Chapter Text
Dave is pretty consistently jumpy the days leading up to New Years Eve. You don’t know if it’s because his Bro is still trying to keep the jump on him, despite you persistently reminding him that Dave isn’t a tool that needs to be sharpened, and a lot of stern looks from Jade and Rose alike, or something else. Either way, it stopped being funny by the 27th and by the time he almost jumps three feet out of bed when you try and wake him up on the 31st, it’s just gotten plain annoying.
“Dude, chill, it’s me!” you say, snorting as he sits up, “Everyone’s went out anyway, even your Bro got dragged out. I’ve banned him from my room anyway, after him scaring the crap out of you the other day.”
“Yeah,” he says in a voice that very much suggests he doesn’t get the point of anything you just said, “So, what, you were bored and can’t let me have a much needed lie-in?”
“Oh yeah, sure, sure, not like all you do at Dad’s house is laze about like a jackass,” you tell him, ignoring his whiny resistance and tugging on his arm, “Come on, I’ve got something for you!”
“You – what?” he repeats, stupidly, sitting up straight and rigid all of a sudden. You grin and tug him to his feet.
-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] --
TG: he composed a fucking song thats it im dead hes killed me
TG: woke me up with a fucking heart attack and then pulled that on me
TG: add another dead dave to the pile
TG: send help
TT: *Le sign.*
The day is spiralling very quickly out of your control by the time the ball is about to drop. Mom and Mr Egbert are bickering over the correct way to open a bottle of champagne (“Dear, this is very expensive and the way you are suggesting will end in nothing short of an explosion.”), John has his arms slung around your neck with his chin in your hair, Jade is trying to explain some really fucking weird salamander New Years tradition to Rose and you can’t get that damn piano tune out of your fucking head.
You are a man on the edge of doing something, and it is so going to be something on the end of either extremes. Hell, it may well end in a Dave-shaped hole in Dadbert’s kitchen, a comical dust cloud rising from behind your scurrying feet and hitting John square in the face, leaving him wiping his glasses and looking so fucking forlorn.
If you did that, though, where the hell would you go? You’d pretty much be wrenching out the key lynchpin in your life, suddenly floating directionless like some douchebag protagonist in a crappy romantic comedy Vantas would know about. Like Dane Cook after he’s been told Hollywood no longer has any need for punchable faces and smug asshole protagonists to play alongside actual attractive leads. Jesus, your pop culture references are getting way hells out of date.
Either way, you’re downing this bubbly like it’s going to go fast (and with Mom in the room, it probably is). You’ve got a lot on your mind.
You feel like it’s going to be a long night.
“Davey.”
This word serves as your only warning before you’re pulled into the bosom of your inebriated ghost-slime-whatever-mother, a clumsy hand made way too strong by the frequent use of fistkind papping (or more accurately, sort of clumsily punching) you on the head.
It’s hard to talk with a face-full of maternal boobs, so you settle for pulling her drunken ass off of you so she can get to that actual damn point of dropping in on you when you just want to go upstairs and take a piss.
“Davey, Davey, Davey,” she repeats, shaking her head as you finally get yourself some room to breathe. She drags you outside and sits down on the front porch, gesturing to the place next to you, “Sit.”
Oh Jesus. The last time this happened she’d tried to impart some wisdom on you. Unfortunately, it came out sounding suspiciously like the speech fucking Mufasa gives to that little kitten shit about the circle of life or whatever, and just left you with a thumping headache by the time Rose came to your rescue. She doesn’t seem much in the mood for re-enacting movies about singing lions, thankfully, instead just downing the rest of her drink.
You opt to sit next to her, deciding that you guess your poor bladder can survive a Lalondesque ramble for a bit. She doesn’t really like being ignored a whole lot. It’s a family trait.
“Dave, ok...seriously time now,” she tells you, checking behind her and closing the front door, “What are you gonna do?”
“I was gonna go take a nice long piss to take some of this alcohol out of my bloodstream, but somehow I think that ain’t what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, fucksticks, you know what I mean, David,” she says and jesus does she sound like her daughter when she full-names you like that, “We’re talking about your long-term infatuation with the littlest Egbert, sweetheart.”
