who knew singing adele in cosplay would be such good inspiration
Ding dong.
The door opens, and you see John ginning at you like he's the fucking sun.
"Dave!" He's warm around you, and, shit, you missed this.
"'Sup, Egderp." You see his wife smiling cautiously at you from the kitchen. You extract yourself from the Egbertian embrace (no, no, wait, why did you do that) and approach her, opening your arms for contact. "Hey Rose."
"David. A pleasure." She is cold and tiny, stiff in your arms probably due to mutual discomfort.
"Same here, Rosalyn." You pull away to keep from suffocating either of you. "So dinner, huh?"
"Yep!" Fucking situationally-oblivious Egbert and his lack of tension receptors. "Rose made pasta—you're gonna love it!"
You nod in her direction approvingly. "I'm sure I will."
Her eyebrows and mouth tilt in suspicion of sarcasm as she returns to the kitchen. "It'll be ready to serve in just a minute, boys. Show Dave to the sitting room please, John."
A short burst of laughter escapes him, and he ruffles his hair sheepishly. "Sure thing, sorry, Rose."
He takes your coat, and leads you to plop down on the couch across from his chair. Things are awkward for a few minutes as you catch up a bit, because you want to just jump on him and cuddle forever, or at least until he wants to stop being married to your cousin.
You guess you were too male for his mostly-straight brain to handle.
"You hear from Jade lately?" you ask, because you know he has.
"Yeah!" He's practically ecstatic to find neutral conversation ground. "She called me a week or two ago. Apparently she's in the Australian Outback, and everything is totally crazy out there! Like, think of how things were that one time we visited her in Kenya, then multiply that by the entirety of my Prankster's Gambit, and that's the level of insane we're talking!"
"That's pretty fuckin' crazy, dude."
"Tell me about it! Like, apparently there are—" Rose cuts in, letting you and John know that the food is ready. He thanks her along with a smile that he used to only show you, and something in your chest burns, cold, sharp, near-unbearable, like pouring rubbing alcohol on an open wound.
You smile like you're pleased, and stand, following Rose and John out to their fancy-schmancy dining room.
The food is as fantastic as it was when Rose would cook for you in college, when you needed some familial love but weren't up for a feelings jam. You never mentioned this to John. You're not even sure he knows you and Rose are related.
Dinner conversation reminds of you of how you felt driving your stick shift beater for the first time in four years after getting used to the automatic you leased in college. Each new line sends your heart racing a little more, and you are censoring your responses a bit more than you planned to, but eventually, you settle back into the shaky rhythm of things. Rose asks about work, and you ask about possible children, and John laughs obliviously at your half-assed metaphors like they're as amazing as they usually are.
You know Rose can sense the difference in quality.
Dessert is served, a sweet slice of apple pie, warm with cinnamon, and creamy with the ice cream melting on top, which John apparently requested for your sake. It perks you up just enough that you could die right then, no regrets.
Well. Almost none.
After John clears the dessert things, he offers coffee, and you accept, sitting in the same spot on the couch from before. Rose seems to stop him and tell him something, and John responds almost urgently, clearly surprised, agitated by something, and your cousin is irritated in her own response.
They're totally talking about you.
You sigh, sipping your coffee. Needs sugar, but you don't want to disturb the happy couple. A minute or so passes, and John reenters the sitting room, but his usual smile is tight around the edges, strained the extra inch he usually meets with ease. "Oh, I didn't know you drank your coffee black, Dave!"
You shrug and half-lie, "Sometimes a man just needs a bit of a wake-up call, if you know what I mean."
The grin slips further, then is shoved back into place, starting to look more like a wince than the genuine happiness from before. "Heh, yeah, I guess. Rose is in the bathroom, by the way."
You nod. A moment of silence is taken to build up nerve on both sides of the wall between you two. You know what's coming. You're sure, for all his obliviousness, that he does too.
"...You never mentioned you were cousins, Dave."
"No. I didn't."
Silence.
"I suppose it makes sense, now, though. Why you weren't at the wedding."
"Mm."
More silence, but John's expression is pitiful now, and that burns worse, colder, yet deeper, breaking some frail part of you that you didn't know was still intact.
"I'm—"
"Don't be." Your tone is sharp, more raw emotion in the words than intended. "Don't be sorry for things you can't change, not now. It's too late for that. Sometimes it lasts, and sometimes it hurts. That's what you taught me. Nothing can change that."
You sigh, sipping your coffee, letting it slide, hot and bitter, down your throat.
"Guess I deserve that for asking you to play gay for so long."
He is quiet, and the silence is tense, but thankfully not awkward.
"...I wasn't playing, Dave. Not the whole time, anyway."
You hope he doesn't notice your flinch, but you're pretty sure he does. "Bound to happen eventually."
The silence he leaves sits on your chest, gaining weight like an exponential curve, and you have to go, get out of there, leave before you suffocate.
You slip the arm of your shades into the collar of your shirt as you stand. Leaning over with a hand in his hair, you kiss him on the mouth once, quick, gentle, and sad.
"Just don't forget me, okay?" you plead, with your forehead touching his and your eyes squeezed shut. "Please, John. Anything but that."
"Never." And that's the surest he's been about anything all evening.
You nod against him. "Okay. Thank you." You pull away, eyes on the floor. "...Okay."
"Dave..." He says, standing quickly, and you look up because you haven't heard him say your name like that in years.
His eyes say please, his hands twitching by his sides, his posture tight, ready to spring.
You know that he knows that this is—
You can't even think the word.
You hear the plumbing start—Rose must be finishing up—and slide your shades back up your nose. "I should get going. Give Rose my love."
He nods after a moment, remembering his wife, your cousin.
You head into the hall to fish your coat out of the closet. You vaguely hear John follow you over the static in your ears. You slide your jacket on, feeling the weight of your wallet and keys in your pocket as you unlock and open the front door.
"Dave!" Rose's voice is quiet, but that doesn't lessen her tone's intensity from halfway up the stairs.
You turn.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, and the tears in her eyes mirror the ones behind your shades.
"...Don't be. Sometimes it lasts, and sometimes it hurts."
You look back at John, your first and last love, and turn away again, coat swishing slightly in the wind.
"Nothing can change that."
You step out, closing the door behind you, quiet, and final, and jarring. You can barely breathe as you get into your car, and you drive and drive, until tears blind you and your throat is sore from screaming.
Maybe one day, you will find someone like him.
You hope that day never comes, and that's what hurts you worst of all.
—