Archive of Our Own

Marvelous Things

    Everything about Dave is wonderful, especially when it's not.

    It would be easy to admire his looks. He's a good-looking guy. And his confidence, his charisma, appreciating those is no effort. Anyone can do that. Everyone does do that. Though he's not popular in the normal sense -- he kind of freaks people out, they don't understand anything he says, and the four of you hold yourselves apart even if you don't mean to -- it's widely understood that he's one of the Cute Boys.

    But the funny thing is, the girls who call him that, they don't think he's cute at all. They think he's sexy and hard-to-get. Impossible to get. They don't even know he's cute.

    You know he's cute. You know he's a complete doofus a lot of the time. You know how he stands in the kitchen in his pyjama pants late at night, eating cereal out of an oversized mug with Mount Rushmore on it, dribbling milk on his chest. You know how he swears and goes red-faced when his brother manages to scare him with a puppet. And all the ways he fidgets and fusses and tries to make his world his own; all the things he never does at school. Adorable things.

    Most days, in school, you stare at the back of his head for a sum total of just under six hours. You've arranged your schedule so you have every single class together. (It doesn't matter what classes you take or what grades you get; not after Sburb. Not with the kind of money you're going to inherit. You could all slack for the rest of your lives, you could be the indolent rich and play tennis and have ridiculous little dogs. The only reason you're going to school is because you agree with Rose's conclusion that it's better to be near other kids your age; especially Jade, who never was.) And every single teacher has split the two of you up and put Dave in the front row. If you're together, you're a major disruptive force.

    You used to throw things: erasers, paper airplanes. But he invariably dodged them, and the problem with throwing things at someone in the front row is that the teacher tends to notice. So now you just watch. Somehow it never gets boring. The way light shimmers in his weird white hair like it's made of optic fiber. The way the tendons in the back of his neck shift when he moves. The way his fingers are always drumming a complex beat on his leg.

    You sometimes catch him watching your reflection in his shades. And you smile for him, and he doesn't turn but you see the line of his cheek bend as the corner of his mouth tugs up just the littlest bit.

    Other things that are wonderful about Dave:

    The way he can't just eat anything the way he finds it. In the cafeteria, while you and Jade wolf your lunches and talk with your mouths full, and Rose eats like a queen with metal utensils she brought from home, Dave performs strange alterations on his food. Sandwiches are flattened, or eviscerated and rearranged. Salads are sorted. Even mac 'n cheese gets the treatment: he eats it one noodle at a time, spearing each one down the end, not through the middle.

    The way he doesn't try to keep pace with the rest of you on the way home. After the game (The Game; it's taken on capital letters in the years since it ended) your guardians agreed that you should all be geographically closer for mutual support, and purchased an enormous Victorian house where you now all live, so the four of you go the same way home every day. You'd think it would be automatic, staying together in a clump. Instinctual. But Dave has to walk at his own pace. He has to march to the beat in his head. If the rest of you walk faster or slower, so be it. He'll get there when he gets there.

    The way he knows his irony thing is ludicrous. He plays an endless game with himself, layering irony, sincerity, sincerity disguised as irony, irony disguised as sincerity, random unconsidered chance, and deliberate red herrings as if life is Tetris and he gets a triple row combo every time someone can't tell if he actually likes something.

    The way he uses this to make it less likely someone will wreck the things he really cares about.

    The way he knows you know he's doing that and is basically okay with you knowing.

    The way sometimes, for you, he'll drop the whole act and just say what he means.

    You suspect he's honest with Rose more often than with you. His bond with his ectotwin is something deeper and pricklier than your cheerful rapport with Jade. As for whether he shows his true self to Jade, it's no use even asking. She sees through him so effortlessly, she hardly even notices his irony game. But for you, it's special. Even if all he confesses is that such-and-such movie was actually pretty decent, or that he's bummed your birthday beach party got rained out -- things that from anyone else would be small talk -- it's special to you.

    You think it's probably a good thing that other people don't recognize all the things about Dave that are wonderful. If the rest of the kids at school understood how amazing he is, you'd never get near him.

* * *

    "Man, you're just... always happy, aren't you?"

    "Hm?" You can't tilt your head to look at him, or the dinosaurs will fall off.

    It's an afternoon near the end of junior year. The two of you are watching Mythbusters. He's sprawled on the couch, slouched, legs splayed. You're sitting on the floor between his knees. He's arranging tiny plastic dinosaurs in your hair. You have just informed him that the thing they just did where they flipped a car end-over-end across a pond was maximum rad. You cannot imagine why he sounds irritated about this.

    "Tell me that wasn't the coolest thing," you try.

    "The cement truck was the coolest thing."

    "Okay. Yes. I totally concur. You simply cannot beat that much explosive. But besides the cement truck."

    "John, you just got dumped. Why is anything 'maximum rad'?"

    A yellow sorta-triceratops has slipped down until it's resting on the frame of your glasses. You rescue it, and turn it over in your hands while you think.

