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6ftgirlfriend · 5 years

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Falling For Stars

Collaborators: @sweetdreamsjetaime 💝/ edited by @lovebird1517 💖

Word Count: 3.5k

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Lucas Lallemant/Eliott Demaury

Summary: Rising star, Lucas Lallemant, has no clue what’s going on. For all he knows, his costar, Eliott Demaury, doesn’t give a fuck about him. He had made that pretty clear when he got all cozy with his girlfriend, Lucille, right in front of him. So can someone explain to him why the hell everyone thinks they’re dating? or Co-Stars to lovers!AU with all the angst/fluff and French shenanigans to keep me up at night!

Episode 1 - Regret.

AO3 Link

He was falling into oblivion, willingly with no sense of control

Falling from the heavens, they would shine so bright

Falling into the ocean of his eyes,

they would pierce through the soul

Falling into the storms of his embrace, they would unravel the heart

The collision was inevitable, the comet’s end

No shooting star should feel this, to be a burning and dying wish

It was endlessly cold, infinitely dark amongst the others

He was the fallen star, forever trying to stay ablaze…

—The Little Lone Star

SAMEDI 9:12

Lucas jolts awake by a sudden noise. He’s brought back to reality when he hears the roaring echoes of the shower being turned on.

He squints up at a pale ceiling that was not his own. His was made out of glass that allowed him to gaze up at the stars whenever life got too rough. He’s always found comfort in them, but they are not here right now to calm his beating heart. Where the hell is he? The bed sheets curled around his torso are definitely not his. They are soft and comforting yet suffocating at the same time. The tidiness and luxury of the bed are a sharp contrast to how messy and average he remembers his to be. He feels out of place. Seriously? What the hell is happening? The grey curtains hanging loosely against the glass frames barely prevent any sunlight from seeping through. Lucas almost goes blind while trying to blink his heavy eyes open. He feels dizzy, disoriented and worst of all; like total absolute shit. Fuck! How much did he drink last night?

The hangover reduces Lucas to nothing but a living corpse. He tries his hardest to sober up, but every single one of his brain cells is screaming at him to stop overworking them. Not only is the sun trying to blind him, but the birds outside are chirping loudly to God knows what tune. The sounds of bustling cars and productivity outside rang through his ears and intensifies his headache. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs at the absolute mess it is. Suddenly, a cool breeze grazes his exposed skin sending a shiver through his whole body and leaving goosebumps in its wake. He curls up in the bedding once more but sits up in surprise when he notices that he was completely naked and space next to him is empty. He truly loathed his existence at the moment.

Lucas looks around the room with a big frown. The scattered clothes on the floor and the lone ripped condom packet by the trashcan don’t leave much to the imagination. Fuck, he had sex with someone yesterday in his drunken daze, didn’t he?

Lucas groans from the realization. He reaches for his clothes by the bed and tries to get dressed quickly. The sooner he gets the hell out of where ever the fuck he is, the quicker he would feel sane again.

He stops halfway through putting his shirt on when he hears the shower turn off. He turns to see an unfamiliar figure step out of the bathroom. Lucas chokes on air. The guy in front of him is half-naked, and Lucas’s brain short circuits. Droplets of water slowly drip down the man’s body, and Lucas uses his remaining self-control not to combust on the spot.

The nameless man seems unfazed by Lucas’s presence and proceeds to shake his damp chocolate curls into a small towel; his arm muscles flex with every movement. He looks unreal with a lean body that’s as tall as the door frame and broad, muscular shoulders. His skin is pale, and the yellow tint of sunlight makes him look as if he’s glowing.

Lucas snaps out of his daze and mentally scolds himself for thirsting over a stranger. The shame he was feeling a few moments ago comes back to hit him once again at full force.

Lucas doesn’t properly look at the guy’s face, but he knows.

It’s not him.

This man, as hot as he is, is not the one he wishes him to be. The one he dreams he could wake up to every morning. The one he wants is not his to take and keep. Lucas can’t even fantasize about what it would feel like to be with him. Yet, there’s an invisible pull that always leads straight to him.

Him, who, ever since the beginning, would send his heart running for the hills whenever he made eye contact with those steel blue eyes. God those eyes.

Lucas is too hungover to handle all this shit this early in the morning. He feels like an avalanche is submerging him. His whole body is frozen, and his heart is heavy. He fucked up. He really fucked up this time.

It hits him out of nowhere as the events of last night clear up in his head.

Regret.

***

YESTERDAY NIGHT, VENDREDI 21:41

The camera lights are flashing and lighting up the night. Lucas scoffs at all the people dressed in big fancy gowns and expensive suits. He wants to tell them that this is The César Awards and not a fashion show. Lucas lets it go because he won’t allow any negativity tonight.

He’s rejoicing because Je T’aime won Best Film. It’s the first movie Lucas played in that gained so much success. He even got nominated for the award of Best Actor because of it, but sadly he lost it to his costar, Eliott Demaury.

Lucas’s not even mad about it because anyone that has ever worked with Eliott knows that the man has a natural talent in acting.

Lucas remembers how shocked he was when he received the news that he would be staring along Eliott. Around that time, Lucas’s career in acting was starting to pick up after the public loved his performance in La Honte. His portrayal of a struggling teen with Tourette’s syndrome blew the masses away because it was the first time they saw mental illness depicted in a positive light. Two days after the news, he got to read over the script and instantly fell in love.

The film was based off a best-selling novel; about a Canadian teen, Hugo Babineaux, sent to study abroad in Paris, France. While there, he falls for his host family’s eldest son, Julien Favre. Julien is a devout Catholic, but couldn’t resist falling in love with the Hugo. Their forbidden love is passionate and bittersweet, as the film touches on the issues of homophobia and religion—the journey of coming to accept one’s sexuality and owning up to who you want to be.

Lucas practiced day and night to make sure he matched Eliott’s talent and did the role of Hugo justice.

But no amount of practice could have prepared him for the first time he met Eliott. Because fucking hell, the guy was beyond gorgeous in person.

Eliott’s icy gaze left Lucas breathless.

And I’m falling so hard for you.

He almost broke his neck from having to gaze up at him.

Would you be there to catch me, too?

He couldn’t be real. Those luminous caramel locks had to be made from strands of silk, entwisted, like a storm. He looked like an angel among men.

Maybe I should keep this to myself.

It was honestly intimidating to be working first time with such a renowned actor.

Waiting ‘til I know you better.

Lucas could only hope his weak, stupid heart could take it.

I don’t wanna be something you can throw away.

The film was a massive hit; the fans went crazy for the chemistry that Lucas and Eliott shared. They were the perfect duo. Lucas had come to understand everyone’s fondness towards Eliott, especially when he smiled so big that it reached his eyes. Or how his kind and bright demeanor would light up the room. But those little things shouldn’t matter. Why should he care that Eliott made his heart flip every time he enters a room?

It’s nothing but stage fright jitters. Lucas would reassure himself.

Eliott is an enigma. His happy-go-lucky attitude is a starch contrast to the vivid and dynamic characters he plays. His first role was that of a blind prodigal genius painter who had to adapt to life after a tragic accident flipped his whole world upside down. His performance in the movie landed him many awards, and he became one of the youngest actors to win the prestigious award in France.

Despite the unworldly harmony between Lucas and Eliott on the big screen and during interviews, it’s an entirely different story behind the scenes.

Anyone who knew these two could see the tension between them. Eliott loves to tease, calling him a hedgehog because of his wild spiky hair, and Lucas tries very hard not to blush every time he touched it. He also tends to sneak up on him and whisper random things in his ears, and that makes Lucas lose his mind. And Eliott’s answer to his flustered face is to outright laugh at him. Why did he let this guy get to him so much? Every time they would touch even by accident, Lucas would feel breathless.

Eliott must be doing it on purpose; he must enjoy seeing Lucas reduced to a complete mess.

But Lucas is done with these little games.

He plans to confront Eliott tonight and ask him exactly what the hell they are.

Lucas tried his best to avoid doing relationships, only settling for one night stands. He’s too scared of the paparazzi invading his privacy. Besides, Lucas isn’t out to the public yet. But he feels something for Eliott and is willing to risk it all for the chance of being in a relationship with him.

Lucas makes his way backstage to Eliott’s dressing room where the talk will take place. If everything goes well, they would be boyfriends by the end of the night. He abruptly stops when he sees Eliott in front of the room arms hooked around the small waist of a brunette. Lucas has seen her before. Her name’s Lucille Dubois; a supermodel, singer, and songwriter. She’s famous and loved by everyone. Lucas swallows the lump in his throat. They look good together. Perfect.

Of course, they would be dating. Lucas turns away, and his heart clenches at the reality that nothing could ever happen between Eliott and him. All the sneaky touches and stolen looks were for nothing. He can’t believe he let himself think that there was a chance Eliott would like him back.

