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The first time you talk to a crow, it’s your eighth birthday. You wake up early, excited by the prospect of being alive for nearly a whole decade, even if you know better than to admit it. The icy silence you get from Bro whenever you express your (sadnessangerjoyfear) emotions has already trained you out of that.
You don’t know what you expect that morning, but it’s not what you get.
Well, that’s a lie. You know exactly what you expect. You expect what you got for the last seven birthdays, a piece of awful grocery store cake, a t-shirt that’d probably make Miss Faberson from 3C gasp, and a pat on the back with calloused hands.
But all there is on the rickety coffee table is a note.
roof in 10.
You have no idea what to think about that. You’ve only been on the roof a few times, and never for very long. Your apartment is right next to the door up to the roof, right at the top of your building. The height hurts your legs whenever the elevator breaks, but the one time you complained your Bro made you walk up and down the building until you collapsed. Which hadn’t taken very long, because at seven, when that happened, you still didn’t have the best motor control.
It’s cool, though. Your Bro was just trying to show you how much worse it could be if you’d lived in one of the even higher surrounding buildings.
You change quickly, forgoing your many awful t-shirts for one with a simple heart on it. You add a pair of sweatpants because it’s December, and no matter what the internet says, 50 degrees is cold.
There’s no mirror in your room, but you don’t need one to know that you look fly as hell. You always look fly as hell.
You climb the stairs, trying hard to tamp down the electricity dancing in your core. Will Bro teach you how to flashstep the way he does? You know better than to expect anything extravagant, but ten is a big birthday, you think. Certainly, the biggest one you’ve had so far.
But when you open the door, instead of being greeted with a smile, Bro throws a sword at your face. The hilt smacks you in the chest, sending you tumbling back down the stairs. Goddamn. You wish somebody had warned you about the stairs.
Bro appears in the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the smoggy Houston sunrise.
“Get up,” he growls. In your eight years, you’ve mostly learned how to read the tiny changes in your Bro’s facial expressions, but you aren’t getting anything from him now. You scramble to your feet, awkwardly holding the katana at your side. “Yer’ a man now, kid. Time to start training.”
That’s all the warning you get before he rushes you, flashstepping down the stairs to hold his sword to your throat. Adrenaline floods your system, the excited electricity from before turning into nothing but a cold, cold fear, freezing you in place. You drop your sword in shock. Your mind flashes through dozens of ideas. Pleading? Never worked before, won’t work now. Crying? You want to, but images of your Bro rolling his eyes at men crying on TV tell you no, that’ll make it worse. You’re smaller than him, slower than him, what do you have?
You kick him in the nuts. He swears, backing off, and you’re off like a shot. You’re almost there, almost down the stairs and through the doors, but then Bro appears in front of the door.
“Bad plan, lil’ man. A real Strider man doesn’t abscond, he faces his goddamn battles.”
“I-I’m sorry.” You don’t know what else to say. Bro spits on the ground.
“Don’t be sorry, be better,” he says, voice heavy with disgust, “You ain’t no bro of mine if you can’t handle a goddamn strife.” His eyes narrow. “Don’t ever fuckin forget that, you hear?” You nod desperately, but Bro doesn’t look convinced. Decisively, he lashes out, slicing cleanly through your sweats and leaving a large cut on the front of your calf. You cry out as red lances through your leg. The worst injuries you’ve had before this were small, cuts and bruises, more skinned knees and paper cuts than katana wounds. It’s more pain than you’ve ever felt, but Bro just watches you blankly.
“Fuckin’ pathetic,” he shakes his head. “Needle n’ thread are in the bathroom. Same time, same place tomorrow.”
Then he disappears, leaving you bleeding on the staircase. You won’t see him for the rest of the day, you’re almost sure.
You lay there, acclimatizing to the pain, for twenty-three and a half minutes. You aren’t sure how you know that’s how long you lay there, but you know you’re right. Twenty-three minutes feeling the blood drip down your leg. It tickles, almost. Not enough to distract you from the strip of fire the blood is coming from, though.
You haul yourself up by the railing, pointedly ignoring the betrayal you’ve just experienced.
The walk to the bathroom feels like it takes more than the ninety seconds it does, but you make it there, finding the needle and thread in the cabinet under the sink.
You take them to your room and stare at them. You know what Bro wants you to do, to give yourself stitches. You’ve seen pictures on internet sites that really shouldn’t be allowed at all, much less allowed for an eight-year-old. But you have no idea how to do it. You start to haul yourself over to your laptop when you hear a voice that is way too to soft be your Bro’s.
“Greetings, David.” You spin around, but all you see is a crow on your windowsill. Aw, shit, you hadn’t even noticed you left your window open. If Bro had noticed, he would’ve made you sleep on the fire escape again, since you wanted to let the outside in so bad. “I am right here, David. I wish to provide aid.” The sound of this speech is perfectly timed with the opening and closing of the crow’s beak.
Aw fuck.
“Are you… the crow?” you narrow your eyes at the crow, not altogether unconvinced that you didn’t hit your head falling down those stairs.
“Yes, and you are the human. Let us try not to reduce each other to merely our respective species, hm?” the crow responds. Well, damn. That’s a talking crow. Maybe. You spin around and Google ‘talking crow hallucination hit head’, but the headlines seem to only be referring to some YA novel about a girl with a crow that was secretly a hot dude. Wack.
“David, I assure you I am not a hallucination. Now, would you like assistance with your leg, or not?” You don’t think most hallucinations tell you that they’re real, so you give the bird a pass. For now.
“Yeah, I’m needing a hand like Captain Hook over here. Or, I need a claw. Beak? Uh, I don’t know what the term is.” The crow cocks its head at him.
“I cannot assist you physically. My body is not meant for such tasks. However, I can guide you as best as possible.” Okay, that’s cool and all, but you think you probably trust YouTube over a crow with a voice box.
“Do you even know how to do stitches?” you ask tentatively. The crow scoffs.
“Of course I know how to do stitches,” it caws indignantly like this is something you should know, “My nest is on a tree outside of the hospital.”
Well shit. That’s probably about the same credentials as you’ll get from the average tutorial.
This might as well happen.
You sigh and through your leg up on the table, wincing when it makes contact.
“What do I gotta do?”
The crow, who informs you later that its name is some unpronounceable bullshit, guides you through the process gently, correcting you where your fingers halt and stutter. It takes a long time, and shockingly, stabbing already damaged tissue with a needle repeatedly fucking hurts. You let yourself whimper a little bit, but no more. You feel ashamed of yourself for crying out earlier already. Bro said you’re a man now, and men don’t cry.
You don’t feel much like a man right now, choking back the burning behind your eyes while your new friend shows you how to close your wound. No, you feel like a boy, a boy in over his head.
