Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This is it. You've been planning this day for months, and it's finally here.

Today is the day you, Dirk Strider, finally get what you deserve. Today, you are going to put those spare wires to good use by putting them around your neck and… “take flight.”

You don't even know what set you off, you just woke up and knew. This is the last day you're going to infect and ruin your friends’ lives. You are a virus, you know this. You must delete yourself from the mainframe, scrub the motherboard clean of your malware-like ways. No “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts” about it. You were tempted to do it the minute you woke up, but you knew you couldn't go without saying goodbye. You couldn't do that to them, neither your bro nor your friends, even if it's what's best for them.

You know they wouldn't agree, a part of you knows they would stop you if they knew, but that was exactly why you made sure there wasn't a significant difference in your behavior. You couldn't let them know, you had already manipulated them into caring about you. It fucking tears your heart apart knowing this, but if you told them, they'd deny it-

You realize you're shaking, tangerine eyes beginning to well with tears. You rub them away and take several steady breaths. Striders don't cry; not now, not ever. Once you've calmed down, you get up and debate what to do. From the dark, stillness of your room, you assume your Bro hasn't decided it's time for you to get up, but you know that won't last long. Sighing, you put on your shades and head to the door, nearly tripping a few times on your smuppets and robot parts. You should probably clean your room; you honestly don't know how Bro is going to react to you “taking flight with a leash” but you sure as fuck don't want him to have to clean your room.

You want to say he loves you, but sometimes it's hard to tell. You know you're a burden to him, that you're the only reason he doesn't do on location sets anymore, only using those damn Hollywood sets you know he can't stand. You know he's seen the subtle differences in you, no matter how hard you try to fucking hide it.

Your eyes nearly burn when they catch sight of your hair in the bathroom mirror. Yeah, neon orange hair might not have been the smartest in hindsight. You debate a shower, but ultimately just decide to freshen up by washing your face, putting on fresh deodorant, and re-adding gel and hairspray as needed. You don’t even consider shaving; your sideburns are the closest thing to facial hair you’ll ever have. God, you have gotten pale. You're so pale you wonder if you're already dead. You place your pointer and middle finger on the underside of your chin, on the side of your neck. Dammit. You knew you weren't that lucky.

At least you get to say goodbye, you guess.

You wander to the kitchen, looking for Bro and something to eat, when you notice the time.

Eight-thirty.

It’s not a weekday; Bro won't be up for at least an hour, maybe two.

It's best to start making preparations now while you are alone, you guess. You grab an apple and a Fanta from the fridge then head back into your room. Your head feels like it's full of lead as you crash into the chair in front of your desk. You pick up a pencil and tear a blank sheet of paper from a notebook.

Dear Bro,

You take a shaky breath. No, this can't be spontaneous- this has to be a perfect combination of goodbye, you're sorry, and it's for the best. You dig around your room in search of your other "drafts”. In total, you're able to dig up thirteen, four for your brother, two for Jake, two for Roxy, one for Jane, one that started out as Jane’s but turned into one for all of your friends, and three for all four of them, plus an old love letter to Jake. You allow yourself a small grin at the letter.

Memories of the hours you used to spend pouring your heart out to Jake in letters he never received flood your mind. You regret throwing most of the other love letters away, but it was for the best. They were mediocrely written at best and, well, you would like it best if Jake never found out how desperately in love you were and are still. You can't even fathom how Jake would react to that piece of information, even if he is your boyfriend. A relationship you manipulated him into, your brain reminds you.

You put the love letter back, then take the rest of the notes to your desk. You reread all of them, remembering what you thought was well-written and what was desperate and what was too cold. You want to make sure they know how much you love them, how you're toxic and don't deserve them but how it's better if you go and remove yourself from the equation altogether. But you can't just repeat the same thing four fucking times, no that's heartless and cold as fuck. Each one has to be personal and answer their initial questions. Each friend will have different questions after “Why?” and they deserve an answer you won't be alive to give them. At the very least, you need to explain to them it's not their fault, it's not anything they did, it's you. Just by existing, you pollute and poison EVERYRTHING YOU TOUCH and YOU CAN’T FUCKING TAKE IT ANYMORE. Every moment you continue to live, you feel like you're letting someone down, using someone as a puppet, or destroying something precious.

There's a part of you that knows that it's not true, yet the fact that it could be true destroys your soul.

You weren't always like this. There was a time where you thought you could fix your flaws, that you could really help your friends, but that was a long time ago. You aren't that naïve and ignorant person anymore. You have always known what was best for them most of the time, even if they didn't know it or understand. You are a bad wire that has to be removed immediately. You failed your purpose, but you are easy to remove and a replacement can be found sooner or later. It's just a matter of time.

Your hand is shaking as you pick up your favorite novelty pen with orange ink just so you could put it down and take a swig of Fanta. You hold the cold soft drink in your mouth for a second, focusing your attention to the bubbles furiously pop pop pop in your mouth, somewhat grounding yourself, then swallow. A violent shiver racks your body, so hard you nearly see stars. After that you sigh and take off your shades, and you hesitate.

“What the hell are you doing, Strider?,” A brief voice flickers.

What has to be done in the most efficient way, you think back at it earnestly. You pick up the pencil and force yourself to focus on the sheet of paper in front of you.

Dear Dave,
You don't need me. I know I've been holding you back from doing what you really want to do with your career. I'm sorry for holding you back all this time. You've done so much for me in the past nine years, and how do I repay you?
By leeching off your back, preventing you from doing everything you love.
You saved me from him and I never thanked you. I've been thinking about the night you took me away from him a lot lately. I'm sorry for screaming at you; I didn't know, didn't understand how abusive and horrible he was.
I know I look like him. I know it scares you sometimes and I know I worry you. But you don't have to be scared or worry about me anymore. Think of it as me returning the favor for being so good to me. I don't like who I've become, Dave.
It scares me- I hurt people without meaning to. I'm manipulative and toxic, just like him. I thought I could fix it, but I can't. I've tried so many times, but I can’t, Bro. I'm broken and I can't be fixed.
I wish I could give you back the years you wasted on me. I wish I could tell you that I'm sorry for doing this, but I've thought about it so much that I'm positive this is the only way. You could find me if I ran (I'd probably come back anyway). I don't want to leave you, but I'm inhibiting your ability to grow and do what you want. The only way for me to fix things is to remove myself altogether.
I'm sorry for not being as strong as you are. I'm sorry for any and all pain my actions have brought you. My intention never has, been, nor will be to hurt you. This is the only way.
I love you, Bro. Thank you for being a better dad than he ever could be.