    "They can't all be winners," you say at last.

    Dave gives a tiny sigh of irritation. "Did you not actually like her or something?"

    "I liked her. I still like her. She's fun. But kind of mean, I guess, which I didn't see coming."

    "She not only two-timed you with the biggest asshole in school, when you called her on it, she ripped you up in front of the entire cafeteria. And somehow you're just... okay with this."

    You shrug slightly, and he makes a ninja-grab for a T-Rex as it bounces off your shoulder. "I guess I feel bad for her. She must be a lot more insecure than I thought. Dave, what are you trying to get here? It's not like she was the love of my life."

    "I don't know if you noticed, bro, but high school relationships are supposed to be chock full of melodrama. A messy public breakup like that? With the status demotion and everything? End of the fucking world."

    You chuckle. You know all about the end of the fucking world, and that was not it. "I'm actually sort of relieved I don't have to take her to prom. I'd rather go with you guys."

    There's a long pause. Dave isn't talking, but he's not arranging dinosaurs either. There's nothing super fascinating going on on the TV. Something's wrong. Asking Dave what's wrong is rarely a good idea. Instead you slap his ankle and say, "Durrrr, zoneout alert."

    "Dude, what if I have a date?"

    "You don't have a date," you scoff, while your stomach starts to feel weird. You'd know if he was into someone. Wouldn't you?

    He clears his throat. "Actually."

    Then it's raining dinosaurs, and you realize you've pulled away from him. You've never, ever pulled away from him but now you can't stand to touch him, which is ridiculous, it's like food poisoning or something, it's just horribleness out of the blue and it makes no sense. You bat at your hair to make sure it's fully de-reptiled and stand up.

    "I have to uh."

    You can't even think of an excuse. All you can do is abscond.

    A couple hours later, Rose knocks loud enough on the door of your room that you hear it through your headphones. She tells you that even though it's Mom's night to cook, it just so happens that Bro brought home KFC, so there's no need to cower under your bed. You tell her you don't feel well and you just want to sleep; your voice sounds fine, almost cheerful, and either she believes you or she decides not to pry. She's been getting better lately at when not to poke everyone's emotional bruises.

    You resume playing your keyboard. Some days you love to mess around with all the sound patches, playing angelic choruses or barking dogs, but when you're unhappy you take refuge in the most realistic piano sound it has. Through headphones, it really sounds like a baby grand.

    You play happy songs. Tricky songs. You watch your fingers flicker over the keys like they're someone else's. You kind of lose yourself in it.

    When Dave taps your shoulder, you just about have a heart attack. You whip around, wild-eyed. Which should make him smirk at you, but instead he looks concerned. You can tell because he has his shades off. He has his shades off because it's actually really dark in here. "When did it get dark?" you say with a nervous laugh as you settle the phones around your neck.

    "I'm disappointed, bro. When I saw the lights were off, I expected to find you lying on the bed listening to emo rock and writing in your diary about how nobody understands you. In purple glitter pen. This 'piano practice during an emotional crisis' thing is a dismayingly healthy coping mechanism. Are you sure you're sixteen?"

    That gets a little smile out of you. "I'm not having a crisis," you protest.

    "Yeah bullshit." He leans against the wall and crosses his arms.

    Okay, clearly you're not getting back to your playing any time soon. You turn off the keyboard and hang up the headphones. You lean your chair back. You bounce a little to hear it squeak.

    Dave gives an irritated sigh as if you're somehow forcing him to speak. "I only said yes to this chick because I knew you had a date."

    Your heart does a freaky little double-beat for some reason. "What? Dave, you didn't do anything wrong. I just. Meh. I guess I'm a hypocrite, huh? Like, going as a group is only important to me when I don't have someone else to go with, or something. Which isn't true, but... yeah."

    "Naw, I know you." He cracks a small grin. "I bet you thought you'd hang out with us anyway and your date would be fine with it."

    Now that you look at it, you had, in fact, thought that. "I'm the dumbest stupidfriend. It's me."

    "Glad you realize it. So I reckon I'll just text my date and cancel." He gets his phone out.

    "Whoa, whoa, wait, what?" You grab his hand so he can't. Then you just stare at each other for a minute. Something feels really off, but you don't know what it is. You guess you're just not used to seeing his eyes. It's not like this is the first time, but you don't usually sit around in the dark.

    Eventually he raises an eyebrow. "Problem?"

    "What if Rose and Jade have dates too?"

    "Oh. Yeah." He sounds a little disappointed. "I kinda think they do. There's no point if we're not the Fearsome Foursome, right? Dynamic Duos are so over."

    "Nuh-uh. Dynamic Duos are awesome."

    There's that little grin again. "Egbert, are you asking me to prom?"

    You answer with a grin that completely dwarfs his. "You know what? I totally am."

    "Okay, but we have to actually dance and shit. No acting like we both happened to go stag in the same general vicinity. You have to promise to be the most ironically romantic date I've ever had."