He needs a drink. Now.

He heads straight out for the bar.

***

After only a few shots, the world around Lucas starts to spin, and he feels the adrenaline pumping through his whole body.

That’s when he sees it: a pair of long legs striding towards him in determination. Muscular and veiny hands pull him wrap around his waist and pull him in a tight hug. There’s barely any space between them, and Lucas shivers when a deep voice whispers in his eyes.

Lucas wishes the nameless hands buried in his hair belong to Eliott. But the reality hits when the man says in a low and raspy voice.

“I’m Étienne.”

Lucas looks away from his lips to his darkening eyes. Lucas is sure he won’t remember the name for very long, but he nods and presses his lips against his in a heated kiss.

He doesn’t know how they got to the apartment. Which wall he’s currently pressed against, but Lucas doesn’t complain. Their clothes are gone the moment they get to the bedroom.

Behind his closed lids, Lucas sees red flashes of visions. Is it another daydream? A memory? All he sees are familiar dark eyes piercing through him. Not now, please. Lucas runs his hand through Étienne’s hair in hopes of distracting himself from thinking of Eliott.

Why is he in my mind right now?

Étienne’s warm lips trace Lucas’s collarbone, and Lucas wonders what Eliott’s lips will feel like on his skin. He hates the fact that he’s so jealous of Lucille. All Lucas wanted to do when he saw Lucille wrapped in Eliott’s arms was to replace her. He wants to be the one that gets to kiss Eliott every time he wants and feel his beautiful hands on his body.

But that would never happen because Eliott doesn’t love me.

PRESENT, SAMEDI 9:31

A voice fades in,“…—cas, Lucas? Hello? Still with me?”

Lucas blinks at the waving hand in from his face. He cranes his neck up to look into a pair of concerned onyx eyes.

“Great, you’re back. You scared me.” Ethan? Elias? Says with a sigh.

His face immediately lights up when he locks eyes with Lucas.

“How was the view from up there? Did you catch any stars?”

His deep voice brings Lucas back to reality. Lucas must have been mentally gone for a long time because the man was now dressed in dark jeans and a black hoodie. He was also holding a coffee cup in each hand. The aroma of the drinks makes him crave the caffeine he needed to wake up.

Lucas quirks his lips because he’s suddenly feeling shy. He’s still half-naked and is in desperate need of a shower. He stares at the wall behind the boy trying to find his way out of this shitty situation.

‘I’m sorry, but it’s been fun.’ No, too passive. ‘Look, this can’t happen again.’ Too insensitive. ‘It’s not you; it’s me?’ What a fucking cliche.

“Uh, ahem—No stars, just really tired.” He settles avoiding eye contact at all cost.

“Yeah, I get that.” The pretty stranger chuckles softly with a coy smirk.

“I mean we didn’t get much sleep last night. Are you sure you are okay?”

Lucas nods shyly, cheeks heating up.

“Good. How about some coffee? Croissants?” The guy smiles brightly and gosh, why does he have to be so lovely? It only makes him feel ten times worst for what he’s about to do.

“Coffee should do, thank you…?” Lucas dragged it out, waiting for a name as he takes the cup of coffee. The handsome stranger seems to get the memo and answers quickly. “It’s Étienne, Étienne Calvet.” Étienne’s smile grows wider when Lucas almost spills coffee on himself.

Étienne Calvet. The name rings a bell; he’s a famous model in Paris. He has soulful eyes and perfect features that are often present on brand names such as Givenchy, Lanvin, Prada, and YSL. Lucas heard a lot about him because Étienne is also a writer and openly bisexual. Lucas mentally scolds himself for not realizing who he is sooner.

“No need to thank me. Listen, last night, we didn’t have time to introduce ourselves, but I know you. Lucas Lallemant, right?”

Lucas could only nod, still in shock. Étienne squeals.

“Wow! I can’t believe it. You almost won the César Awards. Congratulations on the nomination! The movie was beautiful. That scene where he dives into the ocean when he found out—” Étienne goes onto praising Je T'aime in great detail.

Lucas wants to dig a grave and bury himself in it. Étienne sounds genuinely interested and excited like a fanboy meeting their favorite celebrity for the first time. Lucas is not sure if he should be flattered or creeped out.

He doesn’t have much time to think about it. He needs to come clean to this guy. He swallows his guilt down and proceeds to grab the sheets around his waist, giving Étienne a stern look as he gets up from the bed.

“Look, thank you, Étienne.” Étienne’s smile only gets brighter.

“For everything but I’m sorry this…” Lucas gestures between them. “It can’t happen again…” Lucas feels like vanishing into thin air when he sees Étienne’s eyes dime slightly. He gazes downward for a few seconds before bringing his face back up with his signature smile.

“As I said before, no need to thank me. But could we at least be friends?” Étienne is now looking down at the ground again, resembling a kicked puppy. He has a way of making Lucas feel like a total dick.

Lucas knows it’s not a good idea. He should decline and spare Étienne the heartbreak, but he’s not thinking clearly right now. So he holds out his hand with a small smile.

“Okay. Just friends.”

***

SAMEDI 10:19

After almost an hour or so, Lucas finally steps out into the streets of Paris. After running through the shower and exchanging numbers with Étienne, they said their goodbyes. Étienne’s hopeful expression is going to haunt Lucas forever. But for now, Lucas pushes all that away and focuses on getting home.

Lucas has always loved mornings the most out of all the times of the day. Fresh air, dew on the pavement and the calming ambiance are precisely what he needs at the moment to relax.

Which is why he decides to take a short walk around the city. He still can’t believe he slept with a complete stranger. A part of him gets it; he was heartbroken and miserable. For fuck sakes, the guy he loves is dating another person. He had every right to act on his emotions. He fell for Eliott like those shooting stars he sees every night before falling asleep. Ugh.

He shakes his head to snap out of his negative thoughts. This needs to stop. Seriously. He needs to focus.

Lost in thought, Lucas doesn’t notice a group of suspicious men following him. The men were discreetly taking pictures of Lucas, trying to figure out where he was last night. According to the rumors, Lucas left with a special someone. They were vultures preying on the carcass of any previous night’s drama.

They wanted to be the first one to get the scoop, and so they hurriedly make their way to an unsuspecting Lucas.

“Lucas Lallemant! Monsieur Lallemant! Can we ask what your whereabouts were last night!?”

Fuck. My. Life.

Lucas mentally curses his luck. He knew this was going to happen eventually, but why now? Lucas knows he looks like complete crap right now, and that’s not an appropriate look for the cameras. Great fucking timing. The universe must be laughing at him.

“Monsieur Lallemant, are you aware of the rife speculations that you might be seeing someone? Can you tell us who!” One of them urges boldly. What kind of sick question is that? Lucas is shaking; not only from anger but also from fear.

His fears of being outed. He’s afraid the world would criticize him, and people would label him as just another “gay icon.” He didn’t want to be a label. He’s just a man named Lucas that happens to like other men. That should not be a reason for people to criticize him.

Did they see us? Who else saw him leave the party?

Lucas is usually really good at dealing with the mobs of paparazzi, but today, he is beyond exhausted. Not wanting to start a scene, he quickly covers his face and flees from the scene. He vaguely hears them say something about a hickey at the back of his neck followed with the sounds of cameras flashing.

His eyes widen in panic.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Lucas can’t breathe because his lungs are now filled with dread. His heart is drumming quickly in his chest.

Flashes of this father’s disappointed scowl washed over him. He feels sick to his stomach. His dad hated his existence already, so what would he think when he founds out Lucas is gay?

He would probably say with a disgusted face that he was disappointed in Lucas.

No!

Why should he even bother if he’s going to be a disappointment anyway?

Shut up!

Why can’t he be like the others? He just had to end up being the unwanted gay son, didn’t he?

Stop it!

Lucas starts running; becoming one with the wind. He is running away from not only the paparazzi but also all his problems. His heels are clicking on the stone pavement as he zooms past pedestrians and street performers.

Could this day get any worse?

And the universe gladly accepts the challenge. Within the next moment, his phone starts vibrating from a message. Lucas abruptly slows down and hesitantly pulls the device from his pocket, unlocking the screen.

It’s from him.

Eliott.

Eliott: “Mind telling me why people are saying we started dating?”

Eliott: “You could’ve asked me first, Lulu. ♥️”

The next text sent makes his heart drop. It’s a slightly blurry picture of himself leaving the bar. He looks extremely drunk and is holding hands with someone. Lucas is a hundred percent sure it’s Étienne dragging Lucas to his apartment. Thank fuck, the picture is so blurry no one could see anything but Lucas. However, the headline reads, “WHO WAS THIS MYSTERIOUS NEW FLAME?” And the article goes into details of webbing lies out of the photo.

