Chapter Text
You wake up like a champ. If champions were late, groggy, and actively hostile to sunlight. Your alarm’s been screaming for fifteen minutes and you’re still faceplanted in the pillow. Your hair is messy, you're sweaty. You feel like you were getting jumped in your sleep all night long.
What finally wakes you is your phone buzzes. First thing you see is a message from Jade.
It’s a GIF of a dachshund trying to crawl out of a blanket burrito with the caption: “when u try to leave bed but bed is god.”
You snicker into your pillow. Classic Jade. She never misses a morning meme. Like she’s got a legally binding contract with destiny to brighten your day with the dumbest dog content.
Another buzz. John in the group chat:
“the homeless guy by the shell gas station just tried to steal my bike AGAIN. while i was still ON IT. What the hell! ”
You rub your temples. “Damn, Egbert. Let the man get somewhere too. Maybe he’s got a meeting. Or a date. Or a job interview. If he was taking your bike with you with still attached. That's called efficiency, John, get with it.”
Before you can properly roast him, Rose chimes in.
“Dreamed I was suffocating under an avalanche of novelty truckstop mugs. All interpretations welcome. No, therapy is not an option for this."
You actually chuckle at that one. Leave it to Rose to unlock a new fear in you this early in the AMs.
With a groan, you haul yourself upright. Backpack’s already half-packed from last night. Future you occasionally throws you a bone every once and a while. You shuffle to your closet. Slide the door open to browse today's menu options.
Black. White. Red. Black. White. Red.
Yup. The official Strider color wheel. Somewhere between a checkerboard, a traffic signal, and an identity crisis.
You reach for the usual fit, then freeze.
Buried between the monochrome uniforms of your tragic brand management sits your old god tier outfit. Hood folded neatly, like it’s waiting for your next “adventure”. Next to it, are the time tables and a broken sword.
You stare. And it all comes rushing back. The meteors. The Choices. Death, so much death. Timelines. Trolls.…John, Rose, Jade, and you had all swore you’d do this differently this time. To live normal lives, and just act like Sburb never existed. You got damn lucky, and this is a new world. This time: No more heroics. No more martyrdom, no more world-ending nonsense. Just living. Just being stupid teenagers.
It felt like ages ago since you 4 started your first session…but it was a little over 3 years ago.
Your fists clench. For a split second, you swear you see the sky outside ripping open, meteors crashing down in fire and the screams again. You blink it away, and slam the closet door.
Backpack slung. Shades on. You step out into the living room and—
God fucking damn it.
Bro’s on the couch. Naked again. Blanket barely covering his junk like a PG-13 censor bar.
“Bro! UGH Broooo! Seriously. Put on some fucking clothes. Nobody wants to wake up to–to…this! I sit there sometimes, dude. Do you get that? Like, with my pants on. That’s where I recover from daily trauma. And you’re out here imprinting your ass ghosts onto the cushion. I’m gonna start charging the couch rent.”
Bro cracks one eye open. Shrugs.
“What?? Ugh. God. Never mind.” You glance at the counter. Bills stacked high enough to qualify as a knock off Jenga set. One in neon red lettering: unpaid water bill.
“By the way, maybe pay the water bill asshole before we have to start bathing in irony. Not everyone wants to stink ironically, you know.”
Bro doesn’t answer. He never does. He just reaches behind the couch and flings Lil Cal at your face, the puppet’s dead plastic grin filling in all the words he’ll never say. That’s how he communicates, through those things. And yeah, you get it, it’s his whole deal, but sometimes you wish he’d cut the ventriloquist act and just talk like a normal fucking human.
You swat the puppet midair, hurl it back across the room. “You’ve gotta get over these freaky-ass puppets dude. It’s unhealthy. Obsessive. Like, textbook case study of obsessively unhealthy. Some grad student’s gonna write a thesis about you one day, and I’m not gonna do the peer review on that shit.”
