Disclaimer: so very not mine.

Author's Notes: ...NO I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO ME EITHER.

Dedications: To Evil-Pixie-Dust, because she is the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me, and to eiznek-lee-relle for betaing this for me! This chapter doesn't contain pesterchum, so you're lucky on that one, but it can still be found on AO3 if you'd like.

Chapter 2 - Fast-Sinking Anchor

You startle awake in the early morning light, and for a disorienting second, you can't tell where you are or why you woke up. Then you hear a high, muffled whine of pain coming from the stairs. Shit, John, shit shit shi- but Bro's already there before you can struggle out of your cocoon of blankets; you stumble halfway up the stairs, staring as John waves Bro off, laughing and wincing. He slowly picks himself off the carpet, fumbling for the railing awkwardly as he rambles.

"No, no, it's alright. I'm okay, I promise. I'm fine, just haha, misjudged a step there, see I'm fine! Look, upright and everything!" He almost spreads his arms to make his point, but he wavers and clings to the railing again. "Just not, uh, completely steady, it seems. Yet. You can let me go now."

Bro slowly lets his shoulder go, watching him intently. John tests his weight on one foot and winces, but he stands straight anyway. Seemingly satisfied, Bro shrugs and flash-steps away.

You hope he's making breakfast. Your panicked awakening made you fucking hungry. You wait a few steps below John, watching him hiss as he steps down, and you sigh. He blinks at the noise, cocks his head, eyebrows furrowing.

"Oh, Dave, are you … here too? Please tell me you're here and that I'm not talking to thin air."

"Yeah, two steps below you. Don't worry, I'll move when you start getting too close."

"No, no, just stay there. I'll come down to you. I might need you for support." You hold still as he reaches for you, his fingers hesitantly curling in your shirt again. The twist in your stomach as he smiles is foreign and new and really fucking annoying actually, because you need to focus on getting downstairs so you can see what the cooking situation is. That's the important bit.

…What, it is.

John feels around to your right, frowning when he gets only empty air. "…I thought Bro was here?"

"Nah, he fucked off downstairs. I'm hoping for breakfast, but eh, likelihood of that is small and decreasing by the second." You slide your hand up his arm until you're holding on to his shoulder. "C'mon, we should make sure he doesn't set anything on fire."

He winces, but follows your urging and leans on you as you make your way downstairs. "Please tell me that he's not actually going to set things on fire."

"Dude, I don't even know if he's cooking. Man just disappeared."

"…oh. That's… normal, right?"

You shrug, concentrating way harder than you need to on the steps below you instead of his soft warmth next to you. "Yeah. You get used to it."

"Don't lie to the kid, little dude." And both you and John jolt hard, John almost slipping down the stairs again. He ends up clinging to you (and shit, you can feel how fast his heart is racing, like a hummingbird in his chest) and waving one arm around until he manages to smack Bro in the shoulder.

John scowls from where his cheek is pressed into your shoulder and smacks Bro again. "God damn it, don't do that! You ass, I'm going to get you back for scaring me like that."

Bro shrugs, smirking. "Yeah, whatever. Point is, you can never predict a Strider's comings and goings."

"Dude, shut up and tell me that you're making food," you chime in.

The smoke alarm takes that moment to go off.

"…Well, I was. That noise doesn't mean anything though, right?" Bro sniffs and scratches at his cheek in consideration. "Char brings out the flavor."

John whacks Bro for a third time. "Go turn it off!"

Bro looks like he's about to hesitate, but then he sees how you are holding John through his flinching at every beep, how his knuckles are whitened from how tightly he's clinging to you. It's enough that Bro goes to turn everything off in the kitchen (revealing the fiery black mess that remains in the skillet he was using) and you all just end up sort of sitting around the kitchen, staring blankly at the messy countertops.

"… Pizza?" Bro offers.

You and John nod weakly. John gingerly moves out from his position tucked against your side that he's stayed in since you got off the stairs; you silently mourn the loss of his heat against your skin. "It's too early for this," he groans, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and you notice for the first time that he didn't bother putting his glasses on today.

