still clouded from sleep, and grumbles something under his breath about how he should've grabbed his glasses before running out. Then finally, he turns to look at you, huffing before he actually speaks. "Because I just woke up and I wasn't thinking clearly, and you had to go and be all 'good morning' in your stupid, sexy voice-"

"Oh so I'm sexy now?"

"No! Shut up!"

You laugh lightly, not bothering to hide your amusement.

He punches your arm with his good hand. Nevertheless, you're still plenty amused by the whole scenario.

"So what," you say, trying to keep the conversation alive, "it was just, what, spur of the moment or something?"

John settles against the back of the couch, crossing his arms over his chest and sighing, looking blankly at the tv. "Yeah, pretty much." He's unhappy with himself.

You give him a shrug, trying to play it off like it was no big deal- when in reality, it was pretty much the best thing to happen to you in a few weeks. "Well, now we got our awkward first kiss out of the way, right? Next one won't be so bad."

He raises an eyebrow, eyes flicking to the side to glance at you. "Next one?" he repeats. His tone is more challenging than anything, almost like he's saying You haven't earned it yet, Strider. Prove to me you deserve it.

You're still up for the challenge.

You lean in closer to him. "Yeah, the next one," you say teasingly as you move in closer to his face. You're not actually threatening anything, but if he goes along with it, you definitely wouldn't be compla-

"Oh no you don't!" John presses a hand to your face, his palm on your lips. You thank god that he decided not to hit you in the face with his right hand. "Nope. You're not allowed."

You huff against his hand, your voice muffled as you try to respond. "Oh so what, you're allowed to get your mack on, but I'm not?"

He laughs. "Yeah, that's pretty much it."

You lick his hand.

John pulls away and you share another laugh before John's stomach vocalizes its hunger. You two make an unspoken agreement to never speak of the morning's events. Breakfast goes by quickly with little meaningful conversation; most of it is just dumb small talk that will be forgotten in a couple hours or so. Regardless, you love every moment of it. It's nice just being able to chat over morning coffee- there's no where for either of you to rush to, and you're free to enjoy John's company for as long as you please.

Or at least that's what you think and hope for a while. He ends up leaving around noon, memories from early this morning out of both of your minds. As you say goodbye to him, leaning against the door frame, John gives you a grin and says he'll text you later.

"Great," you say. "I'm not doing anything tonight." You move to step back inside the apartment, preparing to shut the door after he's gone. "So, see ya later?"

John shrugs. "Maybe! Maybe you'll have to just wait until tomorrow." He brushes some hair out of his eyes, smile practically shining off his face. "You can wait that long, can't you?"

"Well probably, but I mean that's a long tim-"

"Yeah okay, well I'll catch you later!" He leans toward you and kisses you. This one- you're sure- isn't accidental; though it's just as short and sweet as the last one. "Bye!"

And then he's gone, running down the hall and stairs so he won't miss his subway.

You stand in the doorway for a couple of awestruck moments before you figure out how to move again. Well. That just happened.

It seems as though he can't even give you time to process everything that's happened today so far; no more than two hours later, he texts you- as promised.

EB: so i just finished working things out with my roommate!
EB: when can i move in? ;)

This guy is going to be the complete and utter death of you, you swear.

Chapter Text

Moving John in is easy enough. He has to call a cab to lug all his shit over to your building, and you're the one forced to do all the heavy lifting since his arm is out of commission, but isn't too painful of a process. About an hour or so after his text, all his boxes and bags are sitting in the living room- waiting to be unpacked. The rest of your daylight hours are spent doing just that.

And it sucks.

Clothes are hanging too close to each other in the closet, shoes are piled on top of each other, you're forced to give up way more dresser space than you think John deserves, and he has enough DVD's to take up all the free space you had available in the cabinet beneath the tv. It takes a little more space-crunching than you'd like, and the apartment is definitely more cluttered than it has ever been, but somehow everything finds a home.

You celebrate the success with some chicken stir-fry over rice, whipping up the meal quickly and successfully without setting off the smoke alarm- a true triumph. John, in the meantime, sits at the coffee table doing some math homework- and doing it very slowly since he's forced to use his left hand- paying you absolutely no attention and instead focusing on making his writing legible.

You set his bowl down on his textbook and take a seat on the floor across from him.

He doesn't even look up at you, shoving his notebook out of the way and moving the food to its place. "Thank god," he draws out, taking a huge bite. Thank goodness he doesn't have to be so careful while holding a fork in his good hand. "Do you know how much torture it was smelling this cook for the past fifteen minutes?"

Crossing your legs, you chuckle and take a bite yourself. Definitely not take-out quality, but it still tastes like a decent meal and that's good enough for you. "So whaddya say to a little bit of music writing when we're done chowing down?" you ask after you've both shoveled down several more bites of food. You've been letting this whole relationship thing take up the time you had hoped to allot towards your album. It's already due for a late release- thanks to John's broken wrist- and the way things are going, it looks like the delay is going to be longer than expected.

John, though, doesn't seem to be on the same wavelength as you. He shakes his head and swallows a particularly large amount of rice before speaking. "This math is due tomorrow, I can't procrastinate working on it any longer."

Okay that's not ideal. "Well what about when you're done with your math, then?" you venture.

He raises an eyebrow at you, his trademark Are You Serious Right Now?™ glare as apparent as the lack of water chestnuts in your stir-fry. "No, because then when I'm done with my math homework, I have a worksheet to do for Latin, and then I have a lab write-up for my Environmental Biology class I want to start." He shrugs and goes back to eating, his gaze relaxed and focused on his bowl.

"You're taking Latin?" you ask, surprised.

"Ita vero!" he responds with a laugh. His voice just sounds so sickeningly rich and perfect and wonderful when he speaks like that. You melt a little, but distract yourself as you continue listening. "Language is required," he explains. "I'm just taking it for the one year and then I'm done with it forever! But I figured that Latin would be pretty good for my music minor- considering all those Latin-based technical terms and stuff."

You nod, trying to seem more interested than you actually are. You might've actually cared some if you weren't focused on trying to get what you want. "Yeah, yeah that's cool." You both take a beat or two of semi-awkward silence before you speak up again. "So... when you're done with all that, then-"

"Dave, did you really expect me to just put everything on hold for this project now that I'm moved in with you?" His tone is a mix of disbelief and snark. You feel like you're talking to Rose.

