Author's Note: Aaaaaaand the fic continues into the New Year. Who knew? I certainly didn't (yes I did I'm a lazy ass I'm so so so sorry).

Your dreams are tumultuous and fleeting, leaving you with the inexplicable sensation of reaching for something when you wake with a start. That is how you find yourself padding into the bathroom at four a.m. to splash lukewarm water on your face. You raise your heavy head to examine your own crimson irises in the mirror, tiny droplets falling from your eyelashes. The image strikes you as shockingly poignant. You inspect the deep creases under your eyes, the curve of your shoulders and sharpness of your collarbone.

You shake your head doggedly as you stumble back to bed in the dark and fall into an uneasy sleep.

Three hours later, your alarm clock rouses you with its relentless shriek. "Son of a bitch," you mutter into your pillow as you knock the machine to the floor with a sweep of the hand. It continues to howl, slightly muffled now with its speaker pressed into the carpet. Groaning, you wrestle with the blankets and swing your feet off the side of the mattress.

A string of curses spills from between your lips as you wrangle the infernal device into submission. Even after it has been quieted, the echo of its incessant cry rings in your ears.

As foreshadowed by your restless night, the school day is enduring and unbearable. Fatigue from last night's movie marathon hits you with full force around lunchtime, and you start to vaguely regret finally falling into bed at two o' clock in the morning. You thank your lucky stars that you already have today's gift planned out, because you're not up for too much high-level thinking in this state (something that you pay dearly for in Calculus).

The only interesting thing that happens all day occurs just before last period, when John spots you at your locker, exchanging your books for the next class. "Hey, Dave!" he shouts from down the hall, waving to capture your attention. As he jogs up to you, you turn expectantly. However, he says nothing, but instead just stands in front of you with his mouth half open. "What?" you prompt him, but your voice comes out harsh and abrasive in your anticipation. John doesn't seem to notice.

"Nothing," he blurts eventually. "See you later!" And he runs off. You stare after him as you shut your locker absentmindedly and shoulder your bookbag.

After school, it's back to your apartment. You would have liked to bring today's gift to school, but it was too heavy. When you quit your apartment with a large tome under one arm, the atmosphere is balmy and thick. It feels like walking underwater as you wade your way to your bicycle and push off through the dense air.

John is waiting for you on his front stoop, pushing a pebble around on the concrete with the tip of his sneaker. When he spots you coasting to a halt at the curb, he stands slowly, shoving his fists into the wide pockets of his cargo shorts.

"Hey, Dave?" he says, mimicking your bizarre confrontation at school. It sounds like a question, so you reply.

"Yeah?"

He pauses, then snickers, averting his eyes. "No, hey Dave. Like, hey."

You tilt your head slightly, raising your eyebrows and examining his facial expression out of the corner of your eyes. "Hey." Chuckling, you shake it off, and produce today's present from behind your back. John reaches out to take it, but miscalculates its weight. When it shifts from your hands to his, he almost stumbles under its girth.

He catches himself in time, straightening his spine and hoisting the tome into the crook of his arm. "What is it?" he asks, letting his fingertips drift over the raised gold print on the cover.

"It's a book," you offer. "A prank book."

John hums a noise of approval. "Colonel Sassacre's Daunting Text of Magical Frivolity and Practical Japery," he murmurs aloud. Then his blue eyes go wide. "Dave," he gasps, "he was my grandfather!"

You're shocked. "Really?"

John goes deadpan, his face slackening. "No."

Almost stepping back in surprise, you let out a sound of disbelief. "Dick!" you groan, punching him in the upper arm. He very nearly falls over, and the sight of such a small boy struggling under the weight of such an oversized books is almost comical.

You find yourselves settling down on the front porch as John thanks you for the gift, and soon you fall into a languid conversation. The events of the day, gossip at school, Rose's ever-deepening relationship with Kanaya.

"We've come a long way, too," you note offhandedly, but you spy John becoming flustered in your periphery. The tome rests in his lap, and he begins to tap the front cover in a steady rhythm.

"Yeah," he breathes eventually, forcing a laugh. "What was your first gift, anyway?" he asks, posing the inquiry to the passing wind. "It was, um…"

"Roses," you interject.

"Roses!" John exclaims immediately, remembering. "Right." A pause.

"Did you like them?" you venture. "I thought they were very romantic."

"Of course!" he is quick to agree. "It's just…" John sighs, his words failing him.

"They're not your favorite?" you suggest. He shrugs, and you shift toward him. "What's your favorite, then?"

"My favorite flower?" John bites his lip in thought, mulling over the question. "I guess it's…Lily of the Valley."

"Lily of the Valley?" you repeat incredulously, snorting. After letting out a bark of a laugh, you realize he's serious. "Why?"

"I dunno," John mutters truthfully. "I suppose they're…delicate? In a way? Does that make sense?"

You turn your head to face him completely. In that moment, you take in John, made so small by the presence of a leviathan book on his lap. John, whose pale skin flushes so easily. John, whose hair ruffles so lightly in the breeze, whose heart you hold, balanced precariously on your palm.

"Yeah," you admit. "Yeah, it does."