Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You're lying in bed, spooning a bag of Doritos (Nacho Cheese) and feeling so bored that the only option is to scroll through social media, which is excruciating, and worse, you’re caught up on all your feeds and no one is posting anything new. You exit out of yet another intolerable blue app and stare at your phone’s background. It’s a stylised screenshot from Fast and Furious: The Fate of the Furious, from when The Rock and Jason Stathum are facing off outside the prison. Some artist who is probably a high schooler did cool things to the colours and added some effects, the way people used to edit photos when you were in high school, as if they were scrapbooking with access to as much glitter as they wanted, and you like it because it’s nostalgic and also because you’ve always loved begrudging alliances between hard men.

Harry Anderson is nine. That’s probably old enough to watch the Fast and Furious movies. You’d better ask Roxy what they think before you show him any, because the kid can’t or won’t keep a secret from his mother.

That’s not a bad thing. It just makes things kind of awkward sometimes. You think you should be able to make some independent parenting decisions now—some independent anything decisions really—but that’s not on the cards. You want to fight with Roxy even less now that you’re separated. Not that you’ve ever really fought.

There’s only one app on your phone that could help cure your boredom. You try not to rely on it, because the last thing you need is for you to leave it turned on and for someone you know to recognise the notification sound. It isn't like it's a big deal though. You open the folder of apps called “misc” and scroll to the second page, and there it is, in all its tangerine Iron Man glory: Grindr.

You’re pretty sure you’re not gay. None of the dudes on here do anything for you, anyway (though in fairness, no one else does much for you since your separation either). It all started a week after you and Roxy called it quits, when Sollux, sick of hearing you moping about the whole ex-wife thing, insisted you needed to move on. Sure, move on from your 10 year relationship with your high school sweetheart that resulted in a sometimes not-shit marriage and a son.

Sollux took you out on the town, which was weird—you usually just talk while you’re playing WoW or whatever online. And it was fine. You needed an excuse to shave and leave the house and it was fun talking to Sollux and Aradia, and you didn’t care that much that none of the girls were remotely interested in you because you weren’t that interested yourself.

(Sollux got like five numbers without even trying. Aradia just high fived him every time, proving that you really don’t get troll romance for about the millionth time. You know they sleep together.)

But anyway, after your third rejection, Aradia installed Tinder on your phone and you all made a game out of setting it up. Swiping through the girls was funner than trying to approach anyone at the bar … but ultimately about as successful. Then Sollux said something interesting: ‘It’s a shame you’re not gay. You’d clean up on Grindr.’

It stuck in your head. And after a couple of months of very rarely getting matches on Tinder and striking out in almost every conversation of the ones who did match, you decided you couldn’t take being rejected anymore. You decided this was something of a win for your self esteem.

Thus, the game began.

Sollux was right, you’re popular on Grindr. This makes the game possible. You play a lot of variations:

• How stupid can I make my picture and still get a dick pic?
• How few words does it take for me to get a dick pic?
• Can I convince this man that I am an alien/vampire/from the future without actually saying that I am that thing?
• Do pickup lines make it more or less likely for me to win? (Winning is getting a dick pic.)

It’s almost like having company!

They’re not really people in your mind. Maybe that’s shitty of you. It’s not about them being gay, it’s about them being on your phone like a slutty Candy Crush and how ridiculously easy it is to win the game.

None of them want to know you either, and even if they did you wouldn’t tell them anything real. You don’t want them to know that you’re separated and yet still sleeping in your ex-wife’s guest room. You don’t want to tell them that you still make sandwiches for them and your son to take to work and school or that the highlight of your day is picking your son up at 3:30. As far as the people on Grindr know, you don’t have a son. You don’t want to muddy those two worlds.

You check your messages when you open Grindr, ghost the ones who don’t realise you’re done with them and skim the new ones to see if any jump out as interesting. You’re about to reply to one who opened with a joke when a new message pops up and catches your eye.

I’m not looking to fuck right now, but my bathroom sink is currently flooding the bathroom.
I know it’s kind of random, but can I borrow a flathead screwdriver?
I don’t know my neighbours and you’re the closest person to me on Grindr.

You stare at the screen with mild curiosity. You’ve never met any of the people you’ve messaged on Grindr and never intended on doing so. But this is such a reasonable request. And Roxy and Harry Anderson are at Roxy’s parents’ place, so you have absolutely no reason to be in the house.

yeah, why not.

He sends you his address. You collect the fancy toolbox your dad gave you when you moved out, which you hardly ever get to use, even though he just asked for the one screwdriver. Then you slip your feet into your shoes, roll on a cursory amount of deodorant and walk out the door.

It’s not even a full block away, which you’re grateful for because the toolbox is pretty heavy and you’re out of shape. You ring the doorbell and notice that your shirt has Doritos stains on it. You put the toolbox down so that you can quickly zip up your hoodie, not quite fast enough. Grindr boy opens the door as you’re still tugging at the zip. He looks you up and down, taking in your trackie bottoms and crocs, which pretty much complete the depressed almost-divorcé thing you’ve got going on. His eyes linger on your hair for a moment and you resist the urge to pat it down. You probably could have glanced in the mirror.

‘Wow,’ he says, in a voice like a cowboy’s. ‘I said I didn’t want to hook up; why are you trying to seduce me?’

‘Is this not doing it for you?’ you ask, giving him your most charming smile. He laughs under his breath, like maybe he’s a little bit charmed.

‘I’m Dirk,’ he says.

‘John.’

‘Come on in, John. Before I regret not taking out contents insurance.’

You pick up your toolbox and follow him to the bathroom. He takes the offered screwdriver and holds the tap steady as he tightens the base of it. Water is running over the sink and onto his socks, but the room’s not flooded yet, probably because the floor is covered in towels and bedding. After a couple of seconds of him working on the tap, the water turns off.

It’s an improvement, obviously, but the bathroom very much looks like it was installed in the 50s or 60s, back when pink fittings were in fashion, and the water kind of looks like it belongs. There’s cracks in the tiling and the mirror is warped and coming off the front of the cabinet. You’d say the place needs a coat of paint, but that's the least of its problems.

‘Why didn’t you shut off the water?’ you ask.

‘Valve’s fucked,’ Dirk says, kicking the cupboard under the sink.

‘And the main?’ you ask.

He looks at you for a second.

‘Didn’t think of that. Shit.’

‘Happens to the best of us,’ you shrug.

He sighs and hands back the screwdriver. He watches as you put it back in place and pick up the toolbox.

‘Before you go,’ he says. ‘Do you have a pair of pliers in there?’

You look down at the toolbox. It’s as big as your torso.

‘Obviously,’ you say.

‘Can I borrow them? I’ll be quick. This place is a fuckin’ disaster.’

‘Yeah, okay,’ you say. ‘Guess I don’t have anywhere else to be.’

‘Could’a fooled me,’ he says. ‘You look like you just stepped off the red carpet.’

‘Your bathroom was flooding,’ you say defensively. ‘I was being a gentleman.’