“Right,” you say, suddenly really wishing you’d just went to the goddamn toilet, “What about it?”
“Well, kiddo, you’re the one who brings up John this John that, blahblahblah, in every other conversation. The obsession is exhausting, and you’ve taken up a recent freaking-out tactic over the possibility of matrimononial bliss. Honestly, you don’t stop going on about it.”
You look at her.
“Matrimonial,” she amends.
“The fuck? I don’t stop going about it?” you repeat, horrified, “You harpies are the ones that –“
“Sweetheart, really. We talk about it because you bring it up and steer the conversation back to sweet ol’ John constantly with your constant oblique references and half-hearted complaints. The jury’s out and undecided on whether it’s cute or just annoying,” she says gently, as though to somebody who is going to freak out if something’s worded the slightest wrong way, “I loathe to be the one to remind you of this, but we do have an awful lot better to do with our lives than run around after you. Hence I elected myself as representative of house Egbert-Lalonde-Strider-Harle – yes, that’s a thing dear, don’t make that face – to encourage you to chill the hell out and think about what you want.”
“I don’t steer it back to Egbert constantly,” you huff. Unfortunately, every conversation you’ve had with everyone here all week (or more like for the past fucking billion years) pops unbidden back into your mind and
Shit.
Maybe Rose has a point when she says you lack self-awareness to almost Fitzgeraldian point. Whatever that means.
“It’s something people do in impressions of you, sweetheart,” she says, laughing and patting your shoulder, “Really though, just think about it. Don’t punish yourself so much, Dave.”
She stands up and heads back inside.
“And please, for the love of god, please stop acting like everything is some big imaginary contest, Dave.”
“I got you a present.”
John Egbert is tearing up.
“It’s a little durty.”
It is fast approaching four in the fucking morning, the lights are off, you’re half asleep, still a little drunk, and John Egbert has recovered an old, dusty DVD (who even watches DVDs any more) from the crap in his old room, and he’s sprawled across you, making small snuffley noises into your shirt as he rewatches his childhood favourite.
“Jesus, why haven’t I watched this movie in so long, Dave? Why did I ever pretend to grow out of this?” he says.
“John, seriously, it’s like thirty years old and in no way deserving any sort of recognition as a classic of cinema. Jesus. I can’t believe we’re watching this again.”
“It is a timeless classic. It even says so on the Amazon reviews. So shut up and stop criticising poor teenage me and his fine choices in cinema, ok, you did that enough when you were a douchey fourteen-year-old.”
He hiccups as little Casey bad-child-actress Poe shies away from her Dad’s crappy piece of shit gift. Trisha can’t-emote-for-shit Poe looks on in blank confusion as How Do I Live Without You swells like a goddamn brain tumour in the background. You think John must have seriously developed one in all the viewings of this he put himself through as a kid.
“This song does kind of suck though,” he admits, “Jeez, you know when I was a kid I thought this would literally be my life.”
“What, you’d grow up to have deplorable hair and clothing choices, just like Cage? Gee, well I got great news for you John.”
“Ok, shut the fuck up, not what I meant. I’m just saying it’s kinda weird. Didn’t think it’d turn out like this.”
Well shit.
“Welp. If you regret anything say it now, or forever hold your peace or whatever.”
“Nah,” he answers instantly. He shrugs. His grip tightens on you in some tiny, barely perceptible way.
You feel some vague lump in your throat that has nothing to do with this bullshit faux-tear-jerker movie.
“Jeez, paranoid much, Dave? What a wuss,” he says, laughing, “How long has it been at this point? A really long time.”
“Fuck, dude, I don’t know, not like people really believe that happy endings are a thing.”
“They are so a thing,” he says, his chest heaving in a low sigh. You both go quiet for a moment. John reaches over you to grab the remote, switching off the little portable TV. The only light in the room now is the slip of light from the crack in the door.
You can’t possibly go to sleep. Your head is spinning, John’s weight is heavy and warm on top of you, you’re suddenly aware of how he’s all you can smell, that little melody is still in your goddamn head. Fuck.
“Anyway, point is, we have it pretty good and you shouldn’t worry so damn much! I don’t think there’s anything strictly wrong with just letting yourself have stuff,” he continued, breaking your stream of thought.