It’s like time had stopped and the world froze. Lucas’ head is pounding from everything that’s happening at once.

This was it — the biggest mistake of his life.

He wishes for a falling star to crash upon him. He just wants it to end it all.

TO BE CONTINUED…

(A/N: Oh.My.God. This is my first time writing fanfiction, guys! I hope you guys enjoyed it!! Special thanks to @sweetdreamsjetaime and @lovebird1517 for helping me!

Additional info: I’m thinking of making this into a tv show format about these two soulmates having to work for their love (the angst, the drama!) but it’ll be worth it by the end. There’s going to be behind the scenes content too (meaning; covers, magazines, and social media content?), so watch out for those (SKAM style👀). I would also love to read your feedback and any thoughts you have on the story! ☺️ Thank you so much for reading! Best wishes!🌠)

#skam france #skamfr #elu fanfic #elu fic #myedits #elu aesthetics #ffs fic #falling for stars fic #i can't believe i did this #this was so fun!#I hope you enjoyed this #lucas x eliott #lucas lallemant #eliott demaury #elu au #elu au fic #skam elu #elu

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tactfulgnostalgic · 6 years

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how to never stop being totally not okay: a guide to emotional repression for idiots in love with other idiots (by dirk strider)

alternatively titled: baby, are you existential dread? cuz you make me deeply uncomfortable in ways i don’t care to think about (the john egbert life story)

Summary: How Dirk Strider stole a car, learned to drive, and got a boyfriend (in that order).

(a late birthday dirkjohn road trip fic for my friend lou @vanillacorpse @centercharter! happy birthday, lou!)

1. When he asks you whether you stole it, say no.

“Please tell me you did not steal that,” says John.

“Why does that matter.”

“Because it matters! And because when Terezi asks me about it later, I need plausible deniability. Tell me you did not steal this vehicle.”

“I . . . did not steal this vehicle.”

“Okay. Now, are you saying that because it’s true or because I told you to?”

“What happened to plausible deniability?”

“Never mind.”

From behind the wheel of a glossy, scarlet, brand spanking new Maserati, Dirk Strider says, “Look, are you coming or not?”

From the front porch of his house, dressed in pajamas and sandals, and holding a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, John Egbert says, “Yeah, I’m coming.”

At four o’clock in the morning, the neighborhood is quiet and dark. The trees rustle in a gentle breeze. A cat prowls along the sidewalk, its first and second eyes a luminous yellow, its third and fourth a vivid green. Down the street, a light is on in Jane’s kitchen, and through the curtains, someone is moving around. Maybe it’s her dad, downstairs for a nightcap. Or maybe it’s Jane. She’s taken up late night baking recently. The last time Dirk checked, the melatonin was working, though, so it’s probably her dad, after all.

You’re a god, now, technically,” John gripes. He slams the door shut with a force that has Dirk opening his mouth to complain about treating the car better, until he remembers that he stole this thing off the display room floor an hour ago, and also that he doesn’t really give a rat’s ass what happens to it. “You can just make infinite money. Or alchemize a car. Or ask them for it, they’d probably give it to you. Why do you need to steal.”

John has this habit, Dirk’s noticed, of asking questions that aren’t questions, questions that are more an opportunity for the other person to prove John wrong than honest inquiries about things John doesn’t know. For example, this one.

“You’re also a god,” Dirk points out. “You live in an apartment the size of my garage. Why not buy a castle? Why not build one?”

“That’s not even, like, slightly the same thing, dude.”

“How so.”

“For one thing, I don’t -- you know what, no. It’s too early for this. Start driving before I change my mind.”

“If you don’t want to come,” Dirk begins uncertainly, and John groans.

“Drive.”

“Okay.”

It started with a midnight text.

Dirk doesn’t exactly know why John hangs out with him. He doesn’t. It makes sense for John to hang out with Roxy, because of . . . shenanigans in their past that nobody really talks about. And with Jake and Jane, well, they’re literally genetic family, so they probably have a lot of shit to talk about. And of course he’d keep in touch with his friends from his session. That doesn’t require an explanation. But there’s not much that Dirk has to offer John, except a whole fistful of absolutely no personal connection. Their first conversation took place in the aftermath of a dying universe, except Dirk doesn’t remember that. So their first conversation was . . . hours after the Game, Dirk guesses. Or maybe earlier than that. He doesn’t remember their first words. It was probably something inane along the lines of “Sup, bro,” or “Nice one.” Dirk probably said something stupid. John probably gave him a weird look and then left him alone. Statistically speaking, that would be how it went.

But somewhere along the line neither of them knowing each other turned into an advantage instead of a reason to avoid each other. Sometimes, when half of your social circle was related to you and the other half had dated you or one of your relatives in the recent past, it was refreshing to hang out a total fucking stranger, for a change.

So when John said, “I need to get out of this fucking town,” what Dirk said was not “Sounds rough, I’ll text Jade,” but instead, “I can get us a car by Friday.”

And instead of saying, “Um, okay, that’s kind of weird, I was just talking about a hypothetical,” John said, “Sweet. Come by my place as soon as you have it,” because he’s the kind of guy that says things like that. Dirk wishes he were the kind of guy who said things like that.

Granted, John does look a little bit like Jake, which is weird sometimes. He looks enough like Jake that Dirk has commented on it, once, in one of his habitual fits of saying dumb shit without thinking about, which that happen to him, sometimes, because his life is hell and existence is suffering. But John, after blinking in surprise, only laughed. “Haha, that’s kind of weird,” he said. “Didn’t you guys used to date?”

“Um,” said Dirk.

“Yeah,” said Dirk.

“I mean, kind of,” said Dirk.

“We broke up,” said Dirk.

“Whack,” John had said indifferently, and returned to ruthlessly beating Dirk’s ass in Mario Kart.

And because Dirk doesn’t know how to have nice things without fucking them irrevocably, he may or may not be a little bit in love with the guy. So he’s got that going for him.

John’s house is in what would be called northern California, if things like the United States government still existed, and if any of the people who created and shaped the global civilization had ever been to California. Upon Dave’s request, every principality and township in the continental U.S. had been subtitled Striderville, with various numerical identifiers to differentiate them. Austin was Striderville No. 1. New York was Striderville No. 7. Minneapolis was Striderville No. 666, for reasons that were unclear to everyone except Dave Strider, who when asked would only grimly profess, “It knows what it fucking did.”

Sacramento (Striderville No. 148) fades in their rearview as they soar across the freeway. Dirk, who has been getting this far on intuitive knowledge and gumption, takes the opportunity to admit, “I don’t actually know how to drive.”

It takes a moment for this fact to register.

“What do you mean,” John says slowly, “you don’t know how to drive?”

“It means what it means. I never learned.”

“What the fuck do you mean you never learned how to drive.”

“I mean that I grew up in the middle of the fucking ocean, Egbert, where was I supposed to get a car?”

“You’re driving right now!”

“Yeah, I mean, the operating part isn’t hard. It’s the lane stuff that makes it all complicated. Like, when to turn and shit. Actually, I think I memorized an old Texas driver’s ed manual once. Does that count?”

“No!”

“No need to get worked up about it,” Dirk mutters.

“Oh, my God,” John says, face in his hands. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die and it’s going to be because of you.”

“That’s a little dramatic.”

“It’s really not.”

“Have we crashed yet?”

“Let me drive,” John orders. “Pull over.”

Dirk really should let John drive. It’s the responsible choice. It’s the reasonable choice. It’s the choice that anybody with a lick of common sense to scrap together in their entire body would make.

Obviously, Dirk says, “No.”

“Do you even know what a stop sign is?”

“No, but if I employ a little bit of deductive reasoning, I bet I have a great guess.”

“What’s the first thing you do at a four-way?”

“Make sure everyone’s got a safeword.”

“Dirk, shut up, Jesus Christ. I bet you’ve never even had sex,” John says irritably, as they sail over the city limits.

Trying desperately not to actually sound wounded, Dirk says, “That’s a little below the belt, don’t you think.”

“How would you know? You’ve never gotten below the belt, have you?”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does if you’re not a virgin.”

“I’m not -- this conversation is ridiculous.”

“Virgin says what?”

“You’re bullying me. I’m being bullied, right now, by my own friend.”

“I get what Jane means,” John says, thoughtfully. “This really is therapeutic.”

“What? Making fun of me?”

“Yeah,” he says placidly. “Really good for the blood pressure. Hey, do you mind if I take a nap real quick?”

Dirk does a double take. “What happened to me not driving?” he asks suspiciously.

“Eh,” John says, waving it off, tipping his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes. “Don’t worry about it. You’re doing fine.”

“Wait. Do you know how to drive?”