You nudge him with your shoulder. He tilts his head towards you, expression curious and you just shrug. "Sorry for the hassle."

He laughs. "You're a bunch of Striders. Hassle is the least that I expect."

"True enough. We just can't be tamed."

"Apparently, you can't cook either. Unless you want everything microwaved, ordered, raw or burnt."

You snort as Bro paces by with his computer balanced precariously on his wrist. He's typing or something, probably ordering the pizza that he offered earlier, but you're a bit busy watching John's face through your shades. You notice how he twitches towards every sound like a caged animal, nervous and waiting; you notice the dark smudges under his eyes; you wonder how long it's been since he's really relaxed.

You make plenty of noise as you reach for his shoulder, patting it. "Don't worry, dude. We'll get it cleaned up, promise."

He shakes his head, a tired smile crossing his lips. "I'm sure. From now on, though, I'm cooking, got that?"

"Whatever you say, man. I dunno what with, though. Place is kinda empty. Ain't even filled up with swords."

"…did you really just say "Ain't"?"

"Shut the fuck up, man, I'm from Texas."

He laughs, delighted. "Now I just have to wait for you to say "y'all" and my life will be complete."

"It's a totally valid contraction."

The two of you argue and heckle each other until pizza shows up, when you continue with your mouths full. Bro's on his computer the entire time, poker face firmly in place, interjecting only occasionally. When the meal ends, Egbert scoots his chair back cautiously, waves his hand until he grabs the counter, stands.

"Alright, we need to go shopping," he announces, staring blankly around the kitchen, face turned away from you. "We can't eat pizza for every meal, and Dave told me we're sorta… out of food. Because I haven't gotten to go shopping yet, y'know, blind as shit and all, but! We're going to do that now!"

Bro looks up from his computer. "Why can't we eat pizza all the time?" he asks, and John turns his head until he's looking a bit more in the right direction. "It's got a bunch of food groups on it. Y'got your vegetables, your meat, your-"

"Please, just stop." John makes a disgusted face.

You sigh, tap your fingers on the table. "That's why, Bro. It's his house, let's go ahead and do it. Get your keys."

"Don't order me around, little dude. The fuck are we even getting, anyway? I have no fucking clue what we need to cook with." Bro cants his head towards John, frowning. "You know what we need, right?"

John blinks. (You are distracted by how clear and blue his eyes are.) "Well, yeah. I was going to write a list for you, but…"

Bro waves a hand, snorting. "Whatever. Just come with us."

If you hadn't been watching John so closely, you wouldn't have seen the way his body suddenly tenses. The way that his hands flex, startled.

"Oh, I uh. I haven't been outside really since…" John rubs his arm, chews on his lip and god you are suddenly overcome with the urge to hold him or pet his hair, anything to calm him down. You can see him shaking from here.

"Should be alright. You'll have me and Dave the whole time. Little dude can even hold your hand the whole time if you'd like." Bro shrugs, but you know that he noticed too. He's too sharp to miss this kind of shit.

As soon as he says it, John's hand is wrapped tightly around your wrist. He smiles up at you, and his expression is covered in all the uncertainty he can't bring himself to mention.

Bro raises one eyebrow. "If you feel like you're gonna throw up, though, tell me to pull the car over. It's already a fucking mess. I don't want it to smell like shit too."

"Will do."

You guide John outside, and he halts the second he steps into the sunlight, raises his face up to the sky. "Oh," he says, almost startled. "That… Man, the sun feels really good today. I'd… Huh, I'd kinda forgotten that."

Bro thumps his shoulder gently. "Move it, little man. This place can't measure up to Texas in terms of fucking heat, but it's still the middle of the goddamned summer."

John just smiles and lets you pile him into the car, buckle him in, and for a while, you think that it's going to be all okay, no hitches whatsoever. John gives vague directions to the grocery store until Bro just sighs and turns on his GPS to get directions himself because John? Is really fucking bad at giving directions. From his sheepish (sickly) smile, this isn't something that's new to him.