‘Thank you for prioritising my property over combing your hair,’ Dirk concedes.

‘You are welcome.’ You hand him two pairs of pliers and he hands you back the larger pair. You follow him to his kitchen. ‘How long have you been over here?’

‘Don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, I’m Aussie born and bred,’ he drawls. He meets your eyes and his lips lift up slightly. ‘Moved to Melbourne from Houston two years ago. Moved here from Melbourne about a month ago. Turns out you can buy out here cheaper than you can rent there, and the commute is basically the same as my old place in the city, so here I am.’

‘You can buy a place like this cheaper,’ you say.

‘Rude,’ Dirk says, pointing the pliers at you.

You give him another charming smile and he laughs again. Good to know that one works on boys as well as girls.

And maybe it was rude, but you’re not wrong. The kitchen is in much the same state as the bathroom, with the added bonus of the floor being made out of checkerboard lino so cheap you wouldn’t use it on a caravan. There are dark indents in it where the previous resident must have had a kitchen island and scuff marks that you assume are from moving a fridge. There’s an open cardboard box next to the wall with a jaffle maker poking out the top.

‘Yes, the fact that most everything I own is still in boxes is disgraceful,’ he continues, popping off the base of a toaster with a butterknife, ‘I hate unpacking. I still had shit in boxes when I left Melbourne.’

‘I’m trying really hard not to judge you,’ you say.

‘The feeling is mutual,’ Dirk says.

You laugh. Dirk is gutting the toaster with his fingers, storing your pliers in his mouth as he does, which is kind of overly familiar, but okay. He strips down some wires as you watch, marvelling at his efficiency.

‘If you can do this, how come you don’t have a screwdriver?’ you ask.

‘I do, it’s just packed away somewhere. Got a whole mess of tools, minus the fancy box. Not gonna lie, that thing’s a fuckin’ turn on; almost cancels out the crocs.’

‘And your toaster being fucked didn’t inspire you to unpack?’

‘I’ve been using the microwave.’

You stare at Dirk in horror. He snips a measure of cord and starts twisting wires together. He looks up.

‘What?’ he says. ‘The basic function of a toaster is to warm bread.’

‘No,’ you disagree firmly. ‘Oh god, your bread would be soggy in a microwave!’

‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.’

You argue with him about cooking some more, then argue about anime while you hold a torch for him as he fixes a lightswitch and the wiring to his ancient plug-in heater, and it’s kind of flirty because you were wondering if you could do that when it’s not over text, and then the power’s back on and you’re holding a cabinet door steady while he unscrews the hinge from crumbling wood. He helps you put the door on the kitchen counter and packs away your drill.

‘I’m starting to think they must have made an Australian dub to Naruto or something,’ he says as he fits the battery pack in its foam. ‘There’s basically no other explanation to you misunderstanding so many of the fundamental themes.’

‘Oh my god,’ you say. ‘You must be a nightmare on Reddit.’

‘Jesus, straight for the fuckin’ heart,’ he laughs. ‘Anyway, I like to believe that I enhance the experience of other Redditors through the judicial distribution of correct opinions.’

You laugh, and there’s delight in his eyes that barely makes it to his restrained smile. You notice that he’s not picking up another tool. Instead, he’s leaning against the counter with his hands in his pockets, looking at you with just as much intensity as he does a broken appliance. It’s not exactly comfortable to be seen like that.

‘That can’t be everything,’ you say, breaking eye contact to look around the room for more faults. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if this place needed restumping.’

‘It’s a very nice toolbox, John, but it’s not quite that good.’ You meet his eyes again and pretend they aren’t like a too-hot shower. ‘I need some supplies before I can fix anything else.’

‘Right, that makes sense,’ you say.

‘So, I’ll see you around?’

The thing is, you don’t really want to leave yet. You haven’t talked to anyone like this for a really long time. With the exception of Sollux, who doesn’t really like to talk about anything that isn’t your next raid, you haven’t talked to anyone who isn’t your son, your ex-wife or your sister-in-law for a really long time.

You want to ask to be Dirk’s friend, but you don’t want him to get the wrong idea about you being on Grindr. You can’t tell him why you use the app the way you do—not because you’re embarrassed, because you’re not, it’s a perfectly legitimate way of using it! But if you tell him that, then you’ll have to tell him the whole story about being a sadsack almost-divorcé who lives in his old guest room and you just don’t want to get into it.

‘Yeah, see you around,’ you say.

You walk home, swapping the hand holding your toolbox every couple of houses so that you can warm the other one in your pocket. Roxy meets you at the door.

‘Honey, I’m home,’ you deadpan.

‘What the hell are you doing outside dressed like that with your toolbox?’ they ask.

‘I’m a man of many mysteries,’ you say, giving them the cheeky smile that’s come so easily to your face tonight.

‘I’ll say,’ they laugh, standing aside to let you in. ‘I’ll never crack the case of why you think those are aprops.’

They point at your crocs.

‘They’re comfy!’ you say, although that is very much not true in winter. You need socks, like, now.

‘Alright, handsome,’ they say. ‘Keep your secrets.’

You almost tell them the whole story. Roxy is still your best friend and you want them to know that you feel happy for the first time in a while. You think they’ll laugh at the Grindr thing and probably will want to play the game with you.

Boundaries, a voice you could easily ignore whispers in your head. You remind yourself that the last thing in the world you want to do is hurt Roxy’s feelings any more than you already have. Boundaries.

Maybe if you’d learnt how to think before you speak before the ripe old age of 28, you’d still be wearing your wedding ring.

‘How was your parents'?’ you ask instead.

‘Nothing to report,’ they say.

That’s about all the small talk you have in you. You smile and walk past them to put the toolbox away. They don’t follow.

You decide to have a shower before bed. In the bathroom, the mirror reveals that your hair deserved every second of Dirk’s judgement that it inspired. It’s flat on one side and wild on the other, exactly like you’ve been in bed most of the day. You also haven’t shaved since Friday morning, and while your stubble at least comes in fairly evenly now, it still isn’t a great look. And your lips have an orange tinge to them. Doritos are officially the enemy.

It probably doesn’t matter what kind of impression you made on Dirk. It’s not like you’re going to see him again.

Chapter Text

The situation with the food in this house is officially dire.

You hate grocery shopping about as much as you hate unpacking, so this is not a novel turn of events for your run-down bachelor pad. You don’t even have any snacks to tide you through making a grocery order online. Or milk, which means no coffee. You might as well give up now.

A glance at your watch tells you that it’s almost 2:30 in the afternoon. That means the cafe that’s a bit over a block away is still open. If you have a muffin and a coffee, everything will be right in the world.

The cafe isn’t busy, but you’re also not the only one sneaking in a coffee before it closes, so there’s a few people in the line when you arrive. You almost don’t recognise the man in front of you, because apparently John cleans up nice. You have a brief mental wrestle with yourself about whether to talk to him, but then the queue moves up one and you force yourself to be brave. The least you can do is buy the guy a coffee. It's no big.

You tap him on the elbow and say, ‘Hey.’