Two and a half years later, you have callouses that match your Bro’s, and scars littering your pale skin. He hasn’t scarred you on purpose like he did the first day, but you get your ass handed to you every time, so some nicks and cuts are inevitable. You’ve settled into a schedule, kind of. Not really. He spent the first six months strifing with you every morning, but since then, it’s been completely random. Trying to train you out of the freeze response you had the first time, probably. Bro isn’t the clearest about his reasons for doing the bullshit he does.
So you’re chillin’ out, maxin’, relaxin’ all cool in your room, getting into arguments on the internet and derailing them by mentioning your age when the door opens, and ohfuck that’s a sword coming at your face. You lift your hand to grab it on impulse, only fumbling a little. Bro disappears to the roof, where you know he’ll be waiting for you. Goddamn. Right when you were getting into the nuances of My Little Pony porn.
You all but fly up the roof, ready to get this shit over with. You know your Bro just wants you to be ready (Late at night, you ask yourself what he wants you to be ready for, but only when you think he’s asleep like he could somehow read your mind), but this shit gets annoying.
You all but slam the door to the roof open and rush Bro, hoping he’ll smack you down quickly and be done with it.
But he’s slow, by just a hair of a second, and you slice into the side of his arm, not too deep but enough that you see blood well up.
You’ve never landed a hit on your bro before. It makes you pause. All the other strifes ended when your Bro drew blood, so does that mean it’s over?
Your surprise is your downfall. Bro returns your attack twofold, and though you defend as best you can, you still find yourself on the ground. Bro points his sword at you, and for a second you think this is going to be another lesson, he’s going to cut you open again, but instead, he retreats. Without so much as scratching you.
He nods at you, and you tentatively return it. Then he’s gone. You’ve tried to flashstep like him, but you still haven’t figured it out, so you take your sweet time getting down the stairs, relishing what is probably hopefully kind of a victory.
As soon as you step into the apartment, though, you school your small grin back into neutrality. You don’t want to know what Bro would do if he caught you being so-
Being so what? Happy? Expressive?
Being so emotional. Emotion is weakness and Strider men have no weakness.
When you get to your room, there are three things in there that weren’t present when you went up to the roof.
The first is a bottle of apple juice sitting next to your laptop. You aren’t sure you’ve ever had it before but it can’t be worse than the pulpy disaster that is orange juice. You cautiously take a sip and goddamn that is the shit right there. If this were being told in a visual medium there would be galaxies shining in your shitty shades or something. You immediately decide that this is your new favorite drink, and you will do whatever you have to for a consistent supply.
The second thing is a set of turntables set on cinderblocks against the wall opposite your bed. They look familiar to you, but it doesn’t hit you until you get closer. These are Bro’s old turntables, he must be handing them down to you. You don’t expect him to show you how to use them, but you look forward to learning anyway.
The third thing is the crow sitting on your bed, who you probably should’ve addressed first, but fuck off, your Bro doesn’t give you gifts every day, okay? You don’t recognize this one. In the months since you met the first crow, who you’ve decided to call PM, for Pointy Motherfucker, more and more birds have been showing up. You don’t get why they come to you, but they don’t mess with your stuff, so it’s whatever.
You want them to be your friends, you think. But you don’t know if you can even have friends. Would that be considered too unironic? The crows are never ironic, but they’re still kinda cool.
“Yo,” you say to the bird, in a voice that sounds altogether too high to come off as cool as it should. Goddamn. Puberty is takin’ its fuckin time with you.
“Greetings, David. I saw on the roof you managed to harm your brother. I understand this indicates that congratulations are in order?” All these crows talk the same. And they’re stalkers. Whenever you question them, though, they just give you non-answers. Feathery assholes.
“For a buncha birds who seem to watch me all the damn time, y’all still don’t seem to get that my name is Dave. Whoever this David dude is must be hella disappointed by all his missing birds.” The crow just clicked its beak condescendingly. Stupid bird.
“Congratulations, David. I expect your battles will grow much more difficult from now on.”
“Why would they do that? I fought, I won, that’s what Bro wanted.”
“It is clear to me that your guardian has been holding back, David. Now that you have bested him, you cannot expect that luxury.”
Aw, hell. You shoulda known your Bro was going easy on you. You’ve seen him training on his own, faster than your eyes can follow. There’s no way he wasn’t slow on purpose.
You’re panicking, but you can’t show it.
“Who’s to say I haven’t been holding back too, huh? Ten-year-old Jackie Chan up in this bitch,” you respond, hoping you’ve hidden the shake in your voice. The bird somehow manages to convey a cocked eyebrow, despite having no eyebrows.
“I wish you luck ‘in this bitch’, as you say, though I am sure you believe you do not need it.” It tries to fly out the window, but you keep the window closed because shit, June in Houston is hot as balls, so it thwaps right into the window with a crack. You maneuver past it and open the window for it, saying nothing.
The crow hobbles out, smooth exit ruined, leaving you alone in your room with nothing but a sinking sense of dread.
You know what? What the fuck ever, who gives a shit. Maybe Bro is gonna hand you your ass on a silver platter, you landed a hit on him today. You did fuckin’ good, fuck that damn bird. You take a pull from your AJ and pull up a turntables tutorial. Your internet arguments can wait.
It’s the night before your thirteenth birthday, and you think you might be broken.
The thought comes to you without fanfare, the same way you’d think of a joke for the shitty webcomic you started a year ago.
You’re just laying in your bed, rereading your friend’s Pesters because you don’t feel like actually doing anything when it comes to you.
You’re broken. As in, a freak. As in, couldn’t function as a normal person.
It’s a bit of a surprise that you hadn’t realized this earlier, to be honest.
Just to start, you’re pretty sure you’ve never seen another person with red eyes. Even albino people have pink eyes, not red. Bro refuses to tell you anything about your parents, so you have no idea what the story is there. Your hair, too, is shock white, like you got scared as a kid and never recovered.
Also, you’d place all your money on most kids not talking to birds in their free time. Just a guess, but that doesn’t seem like something most people could do. Plus you doubt other kids strife every week with their guardians. That seems like a Bro thing.
You’ve never been to school either. At the end of every summer, you get a shit ton of textbooks and read through them. It’s not hard, necessarily, but it is fucking annoying because only like a quarter of it shows up on the tests you take every May for the credit.
And finally, you don’t think you’ve ever interacted with a kid your age in person. You rarely leave the apartment building, and when you do it’s never for long. You don’t have any friend’s houses to visit, or school to go to, or any reason to leave most of the time. It doesn’t help that you burn super easily, and whenever the sky isn’t dumping buckets on you for no goddamn reason, the sun marks your skin like a brand.
Right now, it’s pouring, the kind of shit the news compares to Harvey a few months ago. Goddamn, that shit was wild. The sound makes an excellent soundtrack to your racing mind spiraling towards one conclusion- you’re a freak. Like, swirlies in the toilet shoved in a locker freak.
Not that you couldn’t kick the ass of someone trying to shove you in a locker.
But still. Freakazoid central, right here. 7:00 train leaving early. Hop on if you want a life of hypothetical social ostracization.