He smirks, leaning back down on the couch.
You mutter something about calling child protective services and stomp toward the door to go to shithole school.
The thing about Butternut Grove High is that it’s less of an educational institution, but more like a government-funded social experiment. To see how long teenagers can survive in a fluorescent-lit hellscape before committing arson.
You are in the hallway. Your locker is open. Inside your locker, is John.
Yup, John Egbert, stuffed inside like he’s some kind of rejected genie. His arms are folded, his hair is messed up, and he is wearing a sundress. Hmm. Not his usual look. The cherry on top? Lipstick. Purple in color.
You stare. He stares back. He drags his tongue across his lips, tasting the lipstick.
“Grape,” he says, smacking his lips. “Kinda delicious actually–Mmm.”
You sigh. “How many times, dude?”
“Three this semester. Four if you count the one time I climbed in myself to hide from the dodgeball tournament in P.E.”
You would like to say this is unusual, but no. This is exactly the kind of thing that happens to you. Wait, How the fuck does he know my locker combination? Who else knows it–
Ugh, you try to help John out of the lock, but he is really jammed in perfectly. It will take you some time and convincing the locker but it is doable
However, right on queue, the hallway quiets. Because he arrives. Seriously…
Your eyes narrow behind your shades. You mutter his full name under your breath like it’s a cursed phrase.
Nicholas Sebastião Pereira de Almeida.
He strides down the hallway carrying his books like he’s starring in an unpaid cologne commercial.
And he looks good. Damn good. You hate that he looks good. His hair is a cascade of dark brown waves with suspicious volume, like he emptied a whole bottle of leave-in conditioner onto his scalp that morning and whispered “L’Oréal, because I’m worth it.” It brushes his shoulders like it’s been contractually obligated by the Gods to make you look bad.
His eyes are… green? Blue? Greenish-blue? Whatever, they’re “alluring” in the worst possible way. His skin has the kind of golden tan that looks like he bathes in honey glaze. He’s wearing a pink button-up shirt under a green plaid blazer, like a Pepto-Bismol elf. A medal of honor pendant dangles on his chest. The right side of his blazer has the crooked crest of Butternut Grove High (which, let’s be honest, looks like it was designed in Microsoft Paint) and his pants are beige slacks that scream “Jake from State Farm, how can I help your wife today?”
You hate him. You hate that he looks like this now.
You lean against your locker, trying to look effortlessly cool. Except your hand is sweaty. It slides. You lose your balance and slam your head against the metal with the dullest clang in recorded history.
Nick stops. Turns. Looks directly at you.
“Strider…” he says.
It’s not affectionate. It’s not even neutral. It feels so clinical. He says your name like a doctor giving a terminal diagnosis.
You straighten up, adjust your glasses, and say his full name again. But this time, you stumble over it. You trip on “Sebastião.” It comes out like “Sebas-ti-oh, whatever.” Smooth. Real smooth.
Nick raises an eyebrow. Then his gaze slides to John, still sitting in your locker like a cross-dressing sardine. Jesus fuck me John, get out of the locker already.
“I never knew you were into shoving women into your locker, Strider,” Nick says evenly. His lips twitch into a smirk. “They say if you love someone, you keep them close. Not lock them up. But you never were good at reading between the lines. Let alone writing them.”
It’s a perfect burn. The kind of burn that dings your health bar so hard you swear you hear the critical hit sound effect in the background.
You want to clap back, but your brain is lagging.
Finally, you manage: “Man, you’ve gotta be some kind of painted show pony to carry around a name with that many syllables. At least I’m destined for more than a SoundCloud rap career someday.”
It’s not your best work. You know it. He knows it. Everyone within a fifty-foot radius knows it.
Before you can recover, John speaks up casually from inside your locker.
“Oh hey, Nick. Can I borrow your history book again for class today?”
Nick turns his gaze to John. If looks could kill, John would be a chalk outline right now.
