Be the kid with all of the cookies

by ghoulbon

Something gay with cookies

== Be the kid with all of the cookies.

Not only do you have all of the cookies, you also smell heinously of baked goods. Your name is JOHN EGBERT and today is your first day of preschool.

Now, you wouldn't say you weren't excited-on the contrary, you were unable to stop hopping around in excitement when you first found out you would be going to school-but, when your DAD gave you a giant Tupperware container of chocolate chip COOKIES to share on the first day, you sort of deflated a little bit. Not a whole lot, since the baked goods were like a bribe. You were the head honcho when everyone caught wind of the fact that you were that one kid with all of the baked goods.

When your dad picked you up at noon, you told him about your status as the coolest kid, and informed him that he was to be forever known as the raddest dad. He laughed and offered to make more cookies for your classmates.

== Elementary school is the raddest place to be

You are now eight years of age, and the title of Cookie Boy is a thing that sticks. Really, you bring the confections to school mostly because there are always so many at your little suburban home that the smell becomes intoxicating and makes you feel physically ill. Your dad never seems to run out of baking materials. You've gotten used to it.

It's the middle of the school year and you are sort of surprised that there is a new student. Your town is so little that the occurrence of the arrival of any new person, of any age, is quite uncommon. So, when you see the blond kid for the first time, you are definitely interested. He is not from anywhere near here; his colloquialisms are quite telling of that. He's polite in a way that reminds you of a cowboy (he even speaks like one, calling your teacher "ma'am," and drawling out his words when he is asked to vocalize an opinion or divulge the class with some information that you all already knew). He doesn't act out, and mostly stays to himself for the first week or two that he is in your class. He tends to doodle all over all of his notebooks and worksheets (you notice this a few days into his arrival; you often volunteer to return work), and even though you have no idea exactly what it is he draws, you like looking at the scribbles that accompany his sharp messy scrawl. You don't really speak to him and he doesn't speak to you.

You are surprised, one day, when he approaches you on the playground.

"Hey."

"Hi!"

"I guess this isn't anything new, but I'm Dave."

"Hi Dave," you grin, happy to hear more out of him than you have in the month he's been at your school. "I'm John! What brings you to this side of the playground?"

He gives you a look that you can only describe as confused (looking back, you would realize it was more amused than bemused), and responds, "Well, see; I've been hearing some pretty notorious things about some kid named John. Usually though, they just call you Cookie Boy. Why?" He prompts, looking for an explanation.

Huffing out an annoyed breath at the rather benevolent nickname, you cross your arms. "I'm not 'Cookie Boy.'"

"Didn't say you were, man," he shrugs. "Just been hearing it and wondered since you look like you do not even eat cookies. Ever."

You don't feel like explaining. You never really understood why the fact that you bring cookies to share was such a big deal. "Just wait. You'll see."

"A'ight. Ain't no thang, bro."

He leaves.

True to your word, the next day, your backpack is weighed down with a huge container of snickerdoodles. These were made by your sister though, so you actually sneak one or two before you take out the sweet treats. Dave makes a beeline for you, eyebrows raised over round lenses.

"So, you are Cookie Boy."

"No," you deadpan.

"Yes, John; yes. You can't even deny, 'cause that would be a lie, and I know you can see, see what's right in front of me. You see these sweets? Look at all these treats, these beats are ill and these treats are chill."

You don't even try to refute his claims, you're laughing so hard that your stomach muscles are starting to ache. He hardly reacts, snagging a delicious sugary confection while you wipe the sudden wetness away from under your own glasses.

"You sound just like Dr. Seuss, oh my gosh. What the heck dude? Did you just come up with that?"

"Well, yeah. What did you expect? I don't just have sick rhymes about heavenly treats prepared," he mumbles around a mouthful of crumbs. "So, this is it? You bring cookies to school every now and then?"

"More or less. My dad bakes them and I bring them to school so there's less at home. I mean, if you stick around long enough, you'll really get why the Egberts are infamous cookie weirdoes."

"I'll be keeping you to that."

