Your name is Dave Strider, you are twenty-nine years old, and you did not expect to be negotiating for a second ticket on your flight back down south.

"Come on, there has to be a couple of nearby seats left, or even just at least one damn little seat," you're saying in exasperation to the none-too-helpful employee at the airport, as she twirls her hair and pops her bubblegum.

"You really should've planned this sooner, sir," she's shaking her head and tapping into the computer, seemingly not very happy to be at work in the first place, much less actually working at work. "I guess if you're fine with switching out of first class—"

Your palm meets your forehead. "I already told you that that's perfectly fucking fine. Just get me the seats."

She rolls her eyes at you, as if you're being the unreasonable one, but keeps clicking, and soon a couple of tickets are printing. "There you are. Will that be all, sir?"

You check your bags quickly, before turning around to face a very tense John, who smiles and waves when he sees you headed his way. "Get everything going good?"

"Yeah," you sigh with exasperation, adjusting your sunglasses. "Let's go."

"Oh uh – was it hard? Sorry, man, haha," he laughs nervously at you, giving his usually (adorable) dorkish grin.

You shrug, going to pick up both your carry-ons and start walking. "It's no big deal, employee was just annoying as shit. I don't know what the hell it is about bubblegum, but it turns already annoying people into the most unbearable people on the fucking planet."

"Molly really likes bubblegum."

Aw fuck.

You'd almost forgotten why John was with you on this venture in the first place (not really, but it wasn't at the forefront of your mind until this moment). After the… issue, Molly still wasn't feeling too comfortable about the situation (especially about having 'her' daughter around the either of you), so the 'happy' couple thought it best for John to stay somewhere else for a week or so (or well, Molly thought so) while Molly got her bearings. You quickly offered that he could fly down with you, then you'd fly him back when the both of them were ready. They were very grateful – though Casey was very displeased with the fact that she didn't get to follow her father on a trip to stay with Davey (Molly didn't look too happy to hear that).

So here he is, standing across from you in the bustling airport, as you stare at his downcast gaze with worried eyes. With the way things are going, you aren't sure if Molly is going to simply take him back, or if this is over – all because John saved the world, and she couldn't believe it, couldn't value the most heavenly person she ever had the chance to be with, ever would. (You can't blame her, it is a hell of a lot to swallow, but you still aren't happy with her. ) And you aren't sure which you're hoping for. You want her to, because it would kill John to not be with her (the way not being with him is slowly killing you), and it can't be good for Casey at all. She deserves the stereotypical postcard family, the one that none of you but Molly got the chance to grow up with. But at the same time, you can't help but hope she becomes out of the picture, so you can be there, and then maybe John will open his eyes and –

Who are you kidding? The ship has never even come near the dock; it sailed and has been sailing since before the chance even made itself apparent to you. Molly is all that will be good for him, for Casey. You can only hope for the best for that.

"Come on, we got a flight to catch."

He nods, following after you like a puppy that's lost his master, and you can hardly contain the sick feeling that overcomes you.

You've settled into your loft, and given John your bed while you crash on the couch on the other side of the apartment.

"It's your bed though—"

"Take the damn bed, Egbert, or so help me God, I will retrieve the shitty sword collection and we will put them to good use."

A broken laugh.

A broken smile from your own face in return.

Things are going relatively alright though as he settles in. You've locked the alcohol cabinet, tidied the place to a respectable level, and locked up anything else he doesn't need to see (old and new journals as per Rose's advice) and overall, it's simply all as it ought to be. You are already aware you will have a few struggles but, having John to yourself for a week is bound to be great, you think.

You check things online quickly, the both of you, and end up Skype calling with both Rose and Jade. Jade's excited as ever, waving happily and showing you the new artifacts she's found. Rose is also in a relatively good mood, the both of you having caught her during a break from her writing. She has that same look at you from the wedding day though, and you want to smack her and tell her you got this, but that can't happen for a number of reasons. Jesus Lalonde.