John looks around like he’s bracing for a punch (which your tone does not deserve in your opinion), then breaks out in a grin when he sees it’s you. He has a frankly dazzling smile. The fact that you think he knows it does not make it any less effective.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Guess it makes sense that we’d see each other again, us living so close.’

‘Yeah,’ you say.

You feel awkward without something to do with your hands, and you don’t really know where you stand. That night a couple weeks ago was easy—you had tasks and he was a mess. Very non-sexual. Not that getting a coffee is sexual, but you’re a bit unbalanced seeing John look like a functional person.

‘My treat,’ you say, pointing stiffly at the coffee maker.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ he says.

‘You didn’t have to save my shitty house from water damage,’ you say.

‘Okay,’ he shrugs. ‘I’m not really the kind of guy who fights too hard when someone wants to buy me a coffee.’

‘Good to know,’ you say.

‘Or anything, really,’ he continues. ‘You’re an adult, I’m not going to question your decision making if you want to get me a present.’

‘I’m not going to get you a present,’ you say.

‘Bummer,’ he says, with another one of those lethal grins.

The line moves and he orders a medium cappuccino, which is impressively restrained after that speech. You order your own coffee and one of the enormous raspberry and white chocolate muffins.

‘So,’ you say, as you wait for the coffees. ‘You look fit to go outside today.’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I usually try to be a person on weekdays.’

‘A good policy,’ you say.

‘I don’t work,’ he says, just a little too confidently for you to believe he’s entirely comfortable with it. ‘I’m a stay-at-home dad.’

‘Oh,’ you say, mentally dusting your hands off and making a brisk escape. You are never putting yourself out there again. Your eyes flick to the barista, who hasn’t even started on your drinks. ‘That’s cool.’

‘Yeah, it’s pretty rewarding,’ he says. ‘He’s a lot of work to be honest, but I love it. His special interest at the moment is sewing, and his aunty’s been teaching us both what she knows when she’s got time, but he wants to know, like, everything, so I’ve spent most of the day in this eBay battle for this suitcase full of DVDs like you see on infomercials about the history of textile art. I truly do not understand how there are two of us in the world who want this so badly. The seller is probably doing a smug jig about not having the Buy It Now option.’

‘That’s so old school,’ you say. ‘I don’t think I’ve used eBay since I was thirteen.’

‘Nine-year-olds aren’t enriched by sticking them in front of Wikipedia,’ he shrugs. ‘And his mum has a good job, but those glossy textbooks and dressforms and whatever else are all super expensive new.’

And there’s a mom. Of course. That is generally how it works. In your mind, the only sign that you were ever in this cafe is a cartoony hole in the wall shaped like your body, but in reality you’re still waiting on your coffee.

‘Sure,’ you say, trying to warm the milk with your eyes. ‘And you just know that there’s a 50/50 chance that as soon as you buy all the kit he’ll be absorbed in taking apart vintage sewing machines instead of sewing, so you don’t want to sink everything in what could be a gateway interest.’

‘Right!’ he says. ‘Yeah, that’s actually exactly right.’

He sounds surprised that anyone else gets it. You glance at him. God damn his eyes are blue. Your brain is getting its wires crossed, torn between wanting to soak up the attention from a man you’re attracted to and wanting nothing to do with a family kind of guy. Kids are unpredictable and even talking to them is too much responsibility for you. And they’re always sticky.

‘There’s more neurodiverse people in tech than neurotypical,’ you say as explanation. ‘For the record, Wikipedia raised me just fine.’

He gives you a slightly pitying smile. That is not the reaction you wanted, and it better be because of the Wikipedia thing and not the autism.

‘So, you and the kid’s mom still hitched?’ you ask bluntly.

John grimaces, but you maintain eye contact. If he’s been screwing around on Grindr behind his wife’s back, he deserves to feel shitty. Even if he hasn’t, he was at your place for over an hour without mentioning that he’s a dad. You’ll never get that time back. Not that it was about that, but it’s the principle of the matter.

‘Uh, not really,’ he says. ‘Well, see …’

‘Medium cappuccino and large flat white,’ the barista calls out and you turn to grab the coffees. The paper bag with your muffin is sitting on the counter next to them.

‘I don’t really give a shit,’ you tell John as you hand him his. ‘But maybe you should figure it out before you start stuffing hankies in your back pocket.’

With that, you stride out of the cafe as if you have somewhere more pressing to be than Aldi. That’s the trick to getting the last word: don’t give them the option to respond.

You’re fully prepared to never speak to John again. Every now and then, his profile on Grindr shows as online and you studiously ignore it. He could always message you if he wanted to set the record straight, but he doesn’t. It isn’t like it’s any of your business if his Facebook relationship status is “It’s complicated”. And besides, the kid thing is a dealbreaker for you. The greatest ass in the world couldn’t change that fact.

You don’t even go on Grindr that often. Mostly when you’re drunk and lonely, and you try to be those things as little as possible.

You didn’t think moving out of the city would change much, but you’ve stopped hanging out with Equius and Vriska after work almost completely, and the town you’re in really isn’t the “howdy neighbour” kind. It’s not unfriendly, just full of people minding their own business. And you prefer it that way. Obviously. It’s just, okay, maybe you have some social needs that aren’t quite getting met these days.

‘This place is a dump,’ Vriska declares upon entering your house for the first time, kicking a still-unpacked box in your living room.

‘True,’ you say. ‘But the booze is cheaper than in the city.’

‘You cannot live like this,’ Equius says. ‘I forbid it.’

‘Oh no,’ you deadpan. ‘How will I cope with the weight of your disapproval.’

You hear the sound of Vriska opening a beer against your counter and follow her into the kitchen.

‘I have a bottle opener,’ you say. ‘I genuinely think the counter might crumble if you do that.’

‘Good,’ she says, handing you the beer and knocking the top off another. This is not a considerate act; this is her way of getting to bash the heel of her hand into something a second time. ‘You’re replacing them, right?’

‘Eventually,’ you say. ‘They’re pretty low on the priority list.’

‘Do you need our assistance?’ Equius asks.

‘Woah there,’ you say. ‘Everything is fine. I work to my own timelines.’

Equius and Vriska look at each other. You know what that look means. They get you out of a lot of binds by scraping together serviceable code to show clients while you’re deep in the weeds getting something perfect. You don’t feel particularly bad about this, because you have rescued each of them just as many times by seeing the flaws in their work and fixing them (Vriska rushes things and Equius works like he has blinders on). But the point is, they like to think that they save you. This is probably because Vriska keeps count of the times she bails you out, but not of the times you return the favour.

‘I know it’s not pretty, but it’s functional,’ you say.

‘Would I get to use a sledgehammer?’ Vriska asks Equius.

‘I am confident that a sledgehammer would be needed,’ he says, looking around critically.

‘I’m in,’ she grins. ‘You know, I’m pretty fantastic with a wrench. I bet if we wanted, we could be on The Block.’

‘And give up your chance to be on Big Brother? I couldn’t live with myself.’