    "Dave, have you ever had an ironically romantic date?"

    "All my dates to date, bro. The competition's stiff. Think you can handle it?"

    You scoff. "No one can beat John Egbert in an ironic bro-date-off, he --" At which point Dave plants a foot on the seat of your chair between your knees and shoves hard, so you go rolling and spinning across the floor.

    "Jesus, shut up. You already used that one tonight. Your tired meme license is revoked."

    "Aw, man! And I bet I have to take the written test again before I can have it back."

    "I hear the test officials can be bribed," Dave says, waggling his eyebrows in the most retarded way, and you laugh so hard you tip your chair over.

* * *

    It is the best ironically romantic bro-date of all time. You rent a limo and fill the back with the most horrible mylar balloons you could find, the ones that were on clearance at the party store, The Little Mermaid and Dora the Explorer and your absolute favorite, half a dozen heart-shaped ones with Pooh and Piglet on them. And one that says 'Got Jesus?' which Dave carries with him into the dance and hands off to the first freshman he sees.

    You pull out all your cheesiest moves, holding his hand, calling him sugarbunch and hummingbird, and he completely eats it up. He looks ridiculous in his red tux and ruffled shirt. You cannot tempt him into a cake fight, but he does give you a frosting moustache which he assures you has stained your upper lip blue. You rush to the bathroom to wash it off, find out he lied, and get your revenge by taping one end of a long streamer to the back of his jacket.

    Eventually you kind of run out of prank ideas and just want to enjoy the party. There's one thing he insists on, though. It's not ironic romance without a slow dance. Has to be the whole song, has to be for-real slow and actual dancing. He won't let you dork around or try to waltz or anything. You have to hug and shuffle like the most awkward couple at the prom -- for which title there is some fierce competition.

    "Quit trying to abscond, bro," he whispers into your ear about halfway through 'Nothing Compares 2 U'. "You're ruining the moment."

    You let out a nervous little laugh. "Shut up. I'm not absconding. It's not like I mind hugging you."

    "Then chill."

    "And I don't care if people are staring."

    "Oh my God, John, shut up."

    "I just don't think everyone gets the joke."

    "What joke?" He sounds absolutely serious. Which is usually a clear hint he's bullshitting you, but in this case you're not so sure somehow.

    But you don't pull away. You're not going to punk out, not after all your hard work. Besides, like you said, you don't mind hugging him. He's your best bro. He's the most amazing person you know. Having so much of his attention is kind of the best thing ever.

    It's just... does it have to be here? With so many people looking?

    You try to explain. "We kind of let people think we're stepbrothers, Dave."

    He snorts against your collar. "Fuck 'em. I don't care if they think we're the incest champions of the free world. After all that bitching you owe me another dance."

    "Jeez, fine," you grin. Of course the pseudo-incestuous squick factor is part of the prank. Now you get it. "Just one more, though. This is kind of boring. We're just standing around swaying."

    "Would you rather make out?"

    "I don't think my prankster's gambit could take that much swag."

    "Dude, swag is not what goes in the gambit. The gambit is the enemy of swag. They're like matter and antimatter. My swag molecules are being annihilated by mere proximity to you."

    "Dry-humping in public was your idea, not mine."

    "Egbert, Jesus."

    You giggle, cheek pressed to his warm ear. Actually, this is kind of nice. He doesn't usually suffer proper, arms-around hugs gladly. And if you close your eyes, you can't see the scandalized stares of your peers. Yeah. Actually. This is... nice.

* * *

    Afterwards, at Dave's suggestion, you have the limo drop you off at the park half a mile from your house. The original plan was to continue your ironymance at one of the several after-parties you know about, but the idea no longer appeals for some reason. You guess you've kind of chewed all the juice out of the joke.

    Instead, you play on the playground equipment until your tuxes are muddy and you're both flushed and sweaty and laughing. Then you sit on the swings and talk about random shit for ages. There's nothing new in this except your clothes, but it feels special anyway.

    "Do you ever miss them?" you ask him at one point.

    He knows who you mean, but he checks anyway: "The trolls?"

    You nod.

    "I don't think about them much. I used to. Kind of a lot. But it's like... what's the point? There's no such thing as paradox space anymore. There's no way to get a message between universes. So thinking about them would just get me all depressed for no reason."

    "I wish I could be that rational about it," you say with a sad chuckle.

    "You have to let it go, Egbert. There's nothing we can do."

    "I know. I know." You take a deep breath. It's a little shaky. "I know, and it sucks."

    He grabs your hand off the swing chain and holds it, and there's nothing ironymantic about it. He's just comforting you. It's one of those shining moments of sincerity you cherish. You really kind of can't handle it right now.

    "You know they're okay, John," he says quietly. "After The Game, there's nothing they couldn't handle. You know they took on that crapsack society of theirs and turned it inside fucking out."

    "Yeah," you laugh, and then you're crying.