You sign it, then set it to the side. It's not perfect, but you don't have time to perfect it any more. It's the best it can be, given your plans. You wish there was a better way, but you don't deserve it. You've hurt your bro and friends, the people you care about and the only ones who care about you, enough already. You sigh, pulling out your phone. You can't write the next three on paper, they won't see them in time. You don't want them to worry when you suddenly stop replying to them…

You don't let yourself think about how they're going to react.

You've just opened pesterchum when your door opens.

Alarms and sirens go off in your brain, panic racking your body, but you don’t let it show. You simply, calmly, put the old drafts in a drawer, slip the newest one into the notebook, and shove your phone in your pocket as you stand up to look at your bro. He casually leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed, his face obscured by his Aviators and as readable as a block of stone, like a Strider should.

“How long you been up?” he asks, only the slightest twinge of concern detectable in his voice. There’s no possible way he could know what you were doing, you remind yourself. You wonder if he knows how you struggle to sleep sometimes. You check the clock on your phone.

“Roughly forty-three minutes,” you reply, steeling your voice. You feel like you're on edge; maybe some Fanta will help.

“You eat anything yet?” you shake your head, the apple on your desk untouched. He gestures for you to follow him. You do.

He doesn't say anything until you both get to the kitchen. “What were you doing when I walked in?” Bro inquires as he pours himself a tall glass of apple juice. You sit down at the table in the middle of the kitchen and shrug.

“Working on something.” It's not a lie, but it's too vague and you both know it.

“Dirk. Don't be a smartass,” he pulls out some cherry Poptarts and tosses them into the toaster.

“It's just some old plans for a project,” you reply nonchalantly. He's on to you.

“You're not building a fucking sex bot, are you?” he turns back to look at you, his tight cornsilk curls loosely styled into his usual side swept bangs. Some of his curls are standing on end due to his bedhead and leftover hairspray from the day before, his brows furrowed in distaste. It takes you a moment to register his absurd words.

“A sex bot?” The thought is so ludicrous and so far from the truth that you snap, a slight chortle quickly escalating into full on laughter. It's so out of character for you that your bro kind of looks at you for a second before he breaks down and joins you with a light chuckle. “Where the hell did you get that idea?!” you cry, you can't help it- “No, that's exactly what I'm building. It's going to have at least twelve different dildo options and different speed options.”

Bro’s face splits into a smile- a real, huge smile- before he guffaws with you. It's an odd and rare occurrence in the Strider household, but it makes you smile. It reminds you of when you and your bro had finally gotten used to not having your awful dad around. No random bombs of his stupid, cheap and creepy smuppets when your trying to get breakfast or shower, no more shitty swords in the fridge, no more strifes on the roof at any and every disagreement- and best of all, no more having to explain your odd injuries and scars to your friends and teachers. Laughter and jokes and normal arguments were commonplace when you both realised that. Of course, you two still had strifes when things got heated, and each of you picked up a weird interest of his (your bro had fallen for swords, and you fell for smuppets, but neither of you opted for the shitty kind that he loved). Your bro eventually got used to your smuppets and you his swords, but the one thing Bro has and probably never will get used to is Cal.

Lil Cal was YOUR puppet, not your dad's, but he took him often enough and tormented your bro so much he might as well have been his. You got the impression he had a puppet similar to yours at one point in his life, but you didn't give a shit about that. Cal was (and is) YOUR PUPPET; Cal never was and never will be his. It's the only reason Bro hasn't forced you to toss him out. He was the one thing you were able to grab before Bro and you escaped. But that doesn't matter, Cal never leaves your room anyway.

Lately though, things have been tense and distant. You're not sure when or why laughter became rare and odd between you two, but one can only assume that it began when you started holing up in your room more. Despite your best efforts to show as little changes in your behavior and signs as possible, you know some things slipped through the cracks of your facade, and absconding to your room as often as possible one of them. You decide that you're not going to do that today. You want to see your brother before you go. (You would say the same about your friends, but they each live about thirty minutes to an hour away. You don't want to bother them just to permanently leave them. You could call them, but you don't trust yourself. Besides, you never initiate calls.)

As you both calm down a bit, your bro tosses down a plate of cherry poptarts in front you. He doesn't ask you about what you're really building (thank god), instead slumping into the seat across from you. You feel guilty eating them, seeing fruit poptarts are some of the few safe processed foods for him. You can feel his eyes burn into you as you hesitate before eating them. You don't want him to worry. Despite your guilt, your stomach graciously accepts the offering, causing you to polish them off faster than you intended. Bro simply watches in amused silence, and says nothing as you take care of your plate and go back to your room for your apple and drink. He seems surprised when you return so quickly.

“Forget something?”

“Nah… Just figured we could watch a movie or whatever?” you hate the slight bit of hope that eases its way into your words. Your bro seems at a loss for words for a moment, his mouth a small “o”. Has it really been that long since you spent some time with him?

“Yeah, of course,” the shock in his words feels like a lump of ice in your gut. Some brother you are.
You slip into the living room and plop onto the couch, half curled up in a corner, opening Netflix as you begin to eat your apple. Bro strolls in not long after, his corkscrew curls slightly more under control than a minute ago.

“What do you want to watch?” you do your best to steer clear from anime and mlp, but clearly you should have clicked onto your bro’s account for that. He tries (and fails) to cover up a snicker when he glances at the screen.

He shrugs and takes the other side of the couch, an arm slung around the back. You settle on a Studio Ghibli movie. (Ponyo, to be precise, because you know your Bro is weak for this movie, he can't say no to it. Not to say you're any better, it's a childhood favorite of yours.) He nearly cries twice during the movie, once at the “Ponyo likes ham” scene and at the ending scene. You snickered at him both times, the second time, earning a “Shut up, it's ironic!”, even though you both knew that was bullshit. You knew he couldn't handle cute, wholesome shit like this, but you play it for him anyway because you know he loves it. (Unironically, no matter what he says.)

“Do you want to watch another movie?” Bro asked. You shrugged.

“Do you have time?” He glanced at his watch.

“Sure.” This time, you knew what you wanted to turn on, but he was not having it.

“Dude, we're not watching one of my movies nor that fucking pastel horse show you love. Gimme the remote.” You smirk. “Dirk.”

You could play that card too.

“Dave.” He tried to grab it from your hand, but you swapped hands last second and held it far from him.

“Dirk, give me the remote!” he tried to reach across you for it, but Bro took an “unforeseeable” tumble to the floor instead.

In your moment of freedom, you jumped up off the couch and absconded like a tool (or a little kid). By the time Bro was off the floor, you had your strife sword in hand (a shitty plastic katana, perfect for combat between family without any real injuries- your real katana stays on your wall, nothing more than a decoration now). “Strife me for it, bitch.”