Vriska gives you the finger. Then she bends down to look at where the linoleum has warped and is kind of creeping up one of your cupboards. She hooks her fingers underneath it and pulls. A good few feet peel up without her putting much effort in.

‘Jesus Christ,’ you say under your breath.

‘How late is Bunnings open till in the sticks?’ she asks.

‘We’re not renovating my kitchen tonight,’ you say firmly.

You, Vriska and Equius get put on the same team a lot, because you work well together and because the three of you have learned over the years how to compensate for each other’s shortcomings. You realise, as you all stare at the flooring options at the hardware megastore, that this doesn’t necessarily translate to you being able to succeed in every scenario.

‘What is even the point of being gay if you don’t know what floor will go with your kitchen?’ Vriska asks.

‘Lets me suck dick,’ you say. ‘You’re supposed to be a girl, why don’t you choose?’

‘Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Then you could lord it over me forever that I fucked up your flooring. Nice try, Strider, but I’m not falling for it!’

‘What about you, big guy?’ you ask Equius, nudging him in the ribs. ‘You’re supposed to have taste and class and all that shit. Just don’t choose the marble looking one, that’s all I know.’

‘That was the one I was going to suggest,’ he says gravely.

‘Let’s just ask someone,’ you say.

‘There’s never anyone here,’ Vriska says.

‘Vriska, you’ve literally never been to this town before.’

‘Literally everyone in Victoria has been to school camp here, but whatever,’ she says, flicking her hair the way she does when she can correct you over a very small detail. ‘I meant Bunnings. The universal Bunnings. They’re all the same store, like on an ideological level. Maybe on a literal level! Maybe they all have portals to the same warehousey hellscape that we’re currently in.’

‘A good idea for a game,’ Equius muses.

This makes you and Vriska pause, considering it too. For almost a full minute, none of you say anything, too immersed in brainstorming what that would look like. When writers or artists brainstorm, they speak before they’ve even formed their ideas, drawing on whiteboards and shouting over one another. When developers brainstorm, it’s a lot more internal. At least in your experience.

‘This is stupid,’ Vriska says. ‘Floor first; game later.’

‘I’m going to ask someone,’ you say.

There is, of course, no one around—at least not in the flooring department at 8pm on a Friday night. You head for the centre of the store, scanning aisles as you go. You look down an aisle with lamps down it just in time for a child to run straight into you.

‘Woah there,’ you say, arms out to steady him.

The boy springs back, making a gesture over his face like he’s shaking a stubborn bottle of ketchup, with sincere eyes that ask you to understand what the hell this is supposed to mean.

‘You good?’ you ask.

Which is when the adult attached to the child walks up and you find yourself face-to-face with the man who just ten seconds ago you would have crossed the street to avoid.

‘John,’ you say.

‘Oh, hi Dirk,’ he says. He’s more focused on the kid, which is fair. ‘Are you okay, Harry Anderson?’ He moves his right hand as he does, in a loose fist in a circle away from his body.

The boy nods and John smiles.

‘Did he run into you?’ he asks you.

‘Yeah,’ you say.

‘Pretty much nothing else would have stopped him.’ He signs to the kid again, saying, ‘Did you say sorry?’ as he does.

Harry Anderson nods, but makes the gesture in front of his face again for good measure.

‘That means sorry,’ John says unnecessarily.

‘How do I say it’s okay?’ you ask.

‘You can just use your words, he’s not deaf,’ John says. ‘But like this.’

You watch him make the circular motion again and copy it. Harry Anderson just looks at you.

‘I’m pretty good at ASL,’ you say, feeling awkward. ‘Didn’t think to learn AUSLAN before booking the ticket over.’

‘Pfft, no one knows it,’ John says. ‘Or like, I dunno, one in fifty people know how to finger spell. We get by fine. He speaks English loads at home, there’s just a lot to take in outside.’

‘Fair,’ you say, meaning it. ‘I, uh, better leave you to it.’

‘Before you go,’ John says. ‘Harry Anderson wanted an outsider’s opinion on which lamp we should get. He was going to go find a worker, but if you’ve got a second?’

‘I was literally on my way to find someone to help me choose something; I’m not the guy you want.’

‘Sure you are!’ John says. ‘It’s a choice between two options; you’ll do fine. And we can help you with your thing after. Sound good, Harry Anderson?’

Harry Anderson gives two thumbs up and then runs away full pelt back up the aisle. You can’t think of a way to get out of this. You don’t want to do something counter to his expectations when it’s just as easy for you to go along with it. You have no idea what his tolerance for change is like. It’s not your responsibility, but—see, this is why kids are dealbreakers. They complicate shit.

‘Why are you shopping for a lamp on a Friday night?’ you ask John as you unwillingly follow him.

‘Quieter,’ he says simply. ‘Harry Anderson’s a really good helper for this kind of thing,’ he continues, probably because you’re approaching where the kid is waiting for you and he can hear. ‘Maybe even too good. I would have just chosen any lamp, you know?’

‘What are the options?’ you ask Harry Anderson.

He points at one, makes sure that you are looking at it specifically, then points at another. They are very similar lamps. You have no idea how you’re supposed to make this decision.

‘Uh,’ you say.

You also have no idea how you’re supposed to justify your decision, but you’re pretty sure you will be asked to justify it. You might have shared some traits with this little dude when you were a kid, and probably still do in all honesty, but that doesn’t mean you have some magic ability to relate to all autistic people. Kids make you nervous.

‘There’s no wrong answer,’ John prompts.

‘That makes it harder,’ you say. He cocks his head to the side curiously. ‘I mean, what are you using it for? Where’s it going?’

‘In the lounge,’ John says. ‘Probably next to the TV, but we’ll see where it looks good. So that we can have softer lighting than overhead at nighttime.’

‘Okay,’ you say. They really are similar lamps. There’s only $2 difference in price, too. Whatever, you need to get this done so that you can decide on your flooring. ‘I think this one looks a bit softer, because it’s more rounded,’ you say, pointing at the slightly cheaper one.

‘What do you think?’ John asks Harry Anderson.

Harry Anderson chews on his sleeve while he thinks. John doesn’t stop him, and you have a sudden stab of ridiculous and outdated jealousy. Harry Anderson nods, so John picks up the box and puts it in their trolley.

‘Dirk needs help choosing something too,’ John tells Harry Anderson. ‘Would you like to help him, or have you had enough?’

Harry Anderson looks at you for a long moment, then stops chewing on his sleeve so that he can put his fingers in the palm of his other hand and then gesture as if he’s offering them to you. You think you can guess that he’s offering help.

‘Thank you,’ you say, touching your fingers to your chin in the one AUSLAN sign you’re confident you know.

Harry Anderson looks almost nothing like John until he smiles, and then it couldn’t be more obvious that he’s John’s son. You bet with a smile like that, he could get up to just about anything and be forgiven for it.

You take John and Harry Anderson back to the flooring section, where Vriska and Equius are arguing about the appropriate boss fight for a Bunnings instead of looking at any of the flooring options. You introduce John as someone from the neighbourhood and Vriska and Equius as coworkers.

