Author's Note: I had a certain amount of incentive to start this chapter, thanks to you all. I have been threatened with "random-ass shitty messages" and been told that I might be "sued for damages" if I didn't update within a reasonable amount of time. I have been deemed an "amazing motherfucker," a "fuckass," and much more. I have also received a myriad of positive, encouraging messages (not to say that messages including the word "fuckass" cannot be positive or encouraging), and for that, I thank you. Here's a token of my gratitude. (ALSO GIVE ME MORE IDEAS FOR DAVE'S PRESENTS GAAAAHHH)

You believe an apology is in order.

Yes, it's true. As much as you don't want to admit it. The next stage of your genius plan begins tomorrow, and you'd like to give John a reason to work with it. Unknowingly, of course. When Saturday morning comes, you throw on a loose tank top and jeans, leaving the apartment empty-handed. The brisk wind pulls the door shut loudly behind you. New green leaves are cruelly wrenched from their branches and go tumbling through the air. You step with some effort to your bicycle and mount it. It takes even more energy than usual to traverse the uphill portions of your route, but you grip the handlebars and lean into each turn of the pedals. Feeling the burning ache from the exertion and the abrasive gusts against your face makes you feel alive.

By the time you reach your destination, the wind has really picked up, and roars loudly in your ears. When you abandon your bicycle on the curb, you quickly jump the sidewalk and rush to the door, knocking furiously. You can barely hear the hollow sound of your own knuckles against the wood. After waiting impatiently, you knock again. Finally, the door opens, and for a moment you fear it will be wrenched from its hinges. A wide-eyed John looks up at you.

"Crazy weather, huh?" you chuckle, examining his surprised baby blues.

"What?" you see him mouth, flinching as a leaf clocks him in the side of the face.

"Crazy weather!" you shout. A moment of contemplation on John's part, and you are being pulled inside. The door shuts, and all at once the howl of the wind is shut out. It can be heard, muted, through the walls, but inside the house, it is quiet and still. John flattens his hair. He's wearing some pajama bottoms with little ghosts you got him a few years ago. You have to bite back a smirk.

"What?" John repeats, now that he can hear you. You are suddenly at a loss for words, having to swallow and crack your knuckles before you can speak. John drums his fingers on the doorknob, which he has yet to release. Somewhere in the house, an old grandfather clock chimes, sage and low.

"I wanted to apologize," you say, the words bubbling out from behind your lips. "I got so caught up in how I wanted to make you feel, that I didn't take into account what you were actually feeling. And I'm sorry." You pause. "And, I guess, if it would make you more comfortable, I –"

Your words are cut off when all 115 pounds of John Egbert hit you right in the gut. You blink, and find your nose buried in flyaway dark hair, and John's cheek pressed to your chest. Sighing contentedly, you draw your arms around him protectively. It takes a moment for the surprise to dull, but when it does, it is replaced with a warm, happy glow. John draws back, his fingers now curled against your waist.

"It's okay, Dave," he says quietly, looking up with a fresh-faced grin. He steps away, and you release him reluctantly. Your arms feel useless, now hanging at your sides. "I miss you, you know?" You nod lightly. "And I guess if you want our relationship to go in…a different direction – although I can't guarantee it will – I suppose I've got to let you try, right?"

Oh my fucking god.

This has got to be the best day of your life.

By the time you mount your bicycle again minutes later, the wind is at your back, and your grin stretches from one ear to the other. The forceful gusts push you forward, to the point that you barely even have to pedal as you coast effortlessly down the hill. Years of experience allow you to retain your balance as you slowly stretch your arms out to your sides and whoop and holler your way down the street.

John Egbert forgives you. And as far as you're concerned, that's all that matters.