John came up to the house with a wary sigh. He'd been invited to a party, but the idea, well, it sort of scared him. No, man up, John, its just a party, he thought, with drinking and dancing and music like any other parties… He frowned to himself, with angry guys who get a kick out of beating me up, and lots of fights where I can easily get hurt. He shook the thoughts out of his head and walked up to the house. The closer he got, the louder the music got. Who's house is this, anyways? He took in another deep breath before pulling open the front door. The heavy bass consumed him and pulled him in the second it got the chance.
Someone shoved him out of the way of the entrance, and he was sucked directly into the pit of incredibly drunken teenagers dancing in the centre of the living room. Aw, fuck, no, no, no, he thought, panicking a bit. He really didn't want to be in this crowd. He inched his way out of the pit of dancers, and eventually found himself pinned to the wall. He stuck to it in hopes that it'd eventually lead to the kitchen. It was generally safer in there, anyways.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't Egbert," a voice called to him from behind, "Shoulda known you'd come."
His blood ran cold. He turned around on his heel to see who the speaker was, even though he was well aware already. The guy from the football team, what was his name?, was standing directly in front of him in his signature red jacket. The worst one. The one who started this whole beat-John-up-every-chance-you-get trend.
John's body began to tremble, and the taller, heavily built boy approached him slowly. He could see his fist begin to curl. He knew that he could run away if he moved as fast as he possibly could, but his feet seemed to be glued to the floor. His eyes widened in fear for a moment before shutting as fast as they could, waiting for the inevitable blow.
It hit him like a ton of bricks, directly in his collarbone, then another beside his eye on the side of his head. He let out a cry of pain before dropping to the ground, clutching the throbbing areas. From his spot on the floor, he could see his shoes approaching him for another hit. He could feel the tears streaming down his face now. John let out a shakey sob, his entire body still trembling. His eyes shut once more. Watching this would be awful.
The blow never came.
"Yo, Walters, there's some kid stealing your vodka," a quieter voice with a faint southern drawl told the bully, "Its your party, so you better deal with him."
"Finish him off for me," 'Walters' said, nudging John with the toe of his foot. He could hear him walk away.
A pair of gentle hands picked him up bridal style and carried him to the outside door. John refused to open his eyes. His body only had the ability to tremble and sob.
The person sat down on the grass and sat John down in front of him.
"I- fuck, man, I'm really sorry about him, " the voice from before said, "I didn't think you'd be here, either."
John rubbed his eyes dry with the sleeves of Jake's varsity jacket, then, finally, looked up at the boy.
What a fuckin' surprise. It was Dave. Why was it always Dave? He knew deep down that he should feel grateful for his help, but really, he was only angry. He knew that he wouldn't hurt him, and that was the only thing allowing him to speak his mind.
"Why do you keep helping me?" He demanded, "You can't just be friends with those assholes and then pretend to be friends with me five goddamn minutes later!" He raised his arms up for emphasis, but moved them back down when a shot of pain ran through his upper body from the punch to his chest. A headache had already begun to spread throughout his brain. "Ugh, fuck, that hurts," he said as he massaged his temple, attempting to stand up.
Dave grabbed his wrist, but made no move to pull him back down, "Its not good to be walking around right after you get punched in the head, bro, especially if you have a headache from it," he informed him with his signature poker face broken. He was frowning, worry and true care etched into his face.
John scowled, "Why would you care?"
"Caring is what I do," he told him with a shrug.
"Just let go of me," his voice shook slightly. His body hadn't fully calmed down from sobbing, "How could I possibly matter to you?"
Dave opened his mouth, then closed it again. If there was one thing he abolutely did not want to do, it was tell John his secret. He merely looked down at the grass. For once, Dave Strider did not have a response. He let go of John's wrist. "You really shouldn't be standing though," he muttered.
John merely shook his head and walked away, rubbing at the spots he'd be sure to start bruising in.