‘Ew, a kid,’ Vriska says.

You kick her ankle. That was your reaction too, but you had the decency to not say it out loud. She doesn’t apologise, which isn’t surprising. You decide to pretend she didn’t say anything.

‘We’re fixing my kitchen,’ you say. ‘I don’t know what to put down.’

‘Literally anything would be better than what you have,’ John says. ‘Is there a reason you’re here instead of an actual flooring place?’

‘Here is open,’ you say. ‘I welcome these assholes into my home and five minutes later they’re dragging me to Bunnings. Not my idea of a perfect Friday.’ You glance at Harry Anderson and realise belatedly that you probably shouldn’t swear. This is yet another reason why you don’t like kids.

‘Okay,’ John says, without appearing to notice your mistake. ‘What are you doing with your benches?’

‘I dunno, do they have those here too?’ you say.

‘Yes,’ Equius says helpfully.

Before long, you have vinyl tiles in your trolley picked out by a nine-year-old. You think they’re probably a good choice—they kind of look like pale hardwood flooring. That proves to be Harry Anderson’s limit, so you’re able to go get the other things you need without him and John tagging along and being sincere in your direction.

Of course, you’re stuck with Vriska and Equius.

‘I liked him,’ Vriska says, opening a display cabinet to halfheartedly assess it.

‘Of course you did, he’s a likeable guy,’ you say. ‘I don’t give a shit about this, can we just choose something?’

‘Is he your gentleman friend?’ Equius asks.

You stare blankly at him. He stares blankly back.

‘He’s just some guy,’ you say. ‘I don’t bang every guy I know.’

‘Please, you’re a total slut,’ Vriska, who hasn’t had sex since she was seventeen, says. ‘But obviously you haven’t fucked this one. He’s a dad. For a guy with such severe daddy issues, you’d think that’d be a bonus, but one whiff of any trait that might make a guy stick around longer than a piece of toast the next morning and you run.’

You would like to protest that on several levels. Unfortunately, Vriska knows you very well and is a shockingly insightful person whenever she removes her head from her ass for more than thirty seconds to notice anything about someone else.

‘I’m gonna buy these,’ you say, choosing a cabinet at random.

‘You will not,’ Equius says.

You groan and pull your cheeks down in frustration.

In the end, you don’t get everything you need before the announcement to get the fuck out of the store comes over the PA. But that’s fine, because it takes you all night and the entire slab of beers to pull up the lino and uninstall your existing cabinets, at which point you call it quits.

You fall asleep in your beanbag, having given up your bed to Vriska and your couch to Equius. You are too old to own a beanbag. Staring up at your waterstained ceiling, you finally admit to yourself that you need to fix up this fucking house.

Chapter Text

You pride yourself on being the kind of guy who knows his neighbours. You don’t go as overboard as your dad does, but you say hello and you can be relied on to bring in someone’s bin if they forget to. You like being a part of the community.

You’re on Harry Anderson’s school council, the local heritage committee and the Friends of the Botanic Gardens committee. You don’t write, but for a while you were the local writers’ group’s treasurer, because your sister-in-law was desperate and you’re good with numbers. You play piano at an old folk’s home once a month, something you started when your Nanna was still alive, when you were thirteen and had cringeworthy inconsistencies in volume, and which you can’t bring yourself to stop now.

You’ve missed a couple meetings lately. Sometimes leaving the house requires more motivation than your usual activities offer; sometimes it’s a miracle that you can even pick Harry Anderson up from school.

The messed up thing is that you’re not even that sad about your marriage falling apart. Depressed, sure, you can admit that what you’re doing looks a lot like depression (thank you, Rose, you’re not that much in denial), but you’re not really sad. You just kind of feel like you failed. And you don’t tend to do that.

You’re an only child of a very devoted single dad who took every opportunity to celebrate you, and you’re aware that your objectively wonderful childhood has somehow managed to leave you with some issues. Or maybe the issues come from never really having to try at school, or from going to a snobby private school that simultaneously told you that you could do anything and also that you weren’t “reaching your potential”.

You’ve always been good at things, and Roxy was no exception. Well, they were and they are now, but that didn’t start until later. Roxy was your first real—you guess the word is “partner” these days, but that sounds so dumb applied to sixteen year olds. Your first real them-friend. That’s even stupider.

You went on dates to the movies and ridiculously niche events, like furniture or teddy bear exhibitions, because the two of you could have fun anywhere. You did your debutante ball together and when you were eighteen and their family did a weirdly formal, professional photograph to be framed above the mantle, you were included in it. You were hungover, but it doesn’t look terrible.

You proposed on a deserted beach at almost midnight on their nineteenth birthday. You found out they were pregnant a month before you were married. You both worked part-time for the first five years of Harry Anderson’s life so that you could share parenting duties, and when it was clear that Harry Anderson wasn’t going to grow out of needing to be picked up in the middle of the day every other day just because he was going to school, you were happy to quit your job so that their career could progress. It wasn’t like yours was going to. You didn’t want to work at a call centre forever anyway.

You think maybe that is when things got weird. Before then, every Sunday your dad would look after Harry Anderson and you and Roxy would go on a date somewhere. Once they were working full-time, your dad still took Harry Anderson, but the dates fizzled out. That was your fault. Most weekends, you felt like you needed a few hours to yourself where you knew you weren’t going to be called away to a child-related emergency more than you needed the time with them.

Or maybe you just didn’t want to waste those precious free hours by getting into a fight.

Fights with Roxy aren’t like the ones on TV. They go like this: one of you says something that’s usually not intended to offend the other one, but it hits a nerve. The other one says something that hints at the fact that their feelings are hurt, but doesn’t outright say it. Very, very occasionally, one of you will snap at the other, but usually there isn’t even that.

Then neither of you speak for the rest of the day, or until you can’t avoid it, and you feel so full of frustration you want to rip apart every pillow you have with your hands and teeth and probably also cry about it, but instead you both just pretend nothing is wrong. Maybe you close drawers a little louder than usual and maybe they won’t meet your eye, but you don’t think an outside observer would be able to tell that anything was wrong.

You haven’t really been fighting since you separated, or maybe it’s actually been one enormous fight that you’ve acclimatised to and are no longer aware of. You mostly stay out of each other’s way and feel bad about taking up space in the house.

You’ve thought about moving out, of course. But some part of you is scared that if you take your eye off Roxy, you’ll never see them again. You try not to think about it.

You typically achieve “not thinking about it” by lying in your bed staring at nothing. Or worse, by staring at Grindr. But lately you’ve been starting to feel kind of restless. You’re actually looking forward to leaving the house sometimes. You don’t always feel like you’re sleepwalking when you do. You’re even paying attention to what you wear.

You think maybe you’re bored with being depressed? You’re pretty sure you are just going to stop doing that.

‘Hey,’ you say to Rose, who is babysitting you while Kanaya shows Harry Anderson something sewing related on her vintage Singer. Rose looks up from her knitting with a kind of pissy expression. ‘Whoops,’ you say. ‘Were you counting?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘John, knitting is bullshit.’