He does stick around. In fact, before the year is over, he takes to making conversation with you. You don't mind it, since he never brings up the cookies. He even shows you his doodles and tries to explain what they are (you don't quite understand, still, but that's alright). You end up on friendly terms in a rather short amount of time. Eventually, you figure he's a good enough friend to invite over to play some video games.

When he comes over on a warm day in May, he seems genuinely interested in why your house smells like a bakery. You figure you can let him in on the secret and lead him to the kitchen, where the aroma emanates from. When you look over at his freckled face you try not to laugh, and manage to only let a chuckle out. His eyes are wide, and his mouth forms a little 'oh' of surprise.

"How are you not fat?" He asks, his eyes flicking over to you only for a second before returning his gaze to the counters.

The smell of fresh baked goods seems ever present, but you've learned how to differentiate the fresh smell from the general scent of your house. It seems that your dad just resupplied the never ending cookie supply. "If you think this is bad, you should see when my nanna visits."

"Jesus Christ, how on earth is this even possible?" He's inspecting the counters now, marveling at the jars upon jars of snickerdoodles and chocolate chip cookies, sugar, gingerbread, peanut butter (you aren't allowed to have those-peanut allergies), lemon, iced cookies, little dollops of cookies. Everything that he marvels at is nothing new to you. And it's awesome.

Normally, you don't have people over (honestly, you've never been fond of the kids that refer to you as 'The Cookie Boy' or any variation thereof), so this is kind of your own special treat. Dave is kind of a weird kid, as you've come to know, and he doesn't seem to mind your oddities. You are two weird peas in a peculiar pod.

"I'm not really sure, but I've stopped wondering. Hey, wanna go play Brawl now?"

"Sure man, but- just- Christ."

== Wow three years later isn't that amazing?

Today is the first day of the end of your life.

Okay, maybe you're being a tad overdramatic, but come on. You need to get rid of all these damn cookies. You are always expected to have cookies. You have become notorious for the sweets and god damn it all, if you don't deliver, your house will be flooded with the stuff for longer than you care to stand.

You didn't expect the title to carry over into middle school.

It did.

And, with more classes than ever before, you now have a broader audience to deliver to.

At lunch, you find Dave. He laughs at your disgruntled expression when you sit down. "What up Egbert?"

"So many goddamn cookies. It's like he figured, hey, my kid's gonna be interacting with more than twenty people, gotta make like four-hundred cookies."

"Woe is you. Does he just kind of always make them? I never really understood it; what makes Daddy Egbert compulsively make the food of the gods?"

"I'd ask but I'm afraid I'm just going to get what normal people get: a smile and an averted gaze."

Dave nods. He understands. His own brother is quite the mystery with his swords and phallic puppets. You reciprocate the nod, a show of solidarity. "So if I come over today, can we agree that I'm going home with like forty cookies?"

"Forty, eighty, take all of them for all I care."

"How are you even upset about cookies, dude?"

"There are just so many. Too many. Like, you saw that one time when Nanna was over. You saw. You know."

He laughs at you. "That was one hell of a day. Tell your nanna that she needs to drop by more often; me and Bro can't get enough of the Egbert family's baking."

You groan.

"Hell, even Rose can't get enough."

"What?"

"Oh, you thought it was just me and Bro eating all those treats you shove our way? Nah, Rosie's taken part in that too. I swear at one point, she gained like ten pounds off of the damn things."

"Oh my god."

"Yeah. Which, many years later, begs the question: how are you not fat?"

"Can I tell you a secret?"

"Shoot."

You lean in towards him from across the table, motioning for him to pull closer. He does, and when your mouth is adequately close enough to his ear, you whisper, "I don't eat them. I give them all to you guys."

"You're trying to make us fat so that you don't get fat?" He asks sounding more than a little offended as you pull away. "Well damn. I thought you were supposed to try and kill me after we got married, but oh no, you're just getting a head start, aren't ya."

"Dave!"

"My little wife can't stand me. You're just marrying me for my money, aren't you?"

