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the room is dark and deadly silent and your head is pounding.
he shifts, and you know because you can see the outline of his bruised knees because the broken streetlight outside of your window chooses that moment to blink on. he takes a deep breath and you lie in wait for him to say something. “i’m just,” he starts, but he stops for another minute. you guess because he can’t think of anything to say and you can’t say you’re surprised because he is related to jade and jake who aren’t good with words, either. they aren’t like you and dirk and rose and roxy, the strilondes, who can talk and talk and talk and talk so much that your ears are ringing when they’re done. “tired. and not tired, tired, that much i am. i’m just tired of the nightmares and the fact that when it’s windy outside i start crying.”
you get what he means. you’re tired, too. your nightmares aren’t as bad as his are but you get like he does, taking to getting angry when you hear the tick of a clock. the streetlight flashes on again and you see the bruise on his nose from where you hit him last week because a neighbor came to visit and their watch was ticking, ticking, ticking. your heart plummets because you never, ever, would hurt john egbert on purpose. you love him too much. “i know what you mean, john. i get the same way with clocks, you know that.”
you see the faint outline of him nodding and then the streetlight flickers on again and you see him rubbing his eyes. he’s got to be tired; you know you are. rose and jade have nightmares too and sometimes they’re awoken by them, but sometimes they sleep soundly, like they are now. you envy them because you can never sleep soundly. “can i touch you?” you ask quietly after a beat, and you know he knows that you don’t mean touch him.
he clears his throat. “um,” he starts off. the streetlight flicks on again and you see him worrying his bottom lip. “i...guess. it’s okay.”
you hear the ruffle of his clothes as he stands (your clothes, actually - he’s wearing your old scratched record shirt that brings back too many memories, and because he’s only five feet tall and you’re six feet tall, it hangs off of him like a dress) and then he’s sitting on the same sofa as you. even that is a big step for him, with how claustrophobic he gets. you think it’s because he used to be free, used to be part of the wind, and being confined hurts him. you take the incentive to move over to him because you know he won’t, and then your arms are around him and he’s shaking in them. you swallow the lump in your throat.
you stay like that for a few moments before he shifts and then his head is in your chest and he has your shirt balled in his hands and you feel the hot splash of his tears against your neck. you wish jade were here because she’s the best at comforting him, but she’s asleep and you’re here so you have to get the job done. you rub soothing circles in his back and he sobs. “dave, don’t leave me,” he says, and that isn’t the first time you’ve heard that out of his mouth. he says it in his sleep a lot, screams it sometimes, and you wonder what he’s dreaming about where he’s losing you. maybe one of your many, many deaths in the game. “please. i love you, don’t go.”
you breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. “yeah, okay, i’m not going anywhere any time soon. you’re totally stuck with me dude. never gonna escape me.”
he laughs breathily, and you take it as a plus. it’s a minus, though, when the moment after he laughs he gives a sob. you’re afraid he’s going to have an asthma attack if he cries too much because it’s happened before and you had to take him to the ER. you sat in the waiting area with rose and jade and jiggled your leg up and down for as long as it took them to give him a breathing test or whatever-the-fuck they did. you clear your throat. the lump isn’t gone. “hey, don’t cry so much that you have another really bad asthma attack,” you say. “or that you get bronchitis. can you even get bronchitis from crying? okay, that sounds fucking dumb, i really don’t think that can actually happen and i don’t know why i said it at all.”
he laughs again. then he pulls his head out of your chest and his eyes are red from crying and there are dried tears on his cheeks, and you kiss the bruise on his nose gently and he waves you away, mumbling, “dave, that tickles.”
“’m real sorry,” you say, cursing your accent to hell. “about, the thing.”
he yawns. “it’s okay. you didn’t mean it.”
of course you didn’t, but that doesn’t make it any better. it’s been playing on a constant loop in your head for the past week. the crack it made when your fist hit, the look on the neighbor’s face, the look on rose and jade’s face. the fact that jade started crying afterwards and rose glared at you while she bandaged his nose and then for the rest of the night. the look on john’s face; hurt, betrayed, and fuck if it didn’t make you wish you still had control over time. “‘course not, but it was still an asshole thing to do. especially to you.”
the streetlight flickers on once again, and you see his eyes falling shut. this’ll be the first time he’s slept in two days, and you don’t plan on disturbing him. “night, dave.” he mumbles sleepily, and you nod, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
you don’t sleep that night, but it’s fine because john does.