== Be the cool kid.
Your name is Dave Strider. You are 17 years old, and you were in a terrible car accident. How cliche. You're blind, and very lucky that it's only temporary. But you'll still be blind for a few weeks, maybe a month until your eyes heal.
They're giving you a caretaker, a sort of watch_dog to go to school with you until you get better. You don't know what he looks like, who he is, how he acts, if he'll even like you, if he does his job well, nothing except his name.
John Egbert.
== Be the caretaker.
You are now John Egbert. You are 16 years old, and you were also in an accident, which happened when you were three. Well, they call it an accident, you'd call it an abusive cousin. You're mute, and you're not that lucky because severed vocal cords don't heal.
They gave you a caretaker, but after only a month or two they reassigned him to someone else. You didn't like him, anyways. He unnerved you for some reason.
You're now being given a chance to be a caretaker, for a boy named Dave Strider. He's about your age, almost a year older at seventeen. You're about to meet your charge, and you can only hope he doesn't treat you like the deaf boy you had last year, Karkat Vantas. He didn't have to shout all the time, you knew he couldn't hear you.
You walk into his hospital room. You've already signed the papers, and they've given you his address so you can take him home. It's kind of a double deal, really - you don't want to go to foster care this late in your life, so they're giving you a good place to stay and someone to look after as well.
He sits up as you walk in, and as you're signing you realize the problem - he's blind.
"Hello?" He calls, sounding slightly uncertain. You're sure all the doctors approaching him have given fair warning each time.
You make it to his bedside and carefully take his arm, tapping on it.
"Hey, what are you- wait, is that morse code?"
You pat his arm and he shakes his head. "Sorry, never learned it."
You frown, instead taking your index finger and tracing it along his forearm to create letters and write.
"...J-O-H-N… John? You're John?"
You pat his arm again.
"M-U-T-E… Wow, okay. Why exactly are you my caretaker - shouldn't you have your own?"
You sigh.
"J-A-K-E… T-R-A-N-S-F-E-R-R-E-D… C-H-A-R-G-E-S… That's a mouthful. And kinda sad. Who needed him more than you?"
He doesn't mouth the words this time.
Blind boy. Dirk Strider.
He stiffens after you get about six letters of the guy's name in.
"Dirk? My bro? Dirk Fucking Strider… haven't seen the bastard in years."
Know how you feel. Long-lost sister.
You talk back and forth for awhile, and eventually the psychiatrist you know well walks in.
"David, are you quite alright? I heard you talking to yourself, and- oh. Hello, Mr. Egbert."
You roll your eyes and wave.
"It's Dave. And I was talking to John here."
"Ah, yes. I apologize that we could not get you a suitable caretaker, but I'm sure John will do just fine."
Dave frowns. "I wouldn't want a 'suitable' caretaker. I like John."
You take his arm again with a huff. It's okay. They are stupid. Say yes, leave fast.
He nods after a second.
"Well, David, are you feeling alright?"
"Yes, Mister Kankri."
"And John, are you up to the task?"
You nod, subconsciously squeezing Dave's hand a little, which he responds to by taking it from you.
"Then I now pronounce you Caretaker and Charge. You may leave the building."
Dave groans and you roll your eyes again, taking his hand once again to pull him out of his chair along with his backpack. You guide him out the door and into the parking lot, wondering why he doesn't have a cane. If you're legally blind, the hospital issues one, right?
Cane?
"Don't need one, Egderp. I have you."
Not there, need cane.
"What, if you're not there? That's your job, right?"
Bathroom?
He pauses. "I think I'll be fi- whoa!" He stumbles on a crack, damn near taking you with him.
You help him steady, already feeling like you're failing. Okay?
He sounds almost frustrated as he stands straight. "I'm fine, I'm fine, stop worrying."
Don't want you hurt.
His hand quickly trails up your arm, shoulder and face, stopping at your glasses momentarily. But it helps him make whatever eye contact he's looking for, even though you're blushing like hell. "(Nice glasses.) I'm going to be okay, John."
You pause for several moments before pulling away rather swiftly and writing a bit jerkily on his arm.
Fine. Don't think you're out yet.
He looks a little confused at your sudden absence. "You okay?"
Yes, let's go.
He looks doubtful, but he shrugs and takes your hand again with minimal groping. "Alright. My place or yours?"
You pause for a second. You don't want this brought up.
Yours. Don't have one.
You pull him to your deep blue Nissan Cube, which has always reminded you of the Tardis, and get him situated in the passenger seat.
"How you gonna get there?"
You smirk, programing your GPS.
ESP
"Ha, ha, very funny. So why don't you have a place?"
Ultimate cargoer question dodging - Driving. You talk.
"Right, right."
As you drive to his apartment, he talks your ear off about pretty much everything, his school, his friends (or lack thereof), his adopted sister, shows, movies, video games, board games, card games (especially three very long and detailed stories about games of strip poker), animals, holy fuck you want him to shut up but you can't tell him to for three reasons - one you're not that rude, two its kind of nice to hear him talk so much, and three he hasn't brought up why you're mute and don't have a caretaker or a place to live.
