Your name is Dave Strider, and you're sitting in a little café that's very clean and very warm, complete with cozies on the seats and waitresses that act like they're some hybrid of your mother and your best friend. Right now, one of them keeps glancing over at you, looking sympathetic. She thinks you're being stood up just because you've been there for an hour already and you asked for a table for two. Well, you'll show her.
Your fingers drum the table. A half drunken cup of coffee sits next to them, pretty cold by now because you'd ordered it when you'd first come in. You'd be worried, but it isn't like him being late is anything new. You'd be irritated too, but you don't really blame the guy, working two part time jobs in addition to college and all. Well, you do the whole college thing too, but a lot of it's based online and you're piggybacking the college fund you didn't know your bro had for you as far as income's concerned. How he does it is beyond you, but hey, you're not going to hold the occasional tardiness against him.
You pull out your phone, rereading your messages, making one hundred percent sure you're in the right place (you'd had a misunderstanding once before, ending up with both of you sitting in different places for an hour—god, that had been a nightmare), and it is.
EB: dave dave do you want to go out tomorrow?!
TG: nah
EB: really? :((
TG: yeah dude sorry but i'd rather chill at home by myself than go out with my best friend
TG: got news that someone's challenging my title as god of doing absofuckinglutely nothing
TG: need to maintain my street cred, y'know?
EB: oh, ok.
TG: dude chill i was kidding
TG: how have you not picked up on this
TG: sarcasm
TG: it's a thing i do
TG: it's more frequent than your nic cage references
TG: and that's really saying something egbert
EB: oh…cool!
EB: psh sorry that you can't get the Cage maybe that's why I don't always get your "irony"!
TG: egbert please abstain from such comparisons my irony at its lowest level is still out of cage's league
TG: you're killing me here
EB: haha! well, do you want to go out then?
TG: yes i fucking want to go out. got somewhere in mind?
EB: yeah there's a really good place my bio teacher told me about!
TG: ok cool you gonna send me the address or what
EB:…
EB: oh yeah, sorry!
EB: by the way, i might be a little late. :(
TG: that's new
EB: sorry! :((
TG: it's cool. i'll see you tomorrow
EB: :D
And that was how it had gone—but this was definitely the place. He hadn't picked up his phone or answered the texts you'd sent out about ten minutes ago, and ten minutes before that, so you decide not to try again for another few.
So you just sit there, looking somewhat fondly at your phone, though most people can't tell, as you don't let your mouth so much as twitch and you're wearing your shades, like normal. For the longest time, pesterchum had been your sole communication to the, admittedly, only real friends you had. Until you moved up to Washington, partially to be with the only people you really cared about besides your bro, partially for college, your phone was sometimes the only thing that could really make you smile. And after a while, when the person pestering you had blue text…
Forget it. That's what you'd come here to talk about. Today was the day you'd decided you'd tell him after years—literally, years—of putting it off. Your finals were over starting today, and you'd be getting your B.A.s within the next week, so if it freaked him out, he'd still have that to keep him happy.
Despite the fact that you'd been looking at it, when your phone rings, it startles you. You answer it and put it up to your ear without looking at who it's from, assuming it's him, and start talking.
"Hey Egbert, pretty late, aren't you?"
"Am I talking to Mr. Dave Strider?"
A hole seems to have started burning in your stomach. The voice is a very professional sounding one, and though it could mean many different things, your first thought is that something bad has happened.
"Yeah, that's me. Who is this?"
"I work at the local hospital. You were named as one of the contacts to be informed should anything happen to Mr. John Egbert."
And just like that, you're almost ready to lose your shit. Your hand's started shaking without your being able to control, and goddammit, just ask him what's happened. But you can't. Luckily, the man continues without being prompted.
"I'm very sorry, but John Egbert was in a severe accident and has been hospitalized. He is currently undergoing surgery in the ICU. His chances of making it aren't as good as we'd like them to be."
