Rose began living in the bedroom down the hall from Dave's. It was a white room, and had a large, soft bed covered in purple quilts. When it rained Rose would sit in the window seat with a book, either reading or writing quietly. The rain made her contemplative, and dug up memories of rainbow waters of the Land of Light and Rain. When it rained, she remembered London, and the amazon. When it was sunny she would go to lounge on the porch, feel the sweetness of the sunshine that was much too harsh, nothing like Derse but perhaps greater for it. Sometimes she would climb up the spiral staircase onto the roof, and then into the greenhouse that was absolutely crawling with roses. She would drink tea and stroke Penny, her kitten. She and Dave were quiet company, both aware of the other's presence but not particularly involved. She was happy enough just being close to him.
Perhaps soon she would search out the others. Jade was her friend, and though they had married before, it was not the same relationship that John and Dave shared. If she was honest, nothing compared to what John and Dave had. It was something too vast, too convoluted even for she. Perhaps she would find Jaspers in this life. He was here, she knew, somewhere. He was here and alive and possibly human. She was never quite certain if he would be - he had been her cat and her friend, and also her lover. They clicked that way. It was strange, she mused, but she had lived a thousand lives as a thousand different people, and things like this had really stopped bothering her many, many lifetimes ago.
There was a small sound by the door, and Rose felt the slight wave of heat that signaled Dave's arrival.
"What is it that you want?" she asked from her perch on the seat, eyes trained on the gently falling snow. Dave stood in the doorway with a red scarf knotted around his neck, a black pea-coat pulled over his shoulders, stylish but understated. He smiled gently, which she understood to mean "meeting John, be back later." She smiled gently back, leaning against the cold window frame.
This was how they were. How they had always been. Quiet and steadfast, with no real words needed. She could understand more in a twitch of his jaw than any other person could in all the words he's ever spoken. Well, she thought, perhaps John would know more. He was always been able to tear through all of Dave's bullshit.
He nodded to her silence, and walked away quietly.
"I hope he awakens soon, Dave. For your sake," she whispered to the empty doorway, letting a finger trail through the condensation on the window, making a thin line of clarity in all the hazy mess.
What kind of world is this, she thought with a wry twist of her lips, for something to be so cliche and appropriate at the same time.
"Dave!" said John, his ratty winter jacket a stark contrast to Dave's slick bohemian outifit. He was wearing a silly hat, garish of color and pompomed to boot. Dave couldn't help but think he was really quite fetching, even in the stupid clothes. You are so fucking beautiful, he thought, it makes my eyes hurt to look at you.
"You look ridiculous Egbert," he said instead of voicing his thoughts. He raised an eyebrow, watching the way the face before him twisted into an annoyed huff.
"Hey man, lay off. This jacket is the warmest thing ever. " Dave walked beside him, their arms close together. Dave let his eyes slide to John's profile, smiling at the cold flush spreading over the mischievously pointed nose. He wanted to lean in, close the space between their arms. Link their fingers together, find the spaces between filled perfectly with John. He let his arm brush lightly against John's, saw the little smile at the corner of his eye, saw it morph into a weird line.
Sometimes, John would look at him strangely. Would shift his gaze over his face like a lover, or perhaps a stranger. When the wind was blowing just right, and it played with his hair, ran its ticklish fingers over his face, he would look at Dave like the Heir of Breath. His eyes would go half lidded, and he'd tilt his head just so , and Dave would see the ghost of a thousand lives on his lips and in the movement of his hands.
And then they would disappear, like a spectre.
Gone suddenly and completely.
Why don't you remember me, John? He cried out, but only in his head. He watched the pink lips, pale with cold, stretch into a smile and talk, rapid and flippant with excitement. He couldn't hear him, though, not now. He looked up at John's eyes, taking in his humanity. His chest ached with loss, then, but he just nodded.
"What's wrong, Dave?"
Dave started, "nothing. I am the epitome of totally chill. Does this look ruffled to you?" he said, gesturing to his placid face.
"Yes." said John, quirking an eyebrow and letting his lips press together.