Bro tries to give you a dirty look, but his face breaks into an evil grin best suited for asshole little brothers such as yourself. You know your shit is fucked, but right now you're having fun with your bro for the last time and you know in your heart he deserves a good last moment with you. You couldn't end it on a bad note, nor ignore him all together. He'd break, blaming himself for your shit. Dave is a relatively smart guy, but he can be painfully stupid when it comes to you and his friends.

Bro attacks first, despite not having his strife sword. He attempts to take your weapon, but all it takes is a step to the side for him to stumble and grasp at air. Fortunately for him, he's able to get to his room to attempt to get his plastic own terror. Attempt, being the keyword.

You chase after him, swiping at his legs and .back (like a tool) to slow him down, silly shit you could never do back at your dad's apartment when you were young because those were real swords, things that actually gave both you and your bro scars, despite their general shittiness. He's calling you a cheater and a prick as you continue to bash his back, but he's laughing again as he nearly trips into his room and you try to follow him in, but he almost slams the door in your face.Almost, because you flash step at the last second.

It doesn't matter though, you've got enough self-respect to wait for him to grab the plastic “celtic” sword before attacking. He blocks you, of course, because he's got ten years more experience than you, but you've got agility on your side. You then proceed to dodge and disarm him, winning the strife in record time.

40-37; Bro’s slipping.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice him flinch, a momentary look of panic in his eye. It’s subtle, but you notice it anyway, and you can't help but guiltily know why. It spirals downward from there, but you don't let it show.

He holds his hands up in surrender when you face him but, because the strife was inside the house and therefore doesn't count, you hand him the remote from your backpocket. He gives you a confused look, and you shrug with a half-hearted smirk. You killed your own playful mood, but played it off as tiredness. An eyebrow hikes up above his Aviators and you pretend not to notice as you stalk out of his room. You killed your own playful mood in a matter of seconds. Bro follows you, blissfully unaware of how quickly you were able to go from happily distracted from your true nature to the descent of how much harm your resemblance alone does to his psyche, even if your hair is dyed bright orange. Even if you never wear shitty long-bill hats nor polos; even if you keep your snapbacks and puppets in a pile by your bed; even if your face is full of piercings and your hair is more spikey than an anime protagonist. You know you will never be anything more than your “Big Bro” (liar, he was your father but neither of you knew that until much later), the spitting image of a man who caused you and your bro more pain than you wish to put into words. Sometimes you wonder if you could ever be something more than a heartless piece of nuclear waste, decaying ever so fucking slowly, your radiation mutating and poisoning every beautiful living being around you. Guess you'll never know.

You slump onto your corner of the couch as Dave enters a moment or two after you. He sits on his end of the couch, and you tell him you don't actually care what he turned on, you just felt like being a prick. He gives you a look, but you pretend not to notice as you pull out your phone.

“Are you okay?”

You don't answer. You don't have the energy to lie to him, but hell no are you telling him what you're planning to do today.

“Dirk.”

“I'm fine, Bro, just turn something on. I'm probably going to text Jake or something anyway.” Unlike your bro, you've mastered the art of turning off your emotions and icing out any indicators of how you're truly feeling. It's not technically a lie either, you do plan on writing a message to Jake first.

Bro doesn't seem convinced. “... You know you can talk to me, right? Or just have me listen, since, well you know how my advice tends to go. It's like if someone gave a blind dog a pair of roller skates and threw the poor thing on ice for the first time and asked it to fetch a ball on the other side of the court- or pond I guess?”

You give an amused snort while he continues to add on to his already convoluted simile. You nod, not trusting your voice to not give you away. He seems satisfied with that because he stops talking and refocuses on the screen. While he turns on some comedy he's seen a thousand times, you decide to open your pesterlog tipsyGnostalgic.

Roxy is your best friend of eleven years, having first met them online about when you both were about eight years old. They were the first person you ever technically came out to after she admitted to having a crush on you, despite not actually having the exact vocabulary to express you've only liked men your whole life, and the only person you can trust to not judge you. Hell, when they realized they weren't exactly crazy about the whole being a ciswoman thing, they came to you first to officially come out. (Rox might’ve accidentally outed themself to their mom, but after the initial horror of being outed, their mom was cool about it, as expected. Calmasis, a popular non-binary icon, is her character after all.) They sobered up right as they realized their alcoholism was a problem, even going as far as to admit to their mom that they had a problem. You love her with all the platonic love your heart could muster; the pride you feel when it comes to having the honor of them, Roxy Lalonde, as your best friend is unfathomable. To not write to them next seemed like a crime against humanity. You take a deep breath, and begin to write.

Dear Roxy Lalonde,
Don't you even fucking dare think for a second this is your fault. You are my best friend, my rock, the glue that keeps this dysfunctional group together. I love you in the most platonic, godparent-of-my-nonexistent-kids, would-kill-everyone-and-then-myself-if-anything-ever-happened-to-you way I could and can only hope to count one day. You got through things that some adults could only hope to surpass. I hope you know how proud I am of you, for both the aforementioned reasons and the fact you put up with everyone's bullshit without complaint. I'm only writing these letters to the people who impacted my life in a positive way, Roxy.
You are the only thing that keeps the four of us from falling apart. There were days when I was younger where I wished I could be you, or run away and live with you. You made things so much better for me in ways that shouldn't have been possible, but you miraculously did. I know you do that for everyone, but I hope you know how much that shit meant to me. It must be exhausting, dealing with us all the time- dealing with me all the time, but it should be easier soon enough though. I won't be there to slowly poison your minds like radioactive waste into thinking I'm some fucking good person when I'm fucking not. I can't recall one time I did the same for you, and that's fucked up. I'm sorry for that. At least now I won't be able to hinder you because I know I came to you for support more than any of us. I won't be able to get in the way of Jane and Jake from becoming the couple they always were going to be. They'll get married and probably grow old together, have a few kids. Maybe I'll get a kid or a dog named after me, who knows. I'm not going to pretend this isn't going to affect anyone, but trust me when I say that in the long run, it's for the best. You're so strong, Roxy, I genuinely don't know how you do it. I know that you'll get through this. You're so much stronger than me, than anyone I know. I know you might think this is wrong, but it's what’s necessary. I need to permanently remove myself to make shit better for you guys and I know if I run I'll either come back or you'll find me. I have to do this.
Take care of my brother for me.

White-hot tears are pricking at your eyes as you schedule the message for four p.m. That gives you roughly five-ish hours; plenty of time. Five hours to live before you go.

No, that's way too much time, you panic as you change it to three. The sooner you're out of everyone's hair, the better.