"Yes," you roll your eyes. "Since the beginning, my plan was to stuff you like the witch from Hansel and Gretel and take all of your money. I even convinced you to forego signing a prenup."

"You evil genius. You're gonna use it all to buy cheap whores, and then when it's all gone, you'll turn to gambling and drinking."

"Who's going to be gambling and drinking?" interrupts Rose. She drops her lunch onto the table and takes a seat next to you.

"Me, apparently."

"Yeah, after he marries me and kills me for my money."

"And use it all up on cheap whores," you chirp.

"Yeah, and that."

Rose rolls her eyes, and looks directly at the area where you suppose Dave's eyes would be (he traded out his old glasses for a pair of prescription shades, and since then, you haven't really been able to make eye contact). "David Elizabeth Strider, what have I told you about not signing a prenup? Of course he's going to kill you. There would be nothing stopping him from getting your nonexistent fortune after your death."

"Except he'll have murdered me, so the law is probably gonna have a bone to pick with him."

"Right," you interject, "like they'll have anything on me. 'Cause of death: too many cookies.' What are they gonna say, that I killed you with love?"

"Yes, that's exactly what. I'll leave a note that illustrates your true murderous nature. It will say, 'My waifu wants my money. There are too many cookies. I can feel a heart attack coming. God save the queen.'"

"God save the queen?"

"David, when did you plan on telling us that you are royalty of the female persuasion? Kanaya and I could have been of service. All these years of fashion train wrecks could have been avoided."

"Right, Lalonde, you and your little girlfriend definitely have a better sense of fashion than Queen Strider."

"Dave, I have to agree with Rose. Remember the dumb pointy anime shades?"

"Oh no, you're ganging up on me too? Damn it, Rose, you've turned my own wife against me."

"As your sister it is my job. Please do not feel that it is a personal attack, it's just good business."

"Did you just quote that one asshole from Pirates of the Caribbean?" Dave receives a scrunched face from Rose that you assume means, "Really?" He makes an almost perfect mirror of the expression right back at her.

"Anyway," you continue, hoping to get the conversation back on track, "I'm at the point of nearly yelling at people to just take them. There are just so many…"

Rose and Dave share a knowing look. "What if you just tell Dad Egbert that there is no humanly acceptable reason for making so many cookies that the mere sight of one makes you want to throw small rabid animals at people?" asks Dave, clawing his fingers at the rabid animal bit.

"I wish it was that easy. Like, hey Dad, you know what would be just so hella rad? If you could maybe not drown me in fresh baked love. Yeah? Thanks."

"Perhaps it is a coping mechanism, and you just need to be supportive of his interests. He was rather supportive of your harlequin phase if I remember correctly."

"Okay, but let's examine that for a moment: I had no memory of drawing those things on my walls, and never, ever showed any other sort of inclination towards colorful jesters. I didn't even know that there were harlequins and clowns all over my wall until like, last year, when you pointed it out to me," you counter with a huff. "It was just this passive aggressive clown-fest in my house for too long."

"Fine, I'll give you that one."

"Damn straight you will."

You don't want to talk about the cookies or your weird psychological blockings of things you yourself did. The subject changes, thank god, when Dave steers the conversation away from baked sweets and clowns and toward something less ornery.

== Goddamn look at that. High school time.

The all too common sounds of your sighs and exasperated groans are interrupted when you hear the doorbell. You don't bother to get it, since you can hear your dad already going to open the door. You can hear the sounds of exchanged niceties, though you cannot decipher exactly what those niceties may be, or between whom they are exchanged. You continue glaring at the document open on your laptop, hoping that maybe, just maybe, if you glare at it long enough you can frighten your essay into writing itself.

"Jesus dicks, John, what did the computer ever do to you? You're looking at it like it killed your first born child."

You have probably never been so happy for Dave's unannounced visits. If you had stared at the computer any longer you would have ended up throwing it out of the window, essay be damned.

"Hey, Dave. What brings you to the humble abode of Egbert?"

