The next morning you wake with the sun. Golden rays slant through the dusty windowpanes and cast a warm glow about your room as you stretch and throw back the covers. Normally, in your book, Sunday isn't a day to get much of anything done, besides for the last-minute homework rush at 11:00 PM. But today will be different, you think as you throw on a red tank top and jeans. Today will be different.
You're pretty sure what you're planning is an unprecedented level of creepy, but you figure John is annoyed enough as it is. Might as well go all out.
The kitchen is bright and spotless. Bro went on one of his rare cleaning sprees last night, polishing the place from top to bottom. You can hear him snoring in the next room over as you enter the pristine room, which shines from the sunlight reflecting off the glossy white tiles. The windows in the kitchen are big and clear. Overall, this room is quite to contrast to your own.
You set to work. This is by no means one of your many talents, but you try your best anyway. When you're done, the kitchen is a bit of a mess. You feel bad about that, for Bro's sake, so you try to tidy up a bit before you pack everything carefully into your backpack and step outside.
This April has been a nice one so far. Spring is well on its way, with colorful daffodils and geraniums blooming in the mulch along the sidewalks. You untether your bike from the metal arch near your apartment complex and mount it, cautious to keep your backpack from shifting from side to side as you pedal off. You feel the muscles in your calves work to pump the pedals, and the light breeze dusting against your face. Its days like these that keep you moving.
But in the end, the shitty old brakes on your bike fail, and you find yourself sailing past your destination before you have the chance to slow to a stop. When you are able to hop off of your bike, you walk it back half a block, grumbling discontentedly all the way. The doorbell echoes piercingly down the deserted street, and it is Mr. Egbert who comes to the door. He regards you with distaste.
"John is sleeping," he explains gruffly, attempting to seal the barrier between you and his house. You stick a sneaker in the doorway and wince when your foot is caught against the closing door.
"Could I come in, please?" The man stares down at you for a moment before ushering you inside, muttering under his breath.
You could find your way up to John's room blindfolded, even though it's been a while since you've been inside his house. After nimbly taking the stairs two at a time, you knock softly on his bedroom door and push it soundlessly open.
His room is the same as you remember it. Ghost bed sheets, desk against the right wall, posters plastered everywhere, ridiculous magician's chest fitted into a corner. You smile and get to work, sliding your backpack off of your shoulders and onto the floor with a light thud. John stirs in his sleep, rolling over and letting a barely audible sigh escape from between his lips.
He looks adorable.
Shaking your head, you remove a tray and a plate from your bag, and set them on the desk. You load the plate with still-warm pancakes from a plastic Tupperware container, and coat them with syrup from a squeeze bottle that you're lucky didn't leak all over the inside of your backpack. And now, for the finishing touch, you think as you withdraw an apple juice box and place it next to the plate on the tray with a flourish.
You leave the tray and your backpack on the desk and approach John's bed quietly. Sitting on the edge of it, you reach a hand forward and stroke his hair away from his face. You bite your lip in an effort not to lean down and kiss him awake. That would be weird. Divine, but weird.
And anyway, John's eyelids are already fluttering open. The moment he resisters your presence, he gives a yelp and scrambles for something on his bedside table. Without a warning, your eyes begin to sting in pain, and your let out a shout as you fall back onto the floor, coughing and sputtering. When the air clears, John is kneeling on the edge of his mattress, peering down at you.
"Smoke pellets," he offers apologetically, and then frowns. "Dave, I thought you were a burglar! How did you get in my house?"
"Front door," you grunt, pushing yourself up. He gives you a look. "Ugh, fine, your dad let me in." You stand, and turn to walk back to the desk, which fortunately had been spared from the blast radius of the smoke pellets. "Good-looking man," you add, picking up the tray. "I can see where you get it from." You consider giving him a wink upon turning around, but decide against it. He's already inspecting the contents of the tray suspiciously.
"What's that?" he asks as you return to him. You set down the tray on his now-vacant bedside table and perch on the edge of the bed. He swings his legs off and plants his feet on the carpet, so you are sitting side-by-side. It might be the closest you've been to him in nine days.
"Breakfast in bed," you say, gesturing for him to take the tray, which he does, setting it in his lap and eyeing the pancakes with disbelief. He lets out a puff of air and turns to you, looking you in the face with obvious difficulty.
"Dave," he begins. "You've really got to stop doing this. It's getting on my nerves, and it's just completely inappropriate. And I don't like it. Okay?" You ignore his pleas and tap the tray with one finger.
"Just eat the pancakes."
"There's no fork."
Shit.