“No,” Nick says. “Last time you tore out pages to make a paper plane.”
“I was trying to recreate the Wright brothers’ first flight,” John argues. “It nose-dived. Immediately. But I learned a lot from that experience. ” he says with the happiness of a Labrador. Little Egg was just doing his best it seems.
“You learned you’re an idiot,” Nick groaned, slamming his locker shut. He adjusts his books, already walking past you and John.
The warning bell shrieks overhead. Everyone starts moving almost at once. You reach out, half on impulse, half because you don’t want him to leave like this.
“ Hey Nick—”
But he brushes by you without looking back.
You’re left standing in the hallway, with your best friend in a locker, grape lipstick smeared across his chin. Rose silently watches from the end of the hall with a look that says ahhh, you’re pathetic David, and Jade wandering over with a half-eaten granola bar, “Hey guys, what’d I miss? You guys are going to be late for class if y'all keep fooling around, you know.”
History Class
You roll into history class, late, of course. But hey, it wasn’t your fault this time. John got himself caught in a locker like the world’s saddest dollar store Houdini, and you had to pry him out before the weird janitor found him. His little dress didn’t survive the struggle, so you tossed him your gym clothes. Not like you ever use them, PE is just a state-sanctioned embarrassment experience, you’ve happily opted out of.
The history teacher, Mr. Flexington—just a name you’ve given him because his arms are practically bursting out of his button-down. Dude is looking like he’s trying to body slam the entire Roman Empire. Mr.Flexington welcomes you with his usual booming enthusiasm. The man doesn’t just teach history. He bench presses it. You half expect him to suplex the whiteboard while screaming about the Peloponnesian War at this point.
But you? You’re not buying it. History would be way cooler if it were, like, a lyrical battle between dead guys. Instead of a TED Talk given by the Incredible Hulk’s nerdy cousin. Imagine Alexander the Great dropping bars about empire size while Caesar counters with “Ara Ara, *mic drop*”...wait, doesn't something like that already exist? Ah, who knows. Anyways that would be some quality shit. Not… whatever this is.
Your assigned seat is right next to…ugh… Nick. Which is both a blessing and a curse. John plops down on Nick’s other side and, like clockwork, immediately leans over.
“ Aww come on Nick. Can I just—”
Nick glares at him like he’s personally offended by the audacity of John’s lungs still functioning. “Not a chance, Egbert. Like I've said, you already destroyed the pages. I had to pay for this one. Leave me alone. I’m busy.”
John deflates, groans, and digs out his own notebook to take notes. You glance over, curious, and catch sight of Nick’s notes. And holy shit. They’re immaculate. Cornell style, clean margins, bullet hierarchy tighter than airport security, even the handwriting looks pre-printed. It’s faker than John’s tragic attempt at shaving.
The thing is… you remember Nick before all this. Before the Great High School glow up. Before the career path to becoming a Doctor. Before all the bullshit, he used to live in oversized sweaters and beanies, weighted down with enamel pins from whatever K-pop group he was obsessed with that week. Total koreaboo phase, he even dragged you into watching those dramas where someone’s always crying in the rain. You remember his dumb little pig-snort laugh whenever you dropped a joke that wasn’t even funny. He swore it was just your “delivery.”
Back then, he’d crash at your place after you two stayed up all night messing with music. You’d toss him your hoodies when he forgot his own, and the three of you—him, you, John–would play War Butt, the dumbest multiplayer fighting game ever made, better than Smash by a landslide. You three were hotter than the three amigos. Nick was that guy. He was your guy.
But now? Now he’s… this.
You’re still looking when his eyes flick sideways and catch you in the act. His eyebrows sharpen into little daggers.
“Sneaking a peek again, Strider?” he hisses. “Figures. That’s the only reason you scraped by the open notes quiz last week.”
You shrug, too cool to be fazed, and start to launch into a rant about academic gatekeeping or whatever. He rolls his eyes like you’re background noise.
