Chapter Text
Your name is John Egbert, and today at precisely 7:45 am, you were informed that your best friend had killed himself.
Technically, he died this morning, and technically, you could have done something to stop it if you'd stayed up late talking to him like you normally did. But finals had been stressing you out so much and you really had just needed one night of decent sleep, so you'd logged off of Pesterchum around 11 and told him you'd see him tomorrow. He hadn't said it back, and you hadn't even noticed.
The official report says he lost consciousness last night, 11:55 pm when you were sound asleep and Houston, Texas was at its most quiet, but you've learnt that he didn't actually stop breathing until 12:04.
"It'll be okay," your dad says, but he has cried more than you and it has only been one day since you got the news. "Dirk says that they still have him on life support, son. People come out of comas all the time. Miracles happen every day. We just have to stay strong."
Yeah, you think, people do come out of comas all the time, only his coma had been deemed fatal within his first five minutes and you knew that Bro would only wait five days ( "-saying I'm your only family, so if one of us got seriously hurt it'd be up to the other to pull the plug, I just don't know if you'd be capable is all I was-"), because that is what Dave had wanted ( "and thats the fucked up thing, thinking that youd wait for me, if it didnt look like i was about to immediately spring back to life snow white style then id fully expect you to pull the plug on my ass-") when he and his brother had discussed it, briefly, on a whim ( "So how long would you want me to wait?" ) last August, when you'd been over because their air conditioner was better than yours and the three of you had watched Miss March. ( "five days. thats all id want you to go through, is five days. hell, throw my shit out in two.")
When you think about it, you kind of feel something like drowning.
You're supposed to go around to Dave's at 12, because your dad is letting you have a few days off of school and Bro doesn't want to clean out Dave's room by himself. "Isn't this moving a little fast?" you ask on the phone, words all weird and wobbly with feeling like you're about to cry. "I mean, it hasn't even been. He's still. Well, there's a chance-"
"Kid," he says, effectively shutting you up, but his voice is so much like Dave's and if you concentrate, you can imagine Dave growing into someone similar to his older brother. (The thought of him white and still and cold is too much for you and you can't stop thinking about the fact that you're going to have to attend his funeral.) "He's not comin' out of that coma. We both know that. I'd like to respect his wishes in whatever ways I can from here on out."
You aim for not letting your voice wobble from then on and manage something on the edge of your words that reminds you of glass shattering.
Texas is surprisingly cold, you think when you have to rub your hands together on the way across to Dave's apartment block, but maybe that's because you've never really done this walk without every intention to see your best friend. The realisation sets in cold, again, and they say that dealing with death is meant to get easier once you come to terms with it, but you swear you come to terms with it at least five times a day and it still hurts worse than the last every single time you think how you'll never see him shoot that cocky grin of his your way again.
Bro answers while you're still in the process of knocking. You look into his shades, and wonder if his eyes are red and puffy under them. Then again, yours aren't, but maybe that's because you haven't really cried about it yet. You're still kind of numb to the fact that, right now, Dave is completely dead save for the monotonous bleep of a heart monitor he's apparently hooked up too. "He's never going to wake up, Mr Strider, we're sorry for your loss. Would you like us to pull the plug?"
Everything sounds really surreal, and people have kind of been having to repeat themselves twice for you to register what they've said at all. Your dad thinks it's strange that you haven't cried, but by now he's probably ruled it out as a pride thing or a shock thing. Really, you think, you're not crying because though it has hit you like a tonne of bricks so many times, it hasn't really hit you yet. You understand the concept of never being able to watch Dave breathe again, but you have yet to experience the real thing.
(Bro invited you to come down with him Friday morning to pull the plug. You stayed in your bedroom for an hour staring blankly at your wall before you let him know that you didn't want to.)
Bro pulls you wordlessly into a firm, vehement hug upon answering the door, and when he pulls away he's close enough that you see drying tear tracks on his cheeks start to become wet again.
"I haven't touched anything yet," he says in answer to a question you never even asked, "because I figured you'd have a better idea of what he'd want us to keep around and what he'd think was worthless."
You think that Dave would probably just light the room on fire and watch it burn if he was here to help you guys, but you don't say so.
You and Bro walk in silence to Dave's bedroom.
There's police tape around his bed, blood looking like a faint chalky outline of a dead person where it's seeped through the covers and run around him. Looking at it makes you want to be sick, so you make a point of not doing it, and you start on Dave's closet.
The process is a little easier than you'd thought it would be- just a little- and mostly involves going through Dave's clothes and throwing out old unfinished homework assignments. Bro says you're welcome to keep anything you want. You say you don't want anything, but when he leaves the room, you fish Dave's hoodie, the red one he used to wear almost every day, out of the pile of discarded clothes and stuff it into your bag. You're a little closer to crying when you do this.
