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You so desperately wish that you were not in this situation right now. Being Dave Strider’s “best bro” and being punched by some hooligans is not a good combination of things. This is because the people who punched you, lightly, even! will be punched back and screamed at. You’ve never heard such a ferocious noise come out of Dave’s mouth and it is pretty scary because usually he’s this tiny little passive thing and now he’s like... he’s like a LION.
The truth is, this happens to you all the time. The hooligans make sure not to do it in front of him, because of the what is happening right now, but he saw it this time. And as bad as it sounds, you almost wish he didn’t. You really wish he didn’t, because then he wouldn’t have been punched. That is not what you want.
You rush to his side, tears coming to your eyes because you have never seen him all beaten like this before. “Dave!” You say quietly, hoping they won’t hear. You lift his shades up and his right eye is already swelling.
Two main tasks come to mind:
1. Get Dave home.
2. Do not cause a scene.
His eyes flutter open and he pulls the shades down over his them, standing up. He looks over his shoulder at the doofuses, and then looks back at you. You two start down the sidewalk towards your house.
“Are you okay?” You ask, turning to look at his face again.
It moves slightly downwards, suggesting that his gaze is at the sidewalk. “Yeah, I’m fine.” His voice is rusty and cracks at the last word. His footsteps slow to a stop, and he leans against an old brick wall of a ‘For Lease’ building. You can tell he’s not.
“Dave,” you say quietly, stepping in front of him. You’ve never seen him like this and it scares you to death.
Then, quietly, he goes “shit.” And a hand comes up to his cheek and he lets out a slow breath.
“Does it really hurt that bad?” He doesn’t answer, and you say, “C’mon, we’re almost home. Dad’s at work, so we can pig out on those cookies you like.” It's a lame lure, but it works. His feet move again, and your fingers, which were brushing at his arm before, fall into his hand.
He walks right into the living room, flopping down on the couch when you get home. You sit next to him and he’s so quiet and he’s so not himself that it makes the back of your throat tighten and burn. “Could you fucking talk to me?” You kind of snap at him, feeling bad immediately after you say it. You almost cover your mouth with your hands and your eyes get real wide, like shit, why did you SAY that?????
He sits up. “They’re doing it to both of us now.” His voice is quiet. “I was fine when they did it to me, but to you,”
You aren’t sure that this is a good time to tell him that they’ve been doing it to you since the seventh grade.
Your hand comes up and lifts the shades off his face to reveal a lot of things.
1. Dave being too (???) to close his eyes the first millisecond that there are no shades on them.
2. Red. Crimson. Blood orange. Whatever it is, it’s fucking beautiful.
3. A big, purple-blue-black-brown-green bruise on the right eye.
4. The area around his eyes is wet. You aren’t sure if when you get punched your eyes water or something, but you’re 99% sure that Dave Strider is crying. That scares you even more.
You don’t know what to address first. Dave’s gaze lands on yours and he collapses onto you, shoulders racking in loud, messy sobs. You don’t know what to do except do what he did for you when it started in seventh grade.
Hug back and bury your head in his shoulder.
After a while, he grumbles something into your neck. “You better not tell any of this shit to anyone, Egbert.”
You laugh, thankful that he’s back to normal. From... whatever that was.
“Should we get you cleaned up now?” You ask. Some of the bruise is still visible even under the cover of his trusty shades, and you can’t imagine what Dad would say about that. Or Bro. He’d yell at him for not dodging it or something.
“Yeah, sure.” He says.
Heading to the freezer, you grab an ice pack- the only remedy for swelling and bruising that you can think of. He takes it and presses it to his eye, the unharmed eye resting in your gaze.
The topic of color remains unaddressed. It is pulling at your sleeve, begging to be talked about.
“Dave?”
“What,”
“Um, could you, you know, tell me about-“
“Yeah. They’re red.”
“What, possessed by the devil or something?” You joke, immediately regretting that, because of the look he gives you. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. But people think that sometimes.”
At first you think he’s joking, but the way he says it and his... posture, is so beat up you doubt he is. Your eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, that’s why I wear, you know,” he looks at the shades on the coffee table to the side of you both.
You exhale slowly, letting the breath out in rations. “God, Dave, I’m sorry- I didn’t know,”
He waves you off with his free hand. “No one does.”
“Why?” You ask. “You can show it to Rose, Jade, and I, can’t you?”
“They’re freaky, John. They’re ugly and they scare people.”
“No,” you start, but don’t finish the sentence, even though it’s pulling at your lips. They’re beautiful. Perfect. That would be dumb. You can’t say that. Instead, you do the pretty much equal in dumbness thing. You just stare at his eyes. He looks completely different without shades.
Like when people are sleeping. That is their most vulnerable form, they look younger and different and even if they’re the meanest person in the world, they look just plain human, except Dave looks like that now.
Right now, you have the strange urge to kiss him. This happens a lot, especially when you have a moment like this. Of silence, with nothing but pure electricity flowing between you two. But of course, you’re not a homosexual. You’ve made that clear to everyone ever and this must just be one of the side effects of best broship.