A tiny smile tugs at one corner of John’s mouth.

“Your session started when you were thirteen,” Dirk exclaims. “You wouldn’t have had time to learn.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You didn’t even care about it, did you.” The accusation is flat.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmno.”

“You were just fucking with me.”

“Uh-huh.”

Dirk considers this.

“You’re a jackass.”

“Yep,” John says happily, and tosses his feet up on the dash.

2. Don’t let him pick the music.

“I get to pick the music,” John decides, apropos of nothing, around 6:30, when they’re in the middle of southern California (Striderville No. 83-195). The sun is just dawning behind them, a blinding pinprick of white against the asphalt in the rearview. It casts sharp rays of orange light through the back windshield, lighting their faces in warm colors, bathing the cab in yellow and the road in front of them in shadows that seem to stretch on for miles.

“What? No, you don’t. I’m the driver. Driver picks the music.”

“Driver has to keep his hands on the steering wheel. Driver can’t stop me.”

“I’ll pull this car over, so help me God.”

“No, you won’t,” John says cheerfully, reaching for the radio.

“Wait,” says Dirk, panicking. “Don’t --”

“WHEN I WAS A YOUNG MAN--”

John wheezes.

“--MY FATHER TOOK ME INTO THE CITY, TO SEE A MARCHING BAND--”

“Listen,” Dirk says, speeding up. “Listen, right, okay, listen, it was in the car when I stole it--”

“HE SAID, ‘SON, WHEN YOU GROW UP, WILL YOU BE--”

John hoots. He shrieks. He cackles, slapping the dashboard of the car like he wants to beat the dust out of it.

“It’s a good record, okay, fuck, I mean, like, it’s not the worst thing--”

“THE SAVIOR OF THE BROKEN, THE BEATEN, AND THE DAMNED?”

“I’m texting Roxy,” says John, wrestling his phone out of his bag. This terrifies Dirk so badly that he actually takes a hand off the wheel to make a mad grab for it, and the car swerves, careening towards the shoulder.

“HE SAID, ‘WILL YOU DEFEAT THEM?’”

“You can’t do that,” Dirk says, his tone hovering two octaves above where it should be. “Listen, she doesn’t need to know about this--”

“Roxy would murder me if she found out about this and realized I hadn’t told her, dude, are you kidding me? Look, it’s an ethical obligation, if anything--”

“YOUR DEMONS? AND ALL THE NONBELIEVERS? THE PLANS THAT THEY HAVE MADE?”

“John,” Dirk says. “John. John. Listen to me, John.”

The shutter of the Apple camera closing, artificial and tinny, ricochets throughout the car like gunfire.

There is a long moment of silence, then, where the only sound is Gerard Way’s indecipherable howling.

“BECAUSE SOMEDAY, I’LL LEAVE YOU, A PHANTOM TO LEAD YOU IN THE SUMMER, TO JOIN THE BLACK PARADE.”

John and Dirk regard each other frostily.

“Give it to me,” Dirk orders, vaulting over the seat divider, and John yells, seizing the steering wheel: “DUDE, THE ROAD,” while also holding the phone as far away from Dirk’s grasp as his considerable armspan can possibly reach.

The car cuts a wild path across the interstate, zigzagging freely between the four lanes as if the lane dividers were more suggestions than rules, at one point almost turning a complete 180 and cruising back the way it came. Black skid marks sear the road under the tires when John wedges himself far enough into the driver’s seat to slam on the brake, and Dirk tries to take advantage of the opportunity to grip John’s wrist and pry his fingers off the phone.

“This is for your own good,” John grits out. “Roxy -- has the right -- to know --”

“Egbert, so help me God.”

“That’s also me, dumbass, and I’m not helping you--”

“I’ll give you anything you want.”

John pauses, the car slowing to a cool forty miles per hour, and says, “Anything?”

From where he sits, perched on the divider between seats like a gangly bird of prey, clinging to John’s outstretched hand like a kitten dangling over a waterfall, Dirk vows, “Anything.”

John grins, and lets go of the phone.

Dirk shuffles into the passenger’s seat, rolls down the window, and flings the offending device out into the street.

“Aw, man,” John complains, watching it bounce and roll away in the mirror. “I had a lot of music on that thing.”

“I’ll buy you another phone. I’ll buy you ten phones.”

“What the fuck am I gonna do with ten phones?”

“I dunno, dude, they’re your phones.”

John shakes his head. “Anyway,” he said. “You said anything.”

The man hasn’t stopped grinning since Dirk agreed. It is a truly unsettling sight.

“I don’t kiss. Aside from that--”

“Oh, man, literally fuck OFF--”

Dirk turns off the radio, which had metamorphosed into the song’s iconic caterwaul of guitars. “A deal’s a deal. What do you want from me?”

John says, “Can you read that exit sign for me?”

Dirk looks up and squints.

“You can take the dumb glasses off. That might help.”

Dirk does not, and so he doesn’t read what the exit sign says until John is steering them steadfastly towards it.

“No,” he says.

“You said anything.”

“I take it back. You know what, you can use my phone to text Roxy yourself. Strike me down for my arrogance. Smite me. Ruin me. Post nudes on my Facebook account. I don’t even have nudes. I’ll take some so you can post them. Just put my ass on blast. Or do you want to decapitate me? That’s very in, nowadays.”

John cackles, again.

The Maserati sails under the exit sign for the Wet N’ Wild Slippery Funtimes Happy Place Water Park, and Dirk Strider, neither for the first time nor the last, contemplates climbing out the window.

3. Do not, under any circumstances whatsoever, go to the waterpark.

Dirk is hot, wet, and covered in skin-tight clothing, and none of it in the fun way. He views this series of information to be a remarkably concise way of summating his life.

John strolls ahead. The bastard is barely wet. Somehow, the water always seemed to avoid him, migrating away from his form as if swayed from its course by his own ineffable good temper, and when he did get dunked, he could summon a gust of wind to dry himself off with all the effort it took to snap his fingers.

The Heir of Breath is such a useful classpect that sometimes it makes Dirk want to scream. Of course it would be Egbert who got the powers that served some fruitful day-to-day purpose.

He floats along instead of walking, like John, because unlike John, Dirk doesn’t derive pleasure from doing things the boring and painful way. Dirk spends most of his time off the ground, actually, even if it’s only by a few inches. It saves him the effort of having to walk.

“You look like a drowned cat,” John says, not unsympathetically.

“You’ve never fucking seen a drowned cat.”

“How do you know? I’ve seen a lot of shit. Maybe a drowned cat was part of it.”

“You know,” Dirk suggests, “if you really feel that bad, you could help me out. By doing things like . . . oh, I don’t know. Drying me off.”

“There were towels at the store,” John says innocently. “You could’ve -- hey, whoa, whoa. You gonna just climb into your luxury sports vehicle like that?”

Dirk, sopping wet and dripping onto the pavement, stops with his handle on the car door and gives John a dead-eyed stare.

“Just saying,” John says, raising his hands. “That’s leather upholstery. You get that wet, it’s gonna stink.”

“John,” Dirk says very quietly. “If you want me to dry off. You could summon the wind. To do exactly that.”

John presses his lips together tightly, brow furrowed in thought. “Hmm,” he said. “You know, I could do that, couldn’t I?”

“Yes.” Dirk resists the urge to vault over the hood of the car and throttle the man he is currently in love with. “You could.”

John summons a small tornado in the palm of his hand. “It’s really just so convenient,” he says blandly. “Don’t you think, Dirk?”

“It certainly would be,” Dirk says, grinding his teeth.

“Of course, I’d only ever do it with your permission. I wouldn’t use my powers on anybody without their consent, first.”

“Consider this,” Dirk grits out, “my full and enthusiastic consent.”

“Really?” John arches an eyebrow. “You’d just let me do that, Dirk? Wow. That’s a lot of trust you have in me. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just dry me off, asshole.”

John leans on the hood of the Maserati, arms folded, one ankle balanced on his knee. He grins, flashing thirty-two glossy white teeth, and the breeze stirs his hair just so, tousling it with a rakish charm. When Dirk looks at him, something twists in his chest. It feels hot and uncomfortable, and he doesn’t not like it, exactly.

Then he gets whisked into the air by a gust of wind, wrenched up like a ragdoll on the breeze.

As he soars through the air, one brief, fury-infused thought flashes through Dirk Strider’s mind:

He knows what he’s doing, the little shit.

Then this thought is swallowed by Dirk remembering that he can fly, and catching himself before he faceplants into solid concrete. Getting uppercut by the manifestation of the wind itself is bad enough. Eating shit in front of the guy you’re going on a roadtrip across America to impress would add insult to injury, really.

He staggers to his feet and trudges back to where John stands, bent over on his knees, still heaving with his last paroxysms of laughter.