Bro’s been making noises about you going to school for your next year, too. Somethin’ about the Strider charm and not being a disappointment.
You know that the Strider charm is nigh fucking irresistible, but you won’t get a chance to use it if people look at you and immediately decide you’re bully bait.
You can’t say no to Bro though, you know that like you know the diagonal cut across your ribcage from a day when you caught the flu and couldn’t strife.
There’s time to prepare, of course. You have a few months until your next year starts, long enough that it should be fine, but suddenly there’s a countdown in the back of your head.
7 months, 20 days, 8 hours, 43 seconds.
You don’t know how you know that, but there’s another mark in the freak of nature column.
Thump!
You don’t jump at the loud noise. You don’t shriek or yell. You just turn to the source of the noise, your window. Cautiously, you open it, bracing yourself for the bite of the winter storm.
Raindrops pelt your face as you stick your head out the window to see a bird lying on the fire escape below.
God fucking damn it.
“You good, dude?” you ask it. It was probably trying to get in out of the cold and like every other crow, couldn’t tell that your window was closed. For birds that claim to have so much wisdom, they’re kind of idiots.
“I find myself in need of a lift. David, if you would?” the crow responds. With a sigh, you climb out of the window. Outside, the wind howls, and when you look up the sky is an angry shade of dark.
As fast as possible, you lift the crow, placing it on the table below the window gently. Then you climb back through yourself, shivering slightly. You hate standing in the rain. You dry your hair with one of the many t-shirts laying around and turn back to the crow.
“Whatcha need, crow dude? I haven’t seen any of you assholes since Halloween.” Halloween had been a total mess. While usually, you spend the day hunting down the candy Bro boobytraps around the apartment, this year Bro forced you into a smuppet outfit to hand out candy. A smuppet costume. You don’t know where he got it, and you don’t want to know. You cut it up and stuffed it down the garbage disposal as soon as you could, but PM showed up to mock you in that annoyingly calm voice.
Now, a month and a half later, this douchebag shows up.
“Apologies for disturbing you, David. The storm has forced me to seek shelter, and your home was the nearest place for me to go. I shall leave as soon as the rain passes.” That’s weird. Normally the crows take their sweet fuckin time leaving. Motherfuckers are up in your shit like a colonoscopy. You’ve missed it.
“Naw, bro, you can chill here long as you need. I got a crisis I gotta get back to but other than that my schedule is blank as hell.” You hate to admit it, but you really could use the company.
Crow dude, who you’re calling CD, cocks its head at you.
“I was informed by,” it makes an unintelligible sound you assume to be the PM’s real name, “that you believe that ‘y’all crow motherfuckers are a bunch of flaming sacks of shit’. Therefore, it was assumed that our presence was unwanted. Has this changed?”
Oh shit, you forgot that crows don’t understand sarcasm. You’ve tried to explain it to the PM and DD and the others but none of them can ever grasp it. They don’t seem to grasp irony, either, which means you can’t layer your speech with irony like you usually do around them. It’s refreshing, but you feel vulnerable without your shields on shields of misdirection.
“Shit, CD. I didn’t mean it. PM was givin’ me shit and I was giving it back, I don’t mind having you little dudes around.” The crows’ naivete continues to be both a blessing and a helluva curse.
“Ah,” CD responds, settling itself down onto the table to relax, “If that’s the case then I believe I would like to rest here for the time remaining.”
“Go for it, bro. I’ll let you out whenever I start catchin’ those Z’s.” You flop back onto your bed and roll to face the wall, but CD ain’t letting you off that easy.
“You mentioned a crisis, David. Is everything alright?” it asks softly, like it’s talking to a wild animal, and ha fucking ha if that isn’t a weird-ass role reversal.
“I’m cool, dude. Just standard issue shit, you know?”
“If you wish to talk to me about it, you may.” Oh hell no, you’re down and shit but you do not need a goddamn crow therapist. You aren’t taking life advice from an animal that shits on cars.
“Ain’t nothin, CD. I’m just worried that my coolness sprung a leak and is gonna infect all of Texas, creating an entire state of sick-ass motherfuckers ready to take over the world through sheer radness at a moment’s notice. So fly they take over the country and elect me president. I don’t want that, I’m down to clown with Obama. Down to motherfuckin’ clown.” What the fuck are you saying.
CD is unimpressed.
“I am sure your coolness is well-contained in your person. You have nothing to fear. Unless something else is on your mind?” Stupid crow, knowing when you’re going through shit. Stupid you, for wanting to talk about it.
“Look, uh, don’t take this weird or whatever, but I sorta realized that talking to you guys, plus the weird hair and eyes and fighting and shit, kinda makes me, like, a massive fucking freak to most people? And my Bro wants to send me to public school next year, and just. What if they don’t like me? All my friends are online, and they’re great and shit, but it feels like they just know a version of me. They see this chill dude who mixes beats so fire they collect insurance, but I don’t- I don’t know if that’s me.” You don’t think you’ve ever said that out loud before. You feel better. Kind of. Still super fucking lame to talk about feelings and shit. CD stares at you like he’s a hungry suburban dad and you are a grill that won’t start.
“I fail to understand the issue, David. Why is it your concern what others think of you? I know the others of my flock find your presence quite pleasing. I do not see why it would not be the same with your peers.” Oh shit, how do you explain the concept of social norms to a crow? Do they have social norms? You shove a pillow onto your face and groan.
“Naw, man, it’s like, there are standards and shit. You gotta fit in or you’re gonna have a target on your back and all the other kids are gonna be Hawkeye and my shit is gonna be wrecked. And like, being able to talk to birds doesn’t fit with those standards.” you try to explain, and you think CD might be getting it, but to be honest you don’t think crows are smart enough to understand the epic highs and lows of high school bullying. CD nods.
“I believe I understand, David. You fear that the differences from your peers that you possess will make you more noticeable to those who may react negatively towards your idiosyncrasies?” And shit, even if you do think crows are kinda stupid, you can’t deny that talking to them always expands your vocabulary almost as much as talking to Rose does.
“Yeah, dude, you got it. I know I’m dope as hell, but the idea of getting my head stuffed in a locker because some dumbfuck doesn’t get how off the chain sick I am doesn’t seem super great to me, and I’d like to see what’s behind Door Number Two instead.” CD squints at you like you’ve just told it that the earth is flat. Which you do tell people, sometimes, but only to start fights on the internet.
“I have observed a great many children, David-”
“Gross.”
“Do not interrupt, David. It is rude. I have observed a great many children of your age and older, and none display a tendency towards violence as you describe. Where have you gotten this impression of your peers and schooling from?”