"Yes?" you draw out slowly. Oh yeah. It definitely feels like you're having a conversation with your cousin. That means one thing- this conversation isn't going to go how you want it to.

John purses his lips in slight annoyance. "Really?"

"Kind of, yeah?"

"...well, sorry, but that's not what's gonna happen dude!" He looks down at his bowl and takes some more vegetables into his mouth. He swallows before looking back your way. You must look pretty disappointed, because he feels the need to apologize again. "I'm sorry okay! But I have a lot of stuff that I already have a list of assignments that should've been turned in last week. But thanks to this," he waves his right arm- and the cast wrapped around it- in the air, "my work isn't getting done as fast as it used to. I don't really have much time to spend on the album right now."

"You didn't have a problem taking a night to go out with me," you mutter unhappily.

John snorts. "No, but I can't make a habit of spending too much time away from this. And besides, it was one night and I really hoping we would actually write. Which we did not."

You get the point. He's busy and the two of you spend too much time getting distracted. "Okay so let me help you then," you offer. How? You have no idea. You'll do his calculator work or write for him or something.

John does more than just snort this time- he fucking laughs.

"What?" You're almost offended.

"No thanks," he laughs, not offering you any sort of explanation.

Now you're really offended. "Wha... why not? I mean, okay, there's not much I can help you with for your math but it would be real easy for me to write for you for your other shit, right? Obviously I don't speak Spanish so spelling is gonna be a bitch, but you can help with that and then you'll get done quicker, so we can-"

"Okay, okay!" John cuts you off, raising a hand to shut you up before you start babbling too much. "You can help me! And then if we get done by..." he pauses to think, "9:30 tonight, then I'll agree to work on the music with you! Deal?" He shoves another heaping spoonful of food into his mouth as he waits for your answer.

You don't even consider it. "Yeah, sure, 9:30, I can do that." You nod, taking another bite of food, yourself.

For the next couple of moments, the two of you finish your meal in silence. The hot bowls of rice had cooled down considerably in the time that you two had been debating, so it only made sense to finish what remained before your meals turned unbearably cold.

Your bowls were set aside and you spent the next 45 minutes being an antsy, bored mess as you waited for John to figure out his math homework. He turned to you for help once or twice, but quickly realized that your arithmetic skills barely rivaled that of a 7th grader. Which is highly probably considering the last time you actually sat down to do math that wasn't music-related was probably... 8th grade. Maybe. It's possible that 9th grade was actually the most recent time you opened up a math book.

You looked over John's shoulder more than a couple of times as he worked, only to be shooed off each time. You finally gave up trying to read and help out from there, and instead settled for doing the dishes.

By the time you finished washing, drying, and putting the dishes in their proper places, John had opened up a new binder and had begun working on his Latin homework. That was at 8:20.

"Okay, so, how do you spell that again?" you ask, staring at the yellow-colored paper in slight confusion. This is all gibberish to you and the spelling patterns make no sense and thank god you'll never have to take this class because it would destroy your non-existent GPA in half a semester. "Was it with two or three r's?"

John sighs. "Three. It was c-u-r-r-e-r-e-n-t." He's slumped over the table, resting his cheek on an arm lazily as he gives you orders.

"Wait, wait, wait, I got this," you mutter, writing it down. "C-u-r-r-e...?"

"R-e-n-t. Like Rent the Generic Opera."

You glare up at him. "Dude, that was Repo."

He shrugs, apparently not caring too much. "Okay, well... Rent, Repo, same difference."

"Come on, John. And here I thought you had a finer appreciation of the arts. I'm disappointed."

"Will you just keep writing for me? It's almost 9:00 and we're only halfway through this worksheet. Your time is ticking, Strider." He raises an eyebrow at you- mischievous, playful, daring. You hate how much you love it.

How much you love him.

"Okay, alright," you say finally, your thoughts hidden safely in your mind. You begin writing once more. "So it was "rent", right?"

"Yep!"

It goes on like this for a while. You do your best to write down everything correctly, but you do more erasing than you actually do writing. Part of that isn't your fault, though; John makes his own mistakes- conjugating verbs wrong, deciding it would be better to use a different adjective there. You grumble and groan, and John does the same in response to your annoying whines and complaints. But you enjoy being able to help him. And you're pretty sure that he appreciates you assistance. Or you hope so, anyway.

By the time you finish, and by the time John's looked it all over, it's about 9:45.

You slump back, resting your weight behind you- your hands pressed flat to the floor. To be honest, you're a bit disappointed you didn't make the deadline, but then again, there's always tomorrow.

John seems to have other ideas, however. "So you have some staff paper laying around?" he asks as he tucks the worksheet away into his green binder.

You glance at him, confused. "But it's past 9:30."

"Yeah. It is."

"You still have that lab to start."

"Yeah. I do. But it's not due until next week and I don't really feel like working on it anymore."

"...what happened to getting ahead?"

"I only have on class tomorrow. I can get ahead then. Now do you have any staff paper?"

Wordlessly, you get up and walk over to the music room. It takes a minute to remember where you put the first half of the original draft you and John had begun working on a couple weeks ago. You find it under a keyboard at your computer, along with a couple extra sheets. You want to rush out of the room, but you decide to hide that excitement and sit back down as coolly as possible.

It's been too long since you two have done this, and now that you're starting up again, you can feel how much you were longing to get back to it. The excitement bubbles up inside your stomach, and it's almost embarrassing that you're so pumped about this right now.

You take over the job of writing, this time, considering John's writing hand is out. You glance over the notes he's already written. Even his messiest notes look like a work of art- they're all so smooth, so light. It's almost like he's written in italics. You realize the difference between your handwritings the moment you put your pencil to the paper.

Your notes are too close when you write triplets, and your half-rests look like 7's.

John laughs at you and points out almost every single flaw in your score, constantly comparing it to his own. The thing he hates the most, however, is how you write your slurs and ties.

"Make that line longer!" he keeps yelling in your ear.

"Why, what's wrong with it?"

"Well, you wanted to slur all five of those notes, but it only looks like you got those three."

You roll your eyes and erase the line before rewriting it, longer this time. "There. Better?"

John grins. "Much."

It's a lot more difficult to write when John is unable to play the rhythms out on the piano. He settles for humming and tapping his fingers to try and get a feel for the music. He closes his eyes as he does so, and surprisingly enough, has a nice singing voice. He's not the best, you'll give him that, but he can carry a tune better than most people off the street seem to be able to.