“Granted unthinkable fucking cosmic powers,” Dirk seethes, “uses them like this. Oh, sure, that’s a great way to spend your time. Not like there’s anything more useful you could be doing with them. I’m sure that’s what you got them for. Tossing me around like a limp sack of nickels, that’s the real reason you got to be a fucking airbender.”

“Heh,” John says, straightening up, “yeah. I’m pretty great.”

But the smile he offers is smaller than it could be, and the laugh has gone out of his eyes, and Dirk is struck with a sudden pang of regret. This is chased by a needle-sharp jolt of self-hatred, because he knows what he did, and if he’d thought for half a fucking second before he spoke, he wouldn’t have said it.

They don’t talk about the Game.

4. Don’t think about the past.

Four months after Sburb ended, half of their friends still woke up screaming.

The other half didn’t, but that was because they hardly fucking spoke at all in the first place. Jade once went for a whole week without saying a word out loud to another human being. Jake fucked off into the woods for almost a month and didn’t take his phone with him, leaving everybody to wonder whether or not he’d wound up dead at the bottom of a waterfall somewhere until he came back. Roxy started coding again, but intensely, obsessively, staying up until ugly hours of the morning staring at lines upon lines of unforgiving binary, surrounded by empty cans of Redbull and wearing bags under her eyes. The Lalondes mourned lost mothers and walked quickly past bars, and Dave still couldn’t look Dirk in the eye without flinching, and they were all of them a little uncomfortable with each other, a little too aware of how like much everyone resembled some lost parent or dead guardian. Jane had her dad, but Dirk knew it wasn’t the same. There were some things so painful it became an act of trauma to speak it out loud.

Dirk remembers a lot of things, from that initial period of settlement, when they were learning how to be people instead of gods.

He remembers Jane turning up on his doorstep with a sleeping bag and a pillow, exhausted, tear tracks under her eyes, asking to sleep over because she couldn’t spend another night in the same house where she’d lived under threat of attack for thirteen years and six months. He remembers getting her settled on the couch in his living room, awkwardly trying to make her take the bed, and her refusing stubbornly because she “didn’t want to inconvenience him any more than she already had.” He remembers having a panic attack and locking himself in the bathroom before calling Roxy, demanding answers, demanding her to tell him what to do, how to deal with this, why anybody thought he was the person to go to for help--

He remembers Roxy turning up half an hour later with her own sleeping bag, and Jake in tow. Jake and Dirk hadn’t spoken in God knows how long, then, but it didn’t matter, because Jane was crying in a sleeping bag on his couch and that meant not a single other fact in the whole fucking world mattered one goddamn whit.

Dirk wonders who John went to, when he woke up screaming. If he woke up screaming.

He remembers that John doesn’t just come from a different universe than everyone else in the world, than Dirk and his friends. John comes from a different timeline. John’s friends have had two years, from their perspective, to learn how to be without him.

If Dirk were a braver person, he’d ask what that felt like.

If Dirk were a much braver person, he’d ask whether it felt good.

Instead, Dirk says, “Do you want to get food?”

John says, “Yeah, that’d be okay, I guess.”

It’s the closest any of them get to an epilogue.

5. Do NOT ask whether or not your midnight McDonald’s run is a date. (But if you do, like, be cool about it.)

They roll up to the McDonald’s around 11:30. Dirk is all for getting drive-thru and hitting the freeway again, but John wants to stretch his legs. They’ve been driving for close to eight hours, at this point, and nothing about the road is even remotely familiar. Dirk’s stopped keeping track of which turns they take, which exits, which back roads. They’re trying to get lost, and they’re well on their way.

John gets three hamburgers and eats two without stopping for breath. Dirk orders a carton of fries and a vanilla milkshake, which John makes fun of him for, but Dirk had accepted this eventuality beforehand.

The red leather of the booth they sit in is sticky, and there are stains on the table. Dirk counts the number of health code violations to distract himself from wondering whether or not this qualifies as a date, because it doesn’t, probably, and even if it did, that didn’t make it mean anything, or at least that didn’t make it mean anything to John. When he finishes health code violations, he starts on the ceiling tiles.

John steals one of his fries, and he’s a millisecond too late to bat his hand away.

“You should get something else,” John says, through a mouthful of fry. “You get crabby when you’re hungry.”

“I’m always crabby.”

“Then fuckin’ eat something, dude, that’s what I’m saying.”

Dirk nudges his glasses up his nose and takes a sip of milkshake. “I don’t require anything else,” he says, instead of answering.

“Whatever,” John mutters under his breath, in a way that makes clear how weird he finds this response, and redirects his attention to his third burger.

Dirk fidgets with his straw. The grease has pooled at the bottom of his french fry carton. It glistens under the fluorescents. John’s hair is lanky from not having been washed in two days, and there’s a smudge on the lense of one of his glasses. Dirk watches him stuff a third of a burger in his mouth.

“Hey, so,” says Dirk, before the part of his brain in charge of not saying astonishingly embarrassing shit catches up to his mouth. “Is this, like, a date?”

John pauses, chews, and then swallows.

“Um,” he says. “Do you want it to be a date?”

Dirk panics. This is the worst possible thing that John could have said. Not only is it not an answer, but it is the kind of non-answer which lobs the ball directly into Dirk’s court, making Dirk the one in charge of making the first move, and oh, this is awful. This is really, incredibly, exquisitely bad.

“I don’t know.”

John lifts an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”

“I meant -- yeah,” Dirk says weakly.

“Wait, so you do?”

“Do what?”

“Want this to be a date.”

“What did I say?”

“Are you really this bad at this,” John says, grinning, “or do you have to, like, try?”

“Hey, fuck off,” Dirk says, overwhelmed by relief at the change of subject. “Between the two of us, only one has actually dated.”

“You don’t know that,” John says, offended. “For all you know, I was hooking up with Dave sprite twenty-four sev, on that ship.”

“Davesprite has higher standards than that.”

“But you don’t?”

“John, we’ve established that mocking my taste is low-hanging fruit, in terms of comedy,” Dirk says. “It’s like writing a film school dissertation on Paul Blart: Mall Cop. I mean, you could, but where’s the sophistication? Where’s the talent?”

“Heh,” John chuckles. “Low-hanging fruit.”

“Oh, I get it. It’s funny because I’m gay.”

“So am I, asshole. I get to make that joke.”

“Oh, I don’t dispute that you get to. I’m baffled that you want to, however.”

“Screw you, I’m hilarious.”

“It is apparent in every element of your personality that you enjoyed Nic Cage movies as a child.”

“And it’s apparent in every element of yours that your favorite book is Fight Club. Your point?”

Dirk splutters, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even know what a Fight Club is.”

“Please. I bet you creamed your jeans when you read the part about glycerin.” John takes another bite of his hamburger, smug.

“I don’t have to take this from the guy who uses the phrase ‘cream your jeans’ in casual conversation.”

“I am almost one hundred per cent certain that you have said worse.”

Throughout the course of the conversation, the restaurant has been gradually growing quieter. Not that there are a lot of people there in the first place, of course, but the two or three other groups making midnight junk food runs have fallen into a lull, and the quiet bickering from Dirk and John’s table carries easily. As Dirk gives the room a glance, he notices that the trolls at the table next to them have become completely silent, and they’re both staring.

“Hey,” says the troll to the left, a short greenblood with corkscrew horns. Their eyes grow wide as they lean closer to get a better look. “Hey -- hey, aren’t you John Egbert?”

John stiffens. It’s barely noticeable. He keeps his eyes on his tray.

“Nah,” he says, forcefully bright. “Just got one of those faces, I guess.”

“No, you are,” says the troll, with an aura of revelation. “Hey, Niroxi, look! It’s John Egbert!”

“Hey, back off,” Dirk warns them, but they’re already getting up, craning their necks to try and get a gander at John’s darkening face.

“Are you -- holy shit, I can’t believe this -- what are you doing here?”

“Still don’t know what you’re talking about,” John says, voice strained.

“Are you here to check up on the government? We thought you’d gone off the map! Are Dave and Rose with you? Oh, shit, is Karkat here?”

“Jade says fuck you, too,” Dirk mumbles, and John shoots him a wry look.

“That would be so cool, if Karkat was here! Are he and Dave still a thing? I heard that Dave was dating Jane now, is that true?”

“No,” Dirk exclaims, repulsed. “What on earth--”

Niroxi groans. “You’re being so cringey,” she tells her friend, plaintively. Then, to John, almost shy: “But, like, for real? Are they here, though?”

John struggles to muster a smile. “Nah,” he says. “Just me and Dirk.”

“Dirk?” Her eyes flit to Dirk, who chafes under the attention. She brightens. “Oh,” she says. “Is Jake here, too?”