“You know man, movies and stuff-”
“Are movies not typically works of fiction? Why do you believe the image they present of schooling? The purpose of your stories is conflict, and if children act as they are then little conflict evolves.” Aw shit, CD is right. You’ve been assuming school was like something out of a shitty 80’s rom-com. Chances are, no one will even notice you. Still, though, you can’t slow the rapid pace of your heart or the flashes of potential scenarios where CD is wrong. “If you doubt me, I believe some of your friends go to public school? You might ask them for their opinion.” Yeah, you remember telling one crow about John, Rose, and Jade. You’d rambled about how cool their lives sounded, and how much you valued having them around, and the whole thing was so sincere it makes you cringe to remember.
Nonetheless, you pull out your phone and take up CD on his suggestion.
TG: yo egbert
EB: hi dave!
TG: damn bro the fuck are you doing replying so fast i was gearing up to a long and profound monologue about loneliness
TG: i had the whole thing ready to go in my notes app like a shitty youtuber apology on twitter and you blow it out of the water by responding without taking ur sweet fuckin time
TG: for shame, jonathan
TG: for shame
EB: maybe next time i’ll ignore you on purpose then.
TG: itd be the polite thing to do
EB: not that i’m not ecstatic to talk to my best bro, but usually you’ve crashed by now! is everything alright?
TG: yeah bro everythings tight like leggings on an opera singer after her cheat day
TG: there is absolutely no room in this bitch it’s so goddamn tight
TG: shes gonna have to have to bring out the spanx for todays rehearsal
TG: and no one will be able to tell but shes gonna KNOW
TG: but yeah shits cool just had a quick question
TG: you go to public school right? like with other kids and shit?
EB: yeah! it’s so annoying. all the other kids are so loud and i barely have any friends besides you guys, and half of you are asleep whenever i’m up.
TG: so like
TG: have you ever had to deal with like
TG: getting shoved in lockers swirlies etc etc insert 80s bully tactic here
TG: did hallmark lie to me in acclaimed teen beekeeper romance movie B’s and The Bees
EB: hmmm...
EB: not really!
EB: there’s a lot of teasing, but most of it is friendly.
EB: just normal middle school things
EB: maybe it’s different in high school?
EB: i’ll have to ask jane about it later
TG: okay sweet dude you do that
TG: not that this conversation was entirely transactional or anything
TG: but
TG: thats all i really needed and sleep is beckoning with its siren song of back in black by ac/dc
TG: the electric guitar
TG: it summons me
EB: talk to you later then dave!
TG: later egderp
After that, your nerves are mostly soothed. John is just about the most normal guy you know, hell, his name is John, so if you trust anyone on the Standard Educational Experience, it’s him.
You turn your phone off and put it on the table, right next to CD, who watches you with beady eyes.
“Has talking to your friend resolved your anxieties, David?” it asks like it doesn’t know damn well that it did. You saw his feathery little ass peeking over your shoulder. He ain’t slick.
“Yeah, dude, you were right. Crow victory achieved, or whatever, appreciate the help.” you aren’t salty that CD ended up being right, not at all. You love feeling like you can’t handle your own problems. Perhaps sensing this, CD ends the conversation before you can, nodding and settling himself down on your desk.
You follow suit, switching off the light and placing your shades next to your phone, where they probably won’t be fucked with. Man, even though your Bro gave you your current pair of sweet-ass anime shades, you can’t help but wish for something a bit less… pointy.
(The next day, after CD has been let out and your Bro has gifted you a long, shallow cut on your forearm, your wish is granted, because John always gives you the best goddamn presents.)
You are 14 and it is April 13 and none of that matters because you think your Bro just broke your leg.
The strife had seemed standard at first. Your Bro has always hated this day, for reasons he never bothered to tell you, and even though he never explicitly said as much, the refrigerator was stocked with more swords than usual, and Cal hadn’t left the corner of your eye all day.
It all came to a head twenty minutes ago, when the pen marks your usual strife note had been etched so hard they tore through the paper on the ‘now’. You acquiesced, because how do you say no to someone like Bro?
The roof was unseasonably warm for April, which was to say, exactly as hot as Houston always was when it wasn’t pouring. Downstairs, Miss Faberson’s azaleas are wilting, even though they bloomed only days ago, though you have no way of knowing that.
Unlike usual, Bro didn’t have his sword out. You were prepared for this, though. April 13th there are never swords. There’s just your fists and your legs and once, one time, you headbutted him. That was not a good April 13.
No swords didn’t mean he went easy on you, of course not. Your flashstepping isn’t nearly as smooth as his, so when he rushed you and hit your chin with a brutal uppercut, you couldn’t dodge and the force of it made your teeth smash into each other, sending shots of pain through your chipped back tooth. You don’t entirely remember how you got that, just that Bro had shaken his head in disappointment when you asked if there was a way to fix it.
It was fast and brutal and it seemed like your Bro wasn’t all there, fighting you more like an animal than with his usual clinical sharpness.
You didn’t run, though. Men don’t run from their problems, they get decked by life and hit back or take it.
You tried to fight back, aiming for the head and playing dirty with kicks aimed below the waist, trying to end it as soon as possible, but it was no use, and your forearms hurt from the force of all the blocked blows.
It ended the way it always did, you prone on the ground, breathing hard with your brother standing above you, a look of disdain on his face. You knew what came next. He would hawk a tobacco-filled loogie and spit next to you, and disappear, leaving you to collect yourself.
Instead, today, he looked down on you and kicked your shin in two.
He was gone before you could scream.
Now you’re laying on the ground, trying your damnedest not to pass out. There’s no blood, but your leg is bent real weird, and your vision is swimming. The pain is awful, terrible, but the longer you lay the further away it feels. Still present, but like it belongs to someone else. It’s not your pain.
Maybe it’s Bro’s, you think distantly, maybe the pain you feel right now belongs to him and he’s been giving it to you, one piece at a time.
You don’t want it.
You don’t want this.
It’s something you’ve been aware of for a while, but never really thought out loud. What you want was never really a factor, so what was the point?
Now, lying on hot pavement in agony that is barely new to you, you indulge in the idea of not being where you are.
Somewhere cool, maybe? You’ve never seen snow, never left the city, but hot damn if that sky dandruff doesn’t look refreshing. Washington, maybe. You could hang out in person and get more than a block away without seeing Cal out of the corner of your eye. Hell, maybe while you’re up there, you could take some ironic pictures of the Needle in Seattle.
You’re so caught up in filling in the details of your fantasy that you don’t notice the crow next to you until it speaks.
“The fuck you doin’ on the ground, kid?” Aw shit, it’s Slick. Unlike the other crows who talk like Rose or some shit, Slick talks like a gangster from a shitty black and white movie. Your first name for him was FA, short for Feathery Asshole, but he shot that down real quick.
You cough when you try to respond, your voice rusty from pain and disuse. You don’t voice call with your friends very often, and you’ve long since given up communicating with Bro when not absolutely necessary. Most of your verbal interaction comes from talking to the feathery bastards, which is weird as fuck. You clear your throat and try again.