Or even better than some performers you hear down at the subway station.

You can tell that there are going to have to be a lot of modifications made to this score later on, but just getting the first draft done and out of the way is going to feel great. And what's a first draft without a boatload of mistakes, anyway?

"So right around here- measure 78 or so," you say, pointing to the paper, "I was thinking a key change. Thoughts?"

He stares at the paper for a good couple of seconds, and you can tell he's debating. "Um. Depends. We're moving from C Major to... what? D Major? Or G?"

"I was thinking G, yeah. And if you start it off with a half note chord like this..." you scribble out the three notes as you speak, "and tie it over here to an F#... you can fade off into the main melody and then I can take over from there." You look up at him. "What do you think?"

Again, he's silent in thought. "I think the transition from the key change would make it a little awkward. Maybe if you add in a bit..." he pauses to yawn. "Sorry. A run of 16th notes going up the scale and then do the change."

You look from him to the paper, studying it before deciding he's probably write. You erase the couple of notes you've already written and add in eight 16th notes leading up to a high G. You then write in the key change and set your pencil down. You glance over at John. "You ready to hit the sack? Because I think I'm gonna fall asleep soon if we keep working like this."

You get a laugh in response. "Heh, yeah. That sounds pretty good."

Ten minutes later and you're both in pajamas and in bed.

You work up the nerve to get close to John while he's still conscious. You actually get your arms around him while he's still awake. He makes fun of you for it, and for being so careful about it, but wastes no time snuggling up to your chest. He drapes his arm over your waist, and it's a little uncomfortable to have that heavy cast hanging awkwardly over your side, but since he lives with it gripping his arm, you figure you can deal with it chilling there for one night.

Or several nights. That would be alright, too.

Since your first move went so well, you go for it all and pull away from him slightly. He looks up at you when you do so and you lean in, kissing him.

It takes him by surprise, but he reciprocates. This one isn't like the other couple of kisses you two have shared- it doesn't last only a second, and John doesn't flee the moment you two part. Instead, he pushes into it and you two move deeper. Your arms and hands move lower down his body and his move up yours.

What began as a romantic kiss ends when John accidentally hits the side of your head with his cast.

"Ow!"

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" He's laughing.

You rub at your head. "Well maybe if my boyfriend didn't try to kill me, that would be great."

He stops. "Boyfriend?"

You're a little worried for a second. Neither of you have really labeled yourselves as being in the relationship like that. This was only supposed to be a 'get to know each other' kind of deal. And here you two are doing way more than that. But John's still got that grin on his face, so you decide not to back down. "Yeah. That's what we are, right?"

John reaches up and puts a hand to your head, feeling at the spot where he hit you and playing with your hair. "I guess so. I just didn't expect to..."

"To actually get this far." You finish for him.

"Well I mean we're living together after... not even a month." He glances off to the side. "Oh god, what would my dad say?" Before he can go off into worry-mode, you pull him back to your chest.

"Talking about your dad in bed, John? Totally not sexy."

He snorts. "I didn't realize we were being sexy."

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. "Nah. We're not. But you know, sleep sounds pretty good. How about we be doin' that?"

"Yeah, okay. Sleep it is."

"Night, John."

"Sleep tight, Dave."

Chapter Text

When you wake up, you're the most comfortable you feel you've ever been. You and John are wrapped up in each other, holding one another's bodies close. It feels warm and safe, and your still-groggy mind appreciates the sensation. Your hold on John tightens, and his nose wrinkles unhappily before his face relaxes once more. He looks so calm, so at peace- you decide to join him once again in sleep.

You would've happily stayed in bed all afternoon- drifting in and out of sleep until you can no longer fall back into unconsciousness. But John has other plans, and wriggles out of your grasp around 9:30. You can tell he's doing his best not to wake you, but the fact that you're aware of every movement he's made is a clear indication that he's doing a piss poor job.

"Where're you goin'?" you ask, your speech slurred from sleep. You sit up, and he looks back at you from the edge of the bed.

"To get breakfast?" he replies, his voice much less affected by sleep. His tone is crisp and clear as always.

You rub at your eye absently before running a hand messily through your hair. "Why?"

He laughs a little bit and sits back, pulling one leg back up onto the mattress so he can turn and face you a little bit better. "Because it's morning and I'm hungry!" he responds, leaning his weight back onto his elbow. His smile drops, then, suddenly, and he leans towards you. You move back instinctively. "You know," he begins, "from this angle, your eyes almost look like they're red."

You stiffen, suddenly very awake, and aware that you've let your guard down. You shift through your muddled brain to try and come up with some kind of excuse or anything that might help out your situation, really. But nothing you think up comes off as any kind of believable and you find yourself stuck and speechless.

John continues for you, crawling up on the bed and closer to you now. "Are they red?" he asks slowly. He raises his right arm, and slowly brings it to your face. He brushes your bangs aside and you let him, the scratching of the rough cast against your forehead easily ignored. Suddenly realization hits his face and you can tell that he's put the pieces together- they are red. That's why you've never let him see, that's why they're always hidden. He pulls his hand away and says nothing.

"Don't freak out," you say, finally breaking your own silence.

"Pssh- I'm not freaking out! Who said I was freaking out?" His words come out a little quicker than normal, and about half an octave higher.

"Well freaking out tends to be the usual reaction, so I'm just trying to stop you before you start."

He frowns at you, sitting back unhappily. "So... you lied about the whole sensitive thing?"

"What?" you say, taken aback. You didn't expect that to be his next question- the guy just continues to surprise you. "No, that was true. It's probably some weird deformity that's kind of like an all-inclusive package- I get to freak people out and I can't have them exposed to bright light. It's really awesome, lemme tell ya."

You keep watching his face while you speak, looking for reactions. But now that the initial shock has worn off, he looks more peeved than anything; probably upset that it took him this long to finally find out what was behind your sunglasses. His eyes never leave your face, but they never focus on any one thing, either. He keeps looking directly to your eyes before skimming over the rest of your features. It's like he's trying to recognize you now that you're without your most notable feature.

It takes a moment for him to find words. When he finally speaks, his tone is softer than you expected it to be. "Well like I said- I'm not freaked out!" He says that like he's determined to believe himself. "And besides... you look nice without those glasses on all the time. You should wear them less around the apartment!"