Dirk’s stomach takes a swan dive deep enough to bury it in the earth’s molten core.

“Nope,” he manages. “Nah, he, uh. I don’t know where Jake is.”

“Really? Told you,” Niroxi tells her friend matter-of-factly.

“You didn’t tell me shit. They’re on a break, it doesn’t--”

“Yeah? Like you’d know. You get your information from the Alternian Weekly.”

“It’s a good site!”

“The Alternian Weekly predicted that Kanaya and Rose would get divorced.”

“And the jury’s still out on that! Didn’t you see the photos? Rose wasn’t wearing her wedding ring at Target last week.”

“You can’t see her hand in the photo, that doesn’t mean anything--”

“And Kanaya and Terezi have been pretty chummy, lately, don’t you think?”

“Like Terezi would ever be into someone that wasn’t John,” Niroxi says, rolling her eyes, and John cringes. Dirk wonders how Terezi would react to that, if she were here. She’d probably laugh. Then she’d punch them.

Dirk isn’t great at doing either. So he does what he can.

“Come on,” Dirk says, standing up.

John tries to ignore the frenzied whispering of the table next to them. “You haven’t finished,” he says, in the carefully moderated tone of someone just barely keeping a lid on their shit.

“I have unless I want to be shitting water tomorrow. Come on.”

“You are literally so fucking gross,” John says gratefully, shoving back his chair.

They’re walking when they leave the McDonald’s. By the time the Maserati is in view, they’re runnin.

Dirk guns the engine as they leave, putting a family of goggling carapacians in their rearview.

6. Keep driving, and don’t talk about it.

They make it two towns over without saying a word. John picks the music, but after two songs, he turns it off, perhaps more comfortable with silence than the obnoxious country-pop blend that local radio stations seem to prefer.

Dirk, meanwhile, wages war with himself.

If it were Dirk, he wouldn’t want to talk about it.

On the other hand, it’s not Dirk, and John might want to talk about it.

On the other other hand, it would be excruciatingly awkward to talk about it, and being drop-kicked into that nuanced kind of social entanglement might actually kill Dirk on the spot. His heart would go into cardiac arrest and he’d die at the wheel. And then who would be driving the car? Nobody, that’s who. He’d die a Heroic Death, trying to get John Egbert to open up about his fucking feelings.

On the other other other hand, Dirk’s been informed that talking about things is healthier than not talking about it. So there’s that.

On the fourth other hand, Dirk’s not really familiar with the general concept of a healthy coping mechanism, and if John asked him for advice, he would have exactly jack shit to offer.

As it turns out, this debate is meaningless, because it’s John who speaks first.

“I was kind of immature back there,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “Sorry.”

“What?” Dirk stares ahead owlishly.

“Immature,” John repeats. “I shouldn’t have bailed like that. They were just kids.”

They soar past twin rows of wheat fields. A small town appears on the horizon.

“We’re just kids,” Dirk says, attempting to sound reasonable.

John snorts.

The town grows closer. It unveils the silhouettes of wide, boxy warehouses and tall, peeling billboards.

“We are,” Dirk says, frowning.

“Uh-huh,” John says. “Okay.”

“Why do you think we’re not?”

“I hate to break it to you, my guy, but whatever you think passes for ‘regular kid,’ we ain’t it.”

“I don’t mean that we’re perfectly normal,” Dirk argues, uncertain of why his voice is rising all of a sudden, “but we’re still . . . you don’t have to take that kind of treatment.”

“Yeah, I do,” John said, and his voice is centuries old. His voice has cracks, crumbling pillars, smooth facets weathered silken by time. His voice is age itself. His voice is the ghost of a dead universe, and it echoes, hollow as the cavity of an open grave.

“You don’t,” Dirk says, and his voice is small, petulant.

“I’m their god. I can’t just tell them to fuck off.”

“Sure you can,” Dirk says sharply. “It’s easy. It goes like this: ‘I’m on a date. Fuck off.’”

“I’m not going to be a dick to them.”

“They were being dicks to you.”

“They’re kids,” John cries. “How do you not -- I made their universe! Me and Jade and Rose and -- what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Not let them walk all over you!”

“I’m not -- I don’t --”

“You deserve to get to be normal,” Dirk insisted, and he’s never sure of anything in his life, except for this. Except for the lone, simple, absolutely unshakeable fact that John get to be a kid, if he wants. He doesn’t even know why he’s so angry about it, but he is. “You are. You sure as fuck didn’t get to be, back in -- back when you were younger. But now--”

“Yeah,” John says bitingly. “Normal. Yeah, sure, Dirk.”

“Normal enough.”

“Normal enough? What the fuck does that mean? Normal enough.”

“Even underneath all the Game bullshit.”

It’s the first time either of them have mentioned it. Ever, in Dirk’s case.

Dirk says, “You still get to be normal.”

Because Dirk can’t be. Dirk can’t and won’t and will never be normal, not with how his brain works, not with what he’s seen. Dirk was born in a dead world, a world underwater, and he was raised to survive in a universe that doesn’t exist anymore, and everything about him reflects that fact. There’s no hope, for him. He can’t be the person this universe expects him to be, the person who could live in this universe, and that’s fine. Dirk’s made his peace with that.

But John can be. And it makes Dirk unfathomably fucking angry, to think that maybe, after all, he can’t. Maybe the one of them -- the only one who could, the only one who might, after everything that happened, be capable; the one who wasn’t dating an alien or raised by an alien empress or or fused with a primordial deity in the form of a dog -- couldn’t have a normal life, after all. Maybe none of them got to go back. Maybe all of them were out of place.

That was the bitch about winning, in retrospect. It wasn’t game over. It was a new game.

“Pull over,” John says suddenly.

The briskness of this command startles Dirk, makes him swerve. “What,” he says. “No. Why?”

“Do it.”

“Why?”

“Do it.”

Dirk hangs a left in the nearest intersection and pulls them into a sparsely populated parking lot, sitting beside a giant vacated warehouse. The street is empty. The only cars there are old, probably out of use, maybe even abandoned.

John takes deep breaths.

“Normal,” he says acidly.

“Yeah.” Dirk says it stoutly, emphatically. “You know. Normal.”

John lifts his hands, and every car in the parking lot rises into the air.

The sound of two dozen vehicles groaning and clattering off the ground, in conjunction with the shriek of the gale necessary to lift them, deafens. It choruses. It howls. The cars rise and hover at ten feet, most of them, with the lighter ones drifting higher and the heavier sitting at seven or eight feet each. The wind tears through the flypaper and rubbish littering the parking lot, tossing it up in small cyclones of whirling trash. It makes the trees writhe. It shakes the Maserati, but doesn’t touch it, doesn’t lift it; they sit in the eye of the storm.

Above, storm clouds start to circle and congeal. The wispy tufts of cirrus that had been drifting over the horizon blacken as if someone tipped over an inkpot in a bed of cotton. Flickers of lightning fork down to the east.

The lines of John’s muscles are rigid. A tic in his jaw is the only sign this is costing him any effort at all.

After a minute, the storm starts to calm. The cars lower gradually to the ground, settling gently in the same places they were. The wind quiets, and then Dirk can hear himself think again. John lowers his hands, hesitant, and then puts them in his lap.

But in a way, it’s much worse, now, with everything still. There’s room for the silence to move in again.

Dirk says, “Shit’s up and fucked, huh.”

John laughs wetly. “Shit’s up and fucked,” he confirms.

“I mean,” Dirk says, “you get to pull that kind of wizardly fuckery at the drop of the hat, and here I am over here, fuckin’ Prince of Heart bullshit. What am I supposed to do? Therapize you to fuckin’ death? Fuckin’ Captain Planet-ass bullshit. ‘Heart.’ Jade gets to play pinball with planets, Dave’s over here Groundhog Daying it every time he fucks up, who the fuck even knows what Jake can do, it sure as fuck ain’t Jake, and Roxy can just make shit. Make it! I mean, fuck the Law of Conservation of Matter, am I right? Let’s let her just magick stuff out of thin fuckin’ -- oh, the blond one? Oh, oh, that one? Yeah, toss him, fuckin’, uhhhhh, I dunno, what’s left -- Heart. Prince of Heart, yeah that sounds good. The one that destroys shit, that’s cool, right? What can he do? Shit, man, like, feel really bad about himself, probably? Be depressed? Yeah, that works, great. Cool. We’ve got Witch of Space, Knight of Time, Page of Hope, Heir of Breath, and Depression Man. Dope. Now there’s a lineup I can get behind. Put a ‘case closed’ stamp on that motherfucker, we’re ready to run a session.”

John cracks a smile.

