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Your name is John Egbert, and you are seventeen unwanted years old. You're alternatively nursing a whiskey and making out with some guy named Dave next to you. Says he's seventeen too, and you wonder in the back of your mind if he's really gay.
Three years ago, famous guys were either gay or acted like it. But in this 'delightfully' passé world of 1992, everyone's fake-bi. Fake-bi is "Oh, yeah, I've kissed guys" while you're going steady with a straight girl. You couldn't date a guy that would be gay. And while this guy's tongue is in your mouth (he tastes like apple juice and gin), you think you're the only real bi guy in Seattle.
Dave is apparently in a band called Dersite, which you keep thinking is called Dustmite. He plays guitar and sings and you really want him to be your Kurt Cobain (maybe without the drugs?).
By the time you go home for the night, you've got his phone number and his address and you might be truly in love with a guy who's not gay.
--
Your name's Dave Strider, and you swear you're not drunk. Even though you haven't been fully sober since… maybe October of last year? But this time you are. Totally. Because their is a brunette across from you wearing dorky glasses and green flannel and you think you're in love.
There's nothing like making out. There's also nothing like waking up feeling happy.
You call him at one-thirty-seven in the morning and, for some reason, he answers on the first ring. Shit, you were hoping for an answering machine.
"Yeah?"
"Uh, it's Dave…" You twist the cord around your finger and listen to his excited gasp.
"Oh wow." I think I love you I think I love you I think I love you no fuck that I love you I love you I love you I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU.
--
He called. He called? He called!!
"Hi!" You're a fucking idiot.
"Hey, uh, do you wanna hang out sometime? Dersite's having a gig tomorrow.." Whoa, invitations to his gig? Whoa.
"Do you mean tonight? Cause it's like, two in the morning." He laughs all nervous and cute. "Yeah… that's what I mean. It's at nine, uh, at the bar we were at?"
"Oh, cool, I'll totally be there." He sighs in some kinda relief, exchanges goodbyes, and hangs up. And with that, you might be dating a member of a band?! He gave you a demo tape and it's all pretty cool, especially the song "Carapacians". You have no clue what any of these words mean, but it's awesome, and you officially spend the next two hours picking out an outfit to wear to his gig before passing out, half-naked, on your bed until 3 in the afternoon. And have a wicked wet dream about this Dave guy. (Oops).
--
Okay yep you're in love. Completely in love. He goes to your gig and you make up an acoustic song that no one seems to like for him. Stupid title: St. John. Stupid lyrics. But his face lights up and that is goddamn good enough for you. Just cause you won't be able to remember it tomorrow.
You blow him a kiss after the song and every chick in the room screams. Fucking groupies.
John looks around like you could possibly be blowing a kiss at anyone else. After he figures it out, he smiles and giggles and he is a whole new level of adorable and help! you're breaking the mold of being apathetic about everything.
When you finish the gig, he won't stop smiling and you lift him right up onto the stage and don't even think just kiss him and the crowd goes fucking wild.
Seattle don't get the difference between two guys in love kissing and XXX HARDCORE TWINKS VOLUME 8.
--
He wrote you a SONG? He wrote you a song. He wrote you a song? You don't deserve a song! You're not Marilyn Monroe or Elvis or anything but he wrote you a song and blew you a kiss and kissed you on stage and he's absolutely perfect.
You kinda say "I love you" while he's kissing you and his face gets so happy you almost scream. He smirks and tells the audience, "Alright, so, we may or may not be back. Buy our fucking demos, goodnight." And then he picks you right up and carries you backstage.
The other band members seem confused by you. Some weird chick named Jade's on bass, and she seems to be caught in a liplock with the drummer, who looks exactly like you and has a stupid British accent that you can't quite verify the authenticity of.
You're pretty sure neither of them like you, but they were kissing so hard that that may have been teeth-related pain.
Hopefully.
--
As far as you can tell, John really likes kissing you. Seeing as how every time you get close to his face he chases you for a kiss and overtime you do kiss him he smiles and giggles. He might be your new addiction.
No, scratch that, he definitely is. He's what you want to wake up to and fall asleep with.
(but you don't believe in love at first sight).
He gets brought to every gig like he's part of the equipment or something. Acoustic guitar? Check. Fender? Check. Unofficial-in-words-but-otherwise-pretty-damn-official boyfriend? Check.
Sometimes he takes you home when you're too drunk to drive, and holds you close and wakes you up with cute little "I love you"s whispered in your ear and you want him to be the one that saves you.
Of course, he wouldn't know that you get up at least once a night to take a piss and sniff some snow and snuggle back into his arms.
He does NOT need to know that.
