1.1 – Tensions (John and Rose)

John and Rose sat on the couch, bathed in the flickering luminescence of the television. A fire smoldered dimly in the fireplace from which Nana's picture still hung. Through the lone window in the living room, faint starlight sifted through the glass panes and dappled the floor with a four-box pattern, bisected by the window grid, a shape eerily similar to the Sburb logo.

The grove of harlequin figurines had been replaced by a grove of wizard figurines, as per Rose's liking. The bronzed vacuum cleaner was nestled in one corner of the room, while a bag of knitting spilled haphazardly onto the floor in another. Scarves, hats, and sweaters littered the floor, adding to the mess. They were all in shades of blacks and purples and all unseasonably warm. John heard Maplehoof whinny faintly from within the utility-room-turned-stable.

John removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose where square indentations had been branded with a violet-red. Having to still wear the same glasses at the age of twenty as he had as a thirteen-year-old was a painful reality. He wished now he had thought to alchemize a new pair before they had left the Incipisphere four years ago. Everyone had re-alchemized their clothing to better fit for the years and years they still had left to live outside of Sburb.

Rose sat at the other end of the couch, barely paying attention to Requiem for a Dream which she had insisted they watch, as opposed to Drive Angry which John had been meaning to get around to seeing if only to validate the fact that his hero-worship of the delightfully tacky Nic Cage was still a thing of his childhood past. Instead, her eyes flitted in rhythm with her needles, enmeshing the strand of rich purple wool into the body of yet another scarf. If she made one more damn scarf in the middle of July, John was sure he would be hanging himself from the balcony with it wrapped around his neck, like one of Terezi's scalemates hanging from the branches of her hive.

John stared into her stoic, inexpressive face as her disquieting violet eyes and her fingers continued to twitch in rhythm. A lustful fire had just recently kindled in his lower belly and was yearning to be tended to. The closed-off expression upon the smooth features of Rose's face, however, made it clear to John that he would be taking his own irons out of the fire.

When it came to preserving the human race and repopulating Earth, Rose seemingly had no interest in the mechanics that necessitated such vital designs; at least those are the words she would have used to describe it, anyway. Naturally enough, John was more enthusiastic about the sexual aspect of their duty, but somehow with Rose his excitement and passion was always tempered into a grudgingly sterile series of motions. John sighed and replaced his glasses.

"Can I presume that sigh is anything indicative of your exasperation with my choice of films?" asked Rose, still not pausing or looking up from her work. On screen Jared Leto, who John recognized from Lord of War, and Marlon Wayans were wheeling an ancient television set past a tall chain fence.

"No, no," John said defensively.

"Then what is it?"

"I just . . . have to go to the bathroom is all."

"Mmm."

"Do you want anything while I'm up?"

"No."

"Okay." John had gotten into the habit of tacking on an "okay" to the end of every interaction in a valiant, yet vain attempt to extend the curt conversations that dominated their lives. The closer they had gotten physically, the more distant Rose had become emotionally, which was saying something.

John ascended the stairs to the hallway adorned by a large framed picture of an awfully exquisite wizard and the picture of someone wearing a beagle puss who might or might not have been Michael Cera. He stopped where the two hallways intersected and looked to his left at the door which led to the balcony where he would inevitably hang himself with one of Rose's scarves one day. In front of John was his old bedroom which he no longer slept in but continued to keep most of his things in; Rose had commandeered the study for the same purposes.

John turned the knob and entered.

Much of it remained unchanged since his thirteenth birthday. The bed, desk, dresser and magic chest were still all in place. The movie posters had been taken down and most of the graffiti he himself made had been wiped clean. His old computer had been replaced with the Cosbytop, which still managed to keep an internet connection despite the fact that all the modems had clearly quit functioning long ago. Some things were best left unquestioned. The only thing the Cosbytop was ever used for was pestering Dave and Jade, anyway. Occasionally though when he would be knocked over by the bowling ball of nostalgia, he would scroll back through all the old pesterlogs, rereading conversations with his friends and the trolls, back before his and Rose's friendship and turned into a quasi-adversarial romanceship. It was amazing sometimes to see how much he had changed and grown up since then and would sometimes be engulfed by a wave of shame whenever he would stumble upon an especially naïve or childish conversation.

John flipped open the magic chest, where he kept the few things of importance that had been brought back from the Incipisphere. The Vrillyhoo Hammer, his god tier clothes, as well as Colonel Sassacre's text all lay on top, while a plethora of less remarkable items were buried beneath, out of sight. John had detached the god tier hood and had worn it to bed as a nightcap when he and Rose had first returned to his home together, but the jape quickly lost its funny and the hood had been laid back with the rest of his Sburb souvenirs.

There was a particularly loud crescendo from the living room, which jolted John back from the miasma of emotions plaguing his room; at least Requiem's soundtrack was interesting. He was aroused of the delicate fact that the coals in his belly had engorged into a raging bonfire. John hadn't lied when he told Rose he's was going to the bathroom, he just hadn't been specific on he planned to be doing in there. More stimulating material than simply a stack of old Game Bro's was stashed in the bathroom.

John hurried off to take care of himself.