"Ah, not much, man. Figured I'd go give my best bro a visit, see how he's faring. You know. Because you tend to get angry at essays and shit and I always have to deal with your whining whenever you get to that point. It's a preemptive strike against your bullshit, and I figured I might as well get something sweet out of it."

"Dad's making you a batch of cookies as we speak, isn't he." It's not even a question anymore, it is a fact that whenever anyone visits your house they leave with an unspeakable amount of diabetes wafers.

He nods and makes his way to your bed since you occupy the only other seat in the room. You close the mostly empty Word document and when you turn to face him, he's pushed his glasses up past his hairline and is lying down on your bed in a "draw me like one of your French girls" pose. You snicker and his eyebrow rises in turn. "Something funny, Egbert?" He drawls in that way that he's spoken since elementary school. You'd think that years of hanging out with northerners would draw the Texan drawl out and away, but you're glad that it's stuck around for so long.

"Just your face."

"Your words wound me. How have I even stayed alive so long with you and your endless barrage of scathing remarks mutilating my soul?"

"Jeez, such a drama queen. No wonder Rose and Kanaya are always trying to dress you up in pretty red dresses."

"You know what, I can rock those dresses. I can, and I have. Like, damn; I didn't even know I had curves like that, and I am forever grateful to those meddling lesbians for showing me my true womanly potential."

"What? You actually wore the dresses?" You sputter, making a valiant attempt at dissipating the mental image. You fail, obviously.

"Yeah? I ain't gonna joke around about serious business. Here, look." He tosses you his phone, and sure enough, there he is in a red sundress, a pair of matching wedges included. And you can't help but agree that, yes; he has some pretty nice curves. The image stays long after you hand him his phone.

You hear him chuckle as you desperately try to stop imagining Dave in lady suits, but are handed the phone again. This time you are met with an image of him in a tank top and mini skirt, Rose laughing in the background as Kanaya tries to fix the top so that it looks less ridiculous. You figure she failed since making a sparkly hot pink camisole look any less ridiculous is a feat that many would fail to accomplish. You briefly wonder who took the picture since the three of them appeared to be the only ones involved in the shopping trip, and hand him the phone, hoping that your face isn't as red as you think it is.

"Technically that wasn't a dress, but Terezi said that it smelled delicious and demanded I put it on. It was fucking great. That isn't even the last of them," he continues, sliding his finger across the screen.

"Dave, oh my god. Why would you hold back such sweet blackmail material from me?"

"Did you even hear what you just said?"

You grin. "Yeah, alright, point taken."

"Besides," he continues, "Rose said that I shouldn't show these to you, and as my own personal tentacle therapist, I usually ignore what she says and only put off showing them to you."

"Well, aren't I special. You went against your therapist just to show little old me?" You flutter your eyelashes at him in a sort of maybe not completely fake flirt attempt.

"Hey man, you're my best bro; my pal honcho; compadre; ain't no flighty broad gonna get in the way of our legendary bromance." He flashes you a smile, and you laugh at him, admiring the way his nose scrunches when he smiles. "'Sides, I figured you'd get a kick out of my lady legs."

"You know," you begin, "you do have really nice legs. Thank you for indulging me." He gives you a look that makes you wonder if maybe you're getting a little too weird. It passes though, and you continue your familiar banter until your dad announces that the cookies are done.

"Hey, you wanna go and bring me those rad happy biscuits while I just continue being a lazy sack of shit?" He requests, and since he was so kind as to show you his more feminine side, you comply, only vaguely aware of the sharp exhale of air as you leave.

== Be the feminine one

The fuck?

Now as Dave Strider (when were you not you?), you laugh at John's face when you show him your pictures. He looks unbelievably embarrassed and it is the cutest shit you've ever seen. When he returns your beloved iPhone to your waiting hands, you take notice of his flushed cheeks, and damn, this kid is doing a number on you. The actually cognizant part of your brain is functioning well enough to keep a conversation going while you somehow manage not to make an ass of yourself, and you are surprised to hear John compliment your legs. Well, if that didn't make you happier than a kid in a water park, shit would be a lie.