You raise an eyebrow.

"We could keep the curtains closed during the day!" he suggests with a shrug.

You sigh a little and reach back to the nightstand, grabbing your shades and slipping them on. You instantly feel at ease- and you hadn't even realized you were so uncomfortable without them sitting on your nose. "We'll see," you say, convinced it's too early to finish this conversation. "For now, I'm gonna keep 'em right here on my face, though."

John nods, trying not to look so disappointed, and more understanding. "Yeah. Okay."

And though it's still much too early for you to want to be up and about, you push the blankets away and get out of bed. "Well come on. Let's get something to eat."

John made some coffee, and you whipped up a quick meal of eggs and bacon. The two of you talked a little bit about your music, and then even more about the day is going to look like. He leaves the apartment with a backpack a couple hours later, and leaves you to yourself for the day. After several, hard hours, you've cleaned up the majority of the apartment, and have organized your things to better accommodate John's belongings. John comes back in through the front door a little after 4:00, grinning from ear-to-ear.

"We've got Friday plans!" he exclaims, shutting the door behind him.

"We have what?" you say, getting up from your spot on the couch and pausing your movie. John meets you in the living room before you can even take a couple of steps.

"Plans!" he repeats happily. "For Friday!" He takes your shoulders and gives you a little shake- though he's careful not to push on his wrist too hard. "You spend too much time cooped up in the apartment, so we're going to a party!"

Since he's so obviously excited about this, you try to change the subject- teasing. "Dude, did you seriously come on the carpet with your shoes on? I just vacuumed in here."

He groans in response, and you smile a little. He drops his head in annoyance and turns around, trumping back to the front door. You hear him shifting around a bit, followed by the sound of his shoes hitting the floor. "There!" he calls to you. "Are you happy now?"

"Much." You go to meet him, following him as he ducks into the bedroom. "So what's this about a party?"

John sits down on the bed and starts unpacking his bag, taking out books and notebooks and making a neat stack of them. "On Friday night!" he repeats, as though you hadn't already heard that part. You stand in the doorway, waiting patiently for more information. "A bunch of the music students are getting together to hang out before auditions start! It's a big thing every year- kind of like a final night of being friends before everyone competes for solos, you know!" He laughs a little, probably recalling some drama from last year. Maybe he'll share the story with you later.

"So you're going and you're dragging me along?"

He looks up with you, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Well yeah! You never do anything! It'll be good for you."

You scoff, crossing your arms. "I do things."

"Do you even have friends?"

"Yeah- I have friends."

"Okay," he dares. "Like who?"

You purse your lips. "I don't have to tell you that."

John laughs and gets up off the bed, walking over to you with swinging arms. "You're gonna go to the party with me! It'll be fun!" He wraps his arms around your waist. The tip of your nose brushes against the bridge of his, and you can practically feel his smile against your lips. "Please? They get a DJ and there are good drinks and lots of people you'll like!"

You hum, pretending to think about it.

"I'll drag you behind me if you say no!"

Your hum changes pitch.

"Plus, there'll be good food."

You perk up a little bit. "Sold. What should I wear?"

John laughs a little and steals a quick kiss before going back to his books. "Just look nice! You can do that once in your life, can't you?"

"Hey, I looked nice for our date, didn't I?" You walk over to the bed and take a seat behind him.

He considers it, shrugging. "Yeah, I guess. If you say so." Then he bites his lip, and turns to look at his texts, holding back a laugh. "I mean, you looked okay."

"Yeah, well," you grab him from behind, pulling him against your chest. He continues sorting his things and ignores your chin on his shoulder. "You never look good. So there."

John just snickers. "You're an idiot."

"Yeah, but I'm you're idiot."

"Unfortunately."

You start tickling his sides for that, and discover that not only is he incredibly sensitive beneath his ribs, but also that you are absolutely, and utterly

in love.

Chapter Text

The week moves on slowly, casually. John goes to class and you help him with his homework when he gets back. You pick up a Wednesday night (that's ladies' night) shift DJ'ing at a nearby club. John talks about getting a part-time job, and then decides that pursuit might be better saved for when his wrist is healed.

The two of you finish writing that first song after what feels like an eternity. You spend all of Thursday night plugging the notes and rhythms into a computer-simulated piano and sync the track up with your mix.

It's confirmed by the both of you that the computer does a shit job of playing the piano, and for the first time in a while, you're reminded why you gave John your number in the first place. You're glad he called you.

For a number of reasons, now.

But the original reason still stands.

You almost tell him so, but decide against it last minute. That would be way too gay, even for you- and that's a lot of gay.

When you get to Friday, you've already managed to write another half of a song; it seems that finishing first song was the motivation you two really needed. John's part still has yet to be recorded, of course, but the fact that you've managed to make at least this much progress is uplifting to say the absolute least.

So much so that you're almost tempted to skip out on the party and stay up late writing. But then there's a chance you'd disappoint John. And you really can't have that, now can you?

And as much as you would hate to upset him, you're honestly not really looking forward to this party. Maybe there's a chance that John is right, and that you should get out more often and meet more people and do more young people things. But you don't see the problem with not doing all those things, either.

Regardless, you'll be going. You spend about an hour going through clothes while John is out in class- efficiently making a mess of the closet, and the surrounding area. You casually discard shirts and pants onto the floor behind you and dropping several pairs of pants onto the pile. Every so often, you would get frustrated with the hanging garments and would go back searching through the mess at your feet, adding to the disarray.

That's how John finds you when he comes home from class- sitting on the floor and practically pouting in our pile of clothes.

He laughs at you and tells you that you're 'thinking about this way too much!'

You tell him that no, you're thinking about this exactly the right amount, thank you very much.

He just rolls his eyes at you and helps you pick out something- a pair of black jeans that he says makes your ass look good, and a casual button up shirt. He even unbuttons the first couple inches of the shirt for you, winking as he does so.

You kiss him quick and and he laughs again, pulling away from you to go and take care of all his books and things before getting ready to leave himself.

Two hours and a bowl of leftover spaghetti later, both you and John are walking down to the subway station. The sun's already set, but the sidewalk is lit well enough by the streetlights and passing cars. The tall buildings around you are still lit for the most part, but now that the businesses are shutting down for the night, most of those lights are absent in the darkness of the night.