The waitress who'd been eyeing you comes over to your table, as if sensing something wrong. She frowns at you, and asks you if there is. Your head moves in her direction, but you're somewhere else. You don't—can't answer her.
The man waits patiently on the phone for a couple minutes. Your breathing gets faster and faster, and you feel like you're going to choke. How could this happen now? Things were supposed to be going good for him now! He was on his way to getting his degree. And now…
"Can I see him?" you choke out.
"Not during surgery, no. I'm sorry. But you can come now, if you'd like, and wait outside."
"Okay," you whisper, and hang up the phone. Your hand is still sort of shaking but you've gone numb besides that, and your mind feels completely white. The waitress who'd come over was patiently quiet until you hung up the phone, but now she's talking again.
"Is something the matter?"
"I…I've got to get to the hospital."
Her brow furrows. "You can't drive right now. Look at you!"
You stagger to your feet. "No, you don't understand I need to go, now!"
She nods sympathetically. "C'mon, I'll drive you."
And something inside your head says 'don't get into cars with strange women' but it doesn't even matter because he's hurt and all you know is that you need to be there right now.
"Thanks but I can drive myself." You try to push past her. She grabs your arm.
"You're either waiting from an ambulance to come, or I'm driving you. You're gonna get yourself killed, driving in the state you are now."
"I don't have time to wait for an ambulance to come."
"Then I'm driving you. My shifts already over, anyways. Don't waste more time arguing."
So you don't, and the next thing you know, you're sitting in the backseat of a strangers Toyota, and then you're in the local hospital with the waitress's firm grip steadying your shoulder, and you're asking the front desk man where you could find a John Egbert, and he's smiling pityingly as he looks up which ICU John is in, and you're just getting so sick and tired of all the pity because it's only been something like a half hour now and it's already too much. He gives you the number and you leave as quickly as you can, trying to get away from the man and his sympathy and wishing the waitress would just leave you alone instead of insisting she accompany you. You find the room and sit outside, noting the red light above it and generally feeling like your heart has fallen somewhere into your stomach.
You think you must've dozed off, because the next thing you know, the waitress is shaking you and the light has turned green. You look around wildly, and realize you've been awakened because a doctor has approached and wants to talk to you.
"You're Dave Strider?"
"…yeah."
"Nice to meet you Mr. Strider."
"Not really." You're being an asshole and you know, but he smiles that understanding smile and goddammit people can really just stop trying to be so understanding because they really don't understand how you feel at all.
"It's okay to be upset."
"Yeah."
"But you'll be glad to hear that I have good news." He eyes your face, and you're desperately trying to keep your heart, which seems to have found its way out of your stomach and back into where it belongs, from pounding out of your chest.
"Mr. Egbert's surgery was successful. He's going to need to be hospitalized for a minimum of two weeks, however"
"Two weeks."
"That's correct."
"But he's going to be okay."
"Yes. He sustained multiple head injuries and broke a few ribs, but nothing that will be permanent. His surgery stopped the internal bleeding."
You're speechless for a second. Luckily, the waitress, again, covers for you. "What happened?"
The doctor clears his throat at that. "From what we have gathered, your friend cut a light very close and it turned from yellow to red just before he passed through. Another truck wasn't stopping, and it t-boned him."
And again your heart falls—because this is your fault. He was hurrying to meet you, and if he'd driven a little more carefully, if you hadn't made him feel like it was so urgent to get there to see you, maybe he wouldn't be in this mess.
The doctor turns to you again. "You can go see him now, if you want, but he probably won't wake up for a few hours because of the anesthetics we gave him. He's in room 112"
You nod, and you think you hear yourself thank the doctor. Then you sit back down, and you put your face in your hands. The waitress, who must be exhausted by now, nevertheless rubs your back and makes comforting noises.
It doesn't help. You think you might be crying, but it's not really because your sad, and more because you're drained and exhausted and angry at yourself. If he hadn't thought he needed to rush to meet you, because of your making him think you hated his being late, he'd be okay. Your name is Dave Strider, and you're sure this is all your fault.