“Just straight chillin’, Slick. Was sittin’ cozy in my room and thought damn, Dave, you know what would be baller? If you went and got some early tanning done on the roof, it’s not like you burn like a five-year-old’s attempt at scrambled eggs, and while you’re up there, maybe you should break your own leg, just to commit extra hard.” You could continue, but honestly, it’s hard to focus through the burning. Slick squints his beady little eyes at you.
“Shit, kid, I ‘int even notice. Your roommate fucked you up like that?” Yeah, crows don’t really get the concept of family. They travel in flocks, but those flocks change all the time, and they rarely concern themselves with any particular crow for long. You nod in the affirmative. He growls. You aren’t sure how he does that given crow oral anatomy, but damn if he doesn’t do it anyway. “Look, kid, Dave, whatever the hell, I’ve been talkin’ with the others, and we all hate seein’ you like this. We got some of that green paper you fucks like so much, some shiny stuff too. We want you to use it to get the hell outta dodge if you get the chance. You feel me?”
Well damn, you know how much crows like their shiny shit, and how hard it is to part with it. Even though it’ll inevitably be ten bucks and a few bottle caps, you appreciate the gesture and tell him as much. Doesn’t get you off the roof, though, or give you a place to go.
Where could you go?
Immediately, the first place your mind flashes to is Washington, like you’d just been imagining. What would you tell John? You’ve made your Bro out as a cool dude helping you get cooler, and you. You don’t know if you have the balls to be honest about how much your Bro fucking sucks sometimes.
Instead, you’d probably tell his dad. The guy seems decent enough, even though John complains about being haunted by cake. You can barely remember being offered food by your guardian, so you’re kind of jealous.
It’s still theoretical, though. You can’t get the kind of money that gets you to Washington anyway, even if the crows are optimistic. You tell Slick to leave it outside your window later in the day because lord knows you’ll need both hands to get your broken leg down the stairs and back home.
It does, in fact, and by night your hands ache from a dozen attempts at a YouTube-guided splint for your leg.
You barely even notice the rustle against the window, so focused are you on making a crutch out of Game Bro Magazine papier-mache, but barely doesn’t mean you don’t, so you turn your head to see a pile of, well, stuff on your window. Lots of green, lots of shiny. You open the window and collect your secondhand ill-gotten goods, and it takes you three handfuls because hell if your crows ain’t good at what they do, and what they do is petty theft.
Holy fuck are those hundred-dollar bills.
They are, upon closer inspection. Those are multiple hundreds of dollars, probably more than enough for a one-way ticket to Seattle.
Briefly, you consider that this might be referred to as ‘running away from home’ and that you might be sent back, but you quickly dismiss the idea. You don’t think your Bro will care that you’re gone, and if he does then he sure as shit can’t report you. You know exactly what story your body tells, and even though it’s not quite the truth, it’ll get you away from Bro real easy, something you know he knows.
With that in mind and cash in hand, you pull out your phone.
TG: hey john can you give me your dads pesterchum
TG: im not trying to seduce him i promise
TG: well like
TG: if hes into it
Living with John and Jane and their dad is… weird.
Granted, by now you've had five months to process it, so it’s a little better, but when you’d first arrived and there had been no strifing and food in the refrigerator, you were constantly on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It took multiple conversations with Mr. Egbert (because you could do that, you could knock on the office door and just have a conversation without having to earn it, without being disappeared on) to convince you that there was no other shoe, that this really was how things were.
The closest to being at all like living with Bro is when Jane and John get into a prank war, but after the first time you got hit with a pie and immediately went for the kitchen knife, searching for a blade on reflex, they stopped involving you and kept the pranks to themselves and any hapless guests who arrived.
But your delicate world of shitty banter and security and damn good cake is about to explode like the villain’s warehouse in one of the terrible action movies John made you watch.
Because it’s your first day of school.
Ever.
After you arrived in Seattle, it was already the tail end of the school year, so you took the homeschooler end-of-year test, and presto changeo, you were in the ninth grade. You got to skip middle school, a phrase that means very little to you. John was jealous, of course, until he remembered exactly why he shouldn’t be, and then he was weird and sulky for the rest of the day.
The last few months have been… fun, honestly. Your escape from your Bro wasn’t easy, but Mr. Egbert insisted on flying down to help you pack and back you up against your brother. He’d been nowhere to be found when Mr. Egbert arrived, but you went to use the restroom and when you came back there was a cut on John’s dad’s cheek and signed papers in his hands, so you assume Mr. Egbert handled it. You know from John that his dad is weirdly strong, and that questioning it will get you nowhere.
So. School.
Your backpack is uncomfortable on your shoulders, the slightly scratchy material of its straps scratching at them every step you make. Your outfit is immaculate, Mr. Egbert got you office permission to wear your shades indoors. (Who knew getting headaches from going outside shadeless wasn’t normal? You didn’t, that’s for damn sure.) Jane took you back-to-school shopping, which was really weird, but kind of fun, and now you have a slew of notebooks and folders, all with the most heinous, first-grade girl glittery prints on them. God bless Lisa Frank.
But despite being ready as you think it’s possible to be, as you sit in Mr. Egbert’s exceedingly sensible sedan, you find it difficult to calm yourself down. You won’t have the same homeroom as John since your names are so far apart, but you’re both in the same level classes, so there’s a chance you’ll have a few together. (By the way, what the hell do they teach in a homeroom? Is that where they teach you to make spaghetti and sew and shit? You guess you’ll find out.)
Your palms aren’t sweaty. Your sweat kept making your grip on your sword weaker, and over time it just went away, like your body wanted to give itself the best chance. But despite the lack of external tells, on the inside, your head is racing. Most of your knowledge about school comes from John and the internet, neither of which you trust not to fuck with you for a laugh. You know you don’t have to worry about bullies, but cliques? Weird vaguely parental relationships with English teachers? Sex, even? You don’t know if any of that is real. Except for sex. That’s probably real.
But before you can really comb your tangled knot of stressed-out thoughts into a fully coherent, emotionally shielded monologue, chock full of shitty references just for your best bro next to you in the backseat, the car has already slowed to a stop and you’ve spent the entire ride scrolling through Twitter and continuing your campaign to retweet every post that Obama ever liked. John hops right out and opens the door for you, and you snark at him about what a gentleman he is like you’re totally cool with being in a room with more people than you’ve ever talked to in your life for seven and a half hours. Nah, you’re chill as fuck.
The inside of the building is overwhelming, you’re jostled at all angles by girls wearing glittery t-shirts and boys wearing neon basketball shorts. It’s color and sound everywhere, so much conversation it dulls into an unintelligible roar you’ve only ever heard in the background of crowd scenes in movies.
The only thing keeping you from getting totally lost is John’s firm grip on your wrist, pulling you along and excitedly chattering like you can hear more than a word he’s saying. Being touched is a novel experience for you, one that draws all of your attention every time it happens. You doubt you’d be able to understand John even if you were totally alone, too focused on the warm pressure of his hand. You’ll have to get over that soon. It could be a weakness.