“I do let myself have stuff. You’re constantly bitchin’ about me splashing our cash on expensive camera crap.”
“You know what I mean. Stuff. Not stuff.”
“Yes, totally crystal clear and not even more obfuscating, thanks for that, John,” you say, and he huffs, rolling off you and lies next to you. You tug back some of the covers he took from you with this spiteful, warm-depriving movement, eventually having to give in to his obnoxious iron grip and wriggle closer to him. You slip his glasses off and put them on the side, because you know he’ll fall asleep in them if you don’t.
“Fuck it, you know what I mean,” he sighs, “You can be really difficult, dude. It’s totally on purpose too.”
You grin a little in the dark, “Yeah, alright, I get a kick out of deliberately being a pain in the ass sometimes. Who doesn’t?”
He smacks you in the shoulder with the back of his hand.
“Jesus! And to think my Dad was asking if we were getting married earlier.”
“What?”
“Oh, relax. I brushed it off pretty fast,” he said, “I was just like, ‘Dad, seriously? Do you really think Dave would be up for that?’.”
“Oh fuck you, are you kidding?” you say, instantly, before you can stop yourself, and grab his wrists, pushing against him and finding yourself wrestling clumsily with him in the dark, your knees knocking together under the sheets, “I’d marry the shit out of you.”
He laughs, pushing back and knocking the flat of his palm against your nose, before he manages to dislodge you from on top of him, his knee hitting the skin of your thigh. You allow him to push you back down before he gets bored of the whole stupid tussle and just lies back down next to you, still flashing his teeth in a big stupid smile.
“Yeah, sure! I’ll remember that, dude.”
“Serious here, dude.”
He twists his mouth, the very cartoon expression of “uh, yeah right!”.
“No, I mean. Why not?” you continue, gallantly, or not so gallantly, because your heart suddenly seems intent on cracking every goddamn bone in your body, and you hear your voice come out sort of weird, and you’re suddenly so so glad the lights are all off, because you don’t want to know too much about the face he’s making right now, “Seriously.”
He looks at you with an expression you can’t quite make out in the darkness.
“Ok. Uh. Just for clarity’s sake. Are you proposing to me, Dave?”
You’d say that all your self-control was going into not saying “Nope!" in the most strained, high-pitched voice imaginable, jumping out of bed and running a mile in all your indecent glory to escape the utter rejection and embarrassment incoming, but honestly self-control isn’t even in the equation right now. You’re operating purely on stupid Egbert-based decisions and urges, and you’d say this was totally new to you but even you can’t bullshit yourself that much. It is the exact opposite of new to you. This is what you’ve been doing since you were fucking thirteen.
Instead you say, in a voice that sounds much calmer than you feel;
“Well, I ain’t got a ring or anything, but yeah. That’s the general idea.”
He doesn’t say anything for what seems like an insanely long time. You think out of a chain of very stupid things you’ve said in your life, this is by far the most stupid and most completely insane.
A smile? Okay. That’s better. That’s a lot better.
“Yeah, I think marrying you is definitely a thing I could do.”
You’ve not flown in a very, very long time, and you’ve almost forgotten what the hell it felt like. This comes pretty close.
“Well holy shit lil bro,” is the first thing out of Bro’s mouth when you tell him. It’s the first weekend in January and you’re standing in his shithole of an apartment, hands in your pockets. Your ring finger remains significantly unbanded (you and John spent about three hours looking at ring brochures and having a continually more confused-sounding exchange of “What are we supposed to be looking for here?”, “Are these supposed to look different?” and “I have no idea what we’re doing here.” before finally admitting defeat to the incomprehensible world of jewellery), but you don’t think that matters so much. The sentiment is there all the same. Details are just in the making.
“Yeah, damn,” is all you manage in respond, sitting down on the futon and kicking away a plump-butted smuppet almost on reflex, “I don’t know what the hell happened. I mean dude I –“
“Dibs music.”
“I – what?”
Bro doesn’t even turn around from his computer, where he’s uploading something you really, really never want to know the details of. He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand.