    He gathers you in, swing and all. "John, Jesus fuck. God, you're such a moron. Stop crying, moron." He makes it sound like the gentlest endearment. "I can't believe you're still so emotional about it after all this time." He sighs, rubbing your back. "Never change, I guess. You big baby."

    Your swings slowly twist together, chains creaking. You don't stop hugging until you catch yourself starting to fall asleep on his shoulder.

* * *

    When you wake up the next day, you both have colds.

    You spend the entire weekend huddled together in front of the TV, pretending to be even more miserable than you really are in an attempt to get Jade and Rose to wait on you hand and foot. They don't fall for it, but they take pity on you in their own particular ways.

    Shortly after you unleash your synchronized sadface attack, Rose casually drops a folded blanket on your chest and walks away. After years of living in the same house with her hobby, you can recognize a cashmere/merino blend when you feel it, and you know how long stranded colorwork takes her; this afghan must've cost her a couple hundred dollars and at least as many hours of work. Was it going to be a present? For whom? There's no use asking now. She'll never admit it. So you show how much you appreciate it by spreading it meticulously over Dave's wheezy chest and then burrowing into his armpit.

    Dave's response is to tweak the corner of the blanket scientifically until it covers your nose but not your eyes, then change the channel. His poker face never breaks, not even when he sneezes.

    Jade brings you endless cups of ginger tea, and she doesn't pretend not to care, but she makes it clear that tea is it. Her nursing begins and ends with tea. She's probably the one who gives Grandpa the idea of making four-alarm chili instead of chicken soup, though. After you forge through a bowl of that, you can't feel your tongue, but wow do your sinuses feel clear.

    You fall asleep together on the couch. Dad wakes you up at bedtime to point out that you might be more comfortable in your own bed. Dave lets you keep the Rose blanket, but your bed is still horribly cold. After suffering the fever-shivers for half an hour or so, you wrap the blanket around you like a cowl and pad into Dave's room.

    He's still awake, bundled in his covers and curled up and miserable. He gives you the blandest look it's possible to give while shivering like jello and bombed to the gills on Robitussin. "Sup," he rasps.

    "Help me, Obi-Wan, you're my only hope," you gargle back.

    He snorts. He unrolls himself from his blanket. "Well, fuck. You better get in, then."

    So you do. You're asleep within five minutes. You have the weirdest fever dreams and you don't even care.

* * *

    It dawns on you gradually over the summer that you're the happiest you've ever been. Happier than anyone you know. Every day just keeps being the best. You couldn't put your finger on why, exactly. Just being with everyone, you guess, and all being safe, and maybe you've finally gotten over missing the trolls.

    And of course there's the thing where Dave no longer pretends to resist your huggy nature, that's pretty awesome too.

    Sometimes you sleep in the same bed. When one of you is having a hard time sleeping, or when you're up late talking or watching movies and you just don't feel like moving. After this happens a few times, Dad takes you aside and says he just wants you to know that if you and Dave are in a relationship you shouldn't feel you have to hide it, because he loves you and is proud of you no matter what. But that if you're sexually active he wants to know you're being safe.

    When you splutteringly inform him that it's nothing like that, you're just snugglebros, he actually looks confused.

    "What. Snugglebros is totally a thing." You sound defensive even to yourself.

    Dad just ruffles your hair and walks away.

    It's easy to let that embarrassing episode go, though. Snugglebros is a thing, obviously, because that's what you are, and in fact you're the best snugglebros there ever were.

    Dave is completely okay with it. You can tell because he only complains in ways that are Dave-language for 'I suddenly have to be a douche now and I'm not sure why, stand by, your normal Dave service will be returned shortly.' And after the momentary douche-attack is over he's down with the cuddles again. He doesn't usually push you off him unless he has to pee.

    And in the normal course of your summer hyperactivity, there are also piggybacks, wrestling matches, swimming pool dunk-fights, and 'football' matches that are all tackle and no ball.

    The girls have taken to giving you some pretty weird looks, though. Looks of exasperated affection. 'John you're being stupid' looks. And Rose has gotten unnervingly good at not prying. It's almost like she doesn't want to know how you are. Or... almost... like she doesn't want you to find out how you are.

    Which is ridiculous. Because how you are is so happy you might explode.

* * *

    When senior year starts, you have to tone it down a bit, at least at school. You don't want to make a spectacle of yourself. People wouldn't understand. It didn't take most folks long to grasp that your prom date was an ironic bro thing, but there's no need to stretch credulity.

    Even so, before the first month is out, it seems like everyone is convinced the two of you are a couple. It's not even anything as substantial as a rumor. It's just accepted knowlege, and there's no good way to tell the world they're wrong.

    You could stop hanging around with him so much, you suppose. Stop watching the back of his head in class. Stop jostling each other in the halls and playing rapid-fire food-swap at lunch. But why should you have to? Those are the things that make life good! Besides, Jade has started dating her way methodically through the Science Club and Rose is talking about going to a women's college. You're not going to do anything to push Dave away.

