Having my friends upload my fics? Whaaaat. Cool, huh? Anyways, cliché fic is cliché. But, like, I hate the way most people characterize them. Like, John's not derpy, just annoying in most fics—theres a difference. And Dave is always automatically cooler than shit? Honestly, Dave isn't cool and he never will be. This doesn't have a plot, just angst.
Disclaimer: Homestuck belongs to Andrew Hussie.
"This is lame," Dave supplied, brushing lint from his propped knee—said lint swooned and floated to the ground beside his right foot in some sort of odd, inanimate glee. He blinked at it and idly watched as it burst into flames—which was the smallest of sparks really. Of course Egderp didn't take notice of said lint's totally righteous reaction to the blond. Why couldn't he notice?
His name was Dave Strider and he loved his best bro in a not-so-platonic, totally not ironic way, but that wasn't why he was here. Well, mostly. The other teen seemed steadfast in him spending the night, at least once, despite Dave nonchalantly brushing the kid off. John frowned but it didn't seem real, probably because it wasn't and it'd soon form into some goofy smile that made everyone else seem like they were smiling. He was pouting, the manipulative squirt, after he learned that he could get Dave to do pretty much whatever he wanted—all in the name of irony of course.
A variety of colored sharpies were placed lovingly(because John had so obsessively positioned them there) next to a plain notebook as he sat cross-legged with the derpiest of grins smeared across his face. "Nothing I do will ever be cool enough for you," he stated airily. Dave shrugged, watching John sift through the selection of markers as he tried not to grin or smirk or, hell, let his eyes show how happy he really was because John picked the lightest blue and he knew he'd pick that exact color.
A candy red sharpie was shoved a little too enthusiastically into his face by an outstretched hand, which surprised him though it shouldn't have, and he accepted it, showing off by twirling it in his fingers. Blue orbs stared at his hand in fascination while Dave spun it around faster, looking almost as though it were gliding over his quick digits. He halted suddenly, peering at the teen from over his aviators, and relished the nearly disappointed look shining through his eyes. Without words, he slowly began to twist his fingers over the marker, alternating them to a rhythm in his mind, until John picked up his own sharpie and copied his actions.
"Now I can finally use that baton!"
The sudden outburst startled him, making his heart jump but not his body, and he averted his gaze over to John's occupied hands. He'd never admit it, but he was secretly impressed—granted, it wasn't an exceptional feat but the derp conquering his eye-hand coordination skills was remarkable.
Blue eyes sparked full of mischief, and Dave noted how much darker, how much denser his eye color was. The buckteeth holding his tongue to his lips was what really drew his attention and the aspiring DJ's fingers actually twitched involuntarily from resisting the urge to pull his abused lip from under his teeth with his thumb before kissing him silly. The prankster was speaking to him again, he couldn't hear him, but he watched pink lips move in awe.
"Earth to, Dave! Geez, it's like you're a robot today or something," the noirette joked good-naturedly, though it slightly reflected his opinion.
Dave surprised them both by not going into one of his ridiculous metaphors that resembled the length of a shitty anime series Bro always watched. His comeback consisted of, 'whatever' and an awkward silence followed. John's grin grew, slowly revealing a bit more of his overbite, as he processed what happened. This was too good to be true.
"I totally got you! I guess I really got your goat this time, Dave! Oh man, this is really amazing. I finally one-upped you!" the young heir beamed, waving his arms excitedly and practically swooning like a schoolgirl.
"I let you have that one like any true pal-honcho would. I know there's an empty feeling inside you, like you're searching the bowels of your soul, to understand your existence while you lay awake at night and wonder 'what's missing'. 'What could possibly make my derpin' life significantly better?' That's when you realize it's 'getting a Strider's goat'," he replied lamely, but John wasn't buying it, even though he ate up about 99.9% of the bullshit Dave usually fed him.