"Well, I'm fine, Egbert. Don't turn that sassy Japanese school girl look at me - save that for your students." he reached out, poking the jacket encased side in one quick jab. He smiled at the sound that flopped out of John, jumped from his mouth like a fish, the noise high and uncomfortable. A red flush stained the ears, at least the one he could see, with a cherry red. His hat was a little askew, folding the cold ear over in an endearing manner.
Everything John did was endearing.
Dave watched as he sniffled in the cold, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck, hunching his shoulders in for the illusion of warmth. Watched his fingers thread into the fabric, and curl in like smoke. John was talking again, about a movie or a book Dave couldn't place, and it made his eyes light up with happiness. This wasn't a deep conversation - it was more an excuse for John to talk.
He was one of those people, always had been, that needed to fill every silence that came with white noise. Dave didn't really mind, quite the opposite really, though he felt no such inclination himself - so what if John wanted to talk? It was soothing, to hear his voice dip and bend in the wind, some syllables drawn out, others only exhaled out in breathy puffs. Some words caressed his ears like smoke, curling around his shoulders like a lazy cat, and others batted at his cheeks like happy clouds.
John was a symphony, playing something sweet and light and beautiful - perhaps Vivaldi. Dave let his eyes fall shut for a moment, only to snap them open immediately at the sound that John made, followed by a gentle prod.
"Dave?" John poked him again, "Are you sure you're okay? You're really acting weird. I mean, you're always kind of weird, but this is like. Bad weird, not eccentric slash charming weird."
Dave let his mouth lift into a microscopic smirk, "oh, so you think I'm charming?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. John scoffed,
"No shit Sherlock, what gave you that idea?" John pushed his shoulder, flitting off ahead of him with his bouncing steps. Dave let an eyebrow raise gently. That had not been the reaction he had expected, though it was none the less welcome. He watched as John smiled at everyone passing by, and smothered an insane jealousy that bubbled in his chest, boiling like a kettle.
This is irrational.
This John didn't even remember him yet. But Dave was attached - too attached, really, but the healthiness of his love had stopped bothering him long ago. It was just an immutable fact, and constant as a mountain.
"Dave, no, seriously," John socked him gently in the arm, once he had caught up, "you're acting really funny." John stopped, his hand lingering on the arm of Dave's jacket. He got a far off look in his eyes, elegant eyebrows coming together. He rubbed the cloth with his fingers, and mumbled gently to himself,
"It wasn't wool..." when Dave made a sound, John's eyes snapped up, and the misty look faded into mild panic.
"Woah, sorry, I'm a space cadet, sue me." He shrugged, snatching his hand back to cradle it against his chest, but was stopped by Dave's fingers wrapping themselves around his wrist. There was a calculating tilt to the blond head. John wondered briefly what his eyes said, and imagined them lovely in his mind - old and red like blood and rubies. He had stopped struggling, searching Dave's face for an answer to the question he hadn't quite formulated yet.
"No," Dave said, "it wasn't." John felt the hand release his arm, and Dave pushed his nearly immobile legs back into an even stride, pulling slightly ahead of John, who trailed behind, his eyebrows coming together slightly, making a valley between them. He ran forward, grabbing Dave's hand with his own. He didn't know why the urge gripped him as hard as it did, nor why the cold wind suddenly seemed soft against him, but he felt a wrinkle in his mind draw closer to the surface, a shift slowly emerging from the depth. A submarine, coming to the surface after many, many days and nights and years and he was sure they were centuries, now that he really looked at them. Centuries of time he couldn't seem to grasp. He squeezed Dave's hand tighter, letting out the shaky breath and the feeling of knowing but not knowing.
Dave turned to him slightly, his mouth lifting into a small, gentle smile - something private and sweet, and it made John's heart race to look at it. I love you more than all the clouds in Skaia his mind whispered in a younger version of his voice, And I love you more than all the darkness beyond, whispered a younger Dave, voice crackling with youth and an accent he couldn't place.
