Archive of Our Own ^beta

John Egbert is the happiest fool you'll ever come to know, no doubt about it. Each and every time you meet with him at the corner cafe, he's wearing a smile like it's his most expensive outfit; an ironic statement, even for you, because John Egbert has the worst wardrobe known to man-troll-carapacian kind, wearing big blue sweaters and less blue jeans, sometimes plaid and black slacks, topping it off all the time with these atrociously yellow converse that's honestly an insult to fashion everywhere. John is young as shit, not a wrinkle or mole to his unblemished, fair skin, and he just smiles when you tell him each and every time that he's just absolute trash when it comes to dress-up, smiles that clueless grin and the dimple in his left cheek makes something within you twist and writhe and his impossibly blue eyes sparkle knowingly. John's young as shit, but those eyes, no matter how playful, mischievous, or devious they may shine, they're old. Old and wiser than any senior citizen you've ever come across.

You can't help but to feel inferior in the presence of John's basking happiness and the whipping winds of the Consort Kingdom, like there's something important happening when you're near him, but you can't place a finger on it.

The Consort Kingdom was known to be windy, of course, John's the one who tells you this because he's told you that he was obsessed with ancient history and the stories of old gods in high school. Over the two gods that reigned power, the god of Wind took dominance. Totally not a geographical occurrence, you've told him in disbelief, and he simply laughed. You refused to believe it too, when he said that the weather reflected the Wind god's mood. It was always clear, sunny, and obviously windy. You had asked him what that meant. He said that it meant the Wind god was happy. It's just another one of those things you had accepted without question, like how you constantly lose your beanie or your jacket or a paper or some lightweight belonging of yours to the wind and it always ended up in John's hands.

That boy was an enigma even to your own strange mind.

When you step outside, it's raining. You've lived here for a good six months now, and there was never even a point in those 182.5 days where it was overcast. You step back inside to retrieve the umbrella you'd thought you'd never need, but feel refreshed to use it when you step outside again. Finally, a change that John can't possibly explain with stupid god philosophy or whatever it is he rambles about. With all the plant life that grows in this kingdom especially, you figured there was some sort of rainy season. You'd ask and never receive an answer. 

John isn't there when you arrive at the cafe. Strangely enough, the cafe is emptier than ever. It's a popular spot, this one, but only the baristas are there, one chilling in the stool behind the bar with a book in hand and another sitting on the bar, looking exceptionally overdramatic with that pout on her face. You don't pay much attention to it, because you'd suspect any day where there's hardly a customer would be a boring day. What you do pay attention to, however, is the absence of the friend you've come to grow on. John's late. He's never late, in fact, you're the one who's late which is ridiculous because John even debunked that weird internal sense of time you have. Not that it made sense, because John is just bad at explaining things. No surprise nowhere.

You wait exactly 33 minutes before plucking your phone from your pocket and unlocking it because quite frankly, you're starting to get worried. John wouldn't dip on you without a warning, and he wouldn't warn you if he was still going to come. It makes sense, when you glance out of the window to see that the light patter you walked through on the way to your destination has turned into nothing short of a torrential downpour. Hot shit. Your point is proven when by the time you're clicking on his contact to phone him, the cafe's doorbell jingles lightheartedly as John walks in, wearing that gaudy blue sweater. Goddamn, you told him to quit wearing that thing in public. But you don't exactly get to remind him right away, because there are two things you notice when he shuffles over to sit in front of you.

One, he's sitting across from you instead of next to you. Two, he's dry, completely untouched by a lick of moisture despite bringing no obvious protection against the storm outside (how is that even possible, even when it was a light rain, your shoes and the bottom of your jeans are somewhat uncomfortably cold). Three, okay you know you said two, but when you're looking at him up close, you can just tell something is wrong because holy fuck. The usually boyish bright blue of his eyes are simply gone, replaced by the cloudiness of a strong emotion you're not skilled enough to read and as drably coloured as the dark skies outside.

"Dude, are you okay?" You hear yourself ask, John looks at you in momentary surprise as if no one had asked the question in a long while, then simply smiles. It's not one of his all-out, buck-toothy smiles where his dimple shows and everything, no, it's a quiet smile. A small curve that has his teeth pressing lightly into his bottom lip. It's the most fake smile you'll ever see on a person. "For the most part, yeah. Uhm, I got caught up on a little something on the way here. Sorry for being so late." You never thought you'd hear such a stressed tone from the guy you thought had no burdens with the way he carried himself, and then with a startling realization, you never thought to ask him about his personal life. You know absolutely nothing about what goes down behind that happy-go-lucky demeanor, not that he ever seemed to mind when he was too preoccupied on asking you "where are you from" and "what's your family like" in which you proceeded to ramble off your history to him like you never would to a therapist, even. The worst part about that, you decide, was that he sat there and enjoyed every second of it instead of chiming in with his own personal experiences.

You suddenly feel like an asshole.

"... Wanna talk about it?" You go, because your bro needs you. After all he's done for you, you figure this is the least you can do for him. John looks so relieved he might cry, which wasn't a surprise with how he was shaping up. "I do... I really do," And before he does actually burst into tears, you're getting up, shouldering him further into the space of seating so you can take your rightful place beside him and curl an arm around his shoulders. You're rewarded with his head on yours, it's arguably the most intimate action he's ever taken towards you despite how openly affectionate he is with you. Like he's known you for years and years and is just that comfortable with you.

You never get to properly talking about it. John is horrible at explaining things, and the most you got out of it was some drama between a long-standing friend of his that you honestly thought he didn't even have (you truly do know nothing about this guy beside you) and it made him incredibly upset. Of course, that's only ever going to be your watered down version of it, because the rest is lost in loud sobs in the quiet space and in your side where he's practically glued to you, but by the time he's done, the skies have cleared enough for only a raincloud to occasionally pass through and miraculously, his eyes, too. The both of you meet each others gazes, despite the obscuring garments on your face, it always feels like he's looking right into your eyes. Nothing is said between the both of you until John breaks the tension with a small giggle-snort. You raise your eyebrows.

"What's so funny man, you were pouring your heart out like less than a minute ago," You huff, honestly surprised at how fast someone could possibly recover from whatever heartbreaking strife John had just relaid to you in babbletongue. John smiles a little wider, it's genuine this time you note, and simply shakes his head. "Nothing, sorry," He replies softly, and you get the feeling that you're missing some important development here again. Some day, you'd ought to ask John about that, why do you feel like that around him, but not today. Not when he's settling his head back on your shoulder like it was meant to be there, no worries here, two 24 year old guys just being dudes.

It's quiet for some time, this time you don't bother to count the minutes, but John does eventually speak up to tell the story of his day before his emotional outage. You listen like you always do, and simply forget to gloat about the weather being different this time around.