"So we probably won't be there the entire time," John says as you make your way down the street. He squeezes your hand with his own, but doesn't move his gaze to look at you. "Probably just a couple of hours- long enough to talk to some cool people and have a couple of drinks."

You snort in surprise. "John Egbert, you drink?"

He bumps your shoulders with a scoff. "Only at parties and stuff! I never had any alcohol in the apartment or anything, though; so don't worry about your brother finding stray bottles of beer around the living room next time he decides to stop over." He sounds serious enough, but you can see a smile playing at his lips.

But even if he was serious, it's not like it would matter all that much. "Bro's been letting me drink since I was 14, dude. I really don't think he would care."

"What? For real? My dad would kill me if he knew I was drinking now! And I'm almost 21!" He turns and walks with you down the stairs into the subway station.

"You know, your dad sounds like a real prude."

John laughs. "Yeah, he is." He's silent as he smiles down at the ground, watching his step so as not to step in a wad of gum or some kid's long-forgotten lollipop. "But he's great. You'll have to meet him soon, you know!"

You grimace a little bit. Not that you wouldn't love to do the whole 'meet the parents' thing... but actually meeting the parents has never ended very well for you. There's just something about you that most parents don't like about you- or at least there seems to be when you're dating their kids. "Yeah, sounds great." John opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off quickly in an attempt to change the subject. "So who all is gonna be at this party?"

John eyes you. He knows what you're doing, of course; but he doesn't press the issue further and entertains you for the rest of the trip.

By the time you arrive at the party it's about 8:30, maybe 9:00. The small, single-bedroom apartment is already crowded with people you don't know- loud with conversation and really lame pop music. You stick to John's side like gorilla glue as he introduces you to this sea of music-lovers- all of which seem to be decently cool people.

But as chill as most of them seem, you're not terribly interested in getting into a conversation with any of them without your boyfriend.

John, on the other hand, seems to have the total opposite idea, and slinks off whenever you find yourself zoning out during any part of a conversation that isn't directed towards you. It's probably his way of forcing you to make friends. But every time he wanders off and away from your side, you manage to wriggle your way back into his personal space in record-breaking time.

Finally he gets tired of it- he'll never say so, but you can tell- and drags you off into the kitchen for a drink and what you expect to be a stern talking to.

A motley array of bottles and solo cups line the counter top- there's juices and sodas and just about every type of alcohol a college party could want, all of it ready to be mixed to the drinker's taste.

John starts pouring some of the liquids into a glass. "So are you having any fun? At all?" he asks, his voice raised to a yell so he can be heard above the music. He glances at you from the corner of his eye- hopeful for a positive response.

You shrug. "I'm kind of bored," you say loudly in return. "This music really sucks and there isn't anyone here who stands out." Besides John, of course. He hands you a cup and you take it without a second thought, sipping at it carefully. It's more fruity than anything, but leaves behind a strong vodka aftertaste in your mouth and in the back of your throat. But still, "Not bad," you say as you take another sip.

John takes a long drink from his own cup before speaking again. "Maybe you should go talk to the DJ!" he suggests happily, clearly proud of himself for thinking of such a great idea. "I bet you'd really like him. He's-"

He goes to say something more, but is instead distracted by a female voice calling out to him, her voice carrying well above the music. "Hey John!" she says happily as she approaches the two of you. She's a cute little thing with long black hair, a colorful dress and round glasses, her green eyes shining just as brightly as John's do. "When did you get here?"

John greets her with a warm smile and you take a slightly awkward sip of your drink. "We've been here about a half hour, actually! Oh, and Jade- this is Dave!" he says as he just sort of gestures in your direction, giving you the A+ introduction you totally expected from such a great guy. "Dave, this is my cousin."

Jade reaches forward and offers her hand, which you take. Her skin is rough against yours and it catches you off-guard; you had expected her touch to be soft, but instead they're as rough as John's. "So this is Dave, huh? I've heard lots about you!" She grins and winks as though the two of you are already sharing private jokes with each other.

John tries to cut back in, like he's afraid Jade is going to spill something embarrassing. "Yeah, that's Dave! And I-"

"John, I'm trying to get to know your boyfriend!" Jade cuts in again, waving her hand dismissively. "Let me hog the cool kid for a while; go over there somewhere!"

You're surprised when John does nothing to argue- he just huffs, glares at the both of you, and walks off with his drink. You suppose that years of being close cousins with a person will teach you better than to pick fights you can't win. You already like this girl.

And besides, this way John is getting you out and being social like he wanted- everyone wins.

"Come on, let's go out on the balcony where we can hear each other!" Jade suggests, grabbing your wrist and pulling you along to the other side of the apartment. You follow after her without a single word, watching her wrench the sliding glass door open, and stumbling out after her onto the small, concrete and metal balcony. She shuts the door behind her and leans back against the railing, its green paint peeling from age and sun.

You can still hear the music thumping behind you, and though the bass still dully pounds your eardrums, it's considerably quieter out here. "So..." you begin, slowly. "John's cousin, huh? I've heard a bit about you as well." You offer her your cup. "Drink?"

She smiles and shakes her head. "Not tonight. I'm a designated driver."

"Respect." You raise your glass to her and take a swig. It feels hot going down your throat, and you can feel it moving down your body like molten lava. It's actually quite a pleasant sensation. "So," you begin once you've come up. "What's all this John has told you about lil' ol' me?"

She's not at all phased by you- it's impressive. "Only everything," Jade says with an exasperated smile. "Trust me, I've heard it all, Dave! ...he really likes you, you know."

You feel your heart flutter a little and you hate yourself for it. "Does he?" you reply coolly, trying to play it off like this is no big deal.

"Yes, you big dummy! He likes you. A lot!" She rolls her eyes at you and leans back more against the railing, crossing her ankles out on the concrete in front of her. "I know you've noticed. You can't tell me you haven't noticed!"

You've noticed. It just wasn't as clear to you before as it is now- suddenly you realize just how clear it is. Suddenly you realize that maybe John is really as into this as you are.

Holy shit. John is just as into this relationship as you are.

He called you that first time maybe hoping for a date. He was almost immediately on board with making this album happen with you. Sure he was kind of a jerk about your sick beats at first, but he was willing to work it through. He came to you first when he was sexiled. He put up with your bro, even- that's real dedication right there.