‘Do you ever think about the fact that you’re just making one really big knot and then someone is going to wear that knot around and get all kinds of compliments on it?’

‘Almost constantly,’ she says. ‘Right now I’m thinking that I fucked up this particular knot, probably six lines ago, and I want to set all the wool I own on fire.’

‘Maybe don’t do that,’ you advise.

‘Sure,’ she says. ‘What were you going to say?’

‘When?’

‘When you said “hey” and I lost count while confirming whether I have indeed fucked up this very long knot or if I’m imagining things.’

‘Oh,’ you say. ‘I was just thinking maybe I don’t want to be depressed anymore.’

Rose puts her knitting down on her lap and looks at you with all her attention. You wish she wouldn’t. She has a lot of attention to give.

‘That’s good,’ she says. ‘Do you have a follow up?’

‘Uh, yes,’ you say. ‘How do I do that?’

‘For the millionth time, I transferred out of psychology after half a semester,’ she says.

‘But you were really good at it in high school,’ you say encouragingly. ‘And you’re so emotionally intelligent, like, with other people.’

‘Not with myself?’ she asks archly.

You try to think of a way to say “no” politely. Your expression seems to do it for you, because she snorts with amusement. It’s hard to offend Rose. Well, it’s hard for you to offend Rose. Strangers offend her plenty, which is why Harry Anderson won’t let her drive him anywhere (he doesn’t like swearing or raised voices, and Rose seems to think other drivers can hear her).

‘Find a hobby,’ she advises. ‘Just for you, not for anyone else. Or one that other people can enjoy if they like, but you’re doing it for you.’

‘Like you with your Terry Pratchett fanfiction,’ you say.

‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘Though I doubt you will bring as much joy to people’s lives as I do. I’m kind of a big deal online. Last week someone told me they stayed up until 4am on a work night re-reading my alternate universe story where Vimes is a wizard, and that it made them cry on several separate occasions.’

‘How many blowjobs in that one?’ you ask, nodding seriously.

‘It’s a four-hundred thousand word story about the weight of essential responsibilities too small to be deserving of other people’s attention and too large to be borne alone, as well as the futility of good deeds in a cruel city,’ she says. ‘So five in detail, another couple alluded to.’

You grin. She tries not to make it obvious, but she likes to be funny.

‘Walks are good too,’ she says. ‘Practising joy by enjoying good food or taking pictures of swans.’ She hesitates, glancing towards her hallway, where the hum of Kanaya’s sewing machine tells you that your son is safely occupied. ‘John, you should move out.’

It’s your turn to look towards the hallway, even though you know she wouldn’t have said anything if Harry Anderson could hear.

‘I can’t leave my family,’ you say quietly.

‘So don’t move far,’ she says. ‘Make my sibling be a fucking parent for a change and get your own life.’

‘That’s not fair,’ you say.

‘How much time do they spend with Harry Anderson alone—not with us or at our parents’, not taking him to the park with other children and their parents, on their own.’

‘Plenty,’ you say, narrowing your eyes. Maybe you shouldn’t be so defensive of your ex-wife, but Roxy is a good mum. And it almost feels like a criticism of you if you don’t let the two of them spend time together. ‘They go to the library together every Saturday morning.’

‘Okay, good,’ Rose says. ‘So they’ll theoretically be able to manage without you on occasion.’

Panic shoots through you. It’s a combination of things, from Harry Anderson being very particular about his food and Roxy being a terrible cook, to Roxy’s work not giving them the freedom to do the drop off and pick up thing, let alone collect him in the middle of the day if they need to, to the worst one, which is what if they don’t need me anymore.

Harry Anderson loves spending time with his mum. Of course he does; Roxy is fun to be around! And if they can get their act together enough to be the kind of mum who enforces a bed time and knows that there can’t be any chunks in the mashed veggies that form half of almost every meal he eats, then what’s the point of you?

Oh shit, you’d have to get a job. How fucking sad is it that you’re on the cusp of thirty and you so badly don’t want a job that you would rather live in what is technically your ex-wife’s spare room and clean their house and cook all their meals so they don’t throw you out.

‘John, this was going to happen eventually,’ Rose says softly. ‘What about when you want to start seeing people again? Or when Roxy does?’

And that just makes it sadder. Because you’d still rather live in their spare room and just pretend it wasn’t happening than go it alone.

‘Do they want me to leave?’ you mumble.

‘If they do, they haven’t said anything to me, or otherwise indicated it,’ Rose says. ‘I’m saying this because I think it would be good for you, not because I think the choice will be taken away from you.’

You remember how to exhale, feeling a little dizzy. You rub your knuckle against your eye, as if maybe you’re tired, not barely keeping yourself from crying. Roxy’s never told you not to cry, but they always look disappointed when you do. You never used to. That was actually a problem too. Emotions fucking suck.

‘Maybe I want to be depressed a little bit longer,’ you joke weakly.

‘I probably shouldn’t have suggested that at the first sign of you wanting to feel better,’ Rose says, looking a bit guilty. Her admitting that she made a misstep is very rare. You’ve known her since she was ten and it’s probably only happened half a dozen times.

‘You’re a problem solver,’ you shrug.

She smiles wryly.

‘You would think I would have learned by now that things go at their own pace.’

She picks up her knitting and resumes even though she said she’d thought she’d fucked up. You wonder why, until she speaks again.

‘Did anything prompt this?’ she asks and ah. She’s not looking at you directly so you don’t spook. ‘For example, noticing someone, perhaps someone who you think may be in the vicinity at any given moment?’

‘What?’

‘You’ve been uncharacteristically observant of your surrounding passersby recently,’ she says, chancing a glance upwards.

‘Nooo,’ you say unconvincingly. ‘I mean, I made a friend. Not even a friend, a friendquaintance. He lives nearby and I’ve seen him around a couple of times so it’s like, maybe I’ll see him again, you know? I’m very neighbourly.’

‘Interesting,’ she says, running her finger along her knitting.

She doesn’t believe you that Dirk’s just a friendquaintance, or maybe she does but she thinks that there’s more potential there than there is. And you didn’t pretend he was a girl because you thought maybe she’d read more romance into it if you used she/her pronouns, but it’s Rose, why would you think that gender would trip her up?

‘He’s not …’ you mumble. ‘I’m not …’

Rose puts her hand suddenly on yours and you meet her violently intelligent eyes. She smooths her thumb over the back of your hand, in what might be the most comforting gesture she has ever made.

‘You go at your pace,’ she says fiercely.

You don’t know how to react. After a moment, you nod. You feel something, but you’re not sure what it is. Just a squeeze in your chest that you don’t know how to look at.

She straightens and releases the eye contact, and you exhale.

‘I’ll still love you, even if you do turn out to be straight,’ she says casually.

You choke out a surprised laugh and she smiles at you. You know that she means it.