“Look, way I see it is if John is back in Washington informing bigger Egbert and Lalonde about this plan, you can bet your ass they’re dibsing the hells out of drinks and cakes and whatever else the fuck proud parents-slash-step-parents-slash-whatever-who-the-hell-even-keeps-track-of-our-family-tree-any-more get all excited about when their kid is tying the proverbial homo knot,” he explains, “I’ll have you know I resent the idea you don’t think I’ll be getting my finger in this nuptial pie when those two are flaunting their talents for baking absurd amounts of cake and materialising alcoholic beverages out of the thin air.”
You guess that’s his blessing then. You rub your temples, glad he’s at least on board with this but you were kind of hoping for a bit more of a conversation and not just him going off on some big ramble at you like usual.
“Ok, cool.”
“There’s some drinks and stuff in the fridge if you wanna bust some out to celebrate or whatever,” he adds after a moment of silence, as he tests the audio on his video. Damn, the guy needs to calm down, his excitement is getting out of hand. He’ll be throwing confetti in your face and swinging you around the room next.
You dodge some errant blades as you go to the fridge, and suddenly you’re thirteen years old and the past thirteen plus years seem like they happened in a split second.
You help yourself to a drink and sit down, you need a fucking breather. You sit and watch the back of Bro’s head as he starts looking through his seemingly infinite folders of music, and try to figure out what the hell just happened.
Dave still isn’t home when you finally get back late Sunday night. Dad and Ms Lalonde had just about talked your ears off all weekend and asked you about fifty billion questions, each more excessively flappy and embarrassing than the last, you thought Dave would be back by the time you managed to claw yourself out of their grip.
You guess it’s alright for the eternal part-timer, but dang! You thought he’d be back by now. You just hope he and his brother aren’t doing something stupid and dangerous like they usually seem to be doing. If he gets himself killed five seconds after he frigging proposes you are going to be so peeved.
Turning on your laptop (hey, what else are you supposed to immediately do after you get home?) you sit yourself on the sofa and get yourself ready for a long evening of blogging about movies. Maybe Jade feels like streaming all the Paranormal Activity movies with you or something.
Pesterchum flashes the second you sign in.
-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] --
TG: so yeah hi
EB: dude, why aren’t you home! i thought you’d have gotten done with talking about feelings and dumb flowers and stuff way before me.
EB: or did your bro finally break down and shed manly tears in light of your blossoming as a true woman?
TG: yes he wept deeply at his sweet maiden daughter finally being swept off her fucking feet into a life of white picket fences and making like idk lasagne or something
EB: i’m sure it was very heartfelt and emotional.
EB: i wish you’d filmed it so i could see such beautiful displays of genuine feeling myself.
TG: yeah it was pretty intense i smell an oscar on the way
TG: shit maybe like a dozen of them start banging up another set of shelves john were gonna need them for all these sweet gold awards heading my way
EB: sure, i’ll moped down to ikea. make sure we get some strong swedish support for all these movie awards for you and your bro’s superb displays of emotion.
TG: strong swedish support sounds like an ad for weird sports bras or something
TG: and yeah im getting all sorts of tearful letters from actors and shit man
TG: strider strider how do you show such heartbreaking emotion so perfectly shit man im giving up the game i aint going anywhere with my crappy career
TG: love john travolta
EB: ok, can we stop being idiots for like two seconds?
TG: yeah alright
EB: in all seriousness, how did it go?
TG: p well
TG: just need to crash at bros tonight too because ive worn myself the fuck out and dont feel much like driving the swagmobile home
EB: ok, haven’t we agreed if you call your crappy car the swagmobile one more time i’m going to drive it into the sea?
TG: what
TG: so was the award ruse like
EB: don’t.
TG: a
TG: DISTACTION????
EB: no, shut up.
TG: you totally just laughed
EB: i did not!
TG: w/e point is as long as you laugh at my stupid jokes im going to keep making them you cant stop me
EB: yeah, yeah, yeah, i know, dude!
EB: what you worn yourself out doing?
TG: thinkin
EB: oh yeah.
EB: i know that’s pretty exhausting for you.
TG: stfu you know what i meant
TG: i got my mad contemplation on
TG: meditated on everything you know how it is
TG: came to the conclusion im pretty ok with all this
EB: haha, well i’m glad you are dude!