But what really sticks out to you is how he's been leading- even after all the talk about taking it slow, your mind goes back to the kisses, the cuddling, the overall warmth that you get from John. It's like he couldn't hold himself back, even when he tried.

"Oh my god," you mutter to yourself, chewing on your lip as you stare down your shoes and think this all through.

"What was that?" Oh yeah. Jade is still here. You're still having a conversation with someone.

You look back up at her, and shake your head. "Sorry- it's nothing," you say dismissively, shrugging like it's no big deal. "What were you saying now?"

She picks back up in the conversation where you had left it hanging, going in to describe what John had conveyed to her about the both of your guys' adventure together and spilling all the nervous details that a poor, anxious John had entrusted with her. She gives you a nice insight on John's side of the tale- how he's not as collected as he would like to appear and how he's just as terrified of screwing this up as you are. Because you both want to make it last.

"Don't tell John I told you any of that!" she finishes, pointing at you accusingly like you've already spilled. "If he asks, we talked about my latest robotics competition, okay?"

You give a short laugh in surprise. "Robotics?" you repeat.

"Yeah! I'm head engineer on our team!" You can see her eyes sparkle with passion and excitement as she speaks- the same way John's light up when he starts talking about all the dumb (wonderful) things he loves. "We're going to make it to finals this year- our program is modeled off one of NASA's most recent..."

You probably would've been able to pay better attention if she hadn't just finished confirming John's love for you; you were genuinely interested in everything she had to say, really! This was one cool chick. But there were other things on your mind.

Finally you cut in. "Look, Jade, is it cool if I just..." you gesture back to the door with your thumb.

She gets it immediately. "Oh my god, yeah! Sorry! I didn't mean to talk for so long, wow. Go dance with your boyfriend!" Jade sends you off with her blessing and an enthusiastic grin, all but shooing you away from her and back into the apartment.

It takes you a few minutes to find John; there are more people crowding the apartment now and the music seems to have gotten louder. But after asking around a bit, you manage to locate your boyfriend in the living room. He beams when he catches sight of you, dancing really badly in your direction.

"Dave!" he yells, stumbling a little too close to you. "Dance with me!" He still has that red cup in his hand.

You raise a hand. "I don't dance, dude."

John grabs the sleeve of your shirt with what he can of his right hand, tugging on you with his fingers. "But you'll dance with me, right?" He doesn't even give you a chance to respond before he pulls you forward and crashes his mouth to yours.

You pull back in surprise, pretty sure he managed to slam your tooth into your lip. Do you taste a little blood? "Are you drunk?"

He looks at you like you really confused him. Then he looks over at his cup like it'll have the answer. "Probab... no," he decides with a nod before turning back to face you.

You frown. "You're so drunk right now."

John just sticks his tongue out at you and quickly takes another swig of his drink. As soon as the cup is far enough from his lips, you snatch it out of his hand. He doesn't look as upset as you expected- in fact, he looks like he gets over it after only a few seconds. "If you wanted a drink, you could've just... just asked nicely you know!" He grins at you like a proud child who just shared his toy.

You had his cup over to another drunkard who passes by. She takes it without even batting an eyelash.

"Come on," you say to John, taking his hand. "We're getting you home before you hurt yourself." Or someone else. Or the furniture. Or before he threw up all over the carpet. You drag him along behind you, having to literally pull him away from a couple of people when he tries to stop and make conversation with them.

The one person you don't tear him away from is Jade.

"Jade!" you yell over the music, putting a hand on her shoulder. She turns and looks at you, surprised to see John draped over you. "You said you were DD'ing tonight, right?"

She gives John one look before her gaze goes back to you. "I'll grab my purse! Meet me outside."

It takes about 10 minutes to get John into the elevator. He's managed to work himself up to the point where he's convinced himself that it's not actually an elevator, and the two of you are trying to take him to his certain death and not home. In the end, you're forced to just pick him up and bring him in that way. He cries the whole way down to the first floor, alternating between holding onto you and trying to punch you in the face. You feel kind of guilty, but the moment the silver doors open up to the building's lobby, he brightens right back up and you don't feel so bad anymore.

After what seems like forever, the three of you are sitting comfortably in Jade's car and pulling out of the parking lot.

"This is really cool of you," you tell her, leaning back in the seat and feeling awfully relieved you've made it this far successfully. John sings happily along with the radio in the backseat.

Jade just smiles. "It's no problem! John does this a lot, actually; he's kind of a lightweight." She drums her fingers on the steering wheel absentmindedly. "Besides, I'm happy to do it! It's nice to know that he's going home with you, anyway." She glanced away from the road to look at you- just for a moment. "You seem like a pretty good guy."

You don't know how to say so or express it, but you're touched by that. You kind of shrug awkwardly and stay silent in response. But you have a feeling that she understands.

Getting John back up to your apartment isn't as difficult as getting him out of the other one. Once you say goodbye to Jade, you manage to convince John to "play piggyback" and carry him easily onto your own elevator and into your home.

You leave him in the bedroom to get into his pajamas, even taking the minute to dig them out for him. "I'm going to go get you some water, okay?" you say as you close the door behind you, though you doubt he cares. You shake your head as you watch the water pour into the glass. After your initial conversation with Jade, you had been hoping that this night would be going a lot better.

But, you figure, there's always tomorrow. For now, you're going to get John to settle down and go to sleep. You can deal with him seriously when he wakes up.

You knock on the bedroom door, glass in hand. "Hey, I'm coming in, okay?"

From inside the room, you can hear some shuffling, some laughing, and finally, "Okay!"

Without hesitation you open up the door. John's sitting on the edge of the bed, kicking his feet back and forth and wearing his pajamas like you were hoping he would be. He takes the water without argument, downing it faster than you really think he should. You try to get him to slow down, but he only ends up sputtering in laughter.

And then he tries to throw your glass to the ground, but you catch his wrist and take it from him before he can chuck it across the room.

John only agrees to lay down and stay there if you'll lay down with him. He snuggles up to your chest and wraps his arms around you so you can't escape. Now that he's settled down a little, it seems that the need to cuddle the death out of something has taken a rise. Normally you wouldn't mind the arrangement, but you're not a huge fan of how his breath reeks of alcohol right now. "Hey Dave?" he asks.

"Yeah?"

"Can we fuck right now?"

