Your name is Dave Strider, you are twenty-six years old, and it takes you a while to realize where it is you've woken up.
Your head is throbbing, and even through your closed eyelids you feel a painful amount of sunlight seeping in. You slap your hands around to find your sunglasses, but this bed isn't like yours, and there's a bedside table you don't recognize. Eventually you open your eyes anyway, lost in confusion. The combination of dismay and light on your throbbing head stings and pulses, before you realize yesterday was John's birthday, so you're likely in the guest room.
That answers one question, but where are your sunglasses, and why does your head hurt so fucking much? You were deadset on not getting drunk, and you remember ordering a Coke and doing a pretty damn sweet job of it - not gettin' wasted that is, so you shouldn't have a hangover. You try to work through the rest of the evening, searching for an instance where maybe you hit your head (even if this isn't that kind of pain) or just somethingthat had to have happened. And then you remember John ordering a round of drinks and... oh no, fuck, you hope you didn't do anything stupid, you always do that when you're drunk - or at least everytime you've had text records or someone's been with you to tell you you did.
You keep looking for your sunglasses, but figure you lost them sometime last night. Suddenly your breathing stops because those are the first pair John gave you and you can't just fucking lose them! Fuck fuck fuck, you're emptying your pockets on the clothes you're still wearing from last night, searching high and low, and even with the way your blood is pulsing painfully and the way your stomach swells and swishes sickeningly with every movement you just have to find them.
Finally after turning upside down a room that isn't even yours, you come to your senses and sigh, going to exit the room. You couldn't care less at the moment about if your eyes are shown, you just need to find them before they get lost somewhere - and hey, Molly or John might know, right?
You walk down the freshly-carpeted stairs, rubbing your temples, and see Molly sitting at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of coffee and the widest eyes you ever did see. Briefly you think that she doesn't really look like she slept at all last night. Maybe John kept her up by vomiting or something? He never did keep his drink very well, or anything that entered his stomach during that general time either.
"Mornin'," you slur out, grumbly still from your fatigue. "You seen where the hell my shades are?" She looks up at you apprehensively, and for a second you worry, thinking it's because of your eyes. Has she seen you without the sunglasses before? After all, your eyes aren't exactly the nicest color, and as a kid you got teased for being the Devil's kid - obviously you didn't take any shit like that, and made that title your own and fucked up their shit, but regardless, still sucked.
"I uhm... I-I think you left them at the bar last night, I'm sorry..." she takes a deep breath in. "Walgreen's sells ones a lot like them...?"
"No, no, you don't get it, I need that pair," you hurry angrily and she's flinching a little more. Maybe it'd be better to actually be straight-up with her. You slow down and lessen your pitch, starting again, "That's the pair John gave me when we were just little tykes, y'know? They're kind of a big deal."
And that just makes her eyes widen even more (you didn't think that possible) but she nods. "I... I see. Yes, the bar has a lost and found. If they didn't break or something, it's probably there... They'll open in an hour, you can go then."
You nod, using that as a sign of thanks, before going to the fridge to try and grab a frozen burrito or something, shocked when they have nothing. You aren't about to ask Molly for help on food, not when she's obviously in the fucked up state she's in at the moment, so you stretch, fishing your pockets to find your keys. "I think I'll head over early anyway, don't got anythin' else to be doing. Want me to run ya any errands?"
Her head shakes from side to side quickly, eyes fixated on the slowly dissipated steam from her mug.
"Er... okay. See ya in a bit then," you say awkwardly, going to exit the home.
You head back after an hour and a half or so, shades proudly back on your face. The manager thought it a little odd that you returned for just those, but was happy to give them back. He also told you you were a wreck the night before, which was well... not nice to hear. Then again, you're always a wreck when you're drunk, that's why Rose revels in it. You're at your most honest then, she says.
Fuck, you hope you didn't say anything idiotic.
Speaking of which though, you wonder if you texted Rose at all last night; that might provide a bit of gleaning into what happened. When you park across the street from the Egbert residence, you go ahead and remove your phone from your pocket, going to sift through your records.
Sure enough.
turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 3:45 AM
TG: rsoe rose
TT: You are very lucky that I happen to be awake at this hour.
TT: Did you fail to restrain yourself from alcohol's illustrious wonders?
TG: yeha i gusse
TG: geuss
TG: nvm
TT: Oh you poor dear.
TT: How did the evening with John and the Mrs. go?
TG: terble
TG: well acualy iyt wad ok for awe hile
TG: i mean
TG: until he fell aslepr n sthit
TT: Oh no.
TT: I assume he drank as well?
TG: yeah
TG: n he was so goddamn fuckdfgidfn cute he always is when he sletreps yknow
TG: n i wanted to just pet him i guessgfr i dont know but shit i couldnt so taht with molly there
TT: Of course not.
TG: i got upset i guess wo what a pussy SCORE 1 FOR MEG
TT: Oh dear. Did Molly console you?
This isn't looking good.
TG: yeha i guess
TG: shes a lot like you yknow
TT: She does look a bit like me, yes.
TG: but she dint like wha ti had to saey
TT: What did you say?
TG: wath i always say
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
TT: ...
TT: You didn't.
TT: Dave Strider, please tell me you did not confess that to her.
TG: i did
TT: ...Oi.
