John Egbert was incredibly bored.
He had already exhausted his entire repertoire on the piano, twice. And set up (followed quickly by the embarrassed disassembling of) at least fifteen pranks to catch his father off-guard. And rewatched the end of Con Air. And even finished off one of the six cakes that was laying around his kitchen. That was how bored he was.
It was one of those lazy, hot summer mornings where you knew it was only going to get hotter and all you could possibly do about it was wish that air conditioning wasn't so expensive and brace yourself for the inevitable heat wave. John did this by putting on his shortest sleeve T-shirt that still proclaimed to the world for all to see his die-hard devotion to Nick Cage and a pair of shorts. Then he wandered down the stairs once more, seeking something to do. Eventually, after several minutes of aimless wandering, he sat down at the kitchen table, watching the timer above the oven tick away the seconds until the next cake would be done.
Well this sucks.
At long last, the jitteriness that infects all thirteen-year-olds at times proved to be too much. He stood, called into the depths of the house that he was going out, and left without a backwards glance.
As he had suspected, it was even hotter outside. Seeking only to find respite from the merciless heat, he found himself strolling down the street in the general direction of the lake. It was a pitiful, man-made lake just off of being in the exact center of town. Nobody ever went there except crazy fishermen who didn't know any better and the occasional intrepid swimmer who was unfazed by the gawdawful amount of trash and general gunk floating in it. John Egbert, while not being quite enough of an idiot to actually swim in it, was not opposed to taking off his shoes and sitting on the edge, allowing his feet to dangle idly in the water.
It felt fantastic, the slightly cool water a well-needed relief from the condescending heat. John closed his eyes, allowing himself to flop backwards onto the grass. He lay peacefully there for a few minutes, hoping desperately that a cloud cover or even a small breeze would deign to cool down the day a bit, but no such luck. It was in the middle of his wistful daydreams of a less-than-blistering climate that he felt something bump against his knee.
Aw, yuck. John sat up, ready to disentangle his leg from whatever choice piece of garbage had decided it would be a nice idea to attach itself to him. Instead, he found himself staring at a small, glass bottle. Inside was what appeared to be a note. After retrieving it out of the water, he attempted to get it out of the bottle for a few seconds before giving up and smashing the bottle against the ground. He cringed as it shattered, as he had failed to think ahead as often thirteen-year-old boys such as John do. Fortunately, he didn't have any major cuts when the doing was done, and he gingerly sifted the glass to the side and picked out the note. The date at the top was today's.
TO WHOEVER FINDS THIS NOTE:
I AM SO FUCKING BORED. MY NAME IS KARKAT VANTAS, AND I HAVE BEEN WITHOUT AN IDEA FOR A LONG ENOUGH TIME TO DRIVE ME TO AS LOW AND IDIOTIC AN ACTION AS TO DECIDE IT WAS WORTH MY TIME TO SEND A STUPID FUCKING NOTE IN A BOTTLE. IF ANYONE EVER FINDS THIS THING AND IT HASN'T BEEN A RIDICULOUS AMOUNT OF TIME (LOOK AT THE DATE AND DECIDE FOR YOURSELF. ANY HALF-BRAINED ASSHOLE SHOULD BE ABLE TO DO THAT), I GUESS I'M SO BORED I'M ASKING YOU TO FIND ME. I LIVE ON THE SOUTH SIDE OF THIS LAKE. AS IN THE ONE YOU GOT THE NOTE OUT OF, IN CASE YOUR FEEBLE BRAIN WAS UNABLE TO GRASP THAT SIMPLE CONCEPT. AND IF NO ONE GETS THIS NOTE, THEN I GUESS I AM JUST A FUCKING MORON OF ABSOLUTELY COSMIC PROPORTIONS WHO DESERVES TO DIE DROWNING IN HIS OWN DEPRESSION.
John finished reading the note, then read it again. He sighed. Well, it's better than anything else I've got to do. Slowly, he coaxed and goaded himself enough to get up out of the water, and began the trek around to the other side of the lake.
And after all, this may be the start of a beautiful friendship.