EVER.
okay MAYBE? Maybe you should tell him but you don't even have a problem you know people way worse. Besides, maybe he's like you.
--
It is so nice waking up to him wrapped around you. And holding him and feeling his warm skin under your cold hands and loving him and kissing him.
Sometimes you see little marks on his elbows but fuck you're not gonna say anything.
And then he's got some more and you're just worried.
You thumb over them until he wakes up and shies away.
"Babe, what's this…?" He shakes his head and you bend yours to kiss them.
"S nothing, John."
"Did you do something?" He shrugs a "yes".
"Smack?" He shakes his head fast.
"Just snow." You frown.
"Would it be weird if I asked to try?"
Whoa what you just asked your boyfriend for drugs what the fuck?
He shakes his head. "M not letting you get caught up in that shit."
--
That's the right thing to do, right? You watched Jade trapped in a field of smack. Jake pushed in behind her. You can't let the person that means so much to you get stuck on snow.
John frowns at you and runs his fingers along your tracks until you fall back asleep.
When you wake up again, he's frantically washing something in the sink. It takes you a second to realize what he's doing and you screech, get out of bed and rip the bag of little white rocks from his hands.
"I'm trying to help!" Ha! Throwing away a hundred fucking dollars worth of coke is helping.
"You don't get it John!" Scream at him until you start crying and somehow he's not mad, just scoops you up. There is something really, really wrong with you. And something really, really perfect about him.
--
You just thought that was the right thing to do???!!!
What if he OD's and DIES or something?!!
What if he dies because you didn't save him.
What if it's all your fault?
Dersite has another gig and you spend half the day trying to convince him to get off drugs and half moving your stuff in. It's really nice, sleeping in his bed, cuddling, kindahavingsexinthemiddleofthenight.
It's a new record - you wait THREE WHOLE WEEKS before you have sex with him.
You thought it'd be rough and crazy or something, but it wasn't. He was soft and careful and sweet and slow (and big) (really big) (like holy crap). And unlike every other guy you've fucked, he stays with you and gets you off and holds you impossibly close.
You barely have any stuff, just some books and an Apple IIe and some shitty clothes that you throw in with his. And finally let the lease run out on your piece of shit apartment.
And hold him kiss him (fuck him) (suck him off whenever he asks) play keyboard for him.
--
You love it when he plays for you, especially when you strum your guitar to some stupid Pearl Jam song and he plays some dramatic Bach piece and you never feel more in love than you do while you're playing with him.
Within a month, he starts up the one thing you tried to save him from.
You gave him his first hit (you fucking bastard), you were the person who absolutely ruined everything for him.
You gave your boyfriend, your John, your everything, the thing that destroyed you.
Not only are you an idiot, but you're an asshole. An awful, life-ruining asshole.
If you bothered thinking, you'd remember that John asked. That he wanted to try it. Sure, you gave him the hit, but he asked for it.
But you never think.
--
Dave refuses to believe that it's not his fault you went on. Nope, definitely the boy that tried to stop you, totally not the abusive background or your negative-infinity friends or how your dad disowned you. Has to be Dave's fault.
He has a way bigger problem than you, he takes hits two or three times a day and you're once a week, sometimes twice. You wish you could save him, but you know it's too late you can't save him you're getting lost SAVE ME.
--
You just… ignore it. Write him another song - "Heart" - that's way too easy, not romantic enough, not good enough, but everyone loves it and every girl thinks it's about her and it's NOT IT'S FOR JOHN IT'S FOR THE GUY WHO MEANS SOMETHING TO YOU.
Jade can barely play bass anymore and Jake spends more time making out with Jade than anything else.
Apparently, you're famous now, and all you want is to go back to normal, to learning Nirvana and Pearl Jam, to not being addicted, to people not trying to FUCKING KILL your boyfriend.
You only fall more in love - he buys you every red flannel shirt and 80's tee available from the thrift store. You buy him a new keyboard and he plays you the vocals to your songs. He makes tacos even though he's a vegetarian, and you eat them all just to watch his face smile. You buy him some Levi's he couldn't afford and he lets you wear them out.
You are so, so in love.
If you could, you'd marry him. But, of course, you couldn't even if you were allowed. Would create way too much of a ~scandal~. "DERSITE SINGER - GAY?" "DAVE STRIDER & GROUPIE EXCHANGE VOWS!" Even if no one knows you outside Seattle, you still don't wanna be infamous in it.
You don't try to keep it a secret that you're gay. But, for some reason, everyone thinks it's a stage act, even with the pictures of you holding hands or kissing, the photo booth kisses, and you realize that maybe people don't wanna notice. You're like, an idol or something. Girls (for some stupid reason) fawn over you, and you need to do a better job of acting gay as hell.