You wonder if he has that side effect sometimes, too.
Most of you hopes so.
The moment cracks when Dave’s bright eyes break from your gaze. Your hand magnetizes toward his and your fingers intertwine, as they’ve done so many times before. Casually, of course. You take it as a sign of great best broship.
He takes the ice off and some of the puffiness has gone down. Now, it’s really just a nebula, holding up a moon with a bed of stars underneath.
Sometimes, he says that your eyes are the sky.
“John, are you in love with me,” Dave cracks a smile and you can’t tell if he’s joking.
An uncontrollable flush paints across your cheekbones, sliding across your jawbone, down your nose. “W-What?” You stutter.
“Quick, John, now that you’re in love with me, let’s make out. It’s a once in a lifetime chance, because John Egbert, of course, is not a homosexual.”
You’re half relieved that he is joking. You decide to play along. “You’re right, Dave, this is your only chance if you’re in love with me. A sliver of opportunity. I’d take advantage of it, if I were you.”
His smile falters. That is your sliver of opportunity, if you need one.
Soon, his cool kid smirk is back, though. Merely a kink in a force field. “We’re both such losers right now, Egbert, it’s batshit.”
“What, my loserness?”
“Yeah. Fucking overwhelming.”
“I know, Dave, it’s wonderful. Are you seduced by my absolute nerdiness, because that’s what I heard everyone’s looking for nowadays.”
“Oh, of course. And are you seduced by my hipster cool kid situation, going on?”
“Totally, Dave.”
These kind of things happen a lot between you two. It’s playing with fire, really.
Playing with a match in a pool of gasoline or water, and you can’t tell which, is a better metaphor, actually. You let yourself hope that it’s just water. You’re too scared to light the match and see, though.
“They’ve been doing that to me since seventh grade.” You say. You can’t keep it from him. You feel as if you owe him a part of you, from what he’s given you.
His eyes and mouth widen. “What?”
“Yeah. I just... thought you should know. It doesn’t bother me, though. Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing new.”
“You have to fucking tell me these things, Egbert, what the fuck,”
Is he mad?
“Dave, no! I didn’t want you to... I didn’t want this to happen. It didn’t bother me. They didn’t beat me up, either, it’s just-“
“I caught them this time.”
“Yeah.”
Your eyes are both the same ends of a magnet, and they’ll go anywhere than to each other. They change charges a lot.
“At least we’ll be losers together.” He says, and you could argue that he isn’t a loser, but he really is a loser, so you won’t.
You want him to be your loser.
The sinking autumn sun dyes both of you in a golden coating, making Strider’s eyes less bright and cold, but more... warm. They fit in with the color scheme right now. Fuck, his whole person does. He’s autumn, with light hair and orange freckles, a red sweatshirt, golden skin, and eyes as bright as the sun.
You want to light the match. You’ve wanted to since seventh grade, actually, but you’ve always chickened out.
Dad comes home soon, and Dave jumps, sliding his shades on. You look at him, expecting to see some purple, but with shades, it’s barely noticeable now.
You play Risk with Dad and Dave until he has to go because it’s a school night, you say bye, and he leaves.
It’s weird because right after he leaves you run up to your room and play the piano, slamming your fingers on the keys with a ferocity that you never knew was in you, and the more puzzling question: where did you get it?
Things like this, you think, are parasitic. They weasel their way into your mind and hang out in there, not sucking your blood or feeding or something, but releasing some sort of poison that mingles with your blood, unnoticed and it can only be released at certain times. Like now, when you’re at the piano when your eyes are closed and your fingers just know where to go you’ve played this song so many times.
You don’t know why.
Actually you do know why you’ve played it so many times, but the reason makes the explanation harder to decipher.
It’s Dave’s favorite. He always wants to hear you play it and when you do and when he thinks you’re not looking, he leans back on the wall and closes his eyes, mouth a straight line. You couldn’t even begin to guess what’s going on in his head when you play that song. Dave is mysterious and more than half the time, despite the length of time that you’ve known him, you don’t know what he’s thinking.
You know more than other people know about him, though. You’ve learned that by the slightest twitch of muscle in his neck says that he is angry and that a move of an eyebrow says that he likes you.
He’s certainly a book written in another language, and you’ve learned more than a couple of words. It’s hard to learn, and there is no class for it in school. You’re a self-taught Dave-reader.
You realize from lack of sound filling the room that you’ve stopped playing. Your fingers still move just as fast on the keys, not making any noise, like a hamster on a wheel.
The keyboard should be on. Why is it not making noise? You look up and see Dave standing in front of it, two fingers still on the on/off switch.
“Egbert.”
“Strider.”
“What the hell is wrong.” He demands.
“I was just playing, y’know, music.” You were just playing your keyboard faster than you’ve ever played it, more angrily than you’ve ever played it. You didn’t even notice when it wasn’t making sound anymore, and you kept playing. Your fingers just had to move.
“No you weren’t,”
“I was, before you turned the thing off.”
“And you kept playing,”
“Well I was-“
“John.” He stops you.