You glance at Dave; he's still watching the movie, but he knows something’s up with you. Better run while you still can.

“Roxy just reminded me of a paper I've got to finish for class on Monday,” you lie as you stand up and stretch. You thank the gods for your shades and your natural deadpan.

“Can't you do that tomorrow? We've got like forty minutes left of the movie, dude. If we don't finish this, I might go apeshit, like you just teased me with eight bananas at the zoo and was like no bitch, but the joke's on you, door to my cage was left open and I thought I was coming to beat your ass but no, the door just led to some fucking hallway that's not outside and I'm too pissed off and confused to figure out if I keep going I can still make it to your dumbass.”

You sorta chuckle at your bro’s whatever-the-fuck-simile-or-something your bro tends to do. “What the fuck, Dave, I'm just going to be down the hall.”

He looks you dead in the eyes for a moment, his face giving signs only a fellow Strider can see. Fuck, he's hurt and a bit concerned- “But I guess I can stay for the rest of the movie.”

You plop back down into your spot, earning yourself a little smile, the last smile he’ll ever give you, you think to yourself. You focus your attention on the movie and try not to imagine all the ways he might react when he finds you later.

~~~~~~~~

You find yourself back in your room, your older brother still on the couch, working on some SBaHJ comics before he gets a call about whether the next movie he's got planned is going to fly. He knows something’s up with you, you can feel it, but you know he doesn't know how to approach you because you're nineteen. You're not a child, but you're not really an adult (legality be fucked); you're his brother, not his kid, and it's a thin fucking tightrope he walks, you walk.

You know it's not fucking familial love he's got for you, it's fucking pity and you HATE pity. He doesn't know his role in the machine of your life because he pities you, and you pity him for having a faulty wire such as yourself to deal with in his life.

You know Jake and Jane pity you too. You can understand why Jane pities you, her life is fucking perfect, but Jake? You don't deserve his pity. Your life is fucking amazing compared to his.

Jake’s parents died when he was a toddler, so he was raised on a remote island until his grandma died when he turned thirteen. Suddenly, his life of adventuring with a sweet yet feisty old lady was turned upside-down. He got shipped to the U.S. and was thrown around in the system until he turned eighteen. You know he's seen some shit because of it, because he was always himself and was always encouraged in his interests, and some of those foster families didn't like that, tried to change the masterpiece that is Jake English. Yet somehow, he stayed optimistic and true to what his grandma taught him… Even if that led to him being a bit dense and maybe a dumbass. No, there's no denying your boyfriend is a dumbass, but you love him, you have since he messaged you on Animal Jam when you two were young, probably like eight.

You don't deserve him.

You snap back into focus again like you had earlier that morning in the bathroom when you realized you were sitting at your desk, shades off and head in your hands, not standing/awkwardly leaning on the back of your door. You really need to stop that. You wish you knew how to stop it, but you suppose it didn't matter anymore.

You review the old notes, then open your Pesterlog with golgothasTerror.

Dear Jake English,

You stop and stare at the blinking bar for a moment, taking a shaky breath before continuing. You sigh, wishing you weren't such a perfectionist, because if you weren't, you'd just use the last note you wrote for Jake, or anyone else for that matter. Instead, you feel sick rereading your old notes, noticing every flaw in your words, cringing at the parts that sound robotic and the parts that sounded desperate. This was going to be a trip, assuming it didn't turn into a final love letter or whatever. (Not to say that the others weren't, but in the off chance he survives, this would be the one that took the biggest toll, you think.)

Dear Jake English,
I love you.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for making you love me, only for me to leave. I know you're going to hate me for this, but it's the only guaranteed fix I have.
Don’t you dare think for a second that I never loved you, never cared for you, because I've loved you since that day you first said hi to me on Animal Jam. (Yes, I still think it's stupid they didn't have a horse.)
You are a masterpiece, Jake, and anyone who doesn't see that isn't worth your time. You're going to do great things, and I'm afraid at the end of the day, I'm just a hindrance to you. I can't hold you back.
I'm sorry for any and all times I've made you feel like you weren't enough, like you weren't worth it because of my own neuroticism. If anything at all, I want you to know how much I love you and how much you mean to me.
I was so desperate for you to love me back that I manipulated you into this relationship. I'm so sorry for that.
So that's why I'm breaking this, even though it's all I've wanted for the longest time. I don't deserve you. You don't deserve the things I've done to you. It's not like it matters though, you can't date a dead man.
I love you, Jake. You make it easy for me to think it's going to get better, but it's not.
Not for me, at least.
If I could give you the world, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But since I can't, I'll go so you can be free to take it. Goodbye, Jake English.
I wish you nothing but the best.

You sign and schedule it for the same time as Roxy’s message. Dear fucking gog, you don't have time for tears. You violently wipe them away before they could even leave your eyes.

You can't think about how he's going to react, so you go straight to cleaning up your room.

...And by cleaning, you mean throwing your shit into the pile at the foot of your bed. It's mostly robot parts and smuppets, a few snapbacks here and there. Whilst “cleaning”, you find a particular snapback that was orange and green. On the front of it was a stupid looking skull with a hat.

How ironic, is all you can think when you pick it up. The very first gift Jake gave you as your boyfriend was this stupid hat. It was so ugly, but it's your favorite nonetheless. You toss the hat on your bed, then rush to your closet, seeing what else you could find. In there, you find Jake’s football jersey and one of his skull graphic hoodies, as well the redish pink heart hoodie Roxy gave you for your birthday last year and a box of CrockerCorp knick knacks (who, besides Jane and Jake, would say knick knacks willingly??) Jane knew you wouldn't use, but might like for spare parts. You also found a few things Bro gave you from when he was about your age- your favorite being a faded, homemade SBaHJ tie. It was also ugly as hell but any and every fancy event you've worn that tie (much to your bro’s disdain). You keep digging, finding more things from your friends and brother until you're sure you have everything. You’ve shut off all emotions at this point because you know you would be sobbing right now if you didn't and throw everything into the pile by your bed before plopping yourself into it.

You pull your earbuds off the top of the nose of a smuppet from the last time you sat here and plug them into your phone. You open Spotify and press shuffle on the first playlist your thumb lands on, the volume as loud as you can handle. You don't want to have any conscious thoughts right now. Only one letter left before you're free to leave. Permanently.

You get a ping from Pesterchum.

Panic floods your body, and you're able to wonder if you didn't schedule one of the messages properly, until you see the handle.

TG: you ok in there bro

TG: it sounded like you had a tornado of rhinos in there

TG: a rhinado

TG: fuck that was dumb sorry

TG: pretend i didnt say that