Eventually, your oatmeal raisin cookies are done (oatmeal raisin is the shit, okay, it's an underrated cookie choice and you legitimately enjoy it), and Dad Egbert gladly announces that they are ready. You, being a useless piece of shit, ask the cutie sitting across the room from you to please bring them to you. Except you don't say please. The intention was there though, and he goes without protest, throwing you a smile that shows off his front teeth. You didn't realize you were holding your breath until he was out of sight and you realized you needed to exhale before you passed out. And then you physically smack yourself because you were not ogling his ass as he left. No. Yeah. You were. You suck. You are the teenage boy with a hopeless crush on his best friend. It's stupid and cliché and your brother would make fun of you for it if he knew. Chances are everyone but John knows about your raging affection erection for him, which is both, a relief and a constant irritation.

You want to kiss his cute, little, slow-on-the-uptake face because wow, you are a raging homosexual for him. It's embarrassing, really, and you wouldn't really mind it that much if you knew if he was like straight or what since the last time you talked about sexualities he was thirteen and completely ridiculous about the matter. You tried asking Rose, but all she gave you was a ridiculous eyebrow waggle and a "Did baby figure out his sexuality crisis?"

Fuck her. She and Bro knew how you swung before you did, apparently, and were making bets behind your back regarding when you would finally figure it out (Rose won; Bro had his money on you never figuring it out). Shit-heads.

John returns with a plate of beautiful baked goods filled with fatherly love while you muse over your very evident affections toward your best bro.

"Earth to Strider, Earth to Strider; do you read me?"

"Copy, Strider to Earth; Egbert is a dork; over."

He whines punching at your shoulder when he deposits the plate next to you, and flops ungracefully over you onto the other side of his bed. "I might be a dork, but I'm your dork."

Be still your beating heart. You let out a breath of a laugh, and he joins you with soft exhales of his own. Sneaking a glance at him, you catch the smile that flutters on the edge of his mouth as his gaze fixates on the ceiling. You can't help but be glad that you're the one to put it there.

"So, did you have something in mind when you came over or was the goal just to stop me from screaming at my computer?"

"Eh. Cookies were in the plan, too, so that part's down."

"You're going to get fat."

"But you'll still love me, right?"

"Definitely. Though, I'll probably have to get the girls to join me in staging an intervention for you when your cookie problem escalates."

"What cookie problem? I don't have a cookie problem. If anything, you're the one with the cookie problem," you throw back in mock defense.

"I do not have a cookie problem."

"You are the only human being who doesn't like cookies. That's not normal. Ergo, cookie problem."

"No. You have the cookie problem, mister 'I-gained-like-seven-pounds-in-one-month-on-oatmeal-raisin-cookies-only.' How do you even eat that many?"

"It's absolutely not my fault. I blame Dad Egbert, one-hundred percent. Ninety percent. The other ten is your fault."

"My fault?" he says indignantly. "I'm the one who takes the cookies away from you when you insist on only eating cookies instead of actual food!"

You smirk. "If I hadn't heard tell of the infamous Egbertian need to hand out cookies like STDs from cheap whores, I don't think we'd be in this situation, y'know?"

"Maybe," he concedes, "but that was completely out of my control." He takes a moment, a pensive look flitting across his face before giving way to a nostalgic smirk. "I'm pretty glad it happened though."

You smile at him. "Me too. Where would I be today if I didn't have my dork?" God you sound like a sap. You are the Canadian sugar plant. It is you.

"I could say the same." You catch him rolling his eyes, though you didn't have to look to know that that was a thing he was doing. You could hear it in his voice.

You feel a moment. You decide to ruin it by singing at him in a mostly genuine serenade of the popular love song I'm Yours by Jason Mraz. Before you get too far in, he snorts and shoves at you, failing at hiding the amusement glinting in his eyes. You take this as a sign to step it up a notch, standing from your spot on his bed, throwing in an air ukulele performance as you continue exaggeratedly professing your undying love for him.