About the only thing Dave was thankful for at this particular moment was the fact that they were over at John's house. His brother would never let him live this down, neither would Egbert, but at least he didn't live with him. Maybe he was a tad appreciative of the cocky smile John was flashing his way. His arm hung off his knee and his body was angled in this way that made him seem like he had all the confidence in the world. Soft lips curled a bit at the corners and his eyebrows were quirked like one of the lame main characters in the romcoms he was so fond of.
He was definitely grateful.
"I totally owned you," John remarked with a tone so smug Dave wanted to punch him in the face.
The coolkid would've punched him, regardless of how deep his feelings for him were, had he not been so wrapped up in the heat of his own blush; his skin dared to prickle and it was such a rare event that he was stunned.
Sure Dave had experienced humility before, more times than he could count, but it never outwardly showed like it did now after Bro half-ass congratulated him on perfecting his poker face. Here John was making things worse when all they were supposed to do in the first place was play Tic-Tac-Toe.
"Quit being a dick, dude," was all he could really manage.
John's laughter died out slowly and it reached a bitter end when he realized he somehow hurt the others feelings. "Woah, dude, are you okay? Is everything okay at home?"
"Shit's fine," Dave grumbled, slowly regaining his apathetic attitude that wasn't working out all that well in his conquest to win his best bro's heart.
John crawled over to him, hugging his knees to his chest with his chin digging into the tops of them, his forehead crinkled and his eyes resembled a puppy's when they're begging to be taken home from the pound. "What's wrong?"
The gentleness of his tone didn't surprise him because they'd had talks like these before when Bro's 'training' was too tough, either had a particularly terrible break-up, or simply a shitty day at school. John found himself comforting Dave more than anything, not that he minded, because Dave was lost when it came to expressing his emotions and consoling others. An unspoken pact was made years ago—one that let both parties know that their secrets were always safe.
They always were.
"I think I love you."
John replied with a tinkling laugh, "That's all that was bothering you? I love you, too."
Dave sighed, groaning in exasperation, before removing his sunglasses to massage the bridge of his nose. He never bothered placing them back on and stared at John with a pathetic expression on his face. The prankster flashed him a reassuring smile before placing a hand on his knee; Dave wanted desperately to grasp it but knew he'd rather not have John snatch it back after he clarified a few things.
"Dave?"
"Hold up. My thoughts are flying everywhere like Smuppet ass."
John nodded patiently because Dave always took his time trying to figure out words to say about how he felt, but he was confused when Dave didn't really explain anything at all—just announced his bromance again.
"No, John, I love you," Dave clarified, unsure how else to word his confession.
The blue-eyed teen's face was easier to read than anyone Dave ever met and he watched as the cogs turned, as he prepared for rejection.
"I'm sorry Dave, but—"
"I know. It's fine," he spoke in clipped sentences to hurry the conversation along. 'It' wasn't fine and neither was he but the sooner they swept this under the metaphorical rug the better.
"Gosh, Dave. You're making me feel horribad," John muttered, fiddling with the hands he retracted long ago. The blond quirked his eyebrow at him in question because he didn't trust his voice, he had a hard enough time being around John as it was—the strain of rejection made matters worse.
John shrugged, smiling weakly, "I really am sorry, Dave."
Dave shrugged again; surprised his shoulders didn't fall off at this point, and hastily covered his eyes with the comfortable security of his shades when his eyes started to burn. There was a lump in his throat that remained even after he swallowed continually; his heart was pumping so hard he swore he could feel the blood pumping in his teeth. John moved in cautiously, their eyes locked, and he bound his arms around his slightly broader chest, resting his chin on a shaking shoulder.
A sharp, shuddering intake of breath was the only indication of the blonde's misery, which was visible to third parties that didn't know the teen. John grimaced, rubbing soothing circles into the other's back, nearly choking when Dave clenched his shirt tighter—pushing their chests harder together, his face buried deeper into a pale neck. There were never any tears, only quiet dry sobs, and the only difference now was the volume of his heartache.
This was just a brothing that would come to pass.