“Gimme a goddamn refund,” Dirk huffs, “that’s all I gotta say. You see how that troll chick didn’t even fucking recognize me? I am the fucking -- I’m not even important enough to get recognized at a McDonald’s. You know that if Roxy had seen that, she’d have eviscerated me on the spot. ‘Prince of Heart.’ Eat my ass, Jesus Christ.”

John giggles. It’s kind of stifled by the lump in his throat.

They look at each other.

John reaches across the armrest and gently punches him in the shoulder. By John’s standards, it’s practically a caress.

In a movie, this would be the part where Dirk kissed him, and John would kiss him back, and everything would be okay.

But Dirk doesn’t kiss him. Instead, he looks out the driver’s window, so that when John cries, he can do it in privacy.

By and by, John clears his throat and scrubs a hand across his face. “Um,” he says. “So I think I broke some guy’s Chevy. We should probably get going.”

“Yeah.” Dirk shifts the car into drive, and the engine thrums. “Where to?”

“I dunno. You wanna head east?”

“That’s fine with me.”

“I heard there was some cool tourist shit out -- hey,” says John, squinting across the street. “Is that an arcade?”

7. Get him the shitty bunny rabbit.

John breaks the lock on the arcade with ease. It’s abandoned, with white sheets tossed over most of the bulky, box-shaped consoles and dust lining the whole place in a thin film, but when Dirk steals some tokens from behind the counter and slots one into the nearest machine, the lights fire up just fine. They fuck around for a little bit with Dance Dance Revolution -- John beats Dirk eight games to one, and that one was when Dirk dared him to do all the moves with one foot -- and then burn tokens on Donkey Kong and Pac-Man. John has to teach Dirk how to play Frogger. Dirk is so bad at it that John wonders aloud whether Dirk actually derives some sick pleasure from killing frogs. John skunks Dirk blind at skee ball, but then Dirk gets him back by climbing up and removing the grate over the holes, and then they spend the rest of the hour lobbing skee balls overhand at the target without much regard for the score.

After an hour or two, they get bored of this, and pass a claw grab machine holding a pile of decaying plushes. Atop the pile sits an abomination in the form of a rabbit. The thing looks like what would happen if you asked someone who’d never seen a rabbit before to design one, except the only reference you gave them was the transcript of a Looney Tunes cartoon. The bulbous, uncanny-valley proportions of the head emphasize the oblong pear shape of the body, and the tail is a limp tuft of stringy cotton. The ears are tattered and the fur on them is clumped and tufted. The animal itself is a weird shade of bluish grey that probably came from using cheap dye for the fur. Beady black eyes glint from either side of a button nose, imbued with a legitimately chilling malevolence.

“That is the ugliest piece of shit bunny I have ever seen in my life,” John breathes, his nose against the glass. “I need it.”

Dirk wanders over, his hands in his pockets. “They’re rigged, you know,” he says. “The machines. You can’t win them.”

“Dude. Dude. Look at me. Look at me, though? I don’t care. I need it.”

“We can buy you a bunny rabbit, if you want one.”

“No, you misunderstand. I don’t want any rabbit. I want that rabbit. Specifically.”

“. . . Okay.”

John wastes somewhere between forty and fifty tokens trying to get the claw machine to give him the bunny. He gets close to success several times, often getting so far as to actually grab the bunny within the prongs of the thing’s obstinately clumsy claw, before it slips out in the millisecond before being deposited in the box. Dirk watches John cycle through the five stages of grief not once, not twice, but every single time this happens, and then watches John recover and try again with unflagging determination. It would be endearing if it were not also making Dirk feel slightly deranged, just watching it.

Finally, John runs out of tokens, and steps back from the machine with a mournful look. “It’s hopeless,” he said.

“Oh, no. If only there were someone who could have told you that.”

“It’s not my fault! I got so close!”

“I know.”

“Guess I’ll just have to do without it,” John mutters. He hangs his head with exaggerated despair. “No bunny rabbit for me.”

He ruins the effect by sneaking a glance up at Dirk.

Dirk heaves a long, put-upon sigh, and draws a token out of his pocket.

“Yes!” John pumps the air, giving Dirk space to assume control of the joystick. “Oh, man, if you nail this, I’ll owe you forever. I’ll even stop making fun of your tattoo. Actually, I take that back. I’ll stop making fun of your hair. Tattoo’s still fair game.”

“The longer you keep talking, the less likely I am to try.”

John ignores this. “You gotta wait for the right moment,” he advises. “It likes to stall sometimes, so you have to jigger it to work. And the joystick is sticky in the lower right corner, so you can’t use it. But aside from that, you should be okay.”

Dirk slips the token into the slot. It chugs for a moment, waiting, and then the screen brightens, the claw stirring.

John is right about the stalling and the sticky patch on the control pad. Dirk wastes three tries on the damn thing before getting aggravated.

“Cool,” he says thinly. “Cool cool cool. Hey, Egbert, do you have any particular qualms about how you get the damn rabbit?”

“Uh,” says John, “no?”

“Good.”

Dirk decaptchalogues Lil Seb into the palm of his hand. The small robot’s red eyes glaze as he boots up.

“You see that rabbit?” he asks it.

Lil Seb directs his attention to the glass, and nods. If he is offended by this obvious caricature of one of his kin, he does not show it. That’s the great part about Lil Seb. He’s a chill motherfucker.

“Get it for me,” Dirk orders, and then slides Lil Seb through the flap at the bottom machine, into the pickup trough where prizes fall for collection.

John lifts his eyebrows. “I think that’s cheating,” he says, but he doesn’t sound upset about it.

Lil Seb climbs up the chute into the main prize pit easily, scaling the mountain of plushies like a man on a mission to the peak of goddamn Everest. He seizes the ugly rabbit by the ears and hauls it down with him, leaping neatly into the prize chute and tumbling back into the trough with a clatter. Dirk reaches in and pulls out both bunnies, captchaloguing the metal one and keeping the much sought-after abomination.

“There,” he says, with more satisfaction than he’s proud of.

He holds out the prize.John beams at him like he’s offering John the damn Genesis Frog, face warm, eyes sparkling. Dirk’s fingers dig into the bunny, frozen, and his breath stalls a little bit.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

They both turn. A burly, balding man stands in the door of the arcade, a ring of keys in his hand, frozen in the act of opening the door.

A katana falls out of Dirk’s sylladex, on instinct.

“I’m gonna call the police,” the owner snarls, but before he can continue, John lets out a long groan, squares his shoulders, and with a snap of his wrist, flings two thousand newtons of raw windspeed directly into the owner’s face.

The sudden gale inside the arcade sends the man sailing out the door, flying backwards until he tumbles to a halt a hundred feet from the building. He’s still moving when he hits the ground, stirring, but clearly incapacitated. The Breeze tears the inside of the room apart, sending papers scattering in a flurry of white and lifting the dust into tiny whorls. Wind rakes through Dirk’s hair and ruffles his clothes. Blue lights snap and spark over John’s frame, especially his fist, and even as the tiny storm is calming, his eyes have a vivid, uncanny brightness.

They’re not human eyes. Not anymore.

Dirk looks down at the bunny in his hands. He wonders if he could pull the man’s soul out, if he tried. His powers aren’t the kind of thing you can do on a whim.

“C’mon,” John says. “Let’s get out of here.”

When they leave the arcade, the man is still struggling to pick himself up off the street. He shouts after them when he notices them going:

“What the fuck are you?”

Out of spite, John flicks his fingers at him. The wind blast shoots a nearby trash bin clear off its foundations and hurtling directly at the owner. Whatever the man’s next words were going to be are muffled by the sound of him taking a full trash can straight to the mouth.

“Hot,” says Dirk, and John snorts.

They make it out of range of the arcade. The Mississippi runs alongside the town, its thunderous rush dwarfing the sounds of the city and the road the nearer they draw to it. As they’re walking away, Dirk hands the bunny to John.

“Here,” he says, holding out the tiny plush. “This is for you.”

“Thanks,” says John, sounding almost genuinely surprised, and then lifts it high above his head, reenacting the Lion King. “I’m going to call him Liv Tyler.”

“Isn’t Liv a girl’s name.”

“Open your mind, Dirk, jeez. We live in the twenty-fifth century.”

“Just saying.”

“Just saying what?”

“You already have a kid called Liv Tyler. Gonna give your son a complex, using the same name twice.”

“I take it back. His name is Dirk Strider The Killjoy, Who Hates Fun And Also Happiness.”

“Junior.”

“Junior,” John agrees, and tosses an arm around Dirk’s shoulders. “Thanks.”

They wander down to the river, where the sandy bank is littered with old beer bottles and plastic wrappers and the remnants of picnics past. In between the reeds, they find a hollow where the grass has been flattened and sit down in it. The evening slips into twilight peacefully, drawing long shadows on the grass, and the trees form black inkstains against the ochre sky. The river turns the color of fire, reflecting the horizon.