You sigh, somewhat relieved.

TT: Yeah, I'm fine.

TT: Just looking for some parts Jane gave me.

TT: Sorry about the noise.

TG: its cool dude

TG: just making sure you werent hurt or some shit

TT: Yeah I'm good. Just rustling around, searching for stuff like a sewer rat or something

TG: haha gross dude

TG: ill leave you to your shit scampering then lol

TT: Alright, man. May Lady Inspiration grace you with all that ironic comedy for your hella great comics :)

TG: thanks

TG: you sure youre ok dude

Fuck. Why did you put an emoticon? You never do that! Fuck, fuck, FUCK!

TT: Yeah, Bro, I'm fucking great.

TT: I'm having a better time than a puppy fucking around in snow for the first time.

TT: Just wish I could find this part.

TG: u need any help

TT: Nah, dude. Thanks though.

TT: Isn't the deadline for your comic the same time as your next SBaHJ movie meeting tomorrow?

TG: shit ur right

TG: damn near forgot

TG: thx lil man

TG: you are the best like seriously i promised like five comics and i only have half of one done

TT: Oof.

TT: You should probably get on that.

TG: yeah

TG: if you need me im just on the couch

TG: exactly where you left me lol

TG: not a single muscle voluntarily moved like a decaying corpse in its tomb

TG: if you need me for something ill rise from my cushiony grave to aid you as best as my bloated, rotten zombie bod will allow before i inevitably fall apart

TG: my gross maggot eaten limbs slapping wetly against the floor as they fall from their joints when i try to use them

TG: nasty corpse juices splattered against the floor and leaving a trail wherever i go

TT: Gross.

TT: Thanks for the imagery. I'm going to leave before you somehow make this worse and Freudian.

TT: More Freudian? I don't know.

TT: Work on your comic, dumbass.

You don't read the last text he sends in favor of writing Jane’s note. You can't wait until you're done, you're so tired and done being numb. No more infecting your friends like a virus; no more burdening Dave…

You tap on gutsyGumshoe.

Dear Jane Crocker,
There's a lot of things I could say to you, that I should say to you, but the truth is, I don't know what to say to you. I know we talked about it before, but I still feel guilty about letting a boy come between us. There's nothing I can say to you that I haven't told you a thousand times. You’re a smart girl, Jane, and you probably don't need to hear these things a thousand-and-first time, but bare with me okay?
You know I trust you, but be careful and be better than the Batterwitch when you inherit the company. I don't think anyone could take it if you got assassinated. You know we think the Batterwitch is bad news, but we trust your judgement and hope you don't follow in her footsteps.
I just want you and the others to be safe and happy. It's not any of your guys’ fault for this. None of you are responsible for my decision.
One day, you're going to grow up and get married to Jake with two kids. You'll probably be watching one of Jake’s god awful movies and you'll look at each other and ask, “Remember Dirk? The kid we grew up with that kept us apart for a bit? The one that acted like a tool and had those stupid anime shades?” Jake will nod and say something like, “Oh yeah, we named the dog after him, remember?” and you'll laugh, and talk about how shitty I was as a friend, neither of you quite fully remembering how awful I was and happy- thankful even, that I'm gone.
Don't get me wrong, I know that's not what you're going to think when you get this, I'm not an idiot, but I know that once my manipulation wears off you'll see who I really am. I just hope you don't hate who that is. I know sometimes I think I'm helping and often that's not the case, but I'm positive this is the only way. This time I'm right and I know it.
Take good care of Jake for me.

And… that's it. The last letter.
Somehow, you're not as relieved as you'd thought.

You sigh, then turn down the music. You still have some time before the messages send, but you don't want to off yourself just yet. You sink further into the pile, wondering faintly what you should do next. You start to zone out to the music (because you didn't turn it down THAT much) when there's a faint knock on your door. You pull out an earbud and tell them they can come in.

An albino head pokes in.

“Hey, I'm ordering from that Taiwanese place for lunch, you want anything?”

“Nah, I'm not hungry,” you reply. You're not going to be around when it comes.

Bro crosses his arms, seemingly displeased with his answer. “Dirk, all you've had today is an apple, Poptarts, and some Fanta. You know we have the money to get whatever you want, so please be real with me. Even if you're actually not hungry, just order something small for later.” You realize this was a test and you failed. You never turn down a chance to get some food from there, no matter how sick or upset you were in the past. The fact you just did is a big red flag.

“... Maybe just a soup? You know the one,” you're surprised when you don't sound obscenely guilty.

“Ok,” he looks concerned still, but it's enough for him to leave you alone.

When Bro’s gone, you can't help but feel numb. You're not going to be here to eat that soup, but you can't tell him that. He would freak out, try to stop you when you don't deserve to breathe, you don't deserve him or anyone else you have. They can’t see you're becoming the thing you hate and you have no choice but to break the cycle by removing yourself altogether. You can't stay when you know that every breath you take is poisoning the very souls of everyone you know, everyone you love, the only four you CARE about.

You laugh wryly because it hurts so much that you don't know what else to do. You're nineteen years old; all you want to do is fly. You want to become a fucking pegasus like your favorite character in My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic and soar around the sky! You're still sad the show ended, but pleased to know Dash was gay, like you.

You chuckle at the stupid joke. A gay horse taking flight… What a ludicrous comparison! A faint smile spread on your face, any fucks you might’ve given before dissipated with the numbness that set in. Your head felt like it was filled with feathers as you seemed to float through your room and out the door, your brother's letter in hand.

Your movements are near silent, your footsteps barely make a sound, if they touched the floor at all. The pale blonde corkscrew curls of your brother's head stayed bowed, scribbling furiously on his tablet, over ear-headphones probably blasting one of his mixes. He probably already ordered. You set the note on the kitchen table before absconding back to your room.

Even with your earbuds in, you can hear your heart thrum in your ears, tears prickling behind your eyes, but even in death, Striders don't cry. You're gonna fly now; it's time to remove the bad wire.

You take out the earbuds, and right as you set it on your bed, your phone buzzes.

Time's up, you guess.

You turn off your phone before you can read who it is and why they texted. You wheel your chair under the ceiling fan, grab your spare extension cord for its thickness, tie it up and attach it to the fan. You stick your head through the loop, your head full of static.

You're gonna fly.

Just as your feet leave the chair, you hear something bang and gasp as the wire grows tight around your neck- tight, too tight- no you don't want to do this- you-

You want to live.

You don't want to die.

And that's the last thing you hear your mind shriek as everything goes black.

Chapter Text

You don't even think as you see your brother hang there, the white cord around his neck.

You practically rip his katana off the wall and slice through the cord like it's nothing.

You let the sword clatter to the floor in favor of catching Dirk. Goddammit, you should've known. You should've seen the signs, should've done something. You hold your brother to your chest tightly, short panicked breaths quickly evolving sobbing.
