Author's Note: I don't even need to write an Author's Note for this chapter. I just like making them. Gets me ready to write, ya know? Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback and reviews. I was particularly ecstatic with the response to the previous chapter. Y'all are so sweet.
The new school week hits you hard like a brick to the chest, knocking the wind out of you in surprise. You'd almost completely neglected to do your homework, so between the first and final bell, you're as lost with an Egbert without his glasses.
After school, you head straight home. And you stay there. At around 5 o' clock, John texts you.
Hey there. You alright?
Chuckling, you refuse to answer, instead continuing your preparations for tonight's surprise. It's going to be glorious, and you don't want to spoil it. Also, it's fun to keep John on his toes. So you wait until late at night you pack everything into a messenger bag and ride over to his house. Tonight, you wheel your bike up to his front door, expecting to be inside for quite a while.
John answers the door breathlessly, throwing his arms around you. Grinning mischievously into his shoulder, you pretend to be knocked off balance.
"Whoa!" you exclaim, stumbling backwards. John starts to scream just as you catch yourself and shrug him off of you. "Haha, what's your deal, Egbert?"
"Dave!" John complains, hands on his hips in an extraordinarily Rose-like gesture. "I was so worried! I texted you, like, 5 times!"
"Yeah, yeah," you wave him off, brushing past him and pausing at the threshold. "Can I come in?" John nods you through, and together you manage to wrestle your bike into the foyer and prop it against a wall.
"To the living room!" you announce, brandishing your messenger bag in the air. John trails after you with a questioning look.
"Dave, what –" You cut him off by wheeling on him, whipping a DVD case from your bag. John sputters as you toss it to him, catching it precariously and clutching it to his chest. After a moment, as you're revealing two classic red-and-white striped bags of popcorn, he takes a glance downwards.
"National Treasure?" he asks, posing the question like he's concerned it's a joke and really doesn't want it to be. You smile.
"One and two," you clarify, poking the thick DVD case with one finger. "John, we're going to have a National Treasure movie marathon." You pause, adopting a teasing, paternal tone. "If you don't have too much homework, that is."
The grin that lights up John's face sends a thrill down your spine.
"Screw homework!" he announces with bravado, making a show of jumping over the back of the couch and landing in a heap on the soft cushions. Mimicking him, you beam as you rush to flick off the lights, and then collapse on the sofa to his right.
"That's the spirit," you say, bounding up for a moment to pop in the first DVD and distribute the bags of popcorn.
The entirety of the first film passes without significance. John sits there laughing with his legs bent against his chest and his chin on his knees, amused by the antics of Nic Cage and co. Just the same, you are amused by his antics, casting sideways glances at his expressions and gestures as he explains the convoluted plot.
By the time the credits are rolling, you've begun to notice John throwing stealthy glimpses at you, too. When you return to the couch after ejecting the first DVD and sliding in the second, you find John cozied up against your shoulder. You smile, running your fingers through his flyaway hair as the sequel begins with a flair of dramatic music.
The entire plot of the second movie eludes you. You're staring at John the entire time, busy examining his artistically rendered profile and the way the screen's luster in the dark likes to highlight his raven black hair in vibrant blues, reds, yellows, and greens.
He's absolutely gorgeous, you realize. Of course, you knew that before, but the full force of his splendor hadn't hit you square in the face until now. And when the movie ends with a bang and he curls up against you, dozing in and out of consciousness, you realize something else.
You're so goddamn close. You can't afford to fuck this up.