You lose yourself staring out the window, watching all of the verdant foliage flash by as Bro navigates towards the grocery store. Washington is really fucking green compared to the concrete you're used to in Texas.

"Pull over."

Your attention snaps instantly over to John. His voice is shaky and weak and goddamn, you didn't know it was possible for someone to turn that shade of white. When the fuck did this happen? The car screeches to the side of the road, John fumbling for the handle before it's even fully stopped. He opens the door as you're undoing your own seatbelt, and you hurry around the back of the car.

"D-Dave?" He reaches out for you, blue eyes striking in his pale face. Taking his hand, you help him out of the car and sit him down on the curb, and your gaze never leaves his face. He buries his face in his hands, breaths coming more like sobs now.

The car turns off. Leaning into you, John clutches at your hand. (You put your arm around him because god, he's shaking like he's about to fall apart.)

"You gonna hurl, little guy?" Bro asks, one hand resting on John's shoulder. He shakes his head jerkily.

"N-No." Deep breath in, tremors all the way. "I don't think so. I just. Cars. Hahaha, yeah. Kinda. Brings up that whole car accident thing." John swallows roughly, leans hard into you, closer, which you didn't know was possible. You are already pressed against him, ankle to shoulder, holding him together when he can't do it himself.

(You feel useless. Fuck, you hate it.)

Cars whizz by as John swallows and cries and shakes and slowly, so slowly, stops and wipes his face. You move away from him only when you're sure that he'll be alright, staring intently through your shades, your joints aching from how hard you were clutching him. He takes a few more deep breaths. Nods.

"Alright, let's … let's try again."

Bro just nods back and helps John back in the car. When you slide in, you move all the way into the middle seat without hesitation, hooking your ankle around John's. He leans into you, still shaking, and you don't even think twice about putting your arm around him again.

You meet Bro's eyes in the rearview mirror and he snorts. "Always figured you'd end up riding bitch, little dude."

"Oh shut the fuck up and drive, jackass."

"Language, bro. I taught you how to swear better than that."

John laughs weakly beside you, and you count that as the victory it is.

Once you get to the grocery store, the shopping itself doesn't take long –though the extended argument that John and Bro have when Bro picks John up and puts him in the cart garners you quite a few odd looks- but the drive back seems interminable. John is pale and sweating in the seat next to you, but he doesn't call for the car to be pulled over on the way home.

You thread your fingers through his and hold him as tightly as he clings to you.

The next few days are… weird. You don't know how to look after John, he doesn't know how to look after himself, and as much as you love Bro, he never really knew how to look after anyone other than himself, much less a blind kid in an unfamiliar home.

There are a few rules of the household though that you figure out through trial and error (and a little bit of yelling on John's part).

John's the only one allowed to cook. After the debacle of Bro's disastrous breakfast, it is clear that his cooking skills extended only to ordering fast food and take-out. You know for a fact that you shouldn't be trusted with much more than a microwave or a sandwich, and yet somehow it feels like a bad idea to trust the blind kid with all of the cooking. But he's good at it, or good at least at directing you to put food where he wants it when it's supposed to be there. Everything comes out edible, so you suppose it'll have to do.

He can, in fact, bathe himself. He doesn't appreciate the irony of a combined Strider-Egbert bath time if the way he shrieked when Bro plopped down in the tub with him is any indication. (You're too busy being stoically amused to analyze the strange mix of disappointment and relief this elicits.)

No strifing inside. This one doesn't need much of an explanation. John says that that's what the yard and roof are for, and you, Li'l Cal, and Bro are always up for a clear battleground.

No one enters his dad's room. Not even John. Especially not John. That place is more off-limits than the West fucking Wing.

Other than that, he's pretty chill with letting you two do your thing. He learns quickly where the turntables have been set up after running into them four or five times, and he finds your rap battles more hilarious than awe inspiring because he has awful taste.

