AN: I have decided to like Homestuck. I have decided to like John and Dave. I have decided that I like fics of them that are not sadstuck. So I decided I'll write one.

Characters: Belong to Andrew Hussie

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Your name is Dave Strider and you have just awoken from a NIGHTMARE.

Dave: Scream like a little girl

Most certainly not. But you do bolt upright in bed like you have just been shocked in the ass by an electric eel and stare warily around the darkness of your oh-so-coolkid room. This was not a nightmare left over from three years ago, when you and your three best friends played THE GAME THAT SHALL NOT BE NAMED and some very screwed up events seeped into your fragile teenage psyche. No, the nightmare you just experienced was entirely more sinister. You shudder lightly, gripping the edge of the blanket to your chest as you recall this nightmare in excruciating detail.

You were naked. In the shower. Washing yourself, like normal people with personal hygiene habits superior to swamp-wallowing warthogs tend to do. You were lathering up your ironic pink bath poof with ironic pink body wash when suddenly the curtain whooshed back and there, right beside you, was a smuppet of monolithic proportions. Its plush rump filled the whole damn bathroom as it stared at you over its freakishly long penile proboscis, and—

You are Dave Strider, and you need a BRO-CUDDLE. Like, now.

Dave: Crawl in bed with your much-respected older sibling like sniveling toddler

Hell no.

Not that Bro. He's probably snoring in the next room buried under a whole damn pile of smuppets like freaking Godzilla beneath Mt. Fuji, just waiting for an excuse to wake up and hit you with biohazard levels of radioactive puppet-breath.

No. You, Dave Strider, need a bro-cuddle from none other than your numero uno pal-honcho, JOHN EGBERT.

Dave: Be in your closet

Yes, sir, thank you, sir, you will. You grab your shades from the nightstand and you are ready for action, squeezing in among the miscellaneous clutter that you really do need to get out of there, because this closet is now used for IMPORTANT BSNS. In less time than it takes an armadillo to scuttle across a blistering Texan highway in front of an oncoming eighteen wheeler you are peeking out of an entirely different (and much tidier) closet, ironically thankful that your bestest best bro is less of a slob than you are.

Dave: Reminisce

It shouldn't come as any surprise that things are a little bit DIFFERENT for you and your friends after that giant shit-storm three years ago. What is a little bit surprising (or not) is that these differences are somehow only apparent when you are inside your own HOMES (or the HOMES of aforementioned friends). One day not long after said shit-storm subsided you were perplexed but undeniably pleased to discover that you had effortlessly, dare it be said instinctively, re-wound to a time three seconds before you were about to dump a bottle of apple juice on your keyboard.

Since this realization the four of you have used this information for the greater good of the four of you. (You would of course be cool and share your awesome Knight of Time-ness with the rest of the world, but as you cannot, you content yourself with freezing time long enough to eat John's Gushers before he can stop you.)

On the whole, being able to access one another's homes in seconds flat is entirely practical. Sure there are moments of derp when Jade's psychotic excuse for a good dog best friend decides to pop out of Rose's dress rack and chase her mutant cat around her wizard-infested domain wrecking indescribable havoc, and when the trolls decide to troll you they can now opt to do so in person for nearly unbelievable doses of obnoxious, but mostly the closet-linkage idea that was Egbert's bouncing baby brainchild is terribly useful.

Case in point, moments like these.

Dave: Stop reminiscing and come out of the closet

LaLonde wishes.

You scope your best bro's personal space in a way that is definitely not in the least bit creepy or stalker-ish and notice that it is DAMNED COLD in here. (This should also come as no surprise, as this is Washington and you are now about a bajillion and two miles further from Texas and its heat than you were a minute ago.) You also notice that there is, lo and behold, a very convenient coolkid-shaped empty spot next to the slumbering lump of John sprawled out on his bed.

This is obviously both a SIGN and an OPEN INVITATION.

You ninja over in admirable fashion and deposit your ironic shades next to his supremely un-ironic glasses on the bedside table. They probably need a bro-cuddle too.

Dave: Burrow in next to Egderp like a Disney bunny

Abjure. Abjure abjure abjure.

You sneakily insinuate yourself in the general proximity of your best friend in a way that does not even remotely resemble burrowing. You don't want to wake him up, after all. Unlike you he so obviously needs his beauty sleep. (All lies. You secretly agree with your dear ecto-sister Rose that John Egbert is adorkable and the opinion of a Strider is not to be questioned.)

Under the covers John is snuggling the PROP BUNNY you gifted him that fateful Day Shit Went Down. You know this because a minute after you creep into his bed he rolls over and, like the ecto-gravity that keeps Earth and Alternia Eskimo-kissing parallel in the fabric of space and time, unerringly throws his arm around you. The bunny comes with. Suddenly you are at first base with the dingy stuffed rabbit pressed against your face.

Dave: Quit bitching and enjoy your bro-cuddle

You quit bitching and enjoy your bro-cuddle. The bunny is easily shifted. It is nice and warm under John's un-ironic Ghostbusters blankets and his deceptively strong hammer-arm curled around your chest promises sweet, sweet protection from marauding smuppets out to compromise your girlish virtue.

Smuppets? What smuppets.

Somehow your head winds up under John's chin and you don't mind. You close your freak-eyes (but John gets mad when you call them that because "they're totally awesome eyes, Dave!") and get back to the very important task of sleeping. Almost at once you slip into another dream.

In this dream you have your wings back.

No, not the silly ruff of neck feathers, not your kooky long ectoplasmic sprite tail, just your big wonderful orange crow wings attached to normal old Dave Coolkid Strider. John is beside you in his ridiculous blue hood hat and he is smiling hugely at you, and he is doing that windy thing that he can still do sometimes in his bedroom because Rose very helpfully toggled the ceilings about five times higher and nobody in his neighborhood of identical houses has said a word about the add-on.

You are Dave Strider, and there is nothing ironic about how happy you are as you and your best friend fly together until morning.

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