John joins in, singing fairly flatly while still managing to carry the tune. It sounds nice to you, and you realize that you have been smiling throughout the entire act. When you get around to scatting (scooch on over closer dear, and I will nibble your ear), you pull him into your side, your actions vaguely mimicking the lyrics. He laughs into your neck and you almost jump at the foreign feeling of breath on your skin.

"We're so gay," he breathes quietly, laced with something you can't quite place. If you were to venture a guess though, you'd say it was affection, and if that doesn't tickle you pinker than a baboon's ass, well, that would make you the most sullied of untruth tellers.

The long forgotten cookies had been relocated and you take the time to snatch one up and shove a bite in your mouth before replying in a muffled, crumb spewing manner, "Wrong; you're so gay. I'm so beyond 'so gay,' shit ain't even funny." He hums, whether in response or agreement you can't say.

For a moment, you sit in amiable silence, you chewing quietly, him leaning on you, breathing warm puffs of breath against your neck. You want to close your eyes, to soak up the comfortable atmosphere that you always find in John's presence, to just lie down and be enveloped by everything, if only to infuse the sheer comfort you find in John in your own being. You no longer feel the pressing need to tell John that you, Dave Strider, have the dokis for him. The feeling, the so called 'dokis' are still there of course, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad for you to just leave them be and enjoy yourself with him as you have for the past eight years.

You feel his eyes on you, and after a cursory glance down, you notice his face is slightly scrunched up in indecision. You're about to ask why when he blurts out what's on his mind.

"I am though."

You raise a brow, a silent query for him to further explain.

"Well like, not gay-gay, I mean sort of gay."

Your eyebrow remains raised. The other joins it and you're pretty sure there's a huge question mark floating bright and red above your head.

"I'm not explaining this well at all am I?"

"No, no; you're doin' a spankin' job. What do you mean 'sort of gay?'?"

"Well," he hesitates, gathering his thoughts before he lets them rush out of his mouth. "I mean I'm, for the sake of humor, 'not a homosexual-'"

You snicker softly, only to be silenced by a punch to the chest.

"-but I do have panromantic tendencies, if that makes sense. I feel like on the 'Sexual Spectrum,' I'm having a fun time somewhere around asexual and demisexual?"

"Okay?" You aren't sure where he's going with the sudden explanation.

"And, well, when I said I kind of am 'so gay,' I meant that I have certain romantic inclinations toward someone right now."

"Of the same sex, right?"

"Right," he confirms.

The information settles lightly in your head and then, all at once, you feel a quick rise and fall of hope in your chest.

"So, you gonna tell me who's captured this li'l lady's heart?" You joke at him, ignoring the discomfort that grips you, however brief it may be. That shit ain't got any business settling in your throat; you have no reason to feel such discomfort and you damn well know it.

He remains wordless for just a second, but in that second you see several emotions twitch his mouth slack then straight, while his eyebrows rise and set in no time flat. The resulting look is one of confident resolve, and holy shit, you didn't expect that at all. You figured he's just brush it off (like you do), but that is a look of pure determination you didn't expect in regards to crushes, for chrissakes.

Something must give away what you're thinking, because the look he's giving you softens and gives way to a little upward quirk of his lip, just enough that you can see the bottoms of his front teeth peeking out.

You mirror it, some part of your brain getting that now is the time to be the supportive friend, and he speaks.

== This transition will be better later, s2g man

Your name is John Egbert, and you are very determined to tell your best friend, Dave Strider, that you have a very gay crush on him, which you know isn't a huge deal but is? You are both very admittedly ridiculous, and that adjective serves to describe the amount of effort it's taking you to just spit it out. You would be more worried, except Dave is looking at you with this little, almost imperceptible, smile of reassurance. Reassurance that, no matter what, he is still your best friend. Still, it takes you more than one mental shove to get your mouth open and moving, your brain supplying strings of words that you think make sense.