EB: i mean
EB: this is gonna sound kinda dumb.
EB: but i get kinda worried you’re gonna bail on this or whatever.
EB: only a little!
TG: what
TG: no
TG: i got this
TG: you see this glimmer in my eyes this be DEVOTION
TG: getting all mad matrimonial up in this shit
TG: i even looked up what a centrepiece was today
EB: excellent as always, dave.
TG: bro suggested a large clay dildo
EB: no.
TG: no i mean for party favours or whatever
EB: still no.
TG: fine fine whatever bridezilla i just thought it was a better suggestion than his horse faced smuppet suggestion
TG: im inclined to at least compromise with the guy as of late
EB: hahahaha, oh jeez! no way, dude, that’s completely terrifying.
EB: your brother is completely terrifying.
TG: yeah i know
TG: anyway ill be back early tomorrow morning
TG: should prob catch you before work i think
EB: hahaha, it’s fine, dude! don’t force yourself to get up at the otherwise unheard of hours of 7am to catch me.
TG: nah ill manage
EB: alright, alright. i guess i’m not entirely opposed the idea of seeing you before i go off to wear jackets with elbow patches and talk about ectobiology.
TG: ok that cant possibly be what you do
TG: no one else would ever believe thats a thing
TG: and i would never let you wear a jacket with elbow patches thats tragic
EB: it’s close enough to what i do, dickface. >:B
TG: oh little buckteeth emoticons thats mature
EB: yeah, yeah, whatever! anyway, you should really go to bed soon if you’re gonna drive early tomorrow.
TG: yeah good point
TG: alright sure
TG: gnight john
“Feels pretty damn final, doesn’t it?”
You look up from your scribbled notes, where Dave is suddenly standing over you, jacket and hair wet from the rain. Fuck, you wish he’d stop doing the flash-stepping thing; it’s far more alarming and obnoxious than it is impressive. Though you guess if times ever get really hard he can have a budding career as a cat burglar or something.
“Ha, you posted them then? Well yeah, that is pretty final,” you say, your pen between your teeth. You’d spend a good long time going through the calendar with a fine tooth comb to pick a date, purely because you didn’t want it to land on any combination of numbers that had previously been associated with the world goddamn ending. You’d really prefer the world not end any time soon.
It’s not a date long-off at this point, the confusing affair of trying to figure out how weddings even worked almost completely behind you, suits fitted, invitations mailed out at your badgering. Dave had just done them since you didn’t really care a whole lot what a bit of paper looked like, so you can’t help but get the horrible, sneaking feeling that there had been a lot more clip art involved than there ever should be in anything.
He shrugs off his jacket, throwing it over the back of the sofa and perches himself on the edge of your desk as you continue you work, rubbing his damp shades on the sleeve of his shirt as he stares at you.
Finally, you look up.
“What?”
He opens his mouth for a second, and then closes it, shaking his head. He hops off the desk, still giving you that weird look, sort of disbelieving, and you can practically hear the cogs in his head turning.
“Nothin’.”
GG: joooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooohhhn!!!!
EB: wow, that is a lot of “o”s.
GG: yes
GG: yes it is
GG: but that is not the point! the point is we need to have you a radtastical bachelor party soon
GG: just you and me, bro!!! :B
EB: uh, jade, not to burst your bubble but...
EB: aren’t bachelor parties usually just with guys?
EB: not your sister?
GG: yes
GG: yes they are
GG: but youre marrying your only guy friend who is not in space
EB: .......
EB: good point.
GG: and besides, i have studied the fine art of party rocking long and hard
GG: i think i know how to do this
GG: come on!!! you cant spend the night before your wedding just arguing with dave about what crappy take out to get
EB: that was so not what we were going to do.
GG: it so was
EB: was not.
GG: was too
EB: bluuuuuh!
GG: bluuuuuuuuuuuuuh!
GG: come on! how often do i get you to myself
GG: we can go to awesome places and play blackjack and see if we can spot hookers and reminisce about times gone by
GG: also we can talk about lots of things and wear groucho marx glasses and itll just be really fun
EB: ok, that does sound pretty awesome.