You remove what remains of the- no, you can't even fucking think of its name, you just want your brother to live.

Your mind flashes to all the good times you've had together, from the mini strife over the remote a few hours ago to the time you both snuck out to get ice cream when you were sixteen and he was seven. You'll never forget how happy he was when you bought him that weird ass flavor- matcha green tea, was it? He ate the whole two cups of it, too. You try to laugh but it comes out as a choked sob. You can't call anyone like this, let alone 911, so you sob and hold him and hope he wakes up soon.

You don't know what you'll do if you lose him; he's all you have that matters- fuck, he's more your son then that fucking prick’s.

You spent nearly twenty years doing your best to protect him and the last nine raising him, yet you’ve managed to fail him. You fucked up at some point and it's all your fault. God, you made him feel like a burden- didn't he understand why you hadn't let yourself work yourself to death yet? Why you're some resemblance of a functioning human being was because you want to be a better role model for him than you had growing up?! You can't lose your brother- you've already let him down by letting him think he was inhibiting you. The last nine years had been the best of your life- to think he thought you had wasted them on him makes you sob harder.

Dirk was not a bad person, maybe a bit unself-aware (is that a word?), but he was young and he could change- dammit, Dirk!

Why couldn't he see that change is hard and takes time?! Why couldn't he see how much you cared? Why can't he see he's your rock and that you need him?

You can't lose your brother.

If you do, you might do something stupid too.

Chapter Text

You awake in your brother's arms, him sobbing hysterically while your throat burns. Your head feels a little fuzzy, but the clarity of what you had done- or tried to do, from the looks of things- weighing on your shoulders. You can sort of see part of the extension cord, mostly the part where Dave probably cut clear off. It takes you a moment to be able to move (you're lucky to have woken with little-to-no physical consequences) but when you do, Bro pulls away, his hands firmly on your shoulders, and looks you dead in the eyes. Tears are still streaming down his face and he's sniffling all to hell, face flushed from crying. He's a fucking disaster.

“You are NOT a fucking burden,” he shakes you a bit, unintentionally digging his fingers into your flesh. “You are the reason why I'm not drowning myself in work and I’m living a relatively normal life, instead of doing all the stupid, self-destructive things all my coworkers and colleagues do.” He's shaking violently, as if he's terrified, but the stubborn lines of his face contradict the idea. “I'm proud to call you my brother, and that PRICK has nothing to do with how I look at you. You are NOT HIM. Do you understand?”

You nod, the words stuck in your throat. He seems to calm down a little, his face and grip relaxing a bit. He hugs you tight for a long moment, before he pulls away, wiping his own tears away and actively trying to steady his breathing.

You feel like you're watching everything from behind one-way glass, unable to talk, unable to be heard. The pounding of your heart is loud in your ears, you’re way too aware of your breathing- you swear your bones are made of lead when he stands up suddenly. You realize that there's insistent pounding and yelling at the front door, your name being the one thing you can make out.

Dave gestures with a tilt of his head for you to answer it because it's obviously for you. You feel like you’re stumbling as you stand up and walk quickly to it, but you can tell from the way the bottoms of your socks hit the floor that you're walking normally.

You don't even look through the peephole when you open the door, or rather when you unlock it so a very distressed Roxy can shove their way into your home, nearly trampling you in the process.

They take one look at you, then yells into the sparkly-pink cat phone case in their hand, “Hold off, Janey, he’s ok! Dirk’s ok! Get Jake and come over here as quick as possible- and don't use the CrockerCorp shit either, neither of them have a receiver for that teleporter-thingy! Yeah, love you too Janey,” the minute they hang up the phone, you find yourself being held in a death grip and they’re sobbing- oh god, they're sobbing and you have no idea what to do.

You look to where your bro was standing, only to watch his back retreat to the back door. You frown knowingly, but given the circumstances, you don't blame him. You wouldn't dare tell him not to, considering what you did- tried to do, but still… You wish he didn't smoke at all.

Turning your attention back to the person who might kill you by breaking your ribs and hugging you too hard, you kinda awkwardly pat their back… Even after all these years being friends with Roxy, you still have no idea how to handle being hugged. After a few pats, they seem to be satisfied, pulling away and wiping their eyes. Guilt and shame seem to be the only thing you can feel right now, like a typhoon looming over you, threatening to fall and drown/destroy all that stands in its way.

While refusing to look your best friend in their striking pinkish-mauve eyes, you can feel their eyes drilling into you, specifically your neck, which you assume has rub burn from the attempt.

They take a moment to process, before asking, “What the hell happened?”

“I did something stupid and Dave had to save my ass, like usual. How did you get here so fast?” you rasp, your throat sore.

They put their hand on your shoulder, giving you a bittersweet look. “Intuition. I was already on my way long before I got your message.”

You nod, unsure what to do. You end up taking them to the couch, where they tell you, “We’re talking about this the minute they get here, and if you even think about absconding, Dave and I will NOT hesistate to tackle your smartass, Dirk,” their eyes fierce and stern, and their tone is more serious than you're used to.

You curl further into yourself and nod. “Wasn't planning on it.”

“Gud- Good, lol. You wanna watch MLP til they get here?” their tone is lighter now, more familiar. You nod, getting up to grab a glass of water, making sure to stay in their line of sight. They don't say anything, but you can feel them eye you as you turn on the tap. You don't jump when your bro comes back in, and you don't react when he sits on the floor instead of the couch or one of the chairs near it. Roxy doesn't either, they've been here enough to know that it's normal for him to when he's upset or stressed, instead settling on a vague frown. You settle back into your seat, sipping the water in hopes of recovering your throat sooner (and your to settle your nerves). Usually, you always know what to say, but this time you don't, so you don't say anything. You're not so sure you could anyway, being so out of it… You ponder if you're actually dead and this is nothing but a stimulation you're just “watching”... If this is nothing but what would've happened instead of what did...

It's quiet, save for the brightly-colored ponies and the occasional chuckle, everyone presumably too lost in their heads or trying to process what happened, until Jane and Jake arrive.

There's a quiet knock at the door, followed by a polite, “Hello?”

You jump up before Roxy nor Bro could and answer it. Pink and red eyes follow you behind tinted lenses as you stroll to unlock and open the door… it makes you a little uneasy, if you're being honest.

As you pull the heavy wood door open, you barely get a glimpse of Jane before being nearly- trampled? No, you're being hugged, this is a hug. A very aggressive and tight hug you were not expecting. It takes a solid minute for you to process that Jake is the one sobbing in your arms, blubbering incoherently. Gog, you thought Roxy was going to shatter your ribs, jegus. That was nothing in comparison to Jake’s burly arms from football and wrangling horses on weekends. You wrap your arms around him, comforting him the best you can (which is barely better than when Roxy came in). You whisper in his ear softly that you're okay, it's okay, just breathe, you can't understand what he's saying, then remember Jane.