    You guess if there ends up being a girl you're interested in you'll just tell her up front. If she doesn't understand about snugglebros, she's not the one for you. But you don't even have a mental image of this hypothetical she. No one you actually know fits the bill. You guess she'd have to be even more awesome than Dave.

* * *

    As winter closes in, you begin to sense that Dave is hiding something from you. Sometimes he goes straight to his room after dinner and locks his door. Even more intriguing, you twice find that some of your things have been moved, as if he's been in your room, snooping around. You realize it's a little weird that that doesn't bother you, but it just... doesn't. You don't have anything to hide from him. If you had a diary or something, it'd be on your computer, and he doesn't seem to have touched that.

    Given the season, you suspect it's something to do with a present. He's probably working on something incredibly ironic. You enjoy speculating about it. Your favorite theory is that he's knitting you a hideous sweater. Rose insisted on teaching all of you the basics, so he knows just enough to be pretty terrible at it. You imagine him scowling over a pair of needles and a basket of Rose's scraps, cobbling together something with one arm twice as long as the other, all wobbly stripes of colors that should never be allowed to meet. For extra credit, he's probably mixing fibers, so the first time you wash it it'll pucker into a mutant mess as the wool felts and the cotton expands.

    You will totally wear it all day on Christmas, just to see the look on his face.

    But of course this means you have to come up with an equally wonderfulbad present for him. You spend a full week thinking about it. You think so hard you're afraid you might start a brain fire. It has to be perfect.

    Winter break begins. This is quite possibly your favorite time of year. There are snow forts and cocoa, Christmas decorations everywhere, early nights with your whole weird family hanging out around the fireplace. Even Bro, who's hardly ever home, manages to find an ironic justification to be in the same vicinity as the rest of you occasionally, and he's much better behaved than usual after Grandpa chucks one of his smuppets in the fire as an object lesson about shoving plush rump in people's faces. And Mom always manages to sneak some brandy into your eggnog behind Dad's back.

    Dave has mostly stopped crashing in your bed since school started, and you'd been kind of wondering if that was a thing the two of you would outgrow or something. But no, apparently he just needed solo sleep on school nights, because once you're on break he shows up in your room every night, acting like it's a coincidence. Between his warmth and the spiked eggnog, you sleep like a baby. That super-happy feeling from summer is back in full force.

    He's so warm, and his lanky limbs feel so nice sprawled over you. You like the way his hair smells. You like when he breathes on the back of your neck. It's the most comforting thing. When you wake up in the morning, sometimes your moving around only half wakes him, and he talks in his sleep. Word salad, mostly, but sometimes scraps of his dreams, hilarious nonsense.

    Sometimes, you're so happy your chest hurts.

* * *

    Christmas morning, you wake up way too early, like an excited little kid. You find yourself in Morning Snuggles Position Number Three: feet hanging off the side of the bed, face smooshed into Dave's t-shirt. He has a large collection of incredibly stupid 'ironic' shirts, which he mostly just wears to sleep in. This one has a picture of a six-pack of beer cans, helpfully labeled 'six pack abs'. It's ironic in the non-hipster sense too, because he does have six-pack abs, and the way the shirt is rucked up, you can see them.

    You have a terrible urge to tickle him all of a sudden.

    Instead of courting death in this manner, you get up and pad downstairs in search of breakfast. You find Jade in the kitchen, just as excited as you are. The two of you initiate Breakfast Sequence Alpha.

    The smell of coffee and bacon brings the rest of the house awake. You show off a little at the stove, flipping flapjacks without a spatula, making them in funny shapes. The tentacle monster you make for Rose is particularly good.

    When you put a heart-shaped one on Dave's plate, the look he gives you is really strange. Kind of almost hurt, for half a second. But you can't be sure, because you can't see his eyes at the moment. There's no way he'd be in the bright dining room with snowglare coming through the windows and not have his shades on. Besides, why would ironic heart-shaped pancakes upset him? Nah, it was just dopey morning face.

    After breakfast, you all take fresh mugs of coffee or tea -- or, in Mom's case, a bloody mary -- into the living room, where the best tree ever guards a mountain of gifts. Every year's tree is the best tree ever. You just chalk that up to holiday magic. You offer to strife Jade for the position of present-hander-outer, but Dad insists you settle it with rock-paper-scissors, and Jade totally cheats. Ray Gun so doesn't beat T-Rex. Fortunately, you numbered Dave's presents to make sure they're handed to him in the correct order.

    The first one he opens contains footie pyjamas with choo-choo trains on it. You thought it'd be hard to find one in his size, but it turns out footies for grownups is a thing now. Still, everyone gets a laugh out of it.

    The second -- somewhat later, after everyone else has opened something as well, and exclaimed appropriately -- is a slightly bigger box, a little heavier. He throws you a half-grin and an eyebrow-quirk as he rips the paper off, acknowlegement that he can't guess what he'll find. Then his face fades to blank as he opens the box.

    He lifts out a bright red pair of Dr. Dre Studio headphones like it's the holy grail.