Then he’s letting go of your hand and pointing to a chart, initials listed next to names. He tells you how to get to your class and then he disappears.
He. Disappears.
The only person you know. In this crowd of hundreds. Is Gone.
This is very bad.
You do your best to stay cool. Run through the breathing exercises Jane sympathetically taught you after you started hyperventilating when Mr. E left a sticky note that he was headed to the grocery store. It helps a little. The shadowy ball of tension in your heart loosens its grip, but you remain very confused and very overwhelmed. You check the watch Mr. Egbert gave you as a late birthday gift. (so late, in fact, that you suspect he just had an extra watch to dispose of) You have 5 minutes until your class starts. Okay.
You start to move through the crowd, dodging and weaving like a goddamn pro to avoid touching as best as possible. You don’t need strangers all up in your business. Hell no.
The room is upstairs, tucked in a tiny alcove like it’s just trying to hide from you. You walk past it twice as you circle the eighth-grade hall before you notice it. The teacher raises their eyebrow when you sheepishly slink inside with barely a minute to spare.
You try your best to pay attention to the teacher’s spiel, you really do. It’s a young woman, mid-20’s, probably an English teacher to be honest by the way she struggles to get the class’ attention. You want to focus, you know you need this information, but there’s so much stuff around, and like twenty other kids, and you still aren’t calm from being abandoned in the hallway.
There are posters everywhere, brightly colored things with a slightly rounded font that shouts definitions and reminders and inspirational messages at you in bubbly fake-handwritten text. Behind you, two kids are talking, and you’re involuntarily hearing every word they’re saying about how cool and awesome and exciting their summer vacations were. Worst of all is the teacher, who won’t. Shut. Up. Every time you think there’s a lull in her words it starts up again and you. You can’t.
You slip one, two earbuds in and wait for her to give you your schedule.
You made a mix specifically for today, mostly from artists you like, but there are a few of your own tracks in there too. The music washes over you, and to an outside observer you probably visibly relax when you hear the beat start up. You tap the desk absentmindedly, a mostly automatic habit from back when you were learning to mix, and wanted to sample other work.
A paper hits your desk, and the muted talking hidden behind your curtain of sound suddenly becomes a lot louder. You remove an earbud, pausing your fly beats.
“-and really, though I’ve been informed of your situation, it’s your first day, Mr. Strider. Is it too much to ask that you pay attention?” The teacher is talking to you, she’s mad, of course, she’s fucking mad. And you’re fine, you’re okay, you open your mouth to respond with something cool and devastating but all that comes out is
“Can I use the bathroom?”
Which is a weird question to ask, why wouldn’t you be able to, but John made it very clear that apparently, you have to ask for stuff like that. Weird.
She sighs. “Go. But I expect your full attention when you come back.” You’re out of your seat before she’s finished talking, so ready are you to stop being in this busy, busy room.
You expect to have trouble finding the bathroom, but it’s clearly labeled right across the hall. Inside is sterile, harshly lit, and blessedly quiet.
It’s a bathroom. No murmured chatter, no brightly colored posters, just white on white on the faint buzzing of the fluorescent light. You lock yourself in a stall before someone can see you.
Inside, you take several deep breaths. You’re fine. You’re okay. You knew this was a possibility, that you might freak on your first day. You have a list of tactics for just such an eventuality. But now that you’re here, the idea of using them- the idea that breathing in a certain way could make the wasp’s nest in your chest go away is ridiculous.
So instead, your deep breaths get shallower and shallower, you try for air desperately but goddamnit it won’t come, it’s not enough, you can’t do this it’s too much you should’ve just stayed with Bro at least then you wouldn’t have had to be in this bright loud place with bright loud people.
Loud footsteps echo into the bathroom, paralyzing you. No one can see you like this. If they knew, if they saw, you’d be done. It doesn’t matter what Mr. E said about teachers not hitting kids, if they or your fellow students found you hiding in the bathroom, not even able to control your fucking breathing, it’d be over.
“Strider? You in here?” someone speaks. It’s a male voice, gravelly and probably the same age as you. You pull your feet up so your shoes are no longer visible and hold your already lacking breath, your lungs beginning to burn almost immediately. “The teacher sent me to grab you, said you were taking too long. I don’t know what crawled up her ass, yelling at some kid on the first day of school. Like, lady, it’s ninth grade. We’re fourteen, we’ve done this before. Just give us our schedules and leave us alone. You weren’t even doing anything wrong!” he gripes, sounding pissed on your behalf.
Wow, this kid. He just keeps talking. Normally, you’d appreciate that, but you really don’t want him to know you’re here and the longer he talks the longer you have to hold your breath. Your lungs are on fire, he’s been talking for a minute and you already didn’t have any air in your lungs.
“Shit, guess you aren’t in here. Fuck you, Strider, for making me look for you in earnest now.” You hear footsteps move away and take a gasping, rattling breath. Thank god.
Fortunately, you think that the shock of having to hide shocked you into fight-or-flight, so you feel a little better. You unlatch the stall door, stumbling out. In the mirror, your face is pale and sweaty. You look for all intents and purposes like a Victorian child with tuberculosis and sweet shades.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” oh shit it’s the voice from earlier he didn’t really leave. You turn to look at him. It’s this stubby Hispanic kid who looks like he’s never seen a hairbrush or more than an hour of consecutive sleep. Glass houses though, you guess.
“Uh…” you eloquently reply. Your well-thought-out response, shockingly, fails to remove the distortion of rage flashing on his face like a neon sign. Jesus, who is this kid, telling everyone and their mom that he’s pissed? Gotta keep that on the down-low.
“I’m in here, fucking gracious as hell trying to search out this kid who ran out of class like he’d never seen a goddamn classroom before, who seemed freaked the fuck out, and you’re trying to dodge me? The fuck? I was trying to help, dipshit!” yikes. Like you said, gotta keep it on the down-low.
You really aren’t sure what he’s talking about. You don’t need help, you need ten minutes alone and some water and to never talk about this ever again. You definitely don’t need some stranger shoving his face in your business. That’s what the crows are for. But you don’t say that, because telling people how you feel usually ends up with leaving everything you’ve ever known at best and getting your ass kicked at worst.
“Yeah, really feeling the help here, bro. Got the emotional Red Cross up in this bathroom. Oh, Dr. Eyebags, how did you know that the best cure for freaking the fuck out is yelling?” You mock swoon, trying to sound as apathetic as possible, but your voice cracks on ‘freaking’, and you can tell he doesn’t buy it. He looks upset, though.
“Shit, I’m sorry, you’re right. Great fucking work, Karkat. Scream at the dude who might be having a panic attack. Shit, shit, I’ll leave you alone now, and we can like, never talk about this again.” he starts backing out of the bathroom, and fuck if you don’t feel like you just kicked a puppy. A Chihuahua puppy, who barked its ass off when you walked through the front door, but still a puppy.