(You wonder, for about a day or so, why he's not insisting that you watch those terrible movies that he likes, and you almost ask him but your brain catches up with you just before you make a really fucking dumb mistake and actually say it.)

But John is, at heart, a prankster. And he meant it when he said that he was going to get Bro back.

You're always willing to lend a bro a hand, the two of you snickering to each other as you get it all set up. Buckets here, confetti here, Egbert's pranks, in your opinion, really need some work (possibly some more swords or strifing or something), but you suppose that the old-fashioned sense of it all fits him.

You sprawl casually across the couch in the living room, waiting for Bro to exit the bathroom. (Dude takes way too fucking long in the shower, but hey, gives you more than enough time to set this shit up.) Every time you look at John, though, you have to swallow back your laughter, and the sound of that sets off his little huffing laughs.

The door opens.

(You suppress your laughs as best you can.)

You look over your shoulder just in time to see Bro, clad only in his sunglasses and a towel, thank merciful fuck, cock his head curiously at the bucket in front of him before tapping it with his foot. "What the fuck man? I told you that you didn't need any of this bullshit anymore. You've got yourself a pair of bona fide Strider guard dogs."

Egbert, still looking straight ahead, smiles sunnily and you stifle the urge to laugh with a deep breath in and out. "Well, I just don't feel secure going to sleep without a few buckets lying around. It's been a while since I've slept on my own, what can I say. Sorry if it's an inconvenience to you. Hehehe."

"An inconvenience? Fuck no, little man. Just interesting because really, you don't need this anymore." The tall man leans over and picks up the buckets easily, turning around to dump them in the bathroom, not displacing his towel by a single inch. "How the fuck did you get them outside the door anyway? You're blind as shit."

You cough, trying to turn the laugh that's bubbling up in your belly into something inconspicuous. John doesn't even bother hiding his grin.

Bro looks over at you and apparently you can't get your smile off your face fast enough because his mouth twists. "Oh, I see how it is. Betrayed by my own blood. The retribution I will visit upon you will be swift and wickedly fierce. You will never be prepared enough for the prank war I am about to unleash."

Snorting, you lean back into the couch's cushions and cross your arms. "Like I won't retaliate. The destruction we wreak will be legendary in its expansiveness. It will be the prank war to end all prank wars."

The two of you stare at each other, waiting for the proper moment to initiate the impending rap battle and it isn't until John coughs, tilting his head between you and your brother, that you break the challenging gaze. "Have I been forgotten here? I'm sort of the pranking master, you know."

Bro snorts. "I'll help you get him and I promise not to prank you."

"Deal."

"Oh, and here I wasn't going to prank you because you were going to help me prank him! Way to show bro-solidarity, Egbert, jeez."

John just shrugs expansively, still smiling. "You'll survive."

Bro points his first two fingers between his eyes and yours enough times that you've definitely gotten the message that he's watching you before he walks into the study and-

-promptly dumps the waiting bucket of ice and water straight onto his head.

You cover your mouth as John bursts out into peals of laughter, both of you grinning ear to ear. Bro is fucking soaked and it's awesome, because you managed to catch him off guard for one of the few times in your life. Doesn't matter that he just came out of the shower. Even his shades are askew, you notice as he slowly turns around.

"It is on," he hisses.

You run for your life.

John isn't far behind you, hand wrapped around your wrist as you navigate through your predetermined escape route, breathless and laughing, and fuck this is awesome.

He catches you two eventually, of course, flash-stepping in front of you so you crash into him. John giggles helplessly as Bro lifts him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. "Welp, this fine piece of ass is getting thrown into the oven, I guess. See how you like getting cooked."

John yelps and struggles until Bro finally drops him on the couch, just in time for a phone to go off. You and Bro raise your eyebrows as John pats down his pockets until he finds his phone and in one smooth motion, he lifts it to his ear.

"Hello? … Oh, hey Rose! How are you?" John grins widely, absently fixing his glasses. "What? Yeah, no, I'm fine, I promise. Sorry for-… Dave? Yeah, he's right here, why? … Oh, he's going to be living with me now!"