    "Jesus Christ, John, I thought this was gonna be another joke present. What the ff. Hell." He and Dad have a compromise going; he can say Jesus and hell if he doesn't say fuck.

    "Nah," you grin. "Too predictable."

    He grabs you into a hug and noogies you, beaming in a totally unDavelike way. His noogies are ineffectual, since he refuses to let go of the headphones. This is pretty much exactly the reaction you were going for. In a way you kind of wish you weren't all rich now, because the only way it could be better would be if you'd saved up for them with a part-time job or something.

    Presents go around again. You keep waiting for the bad sweater to show up. You do get a sweater, but it's from Rose, and it's not bad, it's great -- an exact replica of a Fair Isle jumper worn by Prince Edward in the stylish 1920's. And Jade gives you a tweed cap to go with it, and a toy replica of a 1927 Cadillac Coupe. Apparently Mom is in on the theme too, because she gives you a box set of Jeeves & Wooster videos.

    When Dave's present from Rose is a hat and gloves with a skulls-and-flames design, he looks a little affronted. "I was expecting pinstripe pants and a silver tray."

    You laugh. "I guess that means you're the one who got served."

    He beats you mercilessly over the head with the gloves until you feign surrender. Only then does he confess that they are pretty damn ironic.

    Finally, when there's nothing else left under the tree, Jade hands him your third present. He grunts in surprise at the weight of the package. "It's bricks," he guesses.

    "I'm not that boring, Dave."

    "Depleted uranium anti-tank ammo," is his next guess. "And a slingshot." He rips the paper. "What the." He hastily clears the rest of the wrapping off it and holds it up so everyone can see your Sassacre joke book, the one that's been through so much. "John. What."

    You try not to check Dad's face, but you can't help it. Here you are giving away a family heirloom, and you didn't even run it past him first. But to your surprise, he nods thoughtful approval.

    You give Dave a smile and a shrug. "I can never top that bunny, but I had to try."

    He shakes his head, smiling incredulously. "You're ridiculous, you know that?" He stands up and beckons. "Your present's in my room." There are a few oohs and giggles from the peanut gallery -- and Bro starts to say something which would definitely have been offensive if Mom hadn't accidentally stepped on his leg with her high heel -- but Dave just says blandly, "Don't be boring, you guys. Hey, got a use for these already." He loops the headphones around his neck.

    You follow him up the stairs, afire with curiosity. Of course your sweater theory was foolish. A use for the headphones -- did he make you a mix or something? That wouldn't be very special, though, because he does that all the time. A special mix? You can't imagine what a special mix would be.

    But that's got to be the plan, because he has you sit on his bed, plugs the headphones into his computer, and settles them gently over your ears. You look your question at him, but he avoids your eyes. You hear the faintest crackle as he hits play.

    And then your world fills with music, and there's nothing ironic about it at all. Because it's your music. You don't know how he recorded your piano practice, or how he sorted your original compositions and freestyle noodlings from things someone else wrote, but somehow he did and then he mixed it into something unbelievable. Not the kind of drum-and-bass thing he plays for himself, but something that suits your musical style -- orchestral, a little avant-garde. Some strings, some jazz flute you're pretty sure he sampled from Jethro Tull, just enough of a beat to give it shape but not enough to overwhelm it -- and every so often, a drifting hint of vocal chorus that you finally realize, after hearing it wander through the background for five minutes or so, is Dave's own voice layered and reverbed until he sounds like a whole monastery of monks.

    It's the most beautiful thing you've ever heard.

    When it ends, he finally looks at your face, and his own softens. He sits down next to you, making the mattress bounce, and takes the headphones off you. "Jesus, Egderp, you are such an eyewater hazard." Only then do you realize you have tears streaming down your face.

    "We make a good collaboration, don't we?" you smile damply.

    "Not news, bro," he murmurs. He scrubs at your cheek with his thumb.

    "I thought you were making me a stupid sweater."

    "What?"

    "Never mind." You throw your arms around his neck and give him a good hard squeeze. But it doesn't feel like enough. You hug him all the time. He deserves like, a super awesome triple espresso hug or something. Except that isn't a thing. So you kiss his cheek. Three times. The third one kinda catches the corner of his mouth. Oops!

    His hands tighten on your back. Then they fall away. He makes a swallowing noise. He takes hold of your shoulders and pushes you back, holds you at arm's length.

    You don't really get what he's doing. At first you think he's going to complain about you getting eye-goobers on his shirt or something. But his mouth has that wounded downturn again. It's the heart-shaped-pancake face. It makes no sense but there it is, this time it stays long enough for you to know what you're seeing.

    "Dave?"

    "I can't --" His voice gravels out. He shakes his head, letting go of you, looking away. "Fuck. John, I can't do this anymore."

    "What?" You don't even know what this is yet and it's already the most horrible thing you've felt since The Game.

    "I'm sorry. Shit, don't look at me like that, it's not your fault but I just fucking can't anymore, understand?"