You laugh- totally thrown off by the question. "No, John. Not right now." You might be a horrible person, but you're not a horrible person.

"Oh." He accepts this well and you're glad.

Then he's quiet for a while. You allow yourself to close your eyes and hope that perhaps he's fallen asleep and you don't have to worry about a drunken John any more for the rest of the night. But then, just as you allow yourself to relax, you hear a sleepy whisper.

"...Dave?"

"Yeah, John?"

"I love you, Dave. I was scared to say it earlier. But I loooooove you." John draws out the word and ends his sentence on a happy sigh, as though a huge weight has just been lifted from his shoulders and he finally is able to feel at peace.

You know just how he feels. You press a kiss to his forehead, hoping and praying to every god in the cosmos that he if he remembers anything from this night, it'll be this. "I love you, too."

Chapter Text

Against all odds, you manage to wriggle your way out of John’s death grip. He’s all but passed out in the bed, and your moving doesn’t disturb him at all, it seems. You’re a little worried about him needing something to cling to during the night, so you grab a pillow from the other side of the bed and move it so that it rests within his reach should he decide to look around for something.

You turn off the bedroom light and shut the door quietly behind you, moving towards the living room with silent footsteps. You would so much rather spend the night curled up with your- your heart flutters even as you think the word- boyfriend.

He’s your boyfriend and he said he loves you.

Every fiber of your being sings with the memory and you’re very tempted to turn right around and climb back into bed. You turn to face the door- as though you’re actually considering it- and then with a reluctant, hesitant sigh, you turn right back around and cross the rest of the distance to the couch. You really don’t want to spend the night on the couch, in fact, you hate the idea; you’re going to wake up tomorrow morning feeling like shit all over.

But then you think about John in the morning, and the panic he’d surely be feeling should he wake up in bed with you. If he remembered any of his conversation with you from tonight, despite how clothed both of you were, he’d probably freak out. It was best for both of you if you just spent the night separate. There’d be enough time for coddling him tomorrow- and judging from how drunk he had managed to get himself tonight, he was going to need a lot of it.

You fall asleep happily thinking about it, forgetting to even grab a blanket for the night.

Several hours later, you wake up- cold and uncomfortable- to some loud sounds and swears in the bathroom. You groan unhappily, stretching your sore limbs and back out before you even attempt to sit up. You take a moment to rub at your neck and dismiss some of the knots that have formed, and then count yourself off to standing.

"John?" you call lightly, shuffling towards the bathroom. "What the hell are you doing?"

He peeks his head out from around the edge of the bathroom doorway- his hair a mess, and his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance and probably a little bit of pain. Put simply, he looks like absolute shit. “Where is the advil?” he asks desperately, skipping over all of the morning greetings you guess you weren’t really expecting this morning.

You laugh a little, pushing past him to get into the bathroom. “Here,” you say, moving towards the cupboard and locating the bottle of pills with ease. He grabs it from you with his good hand and fumbles with the top; it’s pretty hard to open a child-proof bottle when your most important hand is stuffed into a hard cast. But he finally manages, and pours a couple out into his hand. He pops them in and turns on the sink, washing the small, white pills down with water straight from the faucet.

You watch with a raised eyebrow, a little sadistically amused. “Rough night?” you say.

John groans loudly. “Leave me alone,” he whines, grabbing the bottle of advil and exiting the room. “I’m going back to bed.” He leaves you chuckling in the bathroom, but you catch up to him in no time, meeting him in the bedroom and sliding into bed along with the poor guy.

Surprisingly enough, he doesn’t protest when you hug him close to your chest.

Okay so he whines a little when you move him, but that’s it.

John falls back asleep soon enough, his back pressed against your chest and his arms wrapped around the forearm you have draped over his torso. You think you might’ve dozed off for a little while, following John into a light sleep before he pulls you back awake again. He moves around, shifting seemingly endlessly until he finally pushes himself to sit up. You watch as he looks around, rubbing his eyes and yawning quietly.

"Feeling any better?" you ask him, moving a hand to rest on what little you can access of his under his cast.

He looks back at you, smiles tiredly and nods. “Yeah. I think so, anyway; my headache is mostly gone, so….” He shrugs. When you don’t sit up to join him, he moves to lay back down next to you once again. “So how come you slept on the couch?”

You let out a short laugh. “Do you remember any of what you said last night?”

The memory must not be very fresh, because he needs to take a moment to think about it- his eyebrows furrowing and his mouth curving down into a slight frown before all that tension in his face suddenly releases in surprise and slight horror. “Oh my gooooooood!” he moans, turning over to bury his face into the pillow. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god.” His voice, as muffled as it is, sounds so distressed and embarrassed and it makes you laugh even more. You rub circles into his back in an attempt to comfort him.

John peeks up at you. “We didn’t… do anything, right?”

"You put it in my butt and I came so hard I’m going to be blind for the rest of my life."

He just stares at you in- telling from what little you can see of his face- confused horror.

Again, you snort. “Nah, dude, we didn’t do anything. That’s why I was sleeping on the couch, remember?” You give his back a couple of light pats in assurance. He then sighs in what you think is relief and buries his face once more.

"That’s not funny," he grumbles. "Don’t joke around like that, asshole."

You smile, leaning down to kiss his head. The next few seconds of both of your lives are silent, as you struggle to find the words you want to say regarding last night- about what John had last said to you last night. “So did you mean it?” you ask finally, as calmly and cooly as you can manage.

"Yeah," he says, and your heart flutters, "you are an asshole." And then your heart sinks and you can feel your mouth twisting into the least amused face you’ve ever pulled.

"No, not that." You poke him just under the ribs and snicker when he jumps. He smacks you in response, but it’s totally worth it.

"Then what?" He turns over to lay on his side so he can face you.

You hesitate, worried that he doesn’t remember, or that when he does remember, he’ll realize it hadn’t been genuine. “Last night…”

"Yeah?"

"You said…"

“Yeah?” He grins, his eyes twinkling with just a hint of mischief. He’s trying to coax this out of you.

"Well I mean, you said a lot of things, but-" He effectively cuts you off, leaning forward and kissing your lips with his own. You can feel yourself relaxing more and more with each second that your mouths are connected. A half a moment later and John pulls back, still smiling brightly.

He can’t help but plant one more very short kiss before he says anything. “Yes,” he says, a bit quieter. “I… I think I meant it.”