EB: i think i have been pulled on board with this plan.
GG: wooooooooooo!
It’s the last night of your bachelorhood, and you’re spending it sat on a bed in a hotel room, as your sister struggles into a binder, tie and braces for her “satirical crossdressing expression of brohood, to soothe the undoubted assault to your masculinity you’ll be suffering at the hands of your big send off into married life being spent with your perfumey-mouthed little sister”.
You are more than a little crapping your pants.
She emerges from the bathroom, sort of looking like a skinnier, shorter version of you with a girlier face. And thinner eyebrows. Buttoning her cuffs, she sits down beside you, tossing the carefully embroidered pillow she made into your lap.
“Ok I’m pretty sure “tacky velvet pillow with a poem on it” was not on the gift list,” you ask, rolling your eyes. She smiles.
“Now, where would we be as a family if I didn’t constantly assault you with much unneeded passive-aggression?” she tells you, “Besides, somehow I don’t see how “don’t get us toaster or something like that I mean what the fuck we’ve got all that shit why would we need any more pointless crappy kitchen stuff” at all constitutes a gift list.”
“You’re the one who told us “new Xbox” wasn’t a valid option,” you hear yourself whine, and she snorts, “Look, Rose, all I’m saying is that this pillow is the actual gayest thing I’ve ever seen.”
She raises an eyebrow at you, and you steel yourself for what is undoubtedly coming.
“Dave, I usually hold off on describing the sexuality of anything not particularly capable of having an orientation, but I’d say this entire arrangement was of an entirely homosexual persuasion.”
“Well. It’s not. Actually,” you say, slowly and awkwardly.
“Not actually?”
“Not actually gay. I mean, either of us.”
Rose squints at you like a person with a very bad headache who just got a very bright light flashed in front of their eyes. She pushes her hair back with a hand, breathing out through her teeth. You feel the small pulse of a voice muttering “well not totally true” in your head.
“Not actually gay,” she repeats, slowly.
Your mouth starts running of its own accord. The phrase “gay chicken”, a concept you really, really started to resent by the time you were sixteen and it started to just hurt whenever you had to rationalise it, drops out of your mouth, all the while Rose is giving you that same stare that expresses with no level of uncertainty what a tool you sound like, and you become slowly more certain of what a pack of lies everything you’re saying is.
Eventually she sighs, massaging her forehead and speaking slowly.
“There are two possibilities here. The first option is that you do not, in fact, score a perfect zero on the Kinsey scale, and have simply been unwilling to admit to yourself your sincere feelings of affection-- which would be a desperately common familial trait, might I remind you. The second option is that you are a fucking moron,” she says, and you should have some really witty retort for this, “So which is it?”
You stare stupidly, and manage to say, “I’m thinking.”
A tacky pillow hits you square in the face, and you squawk like an imbecile and almost fall off the bed, holding up your hands defensively, “Hey, just because you like being a faghag doesn’t mean –“
Wrong answer. Rose yelled, and hit him again, growling something like, “I swear – so stupid – if you hurt that boy – you –“.
“Heeey, hey, guys!”
You’re saved by a cheerful call from the doorway, and there stands your knight in shining armour here to save you from this pillow-wielding witch. Or, in this case, your knight in a “I’m with stupid” t-shirt and removing a beaglepuss from his nose. He grins at you both, babbling away like an idiot like usual, and Rose steps off you, prim and proper as ever, and you barely resist the urge to stick your tongue out at her.
“He’s just nervous,” Rose says, looking at you pointedly – very pointedly you can practically feel the points digging into your goddamn skin – and then back at John with a serene smile, “I judged he needed a distraction.”
“Ha, I’m nervous too! I finally realise why people have crazy bachelor parties – to stop you from going insane!” he laughs, continuing with a sheepish smile, “I mean it’s so weird, to think we’ve come so far, and. I. Can I tell you a secret? A really dumb secret?”
You know what’s coming, you totally don’t want to hear it, but before you can say a damn thing or steer the conversation to his ridiculous outfit or something much safer, Rose nods and permits him to continue.
“Back when this first started, it was like. I thought we were just playing “gay chicken”,” he said, and he looked like he wanted to say a lot more, but fell quiet at Rose’s inquisitive gaze and whatever dumbass expression you had on your face.