Also you're driving and you don't want to bother reaching over to tell him to shut his god damned mouth.
You've always been good at listening, but this is almost too much.
He doesn't leave out anything except a couple of subjects he'll skirt around that you don't want to hear about anyways. You really hope he doesn't do that when you're there and he doesn't notice.
And yet-
No, stupid gay thoughts FCUK OFF. UGH.
You shake your head, pulling into the lot and his designated parking space, 10-3, which correlates to his apartment number (and coincidentally his birthday). You park, clicking the car off and getting out.
Like an idiot he doesn't wait for your help, and a squeak-'fuck'-thump has you running around the car. He groans, sitting up and holding his arm to his stomach, but you don't see any physical damage.
fuck you okay please be okay
"Yes, I'm fine… I'm good… no I'm not…"
He sits up, showing you his roadburned arm. It doesn't look that bad, just a scrape, but it's bleeding a little and you want to get him inside and cleaned up.
Okay. Let's go inside.
"See? I'm fine. I'm fine." He sounds more like he's reassuring himself rather than you.
You set your hand on his cheek for a moment, writing with the other.
It's okay.
He leans into your touch for a moment with a smile, before deftly pulling away from you and grabbing your wrist to pull you up with him.
"C'mon, Egderp, let's get inside."
You smile, leading him to the door. Keys?
He pulls them out of his front pocket, dropping them into your palm and keeping a hand on your shoulder as you unlock and open the door. You guide him inside, hoping he's lived here long enough to map it out in his head and hopefully show you around a little.
Bathroom?
With much wall-groping and knocking-over of things, he gets you to the master bathroom within four minutes. You sit him down on the counter, rooting through the drawers for some bandages. You find a roll of gauze and wrap his arm in it, securing it with surgical tape. He seems to have a lot of stuff for treating large wounds, so he must be accident-prone or something.
By the time you get him all fixed up it's starting to get late, and you figure he needs some rest.
Room?
It takes him another three minutes to bring you there, but you do eventually, and it's pretty cool. The walls are red with black and white geometrical designs, black shelves lining one wall with nothing but movies and video games on them. The next wall over has a huge plasma-screen tv, with like six different consoles and a bunch of controllers. Next to that is a short table with a pair of expensive-looking, gear-shaped red and black turntables, and opposite that is a king-size bed all red, black, and white with like a million pillows. Various shelves around the room house random-ass objects, including one shelf with a bunch of dead things in jars. There's a walk-in closet and a bathroom, jesus christ this kid must be rich.
Wow. Nice.
"I know… wish I could see it again. Both of my older brothers, besides Dirk, of course, work in film and are fucking rich as fuck. I get checks from them every other week, keeps me alive in style." He smirks. "Ever heard of Danny and Luca Strider? Look 'em up sometime. They work in Marvel - get a shit ton of money as both actors and CG artists."
Your eyes widen. You have, in fact, heard of these people - wow.
"How the hell am I supposed to get my pj's on, though…" He mutters, and you start to blush as you take his arm again.
Caretaker? You write uneasily.
He raises an eyebrow at you. "Really? You're gonna help me get dressed?"
Not with that attitude.
He grins. "Didn't know you were so eager to get at it, Egbert. Would've let you jump me in the car."
You blush a bright red, smacking his shoulder. Idiot.
You move to help him take off his shirt, hands involuntarily running over every ridge and dip of his sides and chest. Yeah, he's blushing, too.
"And don't put me in something stupid just because I can't see. My red pj bottoms should be on top of the dresser." He sweeps his arm vaguely in the right direction, and you see them.
You move away from him and he looks panicked for a moment, so you grab them quickly and get back to him. You hand them to him, and he suddenly blushes more.
"Ah… I'm not sure if I can get these on myself without, y'know, falling over…" He mumbles.
Okay. You write, and he smiles.
"Thanks. It's not, like, sexual or anything… I really do need your help with this." He says quietly as you help him, trying to just get it done before you do something you shouldn't.
You eventually get him settled, and he insists you put some on too, and once the whole ordeal is over you get him on the damn bed and he's still talking. Does he ever stop?
Maybe you should have been paying attention, because he suddenly grabs your arm and pulls you onto the bed with him. He doesn't let go of your arm, instead writing on it with his own finger.
Teach me morse code tomorrow.
You smile, taking his arm only briefly before giving it back. Gotcha.
He smiles back, probably assuming you're smiling at him. "I have school tomorrow, you okay coming with?"
My job.
"Okay then, we're all set."
You're about to ask where you're going to sleep when he worms under the covers, pulling you with him and wrapping his arms around you. You gasp, about the only sound of protest you can make as you blush. You write on his arm with your freest hand, wondering what the hell.
What are you doing?
You don't get three letters done before he's already answering. "Cuddling. Go to sleep."
And you do, eventually. But you aren't sure if he's still awake or not when you do.
== Be the 'hey, I can see' guy.