I will shamelessly admit that I fucking love Homestuck with every fiber of my being. For all those who watch me for Naruto related shit, I am sorry. I've basically dropped off the planet with my care for that series. But since I can't leave shit unfinished I will eventually update my stories, because I feel like a jerk if I discontinue them, especially since I've got things planned.
Anyways, if you're a Homestuck fan, enjoy. If you're not, well go read the comic.
You are John Egbert, and your eyelids weigh down on your face with the force of anvils strapped on an 18 wheeler that ransacked your energy in a full on collision. An endless loop of music plays on the menu of a movie you never remember putting in, let alone watched. You move your arms, feeling the joints creak and pop from hours of disuse, and suddenly you feel decades ahead of your time. A wobbly step guides your path, illuminated by artificial electronic glow, to your downstairs bathroom, letting your eyes adjust—after the initial glare of pain—to the light that you've turned on.
You're quite a sight, you think to yourself.
Raven tresses stick up in angles you never knew existed, only a bit messier than you're normally known for. Dark rings encircle your dull azure eyes, an irritating trait that's formed as of your recently poor sleep schedule. Glasses? Forget it. They had probably gotten lodged between the couch cushions during your seemingly furious sleep schedule.
A splash of cold water on your face does little to help. The same dim, half-lidded gaze meets you as you turn to dry your face, and a mixture of sleepiness and frustration keeps you from wiping the liquid off your skin.
In retrospect, you're really not sure why.
Bangs still dripping, you plunge yourself back into darkness again, predictably stumbling over furniture you should already be aware of. A car drives past your house, shining headlights in your window enough to map a short course back to the tv, which you maneuver with the utmost of stride. In one fell swoop, you retrieve your glasses from their place on the couch arm, and turn the tv off. Strider would be proud of your ninja prowess, you think.
And suddenly it dawns on you.
There is only the creaking of the stairs as you climb, and the laborious sound of your own breathing to shatter the silence as you pad your way to your room. The door soundlessly breathes open, and you sigh with silent relief.
Your room is the same as you remember it from that morning, sans the formless lump that lays beneath your bedsheets, and the opened luggage container haphazardly thrown at the foot of your bed.
You can't control your smile. You are invisible, lithe like water, as you close the distance between you and the bed. Gingerly, ever so gingerly, you lift the sheets from the top, benevolent gaze deepening from the tousled head of blond that greets you.
He is sleeping, you're sure. Even with his eyes obstructed by shades and—good grief he was serious, hedid sleep with them on—you're nearly positive. Your hand wanders to his face, gently letting them graze the side of his cheek, and nearly jump when his sleeping form moves to the touch. Quickly, you retract a hand, feeling the flush light up your face so brightly, you're surprised you aren't glowing. But he's none the wiser, unconscious, his back to the wall.
It takes a couple seconds before you've worked up the bravery to move your hand again, this time ghosting the tips of your fingers along the frame of his glasses. For as highly as he values them, he certainly doesn't treat them very well. You smile, pulling them from the bridge of his nose, exposing bare—albeit shut—eyes.
And your breath gets sucked out of your chest.
He's so calm, so peaceful, that you could even go so far as to describe the scene as innocent. You can't help but take everything in, from the thin arch of his flaxen brows, to the delicate dusting of freckles along the apex of his cheek, and you're sure that in that short moment, you've never liked—loved, whatever word was appropriate—anyone more than at that moment.
The butterflies in your stomach have a rave, one that stirs you to do more than stand and gape openly like a weirdo. You set down both of your glasses on your bedside table. Through your poor, unfiltered vision, the legs of the ocular devices seem to tangle, and you know then what you have to do.
Hastily, you throw on your favorite Ghostbusters pajamas, climbing into the tiny bed with him, curling up with a kittenlike purr at his side. Even through his sleep, he seems to notice, moving an arm over your body, pulling you into a close embrace that both shocks and relieves you.
Despite the summer heat, his warmth is comforting. You close your eyes, listening to your breathing slowly sync together, until the sleep that had been weighing your feet down all that time finally envelopes you.
You are John Egbert, and you're sure you've never slept better in your life.