    "No! Can't what?" you quaver. "Can't hug? Oh my God, did you not like hugs all this time? Were you just putting up with --"

    "God dammit, John!" He shoves up his shades to scrub his eyes with his fingertips and oh shit no. Something is really really wrong if Dave is fighting tears.

    Your voice sounds horribly pathetic as you beg, "Please, just tell me what you mean. Because I really don't understand."

    He takes a long, shaky breath and sighs it out. Then he resettles his shades and straightens his back. Closing off. "I know you don't. I figured out like a year ago that you're asexual. You're not even equipped to imagine what you're putting me through."

    Your mouth falls open. After a moment you manage a strangled squawk. "I'm what?"

    "But I can't take it anymore, okay? You just have to believe me, I guess. I'm not asexual, and being that close to you and not being able to do anything about it --"

    You cover your mouth with your hands, since you can't seem to shut it. His meaning is beginning to get through to you.

    "Look, okay, imagine you're the hungriest you've ever been. Like in The Game, when you didn't have anything but Gushers to eat and you'd been fighting ogres for hours. That kind of hungry. And then I sit you down at this table covered with like -- you remember Thanksgiving last year? When Grandpa went crazy with the side dishes and we were all fighting over the buttered squash? I mean the most delicious shit imaginable, more of it than you could ever eat. And I tell you, here you go man, you can look at this food all you want, you can smell it and like... pet the dishes and juggle the apples. But you can't eat it. Not one bite."

    You think it is quite possible that you're about to pass out.

    "I figured I'd rather starve at the table than out in the cold. But then I got that little taste of sugar and Jesus Christ, John, there is no way I can keep my hands in the safe zone anymore. So I'm sorry, but snugglebros is over."

    The only thing you can think of to do is reach for him, and that would be bad, apparently, so you hug yourself instead. You stand up. You waffle for a minute, because the only other thing you can think of to do besides hug him is run and hide, but you want to hug him so so so so bad and you can't and running is a terrible idea but you're out of ideas and -- oh, shit, note to self, don't sniffle, because guilt like that does not belong on Dave's face.

    It's up to you to fix this, whether you know how or not.

    "I love you," you say for starters. "You know that, right? I'd tell you like, daily, but I figured you'd think it was cheesy."

    "I love you too," he mutters, "but not just as bros, and I can't --"

    "I need to think. Dave. I'm going to go think. Okay? And like... figure some stuff out. Please don't be too mad at me. You know I'm the derpface stupidfriend. You always knew that."

    "I'm not mad, John. Fuck." He shoves his glasses up to rub his eyes again, and this time you reach to keep him from putting them back down. Not to take them, just to make him leave them up long enough for you to meet his eyes.

    "I really really really love you, Dave." Finally satisfied he's heard you, you turn and hurry away, reeling with vertigo.

    You run into Rose in the hall. She takes one look at your teary face and softens into pity. It's like she expected this to happen, and was just hoping it wouldn't happen today. You refuse her unspoken offer of a feelings jam with a jerky headshake and blunder past. Did everyone expect this? Did everyone know but you?

    You slam the door to your room and lock it. You head for your keyboard, but stop yourself. No. This isn't that kind of distress. You can't lose yourself in music right now. Right now you have to do the opposite of lose yourself.

    You fall onto your bed. You can still see the indentation Dave's head left on your pillow. You can smell him on your sheets. You wrap your arms around yourself, and remember how it feels to have his arms around you, and think about never having that again. It feels like your heart is being ripped out of your chest. You're the Mayan sacrifice. It's you.

    You try to think about doing sexy things with him, but you're just too sad. Asexual, though? Come on, Dave, for crying out loud! He should know better. You've had wet dreams, you've had morning wood, you've had to blunder out of bed and into the shower all red-eared with embarrassment, he's seen this. Unless... maybe you're not fully clear on the definition or something?

    Determination is a welcome alternative to heartbreak, even if it's just a determination to type in some search terms and read some articles. You peel yourself off the bed and sit down at your computer with an air of purppose that you know you're half faking. But half is better than none.

* * *

    You find Rose winding a ball of yarn from a skein Dad is holding for her. When you beckon her, she hands the ball off to Jade and gets up as if she's been waiting for this call to action and she is so ready. The others give you concerned looks, but they don't ask for explanations, they don't make you reassure them you're okay. You appreciate that.

    In her room, Rose gestures to the knit pile, but you shake your head. You want to keep this quick if you can. You stand just inside the closed door, twisting the hem of your shirt with your fingers.

    "First of all," you say, "thank you for not getting involved. You must've seen what I was putting Dave through. Like... ages ago. But I think if anybody pushed me I would've been an even worse idiot about it, so... yeah. Thanks."

    She tilts her head. Expectant.

    "So um. I just need your advice on one thing: am I about to make it worse?"

    You explain to her what you think you've figured out. And she enlightens you.

