Author's Note: Hey, guys. Just wanted to add a disclaimer: what Dave is currently doing to John is considered harassment, and, if continued, stalking. In my story (as it is just that: a story), it is inevitably bound to work. But if you do this in the real world, you will never win the object of your affections, and you'll probably get a restraining order. And make someone's life that much more difficult. So don't do it. That said, thank you so much for all the heartwarming comments. They make me squee a lotta bit. Enjoy the extra-long chapter to ease the pains of your extra-long wait.
You have fallen into a distinct pattern. When the final bell rings at school, you rush home, grab your newest creation, and bolt out the door, pedaling furiously Egbert-ward. Today is Wednesday, and the third time you have been through this sequence. As you snatch a black, leather-bound sketchbook from its place resting on your bed, you spin around at the sound of a cleared throat. Bro leans against the doorframe, casually inspecting the blade of one of his more shitty katanas.
Groaning, you try to push past him into the kitchen, but he is blocking the exit of your room. "Bro, I don't have time to strife right now. I have to go," you say firmly, trying to shove him out of the way. He simply braces a muscular arm against the opposite side of the frame and points with the sword toward your bed.
"Sit," he demands. "We need to talk." With resentment, you turn back and position yourself on the mattress, clutching the sketchbook to your chest. He sits down next to you, a welcome change. Usually when you have your "talks," he stands over you menacingly. "So, little bro," he begins, laying the katana across your pillow. "What's up with all this running about after school?"
You clench your teeth. "I have deliveries to make," you explain in a huff, looking away from him and inspecting the complex mechanisms of your turntables with feigned interest. "It's not important, and it's certainly none of your business." Bro's fingers dance over the handle of his katana before gripping it and raising it to your face, pressing the flat side of the blade against your cheek to turn your gaze back toward him.
"It's Egbert, isn't it?" he asks you, and from the tone of his voice, you would be fooling no one if you denied it. So you keep your mouth shut and say nothing. He shakes his head, chuckling, and looks at you skeptically. "Do you love him?"
You run the tip of your tongue along your teeth. You do not doubt the truth, only whether or not you should admit it to your brother. But he is boring holes in your skull from behind his ridiculously pointy shades, so you nod your head slowly. He seems satisfied, haughty, even. He places the sword back on the bed and crosses his arms.
"Did I ever tell you about the time I thought I was in love?" he asks. You give him an exasperated look. Obviously he hasn't. He runs a hand through his excessively gelled hair and pauses for dramatic effect. You are about to get up and leave when he speaks again. "His name was Jake."
Hands still clenched around the cover of the sketchbook, you do a double-take. "He?"
Bro cracks his knuckles. "Don't interrupt when your bro is telling a story." You roll your eyes. "And yes, he. His name was Jake and he…was absolutely perfect in every way. And I thought I was in love with him."
You narrow your eyes at the taller blond. "Were you in love with him?" There is a long, deadly silence as you realize your mistake. Bro freezes, staring daggers into your skull. After a few strained moments, he lifts himself to his feet and takes his katana by the blade. It's shitty enough that it doesn't even make a cut. He turns and walks from the room. As he reaches the doorway, he pauses, and looks back over his shoulder at you.
"Yes," he says tersely and with resignation. "Go about your business," he adds offhandedly, before stepping into the hallway and clipping the tip of his shades on the doorframe. You hear a muffled, "shit," as he makes his way into the kitchen. Smiling down at the object in your hands, you stand, and rush out of the apartment to get your bicycle.
When you screech to a halt at the curb, you see the door opening out of the corner of your eye. John has been expecting you. Dismounting your bicycle is a clumsier process than usual with his sharp eyes scrutinizing your back. You approach the house awkwardly, not sure whether to attempt eye contact or not. Reaching the front step, you realize it would have been futile anyway, as he has redirected his attention to the tips of his sneakers.
You hold out the book toward him. He makes no move to take it, so you reach down with your left hand toward his right and grip it. His soft skin against yours is tantalizing, but you force yourself to pull his hand up, wrap his fingers around the book, and, excruciatingly, let go. Curious, he pulls back the cover to reveal the first page, with the words, "John Egbert, I love you," written in painstakingly neat cursive scrawled across the parchment. A turn of that page, accompanied by the sound of rustling paper, and you are looking at an upside-down version of a sketch of John at the park. "I'm not a homosexual," John whispers intermittently as he turns page after page, his cheeks growing redder and redder. Some of these drawings are of you and him together, and not all of them are entirely PG. You considered taking them out, but you felt it was somehow more authentic just to give him the whole, unabridged documentary of your affections.
After glancing at least once at everything, John closes the book with a hollow whoosh of air, and holds it by the binding at his side. He raises his eyes to you. "Dave," he begins quietly. "I think it would be best if you didn't come by here anymore. For the time being, at least. Or, well, not like this. Every day. With…gifts." You start to protest, you try to say something back, but the words of your explanation catch in your throat. And before you can force them out, only the chipped paint of the front door is staring back at you.