"I'm trying really hard to say it, like, I've mentally prepared for this a thousand times over and now that I'm trying it's just sort of not happening and I'm thinking it really loud and just sort of hoping that you're secretly a mind reader or something because it's there and it just won't come out and instead all I'm giving you is this horrible mess of logorrhea and I am so, so sorry that you have to put up with this oh my god," you breathe deeply before plowing on, your brain briefly registering that Dave is both surprised and amused at the fact that your rambling almost rivals his own. "And now I sound like an idiot and don't you give me that look let me deprecate myself a little for physically being incapable of blurting out what is apparently a very obvious thing to everyone but you, not that it's your fault or anything, I try to be more inconspicuous than that, but like Rose and Jade, they just knew, which was a whole new can of worms I didn't want to think about but then they made me sit down and talk about it, which was really weird and great? I mean, they ambushed me that one weekend when you were sick and we all made dinner together and they didn't let me leave until I admitted that I really, really like you, which was the only reason I didn't go check up on you because dude you sounded like you were dying but they wouldn't let me make sure you weren't actually dying."

Good, good, you got the thing out, time to wrap it up and shut the fuck up.

You keep going.

"I mean, obviously you weren't, or else I wouldn't be having this very one sided conversation about how I really just want to like hold your hand and stuff?"

Excellent. You got your point across rather eloquently if you do say so yourself (you are painfully aware of the overly verbose turn your 'I like you a lot' took).

You are aware of your hand fisting in the sheets of your unkempt bed, and are taken aback when the resonating rumble of laughter floods your thoughts.

"Dave?"

Oh god, you fucked up, didn't you, you knew it, this was a stupid idea. A thousand thoughts and their cousins and their drunken uncles race and uncoordinatedly stagger through your mind, and the fact that he won't stop laughing isn't helping.

Alright, so maybe it was an inane idea, the whole admitting you like your friend thing, but what's done is done, and the gasping chortles that haven't even begun to die out are only solidifying the self deprecating "you fucked up" in your mind.

"I fucked up didn't I. Welp, that's that then, we can just forget I ever said anything, and we'll be solid, right?"

"What?" He balked. "No, no, we are not going to just forget this like a pair of chuckle fucks, why on earth would we do that?"

You groan, dropping down backwards. When your head hits the bed, you cover your face with your hands and mutter, "Because, asshole, it's embarrassing. I'm embarrassing, oh my god, this is terrible, why did I decide to do this."

There's a pause, a short space of time in which you mentally berate yourself, not long enough to really get any further than, "Lmao, what a terrible idea, dipshit," but it's long enough for Dave to shift so that he's right beside you. You feel his hands on yours and you twist your lip nervously.

== shit why is he so cute

John is literally the stupidest fucking nerd you've ever met and you are completely enamored with him.

"John. Johnny boy. Jonathan Christine Egbert, why don't you take your hands off of your face and you and I can have a nice conversation about how you are a raging homo for me and I completely reciprocate those gay as fuck feelings."

"Nope. Nope, not happening. It's all a bad dream."

You stroke your thumb against his hand, gently sliding your fingers underneath the palm. You manage to pry his hand away from his face. His hand remains in yours and you continue your previous ministrations.

"Nope. I know bad dreams, John. This is way better than those, I guarantee it. Look, I'm not gonna make you say anything more. Frankly, that'd be embarrassing for the both of us, so I'm gonna lay it straight." You chuckle, a fleeting joke about "laying it as straight as a gay guy can" manifesting. You shake your head almost imperceptibly and continue, "I like you and you like me. Plain and simple. Honestly, I was trying to get the courage to tell you but you beat me to the punch, and that's alright with me. It's probably better that you got it out first cause we'd have been here way longer if I'd confessed first. I'd have danced around it like a fuckin' pansy and it wouldn't have been fun for either of us.

"And, this way, I got to see you get all flustered," you tease. "So, yeah. In your words, I really want to hold your hand and stuff. Feelings reciprocated one hundred percent."

He finally opens his eyes, one hand still covering half of his face.

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Think of it this way: if I didn't, would I still be holding your hand?"

His eyes jerk down and quickly up to your beaming face. "Holy shit."

"What's that Egbert?"

"Holy shit that's a thing that's happening, isn't it?" He lifts your intertwined hands, waving them around. "You and I are holding hands, like for real, with romantic intent behind it. What the fuck?"