And for once you honestly think "you got this". You know of all the obstacles that will face you, you're not an idiot, but you think that as long as it's just him, you can overcome any stupid feelings. You have been for seventeen years, haven't you?

Well, it seems that distance does make the heart grow fonder.

You're suddenly remembering all the gentle complications from when you two lived together, and they are a dozen times worse now that you've been apart so long. After he showers, he likes to sit around in just his sweatpants, letting his chest and hair properly dry off first (and you're realizing that even when nearing middle age, he keeps in shape, and his broad chest is almost too much). He also enjoys cooking for you, and reaching out the spoon to your mouth for you to taste test it just before it's done (fuck he is about the most adorable thing you've ever experienced). He bites his nails while he watches television with you, and even when you know he's in the worst pain he's felt in years, his laugh rings through the loft. Wrestling cheers him up, and feeling your skin so very close to his both soothes you and makes you want to deaden your nerves so they can never be hurt by the eventual removal again. He's so friendly – he has no problem being close to you and you're more than willing to take that as thanks.

But it's beginning to become too much, when it's already Wednesday and you've won another tussle, pinning him to the ground with your legs on either side of his, hands forcing down his shoulders, both your chests heaving, and your mouths just inches away.

And you just can't handle it anymore, hurtling yourself off him without a word as you, almost robotically, beeline for the kitchen, unlocking the alcohol cabinet.

"Haha, you didn't count, stupid! Why are you—" and he cuts off, obviously not affected by it (or maybe he's acting that way? No, that's not it, you're not an idiot, not a lovesick idiot with too much hope.) as he peers at you questioningly. "Uh, Dave, what're you doing?"

You don't answer as you pour out a couple of glasses, getting the both of you drinks. You figure if he doesn't want one, then he can decline and you'll take two. Somewhere in the back of your head is a nagging voice, telling you what a horrible idea this is, but you can't seem to bring yourself to care.

Several drinks for the both of you later, you're laughing uproariously, stumbling around the living room until you collapse on the couch, spilling out some of your drink onto the expensive fabric (you can't seem to bring yourself to care). John's following suit, falling right on top of you and laughing along with you at something you can't seem to bring yourself to remember.

Your whole body feels warm from alcohol's embrace, along with that of the man who's lazily atop you. The two of you are talking but coherence has long fled from the both of you, and in this you feel that's alright. This week can't last forever but, with the way that happiness is pooling at the bottom of your belly, you need it to last as long as you can make it.

He's getting shakey with his knees settled just so atop your legs, and he snorts, making some punchline-less jokes about his instability up there. You grab his sides to steady him, laughing as well, and not even caring as he removes your glasses to analyze them for whatever reason he deems sensible at the time. You're just staring at him, clarity evened with the lack of sunglasses but with the confusion of intoxication, and you're leaning closer to get a better look at the newly revealed shade of his eyes, and he stumbles again and –

Your lips meet, and it's those fireworks from that one brief moment years ago all over again. Your fingers are curling into his shirt on the sides where your hands still remain, and you think – you think that maybe you feel him kissing you back. And it's all you've ever hoped for all in one, single, blissful, moment.

But perfection only lasts so long as he falls back from it, laughing, "D-dave, haha! That wasn't very… smooth." And even in your lack of sobriety you know how little sense that makes right now, but you can't help but laugh along with him.

Soon he's poking at your chest, giggling some to himself still (after all, he's a happy drunk, while you're a volatile drunk, and it surprises you that you haven't hit the waterworks stage yet) as he stays shockingly close. "Ya know wha's funny, Dave?"

You're raising your eyebrows, your expression honest yet heavy with the taste of Vodka and the lack of shades to hide just a single inch.

"I used t'… have a crush on you, back in high school. Didja, didja know that?"

No, you didn't.

And John seems more confused than he has this whole drunken stumble when you hide your face in your hands and cry.