‘Would you come to the gym with me?’ you ask. ‘I think I want to go, but I haven’t before and I’m kinda scared that they’ll kick me out for being fat.’

Rose looks at you warily. You’re pretty sure she’s weighing up whether she cares about your mental health enough to put herself through exercising. You know you’re asking a lot, not because she thinks you’re right and you will be turned away at the door, but because it’s impossible to play it cool while exercising. It’ll be really obvious that she’s trying if she works up a sweat.

‘What would it entail?’ she asks.

‘I don’t really know,’ you admit. ‘They just say that exercise makes you happy.’

She considers you further. You’re lucky you’ve grown used to her long, computational silences. You used to feel pressure to fill them with knock-knock jokes or something.

‘We’ll find something with a free trial and do classes,’ she says. ‘We don’t know how to use the machines and we won’t go if we haven’t got a set time to do it. I will research and get back to you within the week.’

You grin at her. Rose always solves your problems.

Chapter Text

It’s kind of reassuring that there is indeed karmic justice in the world. You were always sure you would end up being punished for your many transgressions, and now you are. There’s no other explanation for the fact that John is walking into your gym wearing what can only be described as booty shorts, paired with a Sonic the Hedgehog t-shirt.

You feel your face heat and pretend it’s just the exercise, even though you’ve barely started. For some reason, you feel caught out. You feel like you’re the one stalking him, when that just simply isn’t true. If you were capable of stalking him (and obviously you are, but let’s disregard that) then you would be capable of avoiding him, and you’d therefore never see him.

You subtly turn as slowly as you can so that you’re not facing the entrance and continue to curl your weights. You think neutral, backgroundy thoughts. Nothin’ worth looking at over here, nosir.

You feel rather than see John walk behind you towards the room where classes happen and glance when you think you’ll get away with it. There’s a woman with him, or at the very least someone who looks enough like a woman that it’s plausible they might be his ex-wife, though that’s a hell of an assumption to make. You feel confident assuming most women and people who look like women on the planet have not been married to John. They, like John, are shorter than average, bigger than average and have a truly fantastic ass, though unlike John’s it doesn’t do a whole lot for you except provoke a general approval that such an ass exists in the world.

You uh, looked him up online. His ex-wife’s profile is private, but John’s very precise about the pronouns he uses. John still posts to Facebook semi-regularly, entirely text posts. You thought your generation stopped doing that a decade ago.

You proceed with your workout, with your headphones turned up to drown out the sound of the class. You lose yourself in the physicality of it, finding joy in moving your body on exactly your terms. When you were younger, you couldn’t stand the sensation of sweat, made worse by the oppressive Texas heat which you couldn’t pile onto by also exercising. Then, when struggling to regulate your damn emotions at fourteen turned into a wild, nighttime run that burned your muscles and chilled your skin, you discovered that for the first time you didn’t hate having a physical form. That there could be something good about not having ascended to a robot body. That endorphins fucking rock and something about panting feels really good.

You’ve been addicted ever since. One of the reasons you get on so well with Equius is because you share an overenthusiasm towards peak masculine fitness. You hooked up twice—the first time was fucking horrific and the second time was only kind of improved by the fact that you did it facing the wall of mirrors in his home gym and your quads looked spectacular. Thankfully, neither of you are the type to get hurt feelings over something like that. He shook your hand when you told him it was over. You don’t think it occurred to either of you to be weird about it at work.

You’re doing your cooldown run when John’s class breaks up. The treadmills are way on the other side of the gym and facing the wall, so you feel fine about the fact that you can’t hear the bassline of the class’s music through your headphones anymore. At least until someone taps you on your tricep.

You look at John’s mouth as you read your name on his lips, then cut off the treadmill and remove your headphones.

‘Hey,’ you say. ‘Are you stalking me or something?’

‘No!’ John says. He gestures at his friend. ‘Rose just found this place through her lesbian network.’

‘I knew it,’ you say under your breath. You get along with the owners here, but you’ve never been game to ask. You weren’t sure if you were just being a romantic. You’re not in the habit, but it happens.

‘Yeah,’ John laughs.

There’s an awkward pause.

‘So, how was class?’ you ask, realising the second it’s out of your mouth that there’s no reason for you to think he was doing class instead of using the gym in general. Thankfully, John doesn’t seem to notice.

‘I literally had to sit down and watch everyone be really strong for two songs,’ he says with a self-deprecating shrug. ‘But I dunno, people are nice here. One of the ladies helped me put my weights away afterwards when my arms were all noodley and said I did a good job. Usually it's my brain that’s tired and my body is like meh, so this feels pretty good. I mean, I’m super sweaty and gross, but it’s not like I’m trying to look sexy here.’

His Sonic shirt is dark with sweat and clinging to his body. His chest is big, like an ex-high school sports player who hasn’t realised that when you stop growing and stop exercising, the energy from taking second and third portions of momma’s Sunday roast has to go somewhere. There’s strength built into his shoulders, with the softness just making him more grabbable. His shorts are so short they’re practically underwear and his thighs are the kind of thighs that a dude not currently in a gym having a polite conversation might have rude thoughts about.

The woman he’s with—Rose, he said—coughs politely. You drag your eyes back up to John’s face.

‘Yeah,’ you say. What was the last thing he said? That’s usually a safe response, but you clearly spaced out a bit too long there, because Rose is looking a bit too amused for your liking.

‘We should leave you to your work out,’ Rose says, which is kind of her. ‘Unless you’d like to arrange a more dignified meeting time for you to mentally take off what little clothes my brother-in-law is wearing?’ she continues, which is not kind of her.

‘Rose,’ John hisses, elbowing her. ‘He wasn’t—’

‘Nah, I totally was,’ you shrug, because the last thing you want is for anyone to walk away from you thinking you’re capable of shame. ‘Got it all out of my system, though. I’m not interested.’

‘Oh,’ John says, looking redder than he did when he came over, which is saying something.

Rose nods, looking like she’s revising her previous assessment of you. Good. No, it doesn’t actually matter. You don’t want to see either of these people again, so you don’t care what she thinks of you. So long as she knows you don’t give a shit.

Your watch buzzes and you tap off the timer, pick up your towel from the front of the treadmill and sling it around your neck, holding onto the ends.

‘Sorry, we interrupted,’ John says. ‘Pretend we were never here.’

‘It’s cool,’ you say. ‘I outgrew my need to calculate my workouts to the second years ago. But I’m gonna bounce. I’ll see you ‘round.’

‘Or maybe not,’ John laughs. Something about the laugh doesn’t quite parse genuine. ‘I’m moving next weekend.’

‘You’ll still be in the neighbourhood all the time,’ Rose says. ‘Harry has too many haunts in that area, even if you didn’t have to pick him up and drop him off occasionally. And this so-called city might as well have a residency of a thousand people with how impossible it is to avoid anyone.’

‘Wow,’ you say. ‘Reading between the lines, moving out of your ex’s house?’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘We’ve been separated for ages, but it’s been easier to co-parent with us both at the same house? I didn’t even really want to leave, but I kind of half-mentioned it to Rose and then like two days later she found this rental that’s completely perfect and maybe it won’t be a disaster. I can always move back in if Harry Anderson needs me.’