Your heart soars in your chest. Your breathing feels lighter and easier and your entire body just feels like the whole world was lifted off your shoulders. You surge forward and kiss him, accidentally knocking him back and he laughs, taking you down with him. God- you think- this is great. You have him. You have John and he loves you and- god. John.

John.

Who you’ve only known for about a month, who you can’t wait to spend the rest of your life with- wait, is it too soon to be thinking about that? Who fucking cares, you decide; you’re in love and this is by far the strongest and most sure you’ve ever felt about anything and you just want to hold him and be with him forever and be there to talk to him and write with him and just do every single last thing there is to do with him. Because you love him. You love him, you love him, you love him.

"I love you."

"I love you, too!"

Chapter Text

John's hovering over your shoulder and almost making you feel super uncomfortable. Under the circumstances, though, you can't exactly blame him. He's so fucking excited that not only is it contagious, but it's practically radiating off of him. "Is it up yet?" he says excitedly, his hands on your shoulders. "I thought you said it would take five minutes!"

"Calm down, dude, they're uploading still. You can see the progress bar right there," you say, pointing to the computer screen.

John just groans and rests his forehead against the back of your head.

It's been three and a half months since John first said 'I love you'. The cast is finally gone from his wrist and he's more or less off of the pain meds-- an occasional ibuprofen here or there to help with the soreness, but other than that he's been doing his stretches and the doctors said that everything's looking great. John was out of the plaster within eight weeks and you guys got to work almost straight away.

Writing the music was the easy part, but recording was more difficult; John was only able to play for a few minutes at a time for the first couple of weeks. And you had to make him step away from the piano on more than one occasion because you could tell it was too much for him.

In the end, the two of you decided to focus your energy on a modest three songs. It would be enough to make a good couple of bucks, and introduce the new elements to your music so your listeners will know what to expect from the future.

And now you're uploading those first three songs and you could swear that you've never seen John this happy about anything. He's usually pretty excitable anyway, but now it's like he can't contain himself. You're waiting for him to just burst out of himself at any second. It's kind of cute, and also kind of strange to see someone react this way to something that you've grown so accustomed to doing. This whole process is pretty normal for you, but you suppose that it could be a bit exhilarating if you've never gone through this kind of thing.

The progress bar hits the end and reads 100% complete. "Hey John," you say, moving your head around back and forth in an attempt to get his attention. "It's done."

You feel him move his head away from yours quickly, leaning over you to get a good look at the computer screen. You make a little noise at the back of your throat as he rests his weight on top of yours, making you bend forward slightly and uncomfortably. He pays you no attention and instead takes a good, silent minute to gawk at the screen while you sit unhappily under him. And then he stands up, pulling away from you. "Yeaaaaaaah!" he yells, drawing the word out long and loud.

Smiling, you turn in your chair to look at him. He's got his arms thrust up in the air and he's dancing around like a stupid idiot and he's so so happy. "You're even worse at dancing than I am," you comment smugly, leaning back and watching him. John slows and moves towards you, taking a seat on your lap and grinning like your words could never phase him. And they probably can't.

"So I'm excited!" he says, rolling his flicking your nose hard. "Sue me!" He tries to keep a straight face when he says this, but ends up breaking into another huge grin and bounces up and down on your lap like the excited little kid you know lives somewhere deep down in his heart. But then again, maybe that little kid isn't trapped very deep down. "We should go out tonight!" he suggests suddenly, straightening and looking you straight in the face.

There's absolutely no way that you can say no to that look he's giving you-- those wide eyes and that smile stretching his cheeks so wide. Ugh, sometimes you almost hate how pathetically in love you are. "What if I told you I already made a reservation?" you tease, waggling your eyebrows at him playfully.

John just stares at you for a moment in surprise. His eyes get even wider and his eyebrows raise more than you thought they were going to be able to. He even goes so far as to drop his jaw and you don't know how you manage to keep your poker face going with as wonderfully dumbfounded he looks. "Did you really?"

You let yourself laugh then, loudly. "No, I didn't-- but you should've seen your face when I told you I did!"

He whacks you then and you get into a stupid game of hitting each other for a good half a minute before John grabs your wrists and makes it clear that he's not going to let go until he gets his way. "You're a jerk," he says.

"I know."

"A jerk who's going to go out with me tonight!"

You can't help but chuckle. "Alright alright. But I'm not paying."

He gives a mock-exasperated sigh, as though he's fed up with your bullshit. But you figure that if he's not sick of you yet, then you two have might just have a long, happy run together. "Fine, fine! I'll pay then, ya damn cheapskate!" He leans in and pecks you quickly on the lips. "Let's go to that diner-- that one on 3rd Street." It seems that he's calmed down long enough to explain all that he wants. He rests his torso against yours comfortably and you let out a joking little oof. He's heavy, but not enough so that his weight isn't at least a little nice against yours. "We'll get greasy cheeseburgers and dip our fries in our milkshakes...!" You can see him grin out of the corner of his eyes.

"You're still not over that whole thing yet, are you?"

"Nope!" he replies without even having to pretend to think about it. "It's still pretty weird, you have to admit."

You poke him in the sides and he squirms in your lap a bit. "Yeah, but you like it, asshole."

"Yeah. Maybe just a little. I like you too."

"Wow dude, that's uh, that's pretty gay. You better watch what you say there. I thought we were on a strictly no homo basis that's kinda pushing it, wouldn't you say?"

"It's not as homo as your gay ass is."

You gasp dramatically as if you were actually offended. "Well now I'm not taking you to dinner." You look away, nose raised.

John leans his weight even more onto your body, his head resting against yours. "You were never taking me anyway. I'm paying remember?"

"Oh, don't worry. I most certainly did not forget," you promise. Someone else saying they've got dinner is something you never forget. Ever.

John laughs quietly, pressing his lips against your forehead. You hear him whisper something that sounds suspiciously like the word "loser", but you don't waste any time in asking what his lame insult really was. You tilt your head back and John moves so your lips meet. Your glasses clink against each other, and the two of you snicker a little at that. You feel John's fingers near your temples, pushing up at the joints of your shades, and moving them to rest on the top of your head.

The kiss itself doesn't last more than a few seconds, though it feels like an intimate eternity.

The truth is that this is only a short, fleeting moment spent with your boyfriend right before dinner. But this short moment will add up with all the others and help to create your infinity together.