Unfortunately, Flexington’s wrestler ears catch your voice and only your voice. “STRIDER! Interrupt my class one more time, and you’ll be sprinting laps through history itself!” Then “ No, Matter of fact, since you clearly have thoughts to share. Why don’t you tell us: who defeated the Spartans at the Battle of Leuctra in 371 BCE?”
You lean back. “Uh…Clearly Mr.Flexington, it's probably a bald sweaty guy who invented gyros?”
The class snickers. Someone coughs a “nice” from the back. Flexington doesn’t. He looks like you just kicked his ancient Greek puppy.
“OUT!” he roars, veins practically bursting from his head and neck.
You sling your bag over your shoulder and stroll out, smirk glued in place. But behind you, you catch it: Nick shaking his head… with a smile. Just a flicker. Like he almost remembered how things used to be.
The hallway feels quieter without the noise of Flexington’s booming voice. Your brain drifts. To Nick. To the fact that you two aren’t so different. Both had older brothers who became default father figures—Seth, in Nick’s case. Only thing is, you don’t remember Seth being around much, even when you used to hang at Nick’s place. Nick always preferred coming over to yours, despite his house being bigger, nicer. Parents gone in an accident—Nick never talks about it, never wanted to. Sometimes you think he hated them.
But one thing’s obvious: a guy with a name like his. High-and-Mighty definitely came from a pedigree. And unlike you, he’s got the money to prove it.
Suddenly, you are stopped. Halted. Ambushed in the goddamn hallway by none other than Lady Cunningham, the school’s renowned Bo Peep sweetheart. And no, that’s not like a dumb nickname. Her actual legal first name is “Lady”. Her parents thought their last name was too important to be sullied by something as mundane as, like, an actual first name. So instead they just slapped a Victorian title on her birth certificate and called it a day. Real classy. Real totally-not-going-to-mess-up-her-whole-life-trajectory classy.
She’s in her usual outfit—which is to say, not an outfit at all but some elaborate Victorian getup. It looks like she killed a particularly gaudy antique shop and wore its ghost as a fashion statement. Sometimes she makes them out of her mom’s old lace tablecloths. Sometimes she runs out and has to scavenge from Goodwill like a textile raccoon. It’s a cycle. It’s a system. It’s a goddamn fashion ecosystem operating entirely on its own chaotic frequency.
She’s too kind. Like the kind where if you told her your dog ate your homework, she’d probably bake your dog a cake and write it an apology note for the stress. The kind of gullible where a con artist wouldn’t even bother running a scam on her because she’d just hand over her wallet, her house keys, and possibly her family crest unprompted. Lady Cunningham doesn’t get scammed. Lady Cunningham pre-scams herself.
“Were you kicked out of class again?” she asks, all polite as hell. Like she’s not asking the school menace if hes broken another rule again.
You try to shrug it off. Cool. Collected. Ice-cold cucumber. Except she puts her hand on your shoulder, and that’s game over for you buddy. You can practically hear the crumbling of your walls of defense collapsing into rubble. Lady’s got that voice—soft as a…uh dusk mouse? (You don’t even know what a dusk mouse is, but you’re pretty sure it’s a thing, and also somehow soft enough to crush the spine of your willpower.)
“Dearest,” she says, offering one of her patented doll-faced smiles. “Is it about Sir Nicholas again?”
And you nod. Because yeah, of course it’s about Nick. It’s always about Nick when she catches you.
She guides you like some benevolent shepherd to a little nook off the hallway. It’s secluded, just enough to be the unofficial bench zone for either homework nerds or people avoiding eye contact. Perfectly cozy. Perfectly cursed for this kind of heart-to-heart ambush.