It's probably not a very big secret that you had some... less than heterosexual feelings towards Dave, at multiple points in your friendship. You grew up just disregarding those romantic moments between the two of you as perfectly normal, you were just close, it was fine, no big deal, up until around the time you turned 15 and realised you liked the smell of Dave's hair more than any straight boy should, and the way his eyes looked up close used to make you cry at night when all the lights were out and it was silent enough for you to think about loving him.
It was never an issue you touched on, and you don't think Dave ever knew, but when Bro comes back into the room and casts the briefest glances between where the hoodie had been and where your bag is now slightly bulging, you don't doubt that he did.
"Do you want a drink or anything?" he asks, politely avoiding calling you out on taking Dave's clothes.
You shake your head no.
"If you promise not to tell your dad, I can accidentally leave a bottle of Smirnoff in your general vicinity."
You think about it for a second, and then nod.
He goes to 'accidentally' find you vodka, and you go back to sorting through Dave's closet.
When you find the box, it's completely by accident. You weren't actually planning on going all the way to the back, because that's where people usually hid their most private things (you used to keep your journal back there) and even now, going through his stuff feels disrespectful and weird. You find it when you're tugging free a shirt that fell long ago from its hanger and got caught underneath a pile of junk, and it yanks forward with the fabric, making the sound of paper rattling against cardboard.
Later, you justify to yourself that, if it hadn't said your name on it, scrawled in black marker, then you would have put it back. Eagerly, you tear into it, brows pulled together and scenarios playing through. Either you left some clothes at his place once, and he never got around to giving them back to you- which is likely- or this is something entirely else, and...
It's full of letters.
You stare. You blink at it. They're set out neatly, two impressively large stacks sitting beside each other. Each one is sealed flawlessly in an envelope. Each one is numbered, and addressed to you.
Tentatively, you reach forward and take #1.
john.
okay. so. john.
wow this is so fucking stupid why am i doing this why why why this is so lame holy fucking shit
first of all just fyi ftr i could have started this with 'dear john' and laughed about it for seven centuries and the fact that im not doing that proves how serious this is, so there
how do i even start this
john.
i am writing to you today a letter that you will most likely never ever ever get to read, as per the advice of one snarky lalonde when i came to her seeking wisdom last night
as i usually do in times like these but youll see this time had more purpose as apparently were ""getting somewhere"" with my feelings
i am in love with you.
there
okay so like
i have been in love with you since we were 13 at least
actually i think i remember the specific day it started
we were swimming in harleys pool
you were wearing this
ugly neon blue thing
as shorts
like a complete tool
and i was laughing at you about it and then you started splashing me, and when you stopped you were kind of just
there
just close
and i realised id never actually noticed how fucking gorgeous you were
and yeah
ruined my fucking life man so
fuck you and your fuckin gorgeous face
sigh
anyway
im writing this because rose thinks i should get more in touch with my feelings
so here goes i guess
gettin in touch with the
feely feelins
mm
since then i think it was all downhill
this fuckin horrible roller coaster ride where there are no seatbelts and the wheels make these rattly noises that make you think the piece of shit is broken
and it only goes down
but like
sometimes
the rollercoaster does this really violent skid thing where you think holy shit im gonna fucking die but then you dont you just continue to go down and its like
oh
thats just about the best metaphor i can think of to sum up my feelings for john egbert
so when we were fourteen and we werent talking for a while
remember when we had that stupid fight about jade because you thought i liked her and i asked why you even cared and you said it was because she was like your sister and i
accused you of wanting to fuck her i think
it was dumb anyway i dont even remember it
but anyway id been having these dreams
these really really stupid dreams
and it started out as like
as not a big deal
like hey im a strider i can deal with a few nightmares here and there whatever
but then i started dreaming about you
and thered be these nights
where i would wake up, from having had this meaningless dream of you
whether you were just there in the middle of the nightmare or you *were* the nightmare didnt matter because all that mattered was that you were there in the dream at all
and i would be like
okay
im fine
and move on with my day
but then i would kind of think of you at the most inconvenient times throughout the day
not necessarily good or bad connotations of you or anything
i wouldnt be actively pining or actively resenting
youd kind of just be there in my thoughts
and id see you in school and
shit
shit it was horrible
youd do this thing where youd look at me when you thought i couldnt see
and youd look so sincere and sorry like you wanted to come over and talk to me
and i wished you would
but instead youd just look back down before i could make eye contact with you
and then if we did, youd scowl
like you werent just watching me with those crazy sick bambi eyes of yours
so id see you and id think of the dream
of you standing amongst all of these bones or all of this blood
my brother with a sword rammed through his chest and youd be there touching my shoulder
this horrible desolate land thats like a twisted surreal version of the floor is lava with this god awful disturbed ticking noise like the fucking alligator from peter pan is following me around constantly and youd be kind of in the distance watching me with this smarmy smile on your face
you were always there
and then after a while the dreams got to a point where theyd give me this horrible anxiety and i couldnt deal with them anymore
id wake up more than one night in a sweat
just shaking like crazy and secretly wishing i had parents to go and cry to because i didnt want to disappoint bro
or like
you
i used to wish that maybe one time id wake up and youd just be
*there*
next to me in my bed shooshing me and calming me down from the nightmare kissing my face telling me you loved me
fuck
sorry
but the fact that you were in the dreams somehow made them worse at first
like i couldnt trust you, like you were the nightmare and the thing i had to get away from
and then i started to really miss you
youd hang out with jade and
shit i remember i actually thought at one point that the two of you were dating just to get my goat or something
but anyway i missed you a whole lot so i thought that maybe the dreams werent so bad
so i started enjoying them
when you were there anyway
it was kind of messed up but id be standing amongst all of these dead bodies
then id realise they were me
and id start to panic but then youd just be there
hand on my arm or smile on your face
and id feel a lot better
so it was a coping mechanism for a while
im not saying that thats why i loved you or anything
no the dreams werent your fault or i didnt fall for you because you were helping me deal or anything
i just wanted to let you know that you helped even when you werent actively helping i guess
this is dumb
until next time i pour my heart out, yo
-dstrider
You stare, unblinkingly, at the letter in your hands, until your eyes feel tired and you realise Bro's standing in the entrance of the room watching you. Slowly, your eyes drift to the box full of letters, and then back to the one in your hand. You look at Bro.