“What convinced you we weren’t?” you say, finally, and jesus you sound stupid, you wonder how long this guy has been killing you like this for. You couldn’t even put a number to it.
You apparently were too caught up in the big wriggling nervous mass that is your thoughts, because all of a sudden John is kissing you and this
Yeah.
This.
“See? You’d have to be an idiot to miss that!”
You ignore the smug look on Rose’s stupid face and hug him, before you hear Jade yell for him down the hall, and he pulls away with a grin.
“Anyway, don’t you two get in trouble tonight! Though I know I can trust you, Rose. Jade was saying something about neon and blackjack and hookers, and sometimes I don’t really know if she’s kidding or not.”
He laughs even as you find yourself babbling, running out the door even as you take an awkward step forward to go and follow him like you always do, and if the wind changes Rose will be stuck with the expression of “overly smug asshole” for the rest of her life.
You turn back to her, accepting defeat. The homosexual lifestyle, 1; Dave Strider, 0.
She simply links her arm with yours, standing and looking entirely satisfied with herself.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself for succumbing to the Egbert charm, Dave. It happens to the best of us,” she eases you, obviously entertained.
“Yeah. Shit,” you say, vaguely, and then give in, tugging her arm, “Let’s go get drunk.”
-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] --
TT: And so, how are the Egberts enjoying their honeymoon?
TG: oh hell no
TG: if anything were the striders dont try to pin the egbert name on me
TT: Egbert-Striders, then.
TG: strider-egbert
TT: Oh my fucking God.
TG: but yeah its been good i mean weve been offline for like a week what do you expect
TG: that is like a testament to what a good time is being had
TG: we actually managed to pry ourselves off pesterchum for seven consecutive days its a miracle
TT: Praise the internet gods.
TG: thatd be us four just btw
TT: Of course.
TG: but yeah its pretty good i mean we aint stopped doing shit all week johns been over the goddamn proverbial moon like a squirrel who just found an untouched stash of acorns in the middle of winter
TG: only these acorns are me taking him rad places and letting him touch the sweaty palm of nic cage
TT: Oh? How did he react to that?
TG: best sex ive ever had
TG: ill have to write his ex a thank you note for setting that up
TT: I didn’t really need details quite so intimate, but thank you so much, Dave.
TG: youre welcome
TG: asfgthet
TT: ?
TG: hi rose!
TT: Hello John.
TG: i know you two are doing your snarky weird bonding time, but i’m gonna have to tear dave away from the computer if we’re actually going to get to the waterpark with time to spare!
TG: he can embarrass me with sordid stories he SHOULDN’T BE SHARING later.
TG: soz john
TT: Oh, by all means, feel free to steal your husband back from me. I just thought I should check in and make sure he hadn’t messed up in some cosmically stupid way.
TG: hey
TG: nope, no messing up.
TG: and jeez, it’s not like he will. he’s not that bad.
TG: anyway, see you rose!
TT: Talk to you later, boys. Enjoy yourselves.
-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] --
“You know if I burn I’m gonna lie in the hotel room for the last two days making you feel guilty about the blatant disregard you gave my delicate constitution, right?” Dave says, even as you smear some sun lotion over his nose, rolling your eyes as best you can.
“Please, Dave, I’ll hold the stupid parasol over your head the entire time if you’re going to be a big baby about it,” you promise solemnly, twisting him around to rub some on his shoulders, “Even on the rides. That’s just the kind of guy I am.”
“I’m sure you will,” he says, lips twitching, “And I’m sure the lifeguards will be totally ok with that flagrant disregard of every health and safety rule in the universe.”
“There’s probably a loophole. Or they’ll take pity on me when they realise I’ve married a guy with the skin colour of egg whites who burns the second he actually receives light that isn’t from a computer screen. Hell, they might just think you’re a ghost or something.”
“Shut up, you’re hardly an outdoorsman,” he says, grinning as you hug him round the shoulders and grab his hand, dragging him away from his stupid computer and his weird blog empire and the internet posing he’d otherwise spend the afternoon doing.
“More than you. Now, come on, I want to at least get there before the sun goes down.”