Then Lady, fucking Lady, reaches into her backpack and pulls out two porcelain teacups. Porcelain. With gold trim. Out of a Jansport. Then she pulls out a flask. Not like a degenerate whiskey flask. A Victorian-chic flask. The kind of thing you’d expect to see glued to the skeletal hand of an undead baron. And she pours steaming hot tea into the cups.
Where the fuck did that come from? Is she a modern-day Cat in the Hat? Is there a whole-ass set of china, a croquet set, maybe even a grandfather clock tucked in that bag? Does she have a black hole in there? She's like fucking Mary Poppins if Mary Poppins was raised exclusively on PBS costume dramas?
You just stare while she hums, dainty as hell, sipping her little tea like this is normal. Like you didn’t just watch contraband fine dining emerge from her bag.
“Oh David, my boy,” she sighs. “This has been going on between you two for years. At least since high school began. Have you two thought of… talking?”
And that’s when it happens. That’s when you unleash the patented Dave Strider verbal spiral of ironic but also kind of sincere rambling:
“Okay see, here’s the thing. Talking isn’t like some magic cure-all, right? It’s not like I walk up to Nick and go, ‘yo dude let’s squash this beef’ and suddenly we’re high-fiving in slow motion under a rainbow. That’s not how this shit works. Talking’s like—like flipping open a can of worms. Except the worms are radioactive. And also they’re holding grudges. And when you open the can, the worms unionize and file a lawsuit against you for worm abuse. That’s what happens when you talk. And me? I’m not trying to get sued by radioactive grudge worms on top of my already failing English grade.”
Lady just blinks at you. Sips her tea. Doesn’t even flinch at the worm lawsuit metaphor. Because of course she doesn’t.
You keep talking, even though she’s sitting there sipping her tea like she's an unshakable, porcelain queen. Meanwhile you’re internally combusting (as usual, your default state whenever anyone behaves like a sane, unflappable human being).
You admit it, half out loud, half in the messy echo chamber of your skull. You feel like you’re missing a piece of yourself without Nick. Like some doppelganger is out there walking around, pretending to be him, forcing your old friend to live a new life you barely recognize (and yeah, you’re pretty sure the doppelganger is better at math, style, and keeping plants alive, which is a nice little existential kick to your self-esteem).
You pause. Think harder than you want to. When you do, You don’t even actually remember what you did to piss him off in the first place (seriously, did you say one joke too many in eighth grade? Erase his playlist? Exist? You’re grasping at straws here). That’s when Lady actually stops mid-sip. Doesn’t swallow. Just side-eyes you over the rim of her fancy glass like you just confessed to smuggling cats into the royal treasury, and now she’s figuring out if she should intervene or just let the moral decay happen naturally. Can this woman hear my thoughts?? Holy shit she's on to me.
The silence makes your chest tighten, so you shake your head and shove it down. No way you’re letting that confession hang in the air.
“Doesn’t give him an excuse to act like a little bitch boy,” you mutter, because yes, that’s mature, and yes, it totally makes you look like a responsible growing adult. (Nah, you are looking like a clown right now)
She rolls her eyes, takes her sip, and lowers the cup with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of all the ungrateful teenagers, past, present, and future.
“It would seem you have not grown up yet,” she says, like she’s delivering an ironic weather report, predicting storms of poor decision-making. “You boys will continue to be boys for much longer, I’m afraid.”
You have no idea what that’s supposed to mean (probably some cryptic grown-up fortune cookie nonsense that will haunt your dreams).
“Yeah, thanks for the Dr. Seuss–styled tea party. Tis was a nice break,” you say, trying to mimic her tone (and failing spectacularly, because sarcasm and delicate Victorian cadence do not mix), and she actually giggles at the attempt, which is unfair and kind of unsettling.
For the record, you and Lady used to be in band together. Correction: you were in band until you got kicked out for not playing the electric triangle in sequence. (Again, just another avant-garde genius misunderstood by the masses).
Her? She’s a violin player so good it would probably make Mozart(or whatever old musical man) cry into his powdered wig (like in the “please stop showing me up centuries after my death” way).