You wince. Not like she probably hadn't already guessed that, but you can practically feel the upcoming mockery oozing from the phone. You are never going to hear the end of it.

"…You mean he didn't…" John pauses. Searches for your hand, and you step forward to let him find it, surprised at the strength that he grips you with. "Ahaha, right. Um. See, it's a long story… Yeah, yeah of course I'm going to tell you, I just. I dunno. It's hard, you know?" He laughs slightly, nervously. "No I uh… I was in a car accident. About a month ago. My dad … was killed. And I may or … may not have gone blind because of it?"

He's silent for a terrifying expanse of time, getting tenser and tenser by the second. But Lalonde finally says something and the tension immediately breaks. "Yeah, I'm fine other than that," John replies. "I… I'm really glad that Dave's here now. I was kinda alone before that. Yeah. …What?" He cocks his head towards you. "…sure? Hang on."

He takes the phone down from his ear and offers it to you. "She says she wants to talk to you."

"Yeah, because that's not sketch as hell," you grumble as you take the phone. "S'up, Lalonde?"

"I must admit, Dave, this is not the outcome I exactly suspected."

You sigh and rub the bridge of your nose under your shades. "Yeah, tell me about it."

"Though your prior reticence makes much more sense now. I can understand why you wouldn't want to speak of it before. Not without speaking with him first." There is a slight pause as she shifts on her side of the phone. "How is he?"

"…Like Egbert. A total dork." John makes a face at you for that, and you stick your tongue out at him before you remember that he can't see you.

"Strider."

"What, Lalonde. He's… Egbert, okay? What else can I say?"

Rose makes a considering noise that you're not exactly sure is an agreement or not. "How has he been managing his accident?"

"…He seems fine. Nothing really odd other than that whole blind thing."

Sprawling his arm across the back of the couch, John touches your elbow and makes the same, wrinkly nose face. "You know," he whispers. "She could have asked me about all of this."

At the same time, Rose continues, voice dry. "Really. There isn't a thing that is psychologically odd about him despite him having seen someone close to him die in an incredibly gruesome manner."

"Wow, way to bring down the mood, Lalonde. I told you, he's fine. Nothing out of place, just temporarily blind." You rap the back of your knuckles almost fondly against Egbert's skull. "His cranium is too thick to crack with thin shit like that."

The dig is totally worth it for the offended expression that covers John's face.

"David, I don't think you are considering the full implications of what he could have experienced," Rose says seriously, and you tilt your head towards the phone, scowling. "A car crash is no small matter, no matter what happened, but this could have been potentially traumatic, especially given the month of neglect that occurred afterwards. You need to have him see someone, just in case."

Your mouth tightens. "He's fine."

"David-"

"No, Lalonde, listen to me, he's fine. And if he's not, having the Striders around will be enough to fucking help, got that?" You breathe in, out, ignore the concerned eyebrow movements you're getting from Egbert. "We're taking care of him now. Family takes-"

"-Care of family, yes, I know," Rose interjects smoothly. "But if you do have to seek additional aid, remember that I told you so first."

"Whatever, you broad. How're you and your mom doing anyway?"

That gets her off your back for a while as she rambles about how her mom is out to get her yadda yadda, whatever. Eventually, you're able to pass the phone back to Egbert and let him wrap up the conversation while you duck into the bathroom and press shaking hands to your eyes because fuck her, Striders take care of their own. John will be totally fine. No help necessary.

You can handle it.

By the time you get back out to the living room, John has hung up with Rose. He turns his head towards the sound of your footsteps, and you are struck again with how small he seems, with how fragile that makes him, stress bruises still visible in the dark circles beneath his eyes.

"You okay, dude?" You ask, hands clenching tight in your pockets.

He blinks and smiles and the expression is just a half-beat off and wrong. "Yeah. Fine. I just… uh. I'm hungry? Wanna help me cook?"

