You shouldn't be here.
It's four in the afternoon, school ended an hour and a half ago, and since you got a text back from Dave at noon, you haven't been able to focus on what you should have- school work, maintaining an actual intelligent conversation with Rose so she wouldn't pester you about your feelings and emotions (something girls just didn't understand), and specifically focusing on what you were going to do about that rising sense of guilt you got just thinking about Dave. You have to physically put up a mental block to keep that from your mind, especially as you stand in front of the door to his apartment, your teeth digging into your lower lip a bit more forceful than you thought, and you finally raise your hand to knock, looking down at your feet.
You should leave. You should take your idiotic, guilty ass right back the hallway and back down the elevator and all the way to your house and you can just lay there and feel terrible about everything that's happening. You're just ready to run when the door opens and an older, more muscled version of Dave, right down to the shades and the platinum hair, opens the door and leans against the frame, looking down at you. "One of Dave's friends?" he asks, voice gruff and you nod, once, nervousness bubbling in your stomach. He steps back and goes back to the couch you can barely see beyond the door, and motions to the back of the apartment. "He's in his room."
It occurs to you that you've never been in Dave's apartment before, only seen parts of his walls in shitty webcam video quality when you two video chatted. You walk in and close the door behind you, seeing the door that his brother had motioned to before, clearly marked with a huge red 'D' in spray paint, and you carefully step around the stuffed puppets and cords from turn tables and walk over to the door, knocking lightly. No answer. You feel that rush of guilt course through your veins again, and your hand shakes on the door knob, remembering all those damn images you had running through your head, and you feel sick for a moment.
'No, don't do this. You have to talk to him. Come on, John.'
You throw every last shred of caution you had to the wind and open the door, and the first thing you see is Dave at his computer, facing away from you, headphones on and some audio editing program up on the screen. He's only wearing boxers and a t-shirt, legs crossed in his office chair, and your mouth falls open for a second, before you slip off your messenger back, setting it down by the door after closing it, and walking carefully over to him, avoiding all the crazy wires and cords, looking up to see a make shift line holding pictures move in the gentle breeze from the open window. In your moment of complete obliviousness, your foot catches on a cord, and you fall face-first into the ground, knocking over a cinderblock bedside table, his alarm clock clattering to the ground.
Dave jumps in his chair and spins around quickly, shades missing from his face and eyes- red, dazzling, stunning, breathtaking, you could go on for hours- meeting yours and his mouth drops as he yanks off his headphones. "What the fuck, Egbert?" He asked, jumping out of his chair to help you untangle your ankle from the cords, hands brushing against your skin as he jerked at your captors. "What the hell are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at home or something?"
You stare at his fingers work against the wires and shrug. "I guess. I just… decided to come visit you, I guess. I was really worried about you today."
He stops his movements, staring straight at your feet, before shaking his head, more desperate to get you free. "I wasn't feeling real great, and I threw up after I woke up, so I stayed home. Nothing to be worried about."
There's some pain in his voice, and you swallow, taking a leap of courage and putting your hand on his wrist to still him, feeling him tense up, eyes still behind his platinum bangs and mouth opened slightly in shock. "Dave, I'm your best friend. I'm going to be worried, even if it's nothing." You say softly, hoping to catch your eyes with his. The guilt comes back, eating away at your heart and you feel it change your mind, to shove you back from the courage you felt just a moment before, and you withdraw your hand, only to have him dive back to grab it, keeping his face down. His fingers slowly tangle between yours, and you feel your heart pound in your ears. "Dave?"
He lifts his head just enough so you can see his cheeks and mouth, skin pale and freckled, dotted with those little dots he hated so much, and there's a tint of red to it, and you feel your own face go red. "Shit," he chokes out, teeth poking out so he can dig them into his lower lip, hand shaking in yours, and you feel your breath catch, and his next words are soft, shaken and small, like he'd rather no one hear him at all. "I'm so fucking sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
"Sorry for what, Dave?" You ask just as softly, and your heart's ripping, your insides are churning and you feel that sick guilt all over again, because no, you should be saying sorry, you should be apologizing because you're the one that can't exactly say you think of him a platonic, innocent way when you've got your pants down in the middle of the night, and that makes you feel so sick, mentally and physically because he was your best friend. There were sand-drawn lines in friendship you just didn't cross, and those were one of those lines that you stepped on and fucked up and you're feeling the remorse for. "Dave what are you sorry for?"
"For this, John."
Your eyes grow wide, and you sit there for a moment as Dave's lips are crushed against yours, and you feel how bad he's shaking, how terrible his heart his beating against your chest, how tight he grips your hand because he's terrified, like you, he's scared he's fucking this up, that he's pushing it to the point of no return and he'll lose you like he's lost everyone else. Then he's pulling back, a long string of curses following, and you blink, eyes regaining focus, and there's tears in his eyes, and he's got his hands- when did one of his leave yours?- in his hair and he's sobbing about "how fucking stupid he is", and you only stare, lips still tingling from having his on yours.
"No, Dave…" you start, catching his attention with your soft tone, as your grab his arms and pull him back toward you, resting your forehead against his, blinking slowly, looking into his eyes, the ones he rarely let you see, and you smile sadly, on the verge of tears yourself. "No, Dave, you're not stupid, please don't say that…" That's when the first tear rolls down your face. Your heart is in pieces, your pride is in pieces, your courage is barely holding on, and your mind is just out of the park, and you lean forward, brushing your lips against his carefully, testing the waters before you do anything too rash. "Please."
He stares at you, before letting the desperation fall from his face, replaced with something more like hope, and he sniffles, clearing his throat. "John?" He asks, like he's unsure of where you're going.
You smile, only lightly, chuckling. "I never wanted to tell you because I honestly think you would hate me, but, Dave, I love you."
Dave's eyes light up, a light blush rises to his cheeks and he gapes, slowly smiling back at you, hands coming up to each side of your face, caressing your skin with his thumbs, laughing with relief, the shaking gone and the crushed tone to his voice gone, and you feel your body piece itself back together piece by piece. "Holy shit, John," he says, looking you right in the eyes, tears there, but this time happy. "I love you, too. God I don't know how long I've wanted to tell you."
He pecks you on the lips again, and you laugh, the guilt and shame suddenly rushed away with just that little kiss.
Your name is John Egbert and you feel like you're on top of the world.