TT: Well I suppose there's nothing that can be done now.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck. It's all beginning to make sense, and that's why she was so-
TG: waht hsould i do
TT: Just go to bed for now.
TT: Text me in the morning; though I highly doubt you'll quite remember this exchange.
tentacleTherapist ceased pestering turntechGodhead at 4:01 AM
So now here you are, grabbing at blonde hair in a fit of frustration. What the fuck is she going to do about it? Will she tell John? Who are you kidding, of course she will. That's what couples do, tell each other everything, no matter how many people it screws over. And you can't even be mad because you know you'd do the same if you were Molly and she'd been his best friend.
And you wonder how disgusted she must be. Come to think of it, you aren't even sure how comfortable she is with gay people. Whenever Rose had a girlfriend over, she would get a little awkward, but you thought that might've just been because it's a little awkward when someone likes your gender but you don't like theirs much. But if that were there too, God, how much must she hate you now?
And she must be remembering every brief contact with such hatred and disgust. She must be remembering that kiss and hating how some "gay" kissed up on the man she loves - she must be disgusted in herself that she ever encouraged it. And you know how she must feel because you feel that way everytime they kiss and you know how fucking much it hurts.
But you hope she doesn't hate you, because if anyone should hate someone it's you, and you can't even manage that.
But then again, she is the one who got the guy. So maybe that's because she's better.
It takes a good half hour for you to get the courage to stand up out of the car, and walk into the house. Better to pretend like you don't know, act like you did first thing this morning. And when you walk into the kitchen she's talking to John, who looks like he's been up for a little bit, but then he looks over at you with such forlorn eyes, and you can't help but think he knows. The pity grows in his expression, because damn if you aren't just pitiful by definition. And you hate it. You don't want him to look like that. You haven't kept this inside for over a decade for it to not even matter.
"Welcome back," Molly murmurs to you, clenching onto her mug with those ugly, chipped polish nails.
"I... yeah," you sigh, adjusting your shades. "Got these babies back. What's goin' on?"
John pats a seat at the kitchen between the two of them for you to sit down, like you're going to be interrogated, like you're a child with a crush on your teacher and some adults are telling you why that's wrong. But it's not wrong is it? You love this boy and you don't want it to be wrong, it can't be wrong.
If it's not wrong though, why does nothing about it go right?
And you're sitting down, tense as fuck but trying to not show one bit of it, looking between the both of them. "Well?"
"Dave, you see, last night..." Molly begins, reaching a hand slightly toward you. She's trying to be sympathetic, and it's disgusting. You don't want her fucking sympathy, you wanted her secrecy. You don't want fucking any of this. And if she thinks this is her business right now, she is dead wrong. At least, how you see it, how you want it. John will likely have her stay, because that's what couples do. They work as a unit and they leave friends behind.
And John's hand is on that hand reached to you. "Molly, I... think I need to cover this one," and he laughs, obviously nervous and scared, and no you never want to make him feel that way, but you feel so happy that he's trying to do this, 'cause damn he knows you so well, he knows this would be bad with anyone but just him.
"Are you sure? I mean..."
"I got it! I promise!" he exclaims, and reluctantly she goes to exit, pale blue bathrobe dragging behind her.
And then the two of you are staring at each other, neither knowing what to say. You always pictured it different than this, you always hoped for a fairytale, for something where you could save him from some tragedy and sweep him off his feet, show him that you're there for him just as much as he's there for you. You could've kissed away some tears and given an elegant confession, and even if he turned you down he would always know what a romantic gentleman you were, and how if he swung your way, he'd be a lucky man to have you.
But no, you aren't that. You're a coward, a coward who cries to his love's wife about how she's in the fucking way. You're fearful, and nothing to be proud of, and even if it were remotely possible you wouldn't be able to have him. And you know it. And nothing he says now will change that.
"So, uh... Molly said that, when you were drunk last night..." here it goes, the final blow. Something you've been building up to your whole life, and you feel like you've been holding your breath, and now finally, you'll either let it out and breathe in again, or suffocate. You've always known, somewhere inside you, that suffocation is purely inevitable. "That you said you're in love with me?"
And you don't answer. Not because you want to deny it, but because you can't. You can avoid, you can step around the truth, but you cannot lie. You cannot deny the strongest love you've ever, the only love you've ever felt. And you can't deny it but you can't say yes either, it hurts too much and you know not even your sunglasses can save you then.
"Well? Was she confused? Haha, I knew it, right! You were probably messing with her, right? Hahahaha! You had me for a second there!" and he's hitting you in the arm, and you can't tell anymore if his laughter is serious or forced, and you feel like he can't either. "I mean, seriously? Yeah, you've never had a girlfriend but, in love with me? Pff hahaha, that's a good one! You're just my best bro, right?"
And you still aren't answering, you aren't laughing. You aren't doing anything, just sitting there tense, doing what you've always done. Nothing. You're nothing more than a bystander, and you aren't supposed to come near the spotlight. Even in your big-time job you only do B-list, and even on magazine covers you don't take it as some big story you're happy with. Sure you've got money, you've got friends, but you never had love or a family. And you never will, because that's not what bystanders get.
His laughter has since stopped, and he's staring at you with that pity yet again. "Dave... you were, joking... right..."
No answer.
No breathing.
You're going to suffocate.