The thoughts drifted from his mind as they stumbled into the warmth of their destination. He watched Dave's hands as they moved like blades of grass in the wind. His wind, though he wasn't certain where that thought came from. The restaurant they had picked was rather classy, the walls done in stucco and the light fixtures dim. The menu was in flowery Italian, and John picked something he thought he recognized. Dave was talking quietly to the waitress, his voice lilting and beautiful, perfect with the music. John suppressed a shiver at the harmony, something perfect about it. The woman turned to him, and he pointed carelessly to his choice.
"Sì, avrò questo. Posso anche ottenere un espresso? Grazie." said John, giving a small smile. The woman seemed delighted, and told them she'd be right back.
Dave looked at him, then, in the dimness of the restaurant.
"What?" John asked. He was distracted by the way Dave's shoulder, now clad only in a black, short sleeved shirt, looked against the gold of the stucco. His arms were pale, dotted with freckles, but strong.
"I just didn't know you spoke Italian, is all." he shrugged, giving a roguish smile. The pulse in his neck was beating fast, though, John noted, and he screwed up his eyebrows.
"I don't."
"Evidence says otherwise." he shrugged, but there was still a little smile on his lips. John pulled the calloused, long fingered hand across the table. He rubbed at the calloused on the palm, feeling the roughness against the softer flesh of the pale, muscled wrist.
Swords , said his mind, supplying the answer to his wordless question. Of course Dave uses swords. Swords and silly, deadly ninja weapons. Of course. He was going to ask, but somehow something else tumbled from his lips,
"Will you take of those fucking sunglasses already?" John felt his eyebrows pop up, and wondered what the fuck that had been. Dave froze for a moment, before his grin spread a little wider. He really did have beautiful lips. The hand that wasn't being stroked by John's fingers rose, gently pulling off the glasses. Dave's eyes were closed, and John dropped the hand in favour of running the tip of his finger over the closed eyelid, feeling the downy eyelashes. He cupped the pale face before him, and felt his heart ache. Dave let his eyelids lift, and John felt his heart thunder, and wondered if Dave could feel his pulse in the finger stroking his cheekbone.
Red eyes, pupils blown but eyes unmistakably red. Red like heat and fire and clock works ticking, ticking, ticking and it was Dave Strider who had eyes like rubies and blood. Eyes like garnets. John felt his breath catch and his heart beat like a thousand horses against his chest. He nodded, and for some reason had to fight back tears. Dave fucking Strider. Dave, Dave was here and alive . He knew, of course, that he was alive, but this was more than confirmation.
This was it, he could feel it, the wave of something crashing against his ribs, he wanted to reach out and snatch the thread of something precious, and just as he was raising his other hand to Dave's face,
the waitress came.
The moment snapped like a piece of glass.
The thread moved too far for him to grasp.
His heart broke.
Dave looked down, shoving his glasses back into place as John's hand fell like a dead bird.
"Grazie," they said, quietly, as the confused waitress left them in peace.
They ate in awkward silence.
The flies were buzzing outside on the reserve, their wings like little jewels in the noonday sun. The girl, long black hair tied up into a high ponytail, was twirling the cord of the phone between dirty fingers, rolling her eyes periodically.
"John -" she said, voice annoyed.
"Jaaade, you don't get it. I mean. It was so strange. I mean. I don't know what to do. I haven't slept all night, I can't breathe. I think I love him. I mean. He's really weird, but... he's really. Kind and smart. And he takes his tea with too much sugar and he speaks every language EVER and, Jade. I really think he's cool, even when he's not. He makes me remember things, things I don't know and things I can't say and I feel like a better person because he breathes the same fucking air I do. And I love his eyes, Jade, I saw them today and I can't make them go away. I can't make them get out of my head. I think I have a fever, he's so much in there, making my head feel so heavy and hot and I feel so tired but I can't - I ju-"
"Oh my gosh," she said, sounding exasperated despite the smile on her face, "stop being such a... a fuckass! Just get over it. You like him. Jeezum. Tell him that." there was a crackly sigh from the other side of the line, a huffed out breath before John yawned, the sound translating badly over the phone lines. "Okay, John, you should go to sleep, too. It's six over there, right? That's ridiculous. You need SLEEP." she said her goodbyes, and felt the click as he put the phone back in its cradle, all the way across the atlantic, in his shabby little apartment in Boston. She smiled, her toothy grin full of round teeth and childish happiness.