‘Of course he’ll need you,’ Rose says dismissively. ‘He’ll still have you.’

‘Half the time,’ John mumbles, looking down at his feet.

There’s an interesting dynamic at play here, one that wouldn’t be out of place in a cheesy pale romance book if Rose looked a little more sympathetic. Yet another reason to avoid any greater entanglement with John. Rose might be short, but she has violently intelligent eyes and you wouldn’t appreciate the shovel talk from someone who your gentleman’s code says you aren’t allowed to hit back.

In honesty, you’ve spent a too-big amount of time trying to figure out if that rule is anti-feminist because it’s not treating women as equal, but then you stumbled across a man who brazenly had that opinion online and you decided that yeah, you’d rather be old fashioned than like him. You’re capable of saying thank you just to be polite for the same reason. You don’t automatically accept social rituals, which is why you can be trusted to know which are bullshit and which aren’t worth resisting.

‘Well, good luck with the move,’ you say. ‘Hopefully you’ll be better at it than me.’

‘Still haven’t unpacked then?’ John smiles.

‘I’ve convinced myself that it’s convenient that everything’s in boxes while I renovate,’ you say. ‘Honestly, if I was less capable of doing all this shit by myself then it would be easier. I can’t justify calling in a contractor, so it’s taking up all my weekends. It’s never looked worse.’

‘That doesn’t bode well.’

‘It’s not like that,’ you say. You stop yourself from insisting that you’re good at it, as you are with all things. ‘It’s just that I can’t justify renting a trailer to go to the tip until I’ve finished ripping everything out, so there’s rolls of carpet and shit just taking up space and lowering my environment stat.’

‘I’m hiring a moving truck next weekend anyway, if you wanted me to take some stuff away?’ John offers. His eyes are open and honest, like this doesn’t remotely seem like an imposition to him.

‘I couldn’t make you do that,’ you say.

‘Tell you what,’ John says. ‘You help me move my big furniture that I don’t want anyone else to injure themselves with next weekend, and I’ll take whatever you want to the tip afterwards.’

‘An elegant solution,’ Rose muses. ‘Though Kanaya is more than capable of helping you.’

‘Kanaya has told me three times how much it costs to get her nails done and that her salon sells vouchers should she break any helping me move,’ John says, rolling his eyes at Rose. ‘And I know you don’t want to do it, and I would feel very awkward if Rox even had sore arms afterwards, and my dad would insist on doing it if there wasn’t another man helping me even though he’s too old.’ He turns back to you. ‘You’d really be doing me a solid.’

Vriska has tried to tell you many times that you can refuse to help someone even if you don’t have a good reason, but you can’t quite make that fit in with your philosophy. You have the ability to help. You don’t have plans next weekend except to sand back all the paint in your bedroom, one of many jobs that would be easier if you weren’t having to navigate all the shit you want to throw away.

‘You don’t have to,’ John says, which tells you that you’ve been thinking about this longer than most people would.

‘It would be mutually convenient,’ you say. ‘But I don’t want this to be some kind of bonding activity. I have enough friends. I’ll do it if we can make this a professional exchange of physical tasks that has no bearing on what anyone thinks of me.’

John holds up his hands, grinning as he shakes his head.

‘I won’t even be grateful,’ he promises.

In the end, it’s fine. There’s not a lot of bonding time when everyone is either carrying heavy things or pretending to be busy so that they don’t have to carry heavy things. You meet John’s ex-wife, whose only real interaction with you is to tell you your biceps are droolworthy. You meet John’s dad, who can parallel park a moving truck in one go and who has strong opinions on vinyls, a topic you unlock by commenting on the radio quality in the truck (low). You meet Rose’s wife, who looks you up and down, informs you that your shirt colour doesn’t suit your complexion, and otherwise doesn’t see the need to talk to you.

And it’s fine. You get through the day, everyone disperses, and John drives the moving truck to your place. Even though you’re still in his company, it’s easier when it’s just the two of you. The gauge that registers the level of social radiation you’re exposed to has dipped back to the yellow zone. Well, more of a yellow-green level.

From that first night, covered in what to your expert eye looked like Dorito dust and wearing crocs, there’s been no pressure to impress John in any way. That’s not always a guarantee that you’ll be comfortable with someone, but it works sometimes. Vriska, for example. You’ve never felt the need to be anyone but yourself with her. It wouldn’t have been a tragedy if she’d decided she didn’t want anything to do with you, and now you both like each other enough that there’s no risk. You’re on stage one of that with John. You don’t need to get to stage two.

‘Wow, you’re really gutting this place,’ John says when he walks in.

‘It needs it,’ you say. ‘You know that. It was falling apart.’

‘Sure,’ he says.

You lug a roll of carpet between you into the truck and then hop lightly down again. Well, you hop lightly down. He braces a hand on the edge of the bed and drops himself with a move that makes you expect a thud when he lands.

‘You doing okay?’ you ask. ‘We don’t have to do this now. It’s not like the tip will be open until tomorrow anyway.’

‘I don’t know if I could just start again,’ he says, instead of answering. ‘Like, rip up everything, sand back every wall, uninstall all the cupboards. Is it even the same house?’

‘I didn’t have any attachment to the house it was,’ you say. ‘And I don’t do things by half-measures. If I’m renovating a house, I’m not just repainting it and calling it a day.’

He follows you back into the house and you pick up the next roll of carpet. You like how he can’t talk while you’re lifting it. You have the feeling he’s not actually talking about the house and you aren’t equipped to talk emotions with him.

‘Do you miss America?’ he asks on your next trip inside.

‘Some parts,’ you say.

‘What parts?’ he asks.

You think about it as you try to make a judgement about what needs to be cleared out next. You’re physically and mentally tired and you don’t really want to get into anything about your life with John.

‘I never considered myself that much of a nature guy, but the trees aren’t the same. Shit like that just kind of … settles in, like coffee at the bottom of the cup. I’m not aware of missing the trees, but then I see a movie and I’m like, man. This ain’t home, is it. The accent thing is obvious, I know I’m the foreigner here, but stuff like the trees sneaks up on me.’

‘Not the people?’ he asks.

‘Americans are assholes, John,’ you say lightly.

He laughs, which is what you wanted. He lets you change the topic to video games, which is even better. He has terrible taste, except when he doesn’t, which makes it too easy to talk to him. And it doesn’t take that much longer for you to clear everything out.

He offers to buy you fish and chips from the place just around the corner for dinner, but you wave him off. And you’re glad you do, because you were ready for the day to be over and it’s not like you can’t get your own takeaway. You lift your hand in farewell as he pulls out onto the road. He toots the horn twice and you smile as you drop your hand.

And now you’re all squared away. No reason to see him again.

You had been thinking you’d start going to the gym before work, which considering it’s an hour and a half commute would be pretty damn early, guaranteed to have the gym to yourself. But maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to run into him now and again.