Her and Jade are close, except Lady has an animal fur allergy. Aaand Jade is like a magnet for animal hair. So they gotta stay six feet of personal space apart every time they see each other. It’s silly and tragic. Maybe exactly the kind of ridiculous dynamic you’d expect from your life. Where everything’s a little funny, a little stupid, mostly unsolved, and definitely not yours to control. But the two make it work somehow.
Soon, the bell rings. A shrill little death knell for attention spans everywhere. Students flood the hallway. You turn your head, watch your history classmates pour out into the hall, all backpacks and loud voices and acne.
When you turn back, Lady Cunningham is still here, but the entire tea set has disappeared. Cups, saucers, fancy flask, the works. Her bag looks like it lost five pounds in an instant. You’d bet money she’s a witch, or at least smuggling dimensional rifts in that thing.
However, Your eyes snag on something more interesting than magic, John. He’s off to the side, smiling wide enough to sprain his face, standing next to Nick. And Nick surprisingly is handing him notes. Neatly written, color-coded, organically stamped notes.
John’s practically bouncing saying “Nick, dude, thanks! Seriously. I owe you, like, my whole grade. Holy cow, You write like an English teacher but cooler. Do you practice? Is there a calligraphy course for this?”
Nick, all calm and golden-boy-like, shakes his head. “I’ve got a good memory. You can have them. Definitely won't be needing it.”
John elbows him, grinning like an idiot. “Guess I’ll just share ‘em with Dave since he got kicked out again. Can’t let him fail alone, right?”
Nick actually chuckles but in that quiet and controlled way, like even laughing is part of the PR campaign. “They’re your notes now. Do what you want with them. Even if it's to drag him to the top with you. ”
That’s when you step in. Because of course you did when he said that. “Well, isn’t this cozy.”
Nick jumps, then pivots to face you. Hands on hips, in that full royal decree mode. “Strider.”
You lower your shades just enough to glare back and scoffed. “Almeida.”
John looks between you two like he’s watching a bad tennis match. “Uh, guys? We’re all friends here. Maybe. Kinda. Uh Nick, you did give me your notes, that’s basically friendship, right?”
Nick smirks, still watching you. “Don’t overthink it, Egbert. Someone’s got to keep him afloat.”
You choke up a laugh, zero humor in it. “Please. Look at you, with your little royal entourage. Got Lady Cunningham sipping Earl Grey like she’s the duchess of Goodwill, and you’re bowing in the hall like it’s your coronation day. What’s next Nick, knighting the lunch ladies?”
As if on cue, Lady Cunningham materializes next to you. She drops into a perfect courtesy before Nick.
“Good morrow, Sir Nicholas.”
Nick bows back without missing a beat. His blazer catches the light, basically sparkling.
You groan loud enough to rattle lockers. “Ughh, oh my god this is unbearable. Congrats on your little larping club. Meanwhile, my court is me and John, and last I checked, we don’t need crowns to validate our status.”
John finger-guns at you. “Court of losers, representing!”
“What? …John, dude, we gotta work on it man.”
Before Nick can cut back on John's mistake, the air gets sliced by a familiar voice.
“LADY!!”
Jade Harley barrels down the hallway, waving both arms like she is trying to flag a supply helicopter down.
Lady lights up instantly, hands raised in return. They both stop short at the six-foot allergy barrier but then mime a hug across the distance, grinning like lunatics.
“Oh Jade, dear~!” Lady sings. “Your presence fills me with a joy most divine!”
Jade giggles, rocking on her heels. “And you look so cute today! Is that tablecloth number four or five?”
Lady puts a hand to her chest tragically. “Five. Alas, the fourth was ruined by oil during home economics last week. A calamity beyond words.”
Jade gasps in return, like she’s hearing about a national tragedy. “Nooo! That was my favorite! You looked like a spooky princess ghost in that one!”