You laugh and make a grab for his other hand, only barely managing to catch it without falling on top of him (not that you'd have minded; he's incredibly comfy, loath as he may be to admit it).

"Dude, half the shit I do with you is with romantic intent."

"You're such a loser."

"Yeah, well, I'm your loser now."

"Could you have said anything cheesier?"

"Nah. I'm saving the really cheesy shit for later, you know, when we get all domestic and stuff."

"You think we're gonna get all domestic?"

"I'm not gonna lie, I'd really like it if we stayed together long enough to be a pair of domestic losers. I could see that, you know?"

John looks at you with a small smile. "I wouldn't mind that at all."

"Really?" You ask, a hopeful little spark of joy igniting in your chest. "I didn't mean to sound like we're gonna get married or anything, I just really think we could do it, you know?"

John places a hand gently on your cheek, eyes searching your face. "Relax. I think it's nice that you can see this being a thing in the future. Try not to be such a worry wart, alright? We'll do things as they come, alright?"

He pinches your cheek lightly, and you know that this is what you wanted. You didn't realize how much you craved the feeling of intimacy between you and John, and even the little teasing pinch on the cheek is more than enough. Lying with him, reassuring each other; it's a higher degree of trust and intimacy than you've ever experienced and you absolutely love it.

You love him. Not in the way fourteen year olds feel about their first relationships wherein they think their first partner is their one true love; no, this is beyond that. It's not a romance novel, you know. It's not like anything you've ever read of or seen in the movies. It's, in the simplest terms, something comfortable, something that makes your chest pang with true adoration every time you're near John, something that makes you feel happy. It's not like you'd die without him. You would be appreciative of the time you spent with him though, and you would cherish it. You will cherish it.

You'll cherish him. Granted, you'll also undoubtedly be a supreme nerdlord and tease him all the time, because you know he's going to do the same, but you will most definitely treat him with the respect that a partner deserves.

This is the beginning of a new partnership, a new relationship. The old one still exists, the one of best broship, but this one, this scintillating, exhilarating new relationship that goes deeper than platonic love is something you're going to put your all into.

Because you love John.

== Sloppy makeouts lmao

Dave's eyes are briefly hooded by his lashes as his gaze flicks somewhere further south on your face. It passes and he's right back to searching your eyes.

"John, would it be alright if I kissed you?"

You feel something bubbling up in your midsection, something giddy and anxious at the same time.

"It would be more than alright," you assure him, hooking an arm behind his neck.

His face comes down near yours, and you smile when his lips meet yours. His lips are thin and soft, and his touch is tender, almost hesitant.

You encourage him a little, putting a little bit of pressure into your own kisses. His hesitant movements become more confident, though the types of kisses don't change. He's all butterfly breath and languid movements and you love it. You love him.

Yeah, you love him. You love him, his notions of the future. You love that he didn't expect you to right off the bat be ready. You love his laugh, you love his eyes, you love his voice. You love his touch, you love his presence, you love his freckles and his straight set mouth, you love that he's never backed down from an insult war, and you love that there's a level of comfort that you share. You love that he loves you.

You can't say for certain if he loves you since you aren't him and you can't read minds, but you feel it. Maybe it's not some conventional unconditional sort of love wherein he only wants to be with you to fulfill some sort of societal need, but it's the kind of love you feel, you think. It's the sort that makes you grin at nothing, the kind that makes you curl up in bed, hugging your pillow because just thinking about him makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside. It's the kind of love that fills your heart with affection.

Yeah, you love him.

And he loves you.

You don't how it happened, but you fell into a lulling sort of warmth, curled up in bed with Dave, just brushing lips against skin and twining hands, fingers, legs, all of your limbs in a tangled mess underneath your covers.

You fall asleep like that, whispering a soft, "I love you," to the deep even breathing that belongs to Dave. You smile when you hear a chuckle interrupt his breathing.

"I love you, too, you dork."

== Be dad

You shut your son's bedroom door, a smile slightly hidden by your pipe.

My son is so fucking gay.