John follows you for the rest of the evening, never wanting to be too far away from you. You keep finding his hand on your arm, his chin on your shoulder, fingers tucked into your belt loops, and his expression is wide and lost. You wonder what the hell Lalonde said to him once you were gone. John won't say, though, not like you can really ask him in the first place.

When you help him into bed that night, it's like he doesn't really want you to leave. You close the door behind you, make your way downstairs until you find your blankets on the floor of the living room.

(You wish you understood the dreading twist in your stomach.)

You don't know what wakes you up. That seems to be a common theme of the week.

But your eyes are suddenly open, blinking wide in the darkness of the house. You wait for a second, wondering if you can figure it out without having to move, but nothing happens. The house is quiet other than the soft hum of the air conditioning and other appliances, and you can hear the steady noise of Bro breathing from where you are on the floor.

You glance upstairs. You're a little too… aware to go back to sleep. Maybe you should just go ahead and check around to see what's all happening. Can't hurt. Quietly, you sit up, stumble upright. Kitchen first for some water, then upstairs. You shuffle into the kitchen, stick your hands under the faucet, slurp up some of the water there.

Bro's still out when you get back into the living room, and you look up the stairs, taking the time to let your eyes adjust slowly. What in the world could have woken you up? Egbert, maybe? Who knows, maybe the kid needed to piss and fell over?

Seems like something he'd do.

Silently, you make your way up the stairs, checking the bathroom up there. No sign of John, and it looks like his bedroom is closed. Maybe your danger-senses were just fucking with you?

You eye the door for a second before reaching out and turning the handle. Can't hurt to check. The door creaks open and you hold your breath, but it doesn't seem like John notices. You hear him shift, shift, shift restlessly. The darkness in the room has a different quality, seemingly thicker and more present than it is in the hallways, and it takes your eyes a little longer to figure out where John is laying. Once you do, you just watch him in the deep dark of his room, trying to figure out what feels… wrong about this scenario. John twitches again, flipping from one side to the other, and this time, you hear it.

A tiny, little whimper.

"Dad. No."

You're frozen to the spot, a sickening twist to your stomach. You swallow roughly. Shit. He's having… nightmares. Nightmares of the car accident.

You suppose that you should have anticipated this, but somehow, it never occurred to you that he'd have bad dreams when really, you should have made sure that he was okay so many times before this. So many nights alone. Your mind reels with the realization that it's not only the few weeks that you and Bro have been here, it's also the entire month before that he's been alone.

John makes this pitifully high, twisting groan, and your paralysis breaks. You sit down on the edge of his bed carefully, card your fingers through his hair. "Shhh," you whisper, heart pounding high in your throat. "Shhhh…"

His twitching subsides. Turning his nose into the palm of your hand, John breathes out in a long stream broken by hiccupping little sobs. His brow furrows as he inhales, turns over towards you. Heart pounding hard, you try to retract your hand, but he whines when you do.

With a soft smile, you keep stroking his hair. Needy little fucker.

Something must disturb his sleep, though, as he suddenly tenses, eyes flying open. You start for just a second before you remember that he can't see you and continue petting his hair. He shivers, grabs your hand.

"…Dave?" he asks quietly, voice barely over a whisper, unseeing eyes blinking wide in the dark room.

"Yeah, Egbert?"

He breathes out, all of the tension pent up in his frame suddenly dissipating. "Oh good. I thought it had been someone else."

You shift uncomfortably. Idiot. You hadn't thought of that. "My bad." But he smiles up at you, a few inches off like you're getting used to, and shakes his head.

"Just glad it's you and not someone else." His words are molasses-thick with sleep and he turns over on his back, curling his fingers around your hand. "Why're you here?"

"…You were having a nightmare."

He winces. Not surprised then. You'd bet that means he's had them before. "But… You were downstairs! Did I wake you up? Please don't say I was screaming."

"No, I was… already up here." You shrug awkwardly, not bothering to resist the urge to pet his hair again with your free hand. "I woke up on my own and decided to see how my best bro was doing."

John's smile twists slightly, becoming melancholy. "Yeah. Th-thanks for that, Dave."