“You’re cool man, I’m just-” Just what? You really don’t know how you’re feeling. “Just tired. Homeschool kid. This is my first day. It’s weird.” Yeah, that’s safe to say. He stopped walking out, so that’s cool. “Also, Karkat, huh? Your parents must have had fun in the 80s.” There we go. Insult him. Take the heat off the emotional-adjacent confession you just made.
“Okay, apology rescinded, go fuck yourself, douchebag.” He starts storming out again, only stopping at the exit to look back at you. “Are you fucking coming or not? I told the teacher I’d bring you back.” Shit, yeah. You scramble over to him, trying not to appear sheepish. “So, you’re a homeschool kid, huh? That explains why I haven’t seen you before. You should sit with me and my classmates at lunch, just for today anyway,” he says like he didn’t just call you a douchebag. It’s kinda funny. You allow the ghost of a half-smile onto your face.
“First you tell me to go fuck myself and now you’re inviting me to meet your friends already? I’m getting mixed signals here, Karks.” He scowls at you, which only makes your smile more genuine.
“First of all, they’re not my friends, okay? They’re all assholes, so you’ll probably get along great. Second of all, just because you’re kind of a jerk doesn’t mean I’m going to let you be the new kid all on your own. I’m an asshole, not a dick.” Wow, that makes absolutely no goddamn sense. You nod anyway and cross the hall in silence. On your desk, your schedule is waiting, and Ms. English Teacher looks like she can’t decide if she cares enough to be pissed at you.
You keep your head down for the rest of homeroom because it’s really just not worth it. The posters on the wall and the whispers of your classmates still scream at you, but if you close your eyes and focus on just listening then it’s mostly fine. On the way out, Karkat slips you his Pesterchum, which you shove into your backpack, allowing it to get lost in all the shiny new stuff you have in there.
Your next three periods are a blur if you’re being honest. You try to focus, you swear you do. But it’s still bright, and cold, and so goddamn loud you can barely think. Your sense feel like they’re on overtime, every breath taken is a shrieking phone alarm, and when the attendance bell rings halfway through second period you fall out of your chair. No one laughs at you, which is almost worse.
By noon, you have three syllabi and no idea what the fuck is going on. You make your way to the cafeteria, only to stop short.
Oh hell fucking no.
It’s a swarm of kids, and they’re loud. You don’t know what you expected, you haven’t exactly done lunch with friends before, but it wasn’t this mass of people. Motion catches your eye and you see John waving enthusiastically at you. Internally, you weigh your options. Eating lunch with John in this crowded hellspace would be… bad. As in, you’d probably end up in the bathroom hyperventilating. Again.
You turn around, hoping he didn’t see you see him.
Without a designated place to eat the contents of the brown paper bag Jane handed you on your way out, you wander the halls. You’re just exploring, you tell yourself, so you don’t get lost. It has nothing to do with how absolutely fucking weak you are for not even being able to handle eating lunch with your friend.
There’s an unmarked door placed randomly on the second floor, and it’s calling your name. There are no duplicates, and there’s no label to indicate what it might lead to. It’s probably a storage closet, to be honest.
You open it up anyway. One of the books you had to read for your seventh-grade course had a girl make a secret hideout out of an abandoned storage closet, and fuck if that doesn’t sound cool.
Inside is a set of stairs. You didn’t see a third floor, which means this must lead to the roof.
Well, shit if that doesn’t sound better than eating in the bathroom like Lindsey Lohan in Mean Girls. God bless Lindsey Lohan in Mean Girls, Jane and her girlfriend Roxy (who is apparently Rose’s sister in Washington for college? Whaaaat) made you watch it and you said you only liked it ironically, but fuck if you didn’t make all the fun of Rose for being a more pretentious Janis Ian.
You flash step up the stairs, faltering at the familiarity of running up stairs to the roof.
The roof itself is, shockingly, large, and as flat as the depressingly boring architecture would suggest. There’s a grimy skylight at the far end above the gym that, despite roof access, has been completely neglected.
What catches your eye, though, is the crow. It’s perched on the ledge of the roof, its head cocked like it's trying to figure out a puzzle.
“I know you, do I not?” it says. You huff out a sigh, slinging your backpack off and plopping down onto the concrete ground, leaning against the small outpost of the door.
“Shit, you’ve probably been in a flock with one of my friends. Hi, I’m Dave, but the rest of you fucks call me David, like damn, do I need a nametag or somethin’?” The crow hops closer, which is really silly and kind of cute, you think.
“Apologies for the actions of my fellow crows, Dave. Now that you mention it, I believe I have heard of you from a former flock-mate of mine His name was,” oh, great, more unintelligible crow speak, “but you likely remember him by his foul language.”
Oh, so it was friends with Slick. Dope.
“Cool, you know Slick then. Fun dude, real easy to piss off. Reminds me of this other kid I met earlier.” You rattle off the morning’s events, leaving the freak sesh out to make it seem like you were just taking your sweet time answering nature’s call.
“He sounds like a good friend to make, albeit overly sensitive. Why do you not sit with him? I believe it is what you humans call ‘lunchtime’, correct?” You wince. You hadn’t really considered his offer, to be honest. You planned on eating with John, not expecting the large crowd that you encountered. You should’ve seen it coming, but you didn’t.
“Yeah, yeah it is,” you respond, “You’re right little dude. Sulking up here won’t do any good. ‘Sides, maybe they sit outside the cafeteria, that’d be cool.” You pull out your phone and hunt through your backpack until you find the scrap of notebook paper with messy all-caps handwriting. You snort. Karkat writes like a dad.
TG: yo is this karkat or am i about to get kidnapped to join a slovakian tourist torture chamber
TG: aw shit it totally is
TG: theyre gonna find a poorly photoshopped picture of me with a japanese girl saying ive found love
TG: but itll be a lie
TG: jokes on you ive seen hostel you wont get me that easy
TG: anyway if this is karkat then
TG: where yall at this ass is lookin for a place to sit and you so kindly offered your lunch table earlier
CG: WHAT THE FUCK
CG: SLOVAKIAN TORTURE? NONE OF US ARE EVEN FROM THAT AREA
CG: WE ARE ON THE ROOF ASSHOLE
CG: LITERALLY RIGHT BEHIND THE ROOF ENTRANCE
CG: WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING TO YOURSELF
Ah. Fuck.
You pick your backpack up and move to peek around the back of the entrance, finding six faces staring at you like you just grew an extra head. And started talking to it. Which you guess you did? If it was a crow head. Like one of those Egyptian gods. you’d make a cool god. God of fire and sick beats.
You raise your hand as an awkward greeting. One of the four girls breaks the seven-way staring contest you’ve all been having.
“So. Who were you talkin’ to? You sure left a glowing review of our dear Karkles.” the redhead with glasses speaks, throwing an arm around Karkat’s shoulder that he looks deeply uncomfortable with. Uh. Shit. What do you say?
“I can uh. Talk to crows. And one of them was up there and it asked what was going on and like. Yeah.” The six faces continue to stare at you until the gothy one speaks.