* * *

    You knock on Dave's door. You wait. You knock again. You wait. In the silence, you hear the tick and creak and click of switches and sliders. Of course he's at his turntables. He can't hear you. You open the door.

    The light is fading, the short winter day already over. His room is filled with blue dimness. It makes him look ghostly, pale as he is, preoccupied, fingers flickering. Swaying slightly with the beat. Wearing those red headphones that made him smile so brilliantly.

    God. He's so beautiful. Anyone can appreciate that, but... so can you.

    You shut the door. You walk up and tap him on the shoulder. He startles just like you do when he sneaks up on you, and it's kind of funny, but you don't laugh. He slowly takes the headphones off.

    Can he even see you with his shades on, with the room so dark? Well, you guess he doesn't need to. He just needs to hear you.

    "I thought about it," you tell him. "And looked some things up. And talked to Rose."

    He gives a humorless whisper of a laugh. "You're so fucking earnest, Egbert."

    "I'm not asexual. It seems the word we want is 'demisexual'. That means, basically, I'm not sexually attracted to anyone I'm not in love with." Damn, it's hard to say things like that out loud. Rose makes it look so easy.

    Dave pushes his shades up on top of his head. Apparently he needs to see you after all.

    "But I made things extra confusing because it just feels weird to um... fantasize... about anyone I know, like I'm creeping on them, and you're the last person I want to creep on. I mean you're totally pervworthy but I didn't want to act sketchy or something. Not that I thought about this consciously but I think pretty much I didn't want to be popping inappropriate boners or in any way making our cuddlebro thing awkard and gross." The words are coming faster and faster. "And I've been so crazy about you for so long I didn't even see it because like -- fish can't taste water, right? -- and on top of that I don't even know what to do and God, I'm going to be so, so inept and you're going to laugh --"

    "John, what --"

    "You can laugh, it's okay, but laugh after," you say, and take his face in your hands, and kiss him.

    His breath catches. Instead of laughing, he lets out a choked moan and wraps his arms around you, hugs you tighter than he ever has, kisses back with a desperation that makes your head spin.

    The feelings you've shied away from for so long crash over you like a wave and drown you. Your knees go weak, your heart rattles like a machine gun. Heat pools in your groin, and he bites gently at your lower lip and suddenly you're harder than you've ever been. It scares you. You're shaking. But you don't want to run. You only want to cling to him harder.

    At last you part just enough to pant for breath and study each other's eyes. "You're the sweetest thing," he says softly. "I can't fucking believe how sweet you are, it's ridiculous."

    "Can we take it slow? Would that be all right?"

    "God, of course, I wouldn't -- I mean yes." He bows his head to rest his forehead on your shoulder. "Yeah. As long as it's not never. As long as I don't have to pretend I don't want you. Then yeah. I'll wait as long as you need."

    "Everything about you is wonderful," you whisper.

    He gives a quiet chuckle. "No you," he retorts. He combs his fingers through your hair, slow and cherishing. You've always liked it when he pets your head, but now you know this is what you were wishing for.

    It's a bit too much to take in all at once. With a deep breath, you hold him by the shoulders and step back. The mirror of his gesture from before, but with sort of the opposite meaning. "For our first official date," you say, "I propose we put on our new woolies and go walk in the snow. And hold hands in public and be totally couple-y in front of strangers and everyone."

    There's that brilliant grin again. You realize no one gets that grin but you. "You're on. One cheesy, non-irony-romance snow date coming right up."

    "Can we swing by the coffee shop for cinnamon rolls?"

    "I will even feed you one with my fingers."

    "But I reserve the right to initiate snowball strife without notice."

    "I wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

    The night is blue and gold with snow and house lights. On the nearby street of shops, people are out in couples and families, thronging the few businesses that are open, enjoying the simple fact of each other's presence.

    You both look absurd, Dave in his skulls-and-flames hat and his shades, you in your Wooster getup, swinging your laced-together hands like middle-schoolers showing off your couplehood. But that only makes everything better. It's a shared joke. All your jokes are shared these days, you're coming to realize. They have been for quite a while now.

    "I get to call you 'babe' all the time now, right?" he smiles, and he's so unbearaby adorable with his cold-flushed cheeks and reddened nose. "Not even ironically. 'Hummingbird' is always going to be ironic, by the way; let me just put that out there before we get ourselves in trouble with it."

    "How's this for ironic? Not hipster irony, the real kind: I decide I don't mind being seen dating a guy, and it happens when everyone's all bundled up and unisex. They probably think you're a girl."

    "No, dude, they think you're a girl. I'm taller. Anyway, we'll get 'em in the spring. We'll still be doing this when t-shirt weather rolls around." You can tell it's a question, even though he didn't put it as one.

    "We'll still be doing this when we're old and senile," you promise. "I mean... if you want to."

    Facing straight ahead, smirking smugly, he squeezes your hand. "Duh. Jeez, Egderp. Devotion: learn to detect it."

    "I am," you say, and squeeze back.

- end -