"What was it about?"

You wince once the words leave your mouth. Real fucking smooth, Strider. Real fucking smooth.

He doesn't answer for a long time, the words seemingly difficult to get out. Finally, like the response is being dragged out of him, John answers, "…Dad. The last thing I saw was… well. The car crash, right? But I remember seeing him…" And that's all that he can manage, tears and sobs clogging his throat.

Immediately, you lie down, tug him close to you. You curl tightly around his back, waiting for his shudders to abate (which, of fucking course, doesn't happen). One of your arms slides under his head, the other over his waist to pull him closer and closer, and you bury your nose in the soft hair at the top of his neck, eyes shut tight.

"Shh, hey, I'm sorry, s'cool, alright? Alright, don't think about it, it's cool, it's gonna be okay, you'll see." Your lips ghost his neck as you murmur all of this. His hand grasps yours, and he's shaking, deep, ugly, wrenching sobs tearing out of him, and all you can do is hold him tighter.

God, you wish you were better at this. On impulse, you start humming, soft and slow, raspy. It fills in the spaces where he hiccups for breath, and marginally, he starts relaxing back into you.

You lose track of time there, humming aimlessly at him because there's nothing else you can do.

"I just..." and the choked whisper startles you into silence, the tune you had going fading into John's words and breath. He curls up tight, and the bone-deep despair in his voice hurts just to listen to. "I just don't understand why I survived."

Oh.

You suck in a breath.

Oh damn. You're fairly certain that your heart isn't supposed to twist like that.

"Why did I survive when… when my dad didn't?" Your body twines with John's, aching to pull him out of this; if only you could pull him out of this with skin to skin contact.

Taking a deep breath, you can feel his spine all against your chest and stomach, feel how he's still crying and how terrifyingly silent it is. "For what it's worth," you offer softly, "I'm so fucking glad you lived. And I think your dad would be too. So don't you feel fucking guilty. You're lucky, and that's it, alright? The only thing to do now is keep going."

He doesn't answer immediately, which you kind of expect, given the circumstances, but after a little bit, John nods, still trembling.

You're unsure how long you lay there wrapped around him, entranced by the synchronization of your breaths. In, out, your stomach against his spine. In and out. You're lost in that rhythm, eyes closed and heart aching for your best friend who has been alone too long.

But you're here now. And he's going to be fine.

Lifting yourself up on one elbow, you look at his face. When the bastard fell asleep, you don't know, but his grip on your hand hasn't really lessened, so you're sort of stuck here until he either wakes up, or lets you go. Bro is going to give you such shit for this in the morning, but you silently lie back down; press your forehead against the back of his skull.

"I've got you, John," you whisper into his skin. "I've got ya. It's gonna be okay now. I'm here, you're not alone. Lemme take care of ya."

These are the things you say to him when he sleeps, your accent coming out and rounding your consonants and vowels into soothing shapes. Like they can erase what happened to him, or like they can make it better. You're helpless in this sort of situation and you know it, and so you cling to him and attempt in vain to make it up to him. Make your absence, your helplessness, better, excusable.

"It's okay, I'm here now." Fingers curl around yours, and you tuck your knees up behind his, trying as hard as you can to get close to him. "I've got you now."

It's useless, because you'll never stop feeling like you should have been able to stop it, like you can absolve his misplaced guilt, and because he'll never know.

"It's okay."

And if those words are a little watery, and there is wetness sliding across the bridge of your nose and your shades, down your cheek, soaking the pillow and John's hair, well. He's not awake. He'll never know.

"It'll be okay."

You hold him closer and hum tuneless songs until sleep finally takes you.

.end chapter 2.

I'll apologize here for not being as quick of a writer as the rest of the Homestuck fandom, but aahhaha, I'll write as slowly/quickly as I can and still make it good! Love you all!

Reviews, as always, are appreciated and responded to! (If you have any suggestions about characterization as well, I'll gladly take it. I know my character voices are still a little shaky.)