He asks, "Whatcha got there?"
"Letters," you answer, and then feel your cheeks heat up. (But you don't feel like crying, not yet, you aren't going to cry here.) "I think Dave left me some letters. There are, um, quite a lot of them."
"Oh," he says, eyes moving to the box. "I don't suppose he-"
"Left you any?" John says, chewing his bottom lip. "I'll let you know if I find any."
Bro nods. "Cool."
"Sorry."
"S'okay. You still want the booze?"
So you spend the rest of your day like that, drinking hard liquor in the company of your dead best friend's older brother, and some part of it feels distantly warm. (Or maybe that's just the burn of the vodka.) Your chest is all heavy and hot and you smile when Bro makes jokes, laugh once, you think, and go home later more than a little tipsy with the remainder of the bottle tucked away in your bag. Bro never said you could take it, but you figure he won't mind.
Your dad tries to talk to you, but in the interest of not letting him know how drunk you are, you mutter that you're tired and don't feel like talking and take the box of letters to your room, closing the door (but not locking the door) behind you.
Belatedly, as you are taking the next one out, you wonder how many there are.
john.
today was fucking awful
i feel like i should let you know whats actually going on at the moment
as in the moment of me writing the letter not the ~future~ where you arent reading this letter
a week and a half ago bro took me to this big fancy white walled hospital place
yes i know what a mental health care building is but for the sake of this store were gonna call it derse because the place was scary as hell and the chick at receptions last name was derse i think
they diagnosed me with depression
pretty severe by the sounds of things because my psychiatrist dude had to talk to bro alone and he got all tight lipped and tight jawed when he came out and theyre putting me on medication so
i dont really want to take it
i want to get better i dont want artificial happiness and anyway i heard they make you all numb and crap
youre helping
i really mean that i swear i do
more than anything
more than the drugs or the dudes with the fancy degrees in the white walled room who think theyre better than me
youre helping
because today when those two assholes
gamzee and someone i think
were whispering about my scars and i freaked out because i could have sworn my sleeves never rode up around them
you stood up for me
you told them that they should stop being stupid and that if i had scars they were probably just from strifing with my brother
what did you call it
"really cool platonic bro sparring" i think
jeez youre a derp
but it made me want to cry in front of everybody and afterwards i just wanted to pull you away where i could talk to you alone and wrap my arms around you real tight
tell you thank you
cry into your shoulder for a bit
youd be so polite about it wouldnt mention that i was crying even though we were both obviously aware
because you kind of get it
i mean you dont
i dont think youve ever self harmed but
you get it anyway
because you get me
god this sounds so gay i dont even care
i also kind of wanted to take you home and sit you on my bed and straddle your lap
kiss you real hard
because im not good with words so
i figure id be better at using my body
conveying the words i cant say to you in the gestures i make
cant say "im sorry im a shit friend" so id kiss your neck until you sighed all dreamy
cant say "hey man ive been in love with you for nearly three years now" so id suck your dick
yknow
normal stuff
at any rate if you do ever end up reading this i just want you to know that i love you for being you and for standing up for me even if you dont really understand what youre standing up for
yeah
-dave
When you're finished this letter, you check the time, and realise you're exhausted. You also realise that this is about the time in your day where you'd shoot Dave a goodnight message on pesterchum. (So you do, and it's all in lowercase and without punctuation like he writes, like you're whispering.)
And then you curl up on your side with the second letter on your bedside table, the world shifting to black like it always does.