You give her a little wave, and she nods affirmingly, dabbing her eyes with her fingers. You glance at Roxy and point to Jane. They get the memo and take Jane to the couch, presumably telling her something in that Roxy way of making everyone feel better. On the way back, they put a hand on Jake’s shoulder and give him a gentle hello, before continuing on their way.

Dirk Emily Strider, what have you done?

You’ve hurt everyone in this room, making them all cry. You don’t deserve them.The question hits you square in the cavity you claim your heart is, and you just want to crumple in Jake’s arms cry and cry and cry until you're nothing but dust and empty space.

But you don't.

Instead, you just hold Jake, letting him soak the shoulder of your shirt. You feel like you're closer to the glass separating you from this moment. You go to say something, but it dies on your tongue when Jake places a kiss on your unsuspecting mouth.

It's short and quick and can be best described as wet, but you don't dare push him away. You've already hurt your relationship enough as it is; you wouldn't dare throw away what could be your last chance to kiss him. When he pulls away, you feel a part of you die as you look at him in his emerald eyes. They're red and puffy from behind the familiar black frames and strangely beautiful, in that way you know for a fact is solely from the fact you're so enamored (obsessed) and in love with the man in your arms.

“You stupid bloke,” he croaked, “you're quite a handful you know that?” You nod, and he continues before you could even think to reply. “A beautiful, lovely handful that I would never trade in for the world. You understand, Dirk? I love you, you're my best friend, my boyfriend- I hope.” You look away, because it stings and you deserved the sting, but he gently, ever so gently, more gentle than you deserve, guides your chin back towards him and lifts your shades. “Look at me, love.” It comes out as barely above a whisper. “Are we- Can we work through this, please?” Your throat goes dry, and you want to so bad but you're so scared, so fucking scared you're going to hurt him, MANIPULATE HIM AND POISON HIM FURTHERE, like the toxin you are. You feel him panic as you struggle to form words. (This is so pathetic, you know it, you can feel it.)
“Please, Dirk, I love you. Why can’t you see that, chap? We all love you so much, I don't understand- I, I want to understand, please talk to me.” You try to will yourself to answer him, but there's a disconnect somewhere in between your brain and you, so you nod gently, your eyes falling to his collar bones. “It's going to get better, I know it will, love. Can we please try to work through this? I don't wanna break up, not when there's the smallest chance we can fix it.”

“I'm sorry,” it's barely above a whisper, but you’re nodding in agreement and he kisses you on your forehead briefly, as if suddenly aware of the eyes of their audience actively trying not to drill holes into the pair. He kinda slinks away self-consciously and settles near Roxy on the couch; Jane immediately springing up to greet you properly.

You don't even get a word out before she pulls your head down to her level and leaves a red lipstick print on your forehead.

“That's for being alive,” she smiles sweetly at you before giving you a loving smack across your cheek. “and that's for scaring the shit outta me! I burnt my dickerdoodles!”

“That's deser-wait, your what?” you half rasp. Any shame that prevented you from speaking was temporarily removed due to the sheer absurdity that just left Jane’s mouth.

“My dickerdoodles! Dick-shaped snickerdoodles! I made too much dough for my dad and I so I made some dickerdoodles to satisfy you and your brother's need for irony, sweets, and cock!”

There's a solid moment where everyone, Dave included, just stares at the stout half-filipino woman before breaking down into uncontrollable, manic laughter.

In that moment, you feel more real than you have since you woke up this morning- scrap that, since you first started feeling suicidal! If you're dreaming at this point, nobody wake you because this is amazing, just laughing like children at a gog damn dick joke. You don't want it to end, you don't want to go back feeling like shit and you don't want to explain why you felt like you deserved it-

Suddenly, there's a wetness around your eyes you didn't permit to be there, everyone's calming down, and the joy you felt feels hollow now. You don't like it. You get the overwhelming urge to bury yourself in the arms of Jake or Roxy or anybody- you don't want to be standing here, all eyes on you. You want to bury yourself in the blankets of your bed, to lock yourself in your room, abscond the hell out of this house and away from the consequences, but you don't do anything. You just let your heart pound in your head as you let Jane wipe the lipstick off your forehead and order you to get some water. Your back behind the one-sided glass, more or less unable to control yourself. You feel like your on auto-pilot as you fill the cup you don't remember grabbing.

When Roxy shouts for you not to come back until you finish at least one cup, you want to smile, but only succeed in a smirk twitching on your lips for a second. You don't say anything when you return to find them all discussing and reading each others phones, Roxy notably reading a sheet of paper, and that's when you realize that their reading the notes you wrote, probably to get as much of the full picture as possible, but no, hell no can you deal with this, you realize. You start to freak more than you'd like to admit and abscond, god you abscond so hard to the bathroom. You hear scrambling after you because of course they immediately panic when you do something outside their supervision, you just tried to kill yourself and oh shit do you feel like garbage.
You feel like a fool.
You feel gross.

When it registers that they're banging on the door, you open it.

“I'm just going to shower,” you say, but your tongue feels like wet sand on the Gulf of Mexico, odd and foriegn in your mouth. The rasp you had is mostly gone.

They all look skeptical and worried, Jake and Dave especially looking terrified. You tell them if it helped, they could guard the door and you'll leave it unlocked. For some reason, all their frowns deepen, but they agree nonetheless, so you close the door before they change their minds.

Dirk, what the hell have you done?

That's all you can think about as you strip and step into the burning water.

When you finish, you don't have the energy to redo the iconic spikes you’re so well known for, instead opting for a black headband to keep most of your hair out of your face.

Although your hair is still mostly damp, it weirds you out a little seeing your tight curls, let alone seeing them neon orange against the dark roots peeking through. You decide you're not going to wear your spikes as often so you can adjust, you guess. Maybe the change will be good for you.

When you walk out, you nearly trip on everyone crowded outside the door, but more specifically you nearly trip on your twenty-eight year old brother while he's reading your note for Jane. It takes you a moment to realize they're all sitting outside the door, all worried you might do something.

You wince internally once you realize this, knowing they're seeing grossest, darkest part of you, like your a bright shiny orange convertible in mint condition, only to find the wires are all bad, your oil hasn't been changed in three years, the engine’s completely rusted, and to top it all off, there's an opossum nest in your gas tank. They should scrap you for parts, if there's anything to salvage; better yet, they should send you to the junkyard.