But it won't work! You're DAVE STRIDER! He CAN'T be GAY! NO WAY NO HOW! And that JOHN guy (is that even his REAL NAME!) can't be your BOYFRIEND!
--
You'd go to hell and back for him. Hell, you'd learn every song in the WORLD for him. Take down your Jaws poster for him. Do fucking ANYTHING for him.
So when he asks you to dye his hair and move across Seattle, you don't even think. "What color?"
He lies back on the bed. "Red? Or maybe black."
"Black - everyone with black hair gets mixed together." He nods and runs his hands through your hair.
"Except you." What a cutie.
You spend one last night stroking his blond shag and remembering how you helped Mom wash out her hair when she dyed it red the night before she left.
That was how Dad always put it. "She left." Like she was coming back.
You've seen her grave.
She's not coming back from killing herself, Dad, she's not coming back from dying because of you.
Her grave says "Loving Wife and Mother, Anna Winters, 1955 - 1982". She never took your dad's name. That shoulda been a goddamn clue.
Dave doesn't notice you crying until you're sobbing and then he just holds you.
--
You have no clue what's wrong. He was playing with your hair and then started sobbing and suddenly you're holding him kissing him please be okay. He falls asleep without ever telling you what's wrong.
You say "I love you" until he's really asleep, and stay up and hum a shitty Aerosmith song until he wakes up at 3 am.
"I need some." He rolls out of bed and it takes you a second to chase him and stand in front of the cabinets. He looks pitiful but you can't ruin him any more you BASTARD.
"Dave, please, it's 3 in the morning please let me." He starts to cry and you feel even worse.
"F-fine, but I'm cutting it." You just gave in but at least you can keep him safe if you cut it small enough.
Get out some for both of you - don't want him to use alone - cut it up teensy and look away while he does a rail or two. God you're stupid, letting him do this. But you stop thinking, do the rest of them and sigh.
--
You hate it when you hurt him like this. Hate it. You are a fucking bastard.
You don't even have a coke problem you just need to feel good sometimes.
He holds you and kisses you and high sex is the best.
Dave doesn't care if it hurts a little and he's even more obsessed with blowjobs than normal. Weren't even out of the kitchen before he's on his knees and you're holding the counter. Dave's sloppy about it, sliding his tongue across the slit, lapping at the head. Sends you into a puddle when he gags himself on it and scritch-scratches your thighs.
"Dave…" you let out a moan and he kisses and sucks like he's honest to god HUNGRY for it.
…
Welp, you came.
He kisses you hard and he tastes like cum and blood and he pushes you down to be kind of, well, head-to-head with his cock.
"Suck it," he smiles down at you and you suck hard and fast, slipping a saliva-wet finger inside him and making him gasp. You smile and hum and watch him thrash around and press down on your head and the only thing you want right now is for him to feel good. Fuck getting better.
--
The best nights are the ones where he holds you close and tells you everything will be okay everything is fine is fine is fine.
and you love him so fucking much.
And you love the way his arms feel around you when he wants nothing more than to hold you close and keep you so safe.
--
Sometimes, like today, you wake up alone. Dave's in the bathroom dying his hair black and you're shivering under the covers and crying out for him.
When the doorbell rings, he's in the shower, so you regretfully have to get up, cover your ass, and wander off. You forgot to check who it is, and you've just opened the door to groupies. Which hate you.
"Eww, man, we were looking for Dave, not some trash."
You sigh. "He's pissing, fuck off."
"Is it true that he won't even sleep next to you?" What?
"Fuck OFF."
Your name is John Egbert, and you just broke a girl's nose. To be fair, she shouldn't have called you a fag, but you really shouldn't have called her a cunt and punched her. Dave came running after she stumbled away and you slammed the door. Your fucking hand hurts and Dave, with new black hair, sits down in front of you and kisses your bruised knuckles.
"What did they say?" He cups your cheek.
"Just that I'm a fag and I'm trash and you don't love me." You watch the sun move across the bookshelf with four books (1984, Animal Farm, The Outsiders, and Catcher in the Rye) and don't say anything.
"You're not a fag, and I love you." He presses his lips to yours and you push him away.
Dave looks… Dave looks like he's gonna cry.
Shit.
--
Your name's Dave Strider, and you're reaching your breaking point.
The point when you get the feeling that your fans are killing your boyfriend. Sometimes his hands hurt too much for you to hold them, or he's too angry to let you hold him.
Sometimes, when he's falling asleep, you sing a Nirvana song to him and kiss the tears on his face.
he's the one who likes all our pretty songs
and he likes to sing along