Lady laughs delicately. “Then the ghost shall rise again one day, just for you.”
They beam at each other giggling away perfectly in sync. You think that they’re on some cosmic frequency normal people can’t tune into.
And you don’t even roll your eyes at it. You just watch. And damn it, you’re actually glad. Glad Jade’s got someone who gets her, even if they have to air-hug across a hallway like it’s performance art.
By the time the next bell rings, the hallway dissolves into the usual rush-hour chaos. Everyone scatters to their classes, rinses and repeats until the end of the day. Nothing eventful happened today besides John’s nan showing up to the school and embarrassing him as she picked him up. It seems that homeless man actually ended up stealing poor Egbert’s bike. Shit was crazy.
And then, before you know it, the day is over. You drag yourself back to your dwelling like a man condemned to another evening of Strider-brand family dysfunction.
This time, when you arrive Bro is actually awake. He’s on the couch, glued to the TV screen. You glance at the screen.
A news report is on.
{“…the bizarre serial killer case has officially been closed. All thanks to the relentless and incisive work of ace detective Seth Melongo de Almeida…More on this story…”}
Seth, Nick’s older brother and Clovervale's top detective. It ain't nothing new to hear him on the news but today he's actually accepting an interview from the news reporter.
You look closely and watch as he stands there addressing the reporter. Damn this guy is looking sharp, and not just because of the expensive custom suit. His whole aura could slice titanium. His golden eyes glare out from the screen, so narrow and precise. Unlike Nick, Seth's eyes are predatory and were heavily complimented by his black rings around his underlid. His short curly afro is neatly kept, a beauty mark under his right eye catching the light like punctuation. The guy looks less like a detective and more like something god sculpted to make you feel inadequate.
You steal a glance at Bro. He’s not blinking and not even pretending to be chill about it. You’ve seen that look before, when you dug through the old Butternut Grove yearbook. Bro and Seth were in the same frame once upon a time. Bro never had the courage to ask the guy out. And Seth? Moved on with someone else. Now he’s completely untouchable.
You feel a crack in your heart for Bro. The guy who only speaks in shitty puppets. The guy who thinks irony is a food group. He’s down bad for him.
So you slide into the kitchen, grab a bucket of double triple chocolate fudge ice cream, and wordlessly pass it across the couch cushion. Bro doesn’t look, but his hand moves slowly over. He accepts the offering silently. The ice cream starts disappearing one spoon at a time, like maybe sugar will patch over the decades of regret.
You sit with him for a while. No words. Just presence. And for once, you think maybe that’s what he actually wanted.
Your head tips back against the couch, eyes tracing the ceiling. And your mind starts to drift.
[Back to the moment before you left. Standing with John, Rose, Jade, staring into the wormhole.
Karkat scowling, but not really. Sadness in the lines of his face, hidden under the yelling that never came. He never was good at expressing himself.
Kanaya, arms around Rose, holding her like she could stop time with her embrace. Rose breaks away reluctantly, not daring to meet Kanaya’s tear-streaked eyes as she was trying to mask her own. Feferi at Kanaya’s side, comforting her with gentle words. “Glub, it’s okay, we’ll be okay...” You can still hear it. As you all cross over through the portal
And then the rush. The green grass underfoot. Clear wind on your skin. The life you all left behind before…it was untouched. Exactly how it was before you and your friends fucked up.
“Dave…”
You heard a voice calling out to you.
“Dave”
It's closer now. It sounds like…
“Dave!”]
You gasped and flung open your eyes! You're back in your living room. TV off. Bro asleep, ice cream half-melted in his grip, Lil Cal slumped against his chest like a nightmarish teddy bear.
You sigh. Rubbing your nose bridge, and closing your eyes again.
This is how it’s supposed to be. You did the right thing. You chose yourself. Your peace. Your happiness. Your normalcy.
Own up to it.
Let it go