John says, “This is kind of, like, beautiful and shit, dude.”

Dirk says, “Did you know that the sky is that color because of air pollution?”

“Yeah, I did. Do you have any other slogans from Hot Topic to share with the class?”

“I don’t know what Hot Topic is.”

“That is honestly more tragic than, like, literally any other part of our lives.”

Dirk finds a piece of copper wire in the rubbish on the bank and starts twisting it into knots. John lies back on his hands, the bunny perched safely in his lap, and sighs with contentment.

“It was really cool when you wasted that guy,” Dirk says, for lack of anything better.

“Yeah? Thanks, man. Guy was being a dick.”

“Agreed. To be fair, we were trespassing.”

“Trespassing shrespassing,” John snorts. “This whole universe comes from some frog Jade found in her backyard. Everything in it is her property, technically, and so also my property, by genetics, technically.”

“You are the legal genius this generation needs. Somewhere, Terezi is weeping tears of joy.”

“You think I don’t know? I didn’t play the Ace Attorney series seventeen times for nothing.”

“Oh, man. I had no idea I was sitting next to an Ace Attorney master.”

“I know. It’s overwhelming. You can take a minute, if you need it.”

“You really are brains, brawn, and beauty of this relationship, Egbert,” Dirk deadpans. “Such a great burden for one man to bear.”

“Yeah, well, someone has to pull your weight, don’t they?”

Dirk bites down on a smile.

John leans over, close enough that Dirk’s breath fogs the lenses of his glasses, sealing a coat of white over those enormous, ridiculous, ocean blue eyes. John isn’t touching Dirk, but he’s not touching him in a way that almost feels like touching, in how obvious it is, in how it makes clear that they could be touching, if Dirk tried, if John tried, if either of them tried.

They’re breathing the same air, sharing the oxygen that lives in the half-inch of space between their lips, when Dirk says, “Wait,” and John pulls back, his expression all twisted up and fearful like he thinks he’s gotten everything about this wrong, and Dirk panics a little bit.

“It’s not you,” he says (shouts). “It’s just -- it’s not -- I don’t not want -- I don’t -- I do, but I can’t just -- and not --”

“Dirk --”

“I wish I wasn’t like this,” Dirk says (whispers). “I wish I wasn’t fucking like this.”

John’s expression clears. “It’s okay,” he says gently. “We don’t have to, uh. If you don’t . . .”

“I do want to.”

John tilts his head. “Um,” he says. “Okay.”

He wants an explanation, of course he does, and the thing is that Dirk wants to give it to him. He really, really wants to give it to him. But he can’t.

John seems to realize this, because he scoots back, putting a good foot of space between them. With John farther away, it’s easier for Dirk to focus. It’s easier for him to think.

He opens his mouth, and he waits for the words to come.

8. When he tries to kiss you, tell him about your ex.

“Do you ever feel,” starts Dirk, and stops.

“Maybe I just,” starts Dirk, and stops.

“Sometimes,” starts Dirk, and stops.

The river flows past, wide and deep and fast enough to kill you before you realized you were drowning. Dirk lived on a tower with an ocean beneath his bedroom window and on some days he’d sit on the ledge, his feet eighty meters from oblivion, his face against the wind, thinking about what would happen if he leaned forward and let go. Sometimes it would take hours to convince himself he’d even hit the water -- that he wouldn’t just drift up into the sky, like a piece of flypaper borne on the back of the wind, and find another world waiting for him beyond the ceiling of stars.

“I have a hole,” he says.

John smirks. Dirk ignores him.

“It’s a hole in -- in the thing that keeps you together. Whatever that is. The thing that Roxy and Jane and Jake all have. I don’t know what you call it. It’s the thing that keeps the parts of a person together. Take Roxy, for example. Roxy doesn’t have to worry about whether or not whatever she does is going to be in character for Roxy, because Roxy’s the one who’s doing it. She doesn’t have to worry about whether or not she’s acting like a person, because she already knows she’s a person, so whatever she does is something a person would do. Or Jane, she -- Jane doesn’t have to think about why she’s doing something. Jane just does things because she does them. She doesn’t worry about doing something because she’s manipulated herself into doing it, or because she’s manipulated someone else into manipulating her into doing it, or because an elaborate configuration of circumstances conspired to create the specific conditions under which she would do it. She just fucking does it. And Jake -- Jake just does shit, too, he doesn’t need a rhyme or reason for it, he’s just him. They’re all people. They’ve got personalities and ideas and thoughts and they’re people, regular people, and they’re not perfect people, sure, but they’re people. And each one of them is held together by something. They’ve got a set of things that they believe in, or things that they are, or things that they do, and those things are them. I don’t . . . have that.

“I’ve got a hole in the thing that holds me together. And sometimes, I’ll just be doing shit, and I’ll think about that hole. And I’ll think about how much of me is just shit I do because other people like it when I do it, or because I think doing it will make other people like me, or because I’ve tricked myself into thinking I like it when I really don’t, assuming that I’m capable of liking anything at all. And when I was dating Jake, that was all I could think about, all the time, even when it was good, assuming it was ever fucking good for either of us -- ‘what if this isn’t real, what if you’ve dreamed this all up because you think you’re supposed to have a boyfriend, what if you don’t like him at all, what if he doesn’t like you, what if you’ve made yourself the kind of person Jake English likes instead of whatever the fuck you actually are.’ And when I think about you, I get the same kind of worries, like -- what if I like you so much I started being the kind of person I thought you’d like? What if the only reason you like me is because I tried so hard to be liked? I’d say that I was worried you didn’t like the real me, but that isn’t it. I don’t think the ‘real me’ exists, really. That’s the problem.

“So I guess what I’m saying is I’m not a person. Sometimes I act like a person and talk like a person and think like a person, but I’ve got a hole in the thing that’s supposed to hold people together, and I can’t sew it back up again. I’m not who you think I am. I’m a copy of a person that’s really good at making other people think it’s real.”

The river runs by, and he wants to be like the water. He wants to keep going and going and going, without cause or expectation of pause, until he hits something bigger than he is, and gets absorbed into it. Dirk has never wanted anything so much as not to exist -- not to die, but not to exist. It’s a quieter thing.

John says, “You are really kind of dumb, dude.”

Dirk’s neck hurts from how fast his head snaps around. “What?”

“I mean,” John amends, “that sucks, but you’re not, like, the only person who ever felt like they were faking it. And no offense, but you couldn’t manipulate your way out of a paper bag. I don’t think I like you because you’ve pulled some nefarious supervillain kind of shit, you know?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Dirk says, frustrated.

“No, yeah, I get what you meant. And I wanna make it obvious that, like, I don’t . . . not care? I do. It’s shitty, and it sounds like you could use some good counseling. But dude, I’m not looking for your hand in marriage, here. I just wanna eat chips and watch shitty movies and make out sometimes, and also maybe do more than that, if you’re into it. Or not, if you’re not into it. Cards on the table, I didn’t actually think I’d get this far.” John laughs a little. “The fact that you get so worked up about being like . . . the real you, or whatever? It makes me think I probably know exactly who you are after all.”

“Which is what?” Dirk can barely breathe.

“An idiot,” John says, with conviction. “But an idiot that I want to make out with, so I guess that makes me even more of an idiot, really.”

“Who’s more the fool,” Dirk quips, still dazed. “The fool, or the fool who wants to do butt stuff with him?”

“Oh my God, shut up. I’m never kissing you, actually. Ever.”

“That’s not true,” Dirk counters, with a feeble spark of confidence. “You said you wanted to make out with me.”

“That was before you talked about sex as ‘butt stuff.’ I’m taking it back. R.I.P., my libido. You had a good run, old buddy.”

“What’s wrong with butt stuff?”

“Stop saying that! Stop saying butt stuff!”

“Does it bother you?”

“Yes! I -- you are literally so aggravating.”

“You like it,” Dirk says, hazarding a guess.

“Asshole,” John grumbles. “You owe me, like, five makeouts for that alone.”

“I can do that,” Dirk agrees, now thoroughly bemused. Absolutely nothing in this conversation has gone the way he thought it would. He’s not unhappy about it.

“Five makeouts and my pick of movies.”

“Six makeouts, and I’ll drive the rest of the way.”

“Fine. But no more SBAHJ.”

“Shake on it,” Dirk says stoically, offering his hand.

John rolls his eyes and says, “Nerd,” before leaning in to kiss him.

This time, Dirk doesn’t pull away. The river runs by, and he doesn’t want to be anything but the creature living in Dirk Strider’s skin, anything but the person that John Egbert is kissing. It’s a new feeling. He likes it. He thinks he could live like this for a while.

#dirkjohn #dirk strider #john egbert #go wish lou a belated happy birthday! <3

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