You want to collapse into his arms like he did to you. You don’t know why you’re so sad or mad or whatever this is, but you want it to go away.
You’re guessing, if you’re completely honest with yourself, that it’s because you might be in love with Dave Strider. And if you’re being completely honest with yourself, then you might as well be completely honest with Dave Strider, because that’s the same thing, really.
“I don’t know.” You say.
He backs up to sit on your bed, looking towards you. He sighs.
“Play it again.”
So you do. And when you’re done with the song that he loves so much, your hands drop to your sides, dangling down, mingling with the smooth plastic of the cheap drumming stool that you sit on. Your mouth can’t smile, because you got your best bro punched today and he’s sitting here expecting some explanation of why you’re being so... stupid, but you don’t have one and you think- you know, that you’re in love with him, but he’s not in love with you at all. There are better people to be in love with. Most people are the better people to be in love with.
Here you are in your pool of mysterious liquid, not sure whether it’s going to be flammable or not and you have one match. You’re not sure if Dave is with you or when, exactly, you will drown, but you know you will sometime soon.
Dave picks up the piece of sheet music in front of you, even though you’re long from needing it, it doesn’t feel right to play without. It’s thinned, browned and crumpled, the ink is smudged and there are countless pencil markings that you and Dave have made for variations and remixes of it.
You remember when he wrote it for you.
It was your birthday in seventh grade, he didn’t have any money because Bro sure as hell wouldn’t give him any to spend on his own, and he didn’t have a job, of course.
He handed you an ironic birthday card with a cat on it wishing you a Happy Purrthday, you opened it and in messy red handwriting it told you that he didn’t have money and Bro sure as hell wouldn’t give him any to spend on his own, so he wrote you this. The lined piece of paper fell out onto your lap, and you recognized it as one of the empty staffs you gave him, stolen from the band room.
It was filled now, though, with black ink, fresh, and the music automatically began playing in your head and it was perfect. You still don’t know how he learned to write or read music, or notes or flats or sharps or any of that, but it was all there.
“Dave,” you start.
“Hm,”
You cross the room, flopping on the bed, landing across his torso, your face right in his. You roll off, so both of you are as close as possible without touching. “I think I might be...” you trail off.
“What.”
“I dunno.”
“Nah, man, tell me.”
“Can we still be friends after I tell you?”
“Yeah, when would we ever not be friends.”
After I tell you this.
“I might be in love with someone.”
“Really?” He looks taken aback, like that’s not what he was expecting. You guess that’s not a bad reaction.
“Yeah.”
“Who?”
You knew this was coming. You were waiting for it.
Your eyes go to your hands, fingers playing with Dave’s.
“You.”
“What?”
You sigh, fingers retracting from his. “You.” You mutter again.
“Me?” He asks, and you can feel your strongly built up friendship crumbling. You can feel the water ignite into flames and consume in pure heat.
Dave laughs, sitting up.
You do the same, eyes still on the cloud-patterned sheets of your unmade bed. You feel fingers under your chin, making you instinctively look up, right into Dave’s black glasses. Your hand comes up to reveal something much more... real. He pulls you in, close, and your lips meet and you think that the fire igniting was good.
Dave is fire and your friendship crumbled into something much more. Hopefully. Things are looking up more than they ever have been, but it’s fragile.
For now, you just focus on now.
He pulls you closer and you start to thaw out, because before you were completely frozen before. Your arms come to the back of his neck, playing with the light, short hair and his wrap around your shoulders tightly, you’ve definitely hugged before, but this is... desperate. It’s full of want and need.
You realize that this is your first kiss. You’re in sophomore year, so it’s not thaaaaat bad, but still, you’re glad it isn’t any later.
You’re also glad it’s not from anyone else. This loser is the only person that you’d let have your first kiss.
He breaks his lips from yours, and he’s out of breath. You’ve kind of just been in shock.
“John,” he whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Are you in love with me?”
“Yeah.”
He smiles, giving a breathy laugh. “You need to tell me that sooner, man.”
“What do you mean?”
“We could’ve been having sloppy makeouts in your room sooner, loser.”
“Really?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
You put your lips lightly on his, and it seems that he’s obviously experienced in this.
“At least we’re doing it now.” You smile.
“So are we going to be losers together, now?”
You take his hand, laughing. “What do you mean ‘now,’ we’ll always be losers together.”
“Getting beat up and then watching shitty movies and eating cookies.”
“Basically.”
“And then a sloppy makeout or two.”
“I’m always up for that.”
He laughs now, and his laugh is so rare that it spreads to you. Soon, you’re both rolling around on the bed describing how much of a loser each is. It’s a competition of wit, really, and now stoking the fire, seeing what makes it bigger and what doesn’t.
“We should watch a movie.” You suggest, after a couple minutes of silence.
“Sure.”
You run downstairs and flop on the couch, ending with arms and legs all tangled together under a big blanket, in the dark, watching Nic Cage movies.
He’s your loser, now, and you absolutely love him and he loves you and it’s wonderful to have someone to be a loser with.