It makes you feel vulnerable, knowing that they know what you think of them. It takes a lot of your will to not slam the door and hide in the bathroom.

“Hey,” you sound pathetic, maybe a little surprised.

“Hey,” Roxy is the only one who replies. Jake and Jane refuse to look at you and your brother is engrossed in the note. You feel sick.

A soft knock at the door startles you, and you remember the food your brother ordered.
“I'll get it,” you say, weaving your way through them before they can protest. Bro follows you so he can pay, which is good because you don't have any cash in your sweats.

You take the food from the delivery girl while Bro takes out his wallet out of his pocket. You do your best to ignore the tension as your friends file out of the hallway and set the food on the table. You pour a cup of aj for your bro, a cup of orange soda for you, a Verner’s for Jake, a cotton candy Fanta for Roxy, and some chocolate milk for Jane. It's something you don't even think about, you just do it. Jane looks at her glass then at you. Her smile is sweet, but you see something in her eyes that makes you uneasy, like she can't decide if she's mad at you or saddened by the sight of you, but you recognize the concern in her tone when she thanks you. You just nod as Roxy does the same as they take a sip.

You quietly note that they're itching to say/do something, but they seem hesitant. You're pretty sure they all want to talk about everything, but they're holding back and you can't comprehend why as you set out plates and silverware.

Then you see your brother as he joins you in the kitchen and you understand. There's something that makes him look like he's aged twenty years. His shoulders are slumped and hunched, like he's been gutted, his mouth is slack, he keeps rubbing his eyes from behind his shades like he just woke up, careful not to show his eyes, but you're no idiot. He's crying again and it's your fault, it's all your fault, and this time it's the truth.

Before you realize it, you're holding your big brother that towers over you like he's made of glass and is going to fall apart any minute now, whispering, “I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry,” over and over again until you feel like a kid, and look at everyone in the little corner of your kitchen that connects to the living room, with a round wooden table that you're brother got when you were fourteen that sits right in front of the sliding glass doors that lead outside. Suddenly you're saying it to them too, you're telling them everything, the truth, and it tastes like vomit when you say it, but it's true and they need to hear it, but most of all you need to say it.

“I'm sorry- I'm so fucking sorry, I thought it'd be better if I weren't around. I wanted to make things better- I thought it'd just magically make everything better for everyone. I was scared that I was becoming exactly who I never wanted to be, I'm still scared shitless actually, because I just want you guys to be able to do all that wonderful shit I know you're all capable of. And I want to help you guys get there, but I feel like all I do is hold you guys back. All I can ever think is how much I feel like I'm holding you all back and what kind of friend does that but how I couldn't bare to live a life without any of you and-” it was at this point you realized you going to cry, so you took a breath and wiped your eyes with your arm, only to have the wind knocked out of you.

When you look down, you see Jane and feel her squeeze the ever-loving shit out of you, and before you can get another word out, Roxy joins her, then Jake, then your brother seems to hug all of you, and you thank whatever deity kept you from sobbing. You can't say the same about Jane, Jake, and Dave though. You don't mind though, in fact you'd like to try and comfort them or something, but your arms are stuck.

And they start telling you all these things about how much you mean to them and your brain doesn't understand, you can't even begin comprehending them enjoying your company as much as you enjoy theirs, that tears you didn't permit to form begin to fall down your cheeks. It's all you can do to muster a pitiful, “Thank you.”

You don't think you've ever cried as hard in your life as you did when Jake whispered, “Thank you for existing,” in one ear, and “Thank you for staying alive,” from Roxy in the other.

You doubt you ever will again.

When they pull away, you mutter that you need a minute, and slip away to your room.

There, you're greeted with what started it all, and you're reminded that it hasn't been more than an hour since you attempted. Feeling sick and uncomfortably aware of the mark on your neck, you free your fan from the cord and throw away both halves, along with all your old notes. Every single one. You kick your chair back to your desk, and you only hesitate when you pick up your katana.

It's been a very long time since you've held it, let alone used it. The handle feels odd in your hand, the weight being heavy, yet lighter than you remember. You mess around with it a little, posing in the stances you used to use and imitating some from your favorite animes. You go to rest it on your shoulder for a moment, but then the memories of a similar blade being pinned dangerously close to your throat come rushing back, so you quickly find the sheath and put it back on the wall, where it belongs. Where it'll stay for as long as you're concerned.

Lil Cal stares at you a top the unfinished bot from under it. “I'm sorry you had to see that.”

Your puppet doesn't say anything, so you pick him up.

“We still cool?” Cal’s porcelain head flops forward. You take it as a yes. “Cool.”

You give Lil Cal a fist bump before you set him in your pile of smuppets and robot parts, and turn to see Jake watching you quietly in your doorway.
“Sorry,” he mutters instinctively, and it makes you sniff amusedly, “er, not sorry, I just- I wanted to make sure you're okay.” Okay as in not trying to kill yourself.

“I'm okay. Did you want to say something?” he shifts uncomfortably, before awkwardly entering your room.

“Did you-” he gulps a little nervously, “did you really want to break up?”

“No. I only typed that so you didn't feel as bad dating other people.”

Relief releases the awkwardness and tension from his shoulders. He uncrosses his arms and offers you a hand. “Your hair looks real dandy down, by the way- not that it looked bad before, that is, it just looks nice like this too." You smother a chuckles. "Anyway, do you want to go eat now?”

You stretch up on the tips of your toes to kiss him before you give him a smile and intertwine your fingers with his. "I'm starving," you tell him. "Let's go before it gets cold."

It's a long night full of helping your brother finish his comics, playing video games, watching movies, and chaotic fun after that, and it's not until your stupid friends refuse to leave, claiming they all told their guardians they were staying overnight and they all clamber into your bed (despite your complaints and warnings that there was no way four people would fit, and them making it work to spite you) do you realize how much you absolutely fucking love these bastards and never want to be apart from them again. (Although, you'd prefer to not be squished between Jake and Roxy, while Jane is probably about to fall off the mattress.)

You're almost surprised when Dave doesn't join you in the party of people sleeping in your room, but then you remember he's almost ten years older than you and your friends and understand why. You're not surprised in the slightest when he passes out on the couch rewatching some psychological horror Roxy’s mom forced him to watch a month ago.

It's nice in a way you never would've expected nor would've allowed yourself to experience, spending the night with all your favorite people, so much so that you let yourself cry into your boyfriend's chest about the fact you almost didn't get to experience it.

Almost.