"Dave, let's stop this."
Dave looks up from the grit of the concrete to see John standing in the door, looking exceptionally tired. John is paler than usual, a white sliver against the shadows of his house. There are dark circles under his eyes and he leans on the door for support.
Dave wonders if he's killing him.
"Stop what," Dave replies, dropping his gaze to the ground at his feet. He's sitting on John's back step, taking a breather from the house and John and everything after a pretty bad row. The open air makes him feel a little better; at least he can breathe again.
"You know what," John says. "Come on. Let's stop fighting. This is stupid."
"Yeah," says Dave. "It is stupid."
"Fuck, Dave, I'm just trying to end this!"
"Yeah."
There is a moment's pause where John watches him, waiting for further response. When nothing comes, he makes a frustrated noise in his throat and goes back inside.
Well, thinks Dave. That's done.
But after a few minutes, the door opens again and a mass off softness hits him in the back. Dave starts and pulls the blanket off, then stares at it for a minute.
"What."
"Thought you might get cold," John mumbles, turning to go back in.
"Come here," Dave says. Hesitantly, John complies, sitting beside him on the step. "For one thing, I don't need this." He pulls the blanket from his shoulders and drapes it around John instead. "Because I don't get cold."
John mumbles what Dave thinks might be a noncommittal apology, but he doesn't probe further.
"Second…yeah, I guess I'm being a dick. I'll try to lay off."
John's posture softens a little and he reaches an arm around Dave. Dave's skin crawls at the sudden touch and John must notice the shiver, because he pulls away quickly. "Sorry."
"My fault," says Dave. "Ignore it."
"But—"
"Just fucking ignore it."
So John wraps his skinny arm around Dave again and rearranges the blanket to rest on both of them, despite Dave's warning of its uselessness.
"You're warm," he says, leaning against Dave's shoulder. It takes a fair bit of contortion to manage, but he does his best. Dave sits there stonily, not really sure how to proceed.
"I'm always warm."
"Yeah, but you're like, extra warm. You're warmer than Rose."
"There's lava in these veins, man."
John's closed his eyes at this point, and his breathing begins to slow. Dave heaves an inner sigh and looks up at the sky. He watches black birds circling in the sky, making great arcs below the clouds. As an afterthought, he pulls the shades from his face and sets them gently on John's, blocking the sun from his once-friend's sleepless eyes.
"I want to be friends again," John mumbles.
"Go to sleep," says Dave. But the damage is done. It opens a fresh pathway to his imagination. This is his John. Yes, this is his John and they've just had a fight. Sometimes friends fight. It was a bad one, but they can pull through. They can be friends again and go back to—
No.
Dave blocks the thought from his mind. He can't go back there. He can't keep pretending. This is not his John. This is a different John, a John from a different timeline and not the John he found all those years ago, dead in a pool of his own blood, never to return.
Except he had returned. Dave had made sure of that. He had circumvented their doom and escaped his own somehow, and he had saved John from a grisly fate. It just…wasn't his John anymore.
Dave's shoulder is starting to feel stiff, but John's fallen asleep and he doesn't want to wake the kid. Rose wouldn't be too grateful if his visit yielded naught but yet another problem to add to John's list.
Now Dave takes to watching the rhythmic rise and fall of John's chest. He's heard about the scars and he's a little curious. They're kindred spirits, two out of five to be physically marked by the game.
He wants to ask John questions. He wants to know what John's dad said, what he did, how he reacted. He wants to know many things but he certainly won't ask them, not if he wants Rose to keep liking him. No, he's got to play this right. He has to help fix John up, not make him worse.
"Hey," says Dave.
No response.
"Hey," he says, a little louder this time.
"What?" John mutters.
"Let's go to your room."
"Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Strider?"
"Oh, yeah, you're totally my dream man. All those arms and legs waving like fucking tentacles, yeah, I'm all about that horrorterror shit. Now shut up and sleep in your bed." Dave brushes John off him and stands up, flexing his muscles, trying to work out the stiffness.
"Are you leaving?"
"Do I look like I'm leaving. Come on." Dave offers a hand and pulls a hesitant John to his feet.
"You're pretty strong, too. Stronger than the other Dave."
"You mean 'real' Dave?"
"Fuck you. I'm not trying to start—"
"It's fine," says Dave. "He can be 'real'. I don't care."
To Dave's surprise, John grabs him by the shoulders and gives him a little shake. "Well, I do! You're just as real as he is!"
"It's fine, John. Really."
"It's not fine!"
"It is fine. He's your Dave. I get it."
"No, you don't! You're so focussed on 'my' Dave and 'your' John, it's stupid! Why can't we just be 'Dave' and 'John'?" Suddenly Dave registers the pleading in John's eyes. He really does want to be friends, maybe even real friends. Dave falters, the uncertainty returning to him in a cold, trickling wave.
"Because he was my best friend!" Dave blurts. "And you're not him."
"Dave, I'm not trying to be him!"
"I…but you are him. That's the problem. You've got his face and his hair and his glasses and you're him. You're exactly him except you're not because…"
"Because?"
"Look, it doesn't matter." Dave can feel the heat creeping across his face. He hates himself for what he almost said. He's being so fucking childish, so selfish, so stupid.
"Tell me," John insists, his voice soft, trying to coax the answer away from him.
"No."
"Come on. I'm not like him because…?" John is trying to charm the answer from him, pulling what he must think is some sort of seduction face. It's lame and it's silly and, worst of all, it's working.
"Because I'm not your only Dave! Jesus, are you fucking happy? I've got a fucking doppelganger and he's taken over my life, except it's wrong because I'm the doppelganger, it's me."
"Dave…"
"No, don't fucking 'Dave' me. You don't get it because you're on the other fucking side, you've got it made. You've got fucking two Daves, you don't have to worry about some guy coming up and stealing your best dude."
"Dave, I—"
"Forget it." The irritation leaves as quickly as it comes and now Dave just feels tired. He's trying to explain his feelings but the words aren't coming out right and everything he says is just a fountain of shit.
"Dave—"
"I said fucking forget it. I don't know what I'm saying. Come on, you look fucking dead on your feet, go get that skinny ass in bed before you pass out on the goddamn ground."
John opens his mouth as if to say something, thinks better of it and nods. "Alright. You coming?"
"Nah, I'll let you have your nap in peace. There's a couch with my name on it down here."
"Dave."
"What."
"Come with me. Please."
Dave narrows his eyes, trying to decipher the pleading tone. He doesn't understand. "Why."
"Please."
"Why."
"Because—because I don't want to sleep alone, you prick! Christ, you are so hard to deal with sometimes."
"Don't sell me short, Eggie," says Dave. "I'm hard to deal with all the time."
It seems John can't decide whether to laugh or shout in frustration. As a compromise, he presses a palm to his temple. "You're impossible."
"Now you're getting it. Come on. We'll tuck you in tight."
"And?"
Dave sighs. "And I'll sit with you for a while. Until you fall asleep or something."
"Thanks, Dave."
"Whatever."
This time, though, Dave can't help but feel a tinge of pleasure when John ruffles his hair and goes up the stairs.