"So," said the voice to her right.
"Sooo?" she said, smiling at her companion, a tall man a few years her senior. He had white-blond hair, and his eyes were the same shade of green as her own. "So, what, Beck?"
"Has he woken yet, do you think?"
She shrugged, twirling a few strands of her pony tail between her fingers. "No, but he will soon. Sometimes I think he's awake, but then he gets so. Ugh. You know? But he won't. This time I feel like he's almost there. A sleepwalker waking up, right?" she shrugged, and the man beside her raised a pale brow. They had been together long enough for it not to matter that she made little sense - he was sure to get the message anyway.
"Sure" he shrugged also, leaning back onto the shoddy dry wall that did nothing to stay the heat. "He's always been a weird one. Never could make up his mind about when to wake up." Jade rested her hand on his arm, the one with the black band tattoo, and smiled at him. She could feel the tension melt from him, like a river of worry dripping away. She resisted a smile at his response.
"Not everyone is like you, Beck. Not everyone is just born knowing. Gosh. Do you think we'll find Frigglish?" she thought of Rose with a fond smile.
"Jaspers? I dunno, Jade, he's never in the same place we are. He's a cat at heart, after all, if he's not in body."
She nodded, letting her head rest on one sweaty shoulder. They would go back soon, she knew, and see Rose and Dave and, hopefully, John awakened. Soon, she thought with a smile, soon.
John lay down in bed, visions of red eyes and hammers and swords and all the time in the world dancing around his head like a sick ballet. He waited. Waited for sleep like a worried parent. Only when he finally, finally gave up, did it wash over him like the ocean water, sucking him deep down into its murky depths.
He dreamt first of sound.
Cicadas.
Droning like summer and his mother's yellow dress, the color of sunflowers.
Emily .
That was her name.
But it wasn't, not really, because behind the cornflower blue eyes of his mother was Rose. Rose Lalonde, whose uncle was Dave Strider, who was his best friend. They had always been best friends, at least when the world was new. Before it had been broken into a thousand pieces, they had been best friends. Miles of red and blue text punctured by green and purple. His father was strong, he knew, but not in the world where Rose wore Emily's face. In that world he had no father, no sister named Jade. He would grow to be a pianist, he knew, and famous. His hands would know the keys in this world.
John, said Emily-Rose, is your real name. Your name is John though I called you Leonard in my ignorance.
His name was John, though he called himself Leonard, Leo, to all the people who met him. His name was Leo. But really it was Leo-John-Rebecca-Sequoyah-Isaiah-Lila. More names on a ribbon that was tied around his wrist and dangled back.
He had been a bird once, maybe, though it was more like flying and less like a bird in his mind. He had seen the chess board and been a piece and his name had been Johnathan Egbert long before it had been Leo or Isaiah or Owen or Miah. Before he had danced like Mata Hari and before he had been a frail woman, a priest, or a composer. He had been John Egbert before he had filmed his first movie, before he had flown an airplane and jumped into the river. Before he had died at the end of a blade he had been John.
John who loved movies.
John who was bad at computers.
John, with the coolest friends anyone could ever have.
John who had played a game, and who had loved Dave Strider.
Dave . Dave fucking Strider who he had been looking for for so long he couldn't bear to be without him for another lifetime. Dave who he had just barely missed, that once, Dave who he had watched die so many, many times and had lamented. He had loved so shallowly and so few that he no longer knew what love was, not until the world had returned his knight to him. This world was a castle and all he needed was Dave to make it all come to life - to have the color creep into every fragment of reality like blood into a wound, blood that was red like the color of Dave's eyes. He felt his mind break, the wrinkle shift to the side and expand, pieces of lives falling gently into place and jostling things into perspective. John shot up in bed with a cry, eyes streaming like river beds, voice raw from screaming. There was a thumping at his floor from the neighbor downstairs, no doubt certain he was dead.
But he wasn't dead. Far from it. He was, in fact, alive for the very first time.