“Well, I think that’s cool! Crows, huh? I have a crow skull I could bring in if you’d like to see!” She turns to the scrawny, slightly dweeby-looking dude in 3-D glasses she’s cuddled up against. “It’s cool, right babe?” The guy nods, seeming more interested in the Switch on his lap.
“That sounds pretty dope, but like, I ain’t all that interested in seeing the dead parts of my little bird homies, you feel? I’d be happy to peep some of your other stuff if you have any though, dead shit is pretty rad.” Goth Chick starts to respond, but quickly gets cut off by a girl in- damn, is that a pirate eyepatch? Over glasses? Shit, you gotta give it to her, that's fuckin ironic style right there. Multiple layers of eyewear.
“Oh, Aradia has loooooooots of dead stuff. Probably because it reminds her of when she used to be dead!” Everyone else in the group flinches except the girl in the red glasses, who just puts a hand on the pirate girl’s in warning. The final member of the group, a cheery blonde with an obscene blue cat beanie, frowns deeply.
“That’s so mean, Vriskers! You know Ari doesn’t like talking about that!” Vriska rolls her eyes (eye?) but doesn’t say anything.
“Goddamn, Kankles, you weren’t kidding when you said they were assholes.” You arch an eyebrow at him, gesturing to the indignant pirate girl and still apathetic gamer boy. He scowls.
“First of all, that’s the worst name I’ve ever heard, and if you call me that again I’ll find something even worse to call you to call you until the fucking sun explodes and we all burn to ashes, during which my final words will be ‘fuck you, Strider’. Second of all, yeah no fucking shit, you were warned and you’re still here. Third and most im-fucking-portant of all, crows?! You weren’t on a call, you were talking to a crow? The fuck is wrong with you?” he yells, confirming your suspicion from the bathroom that yeah, he definitely doesn’t ever shut up.
Instead of responding, you pull your shades down to wink at him and sit down next to him, pulling out your lunch bag and opening it to find leftovers from last night’s BLTs, with your favorite salt and vinegar chips, a slice of cake that you have no idea how Jane found the time to make, and best of all, a bottle of 100% all-natural apple juice.
As you pull all of it out, placing it on the concrete below you, you spot one final thing. It’s a note, just a torn piece of paper with bright blue writing on it.
Dave-
If you’ve found this note, it means you made it all the way to lunch! I’m so proud of you! : B I know this day is going to be very very difficult for you, but hopefully, the treats I’ve packed will make things just a bit better for you! First days are very difficult, but I know you, and despite your incredible dorkiness, you are very likable! I trust that you will make all sorts of friends! You got this!
Wishing you the best of luck,
Jane
You tuck the note into a folder with a bright pink unicorn on it and turn back to the group, where the other members of the group introduce themselves as Terezi, Aradia, Sollux, Vriska, and Nepeta. You tell Karkat that weird names are clearly contagious, and he smacks you on the shoulder while Nepeta and Terezi start spitballing about how to make your name fit into the weird six-six format all theirs do while maintaining maximum weirdness.
Maybe Jane was right.
You do got this.
Terezi is shouting the lyrics to Mr. Brightside into your ear, but you’re shouting them too, so you don’t care. She and Vriska offered to give you a ride home, given that Vriska and Aradia are the only ones with driver’s licenses (even though you’ll totally join them soon- just another month with the permit and you can take the test), and Aradia isn’t speaking to you for the rest of the night, seeing as you whooped her ass at skeeball. You told her that was the way of the 360 no scope, and she pulled your bright red hoodie, a birthday gift from Nepeta, over your eyes and told you she wasn’t taking you on her excavation with her mom next week.
You know she’ll change her mind. If not, then you’ll give her the cute picture you took of her and Sollux when y’all went to the beach last summer. You’ve been saving it for just such an occasion.
Vriska yells at you and her girlfriend to shut it for a few minutes because there’s an unprotected left right in front of the entrance to your neighborhood, and just because I’m the best driver ever doesn’t mean I can night drive with you yelling, I got my license two months ago do you want us to crash. Terezi laughs and kisses Vris’s cheek, which makes her swerve more than her screaming does.
Still, though, you get home safe and mostly sound, though down a few brain cells from extended contact with all your favorite dipshits. You stroll inside with one final (probably) affectionate insult tossed your way.
The door behind you slams shut, probably because you shut it with far more force than necessary. Sue you, you’re in a good mood. Lots of energy. It’s only a little bit because Karkat kissed you! Yeah, yeah, way to bury the lead, but in your defense, Terezi is very loud and very distracting. Still, best birthday ever, even without the irony of the classic Sweet 16.
Like, yeah, the kiss was on the cheek, and you were barely able to respond with an ‘oh. cool’ before he turned back to the rest of the conversation, where Aradia and Vriska were kicking each other’s asses at Call of Duty and Mario Kart respectively. Having your birthday at the arcade was the best idea. All your friends are so competitive, and watching them duke it out over irrelevant party games is nothing if not satisfying.
Still, Karkat ‘McShouty’ Vantas, who was literally your sexuality crisis on two legs the second half of freshman year, just kissed you and holy shit are you excited about that.
You move through the darkened house, making a beeline for the kitchen. Your voice is hoarse from laughing, and Mr. E just got one of those refrigerators that dispense water, which you use at every opportunity you can. (including for the sake of multiple water balloon incidents in Egbert's frankly massive backyard) (Whoops.)
“Surprise!” As soon as you enter the kitchen, the lights pop on and John, Jane, and your d- Mr. Egbert all pop out. You only scream a little bit.
“Wow! You should’ve seen your face!” John laughs, “Did you really think you weren’t gonna get a realhappy birthday from your best bro?” To be honest, yeah. When John gave you a half-hearted ‘happy birthday’ earlier, you didn’t think much of it. For whatever reason though, Mr. E looks nervous when John calls himself your best bro.
“Happy birthday, Dave!” Jane hugs you. The first time she tried this, you flipped the fuck out, convinced she was going to crush you boa constrictor style. It was a solid month before you could even brush by someone without freezing up. Now, though, you hug her back easily. Goddamn, Jane gives great hugs.
“David?” John’s dad is the only person allowed to call you David. Ever. Everyone else gets a chewing out of massive proportions from you, or, if you don’t notice, Karkat, who is incredibly intense about people being referred to by their correct names. “I think we all need to speak. I have… I have an offer for you that I believe may need discussion.”
“Yeah, you got it, Mr. E. What’s up?” You sit at the dining table where a large cake (your third of the day) towers over you, and the others follow suit. Mr. E pulls a set of papers out of the briefcase he appears to pull out of thin air. You know better, though. Last year, he gave you one for your birthday and showed you the trick to hide it like he does. You don’t use the briefcase, but you do use the trick to hide Sollux’s Switch when he’s being a douche. Which is most of the time. Some of your friends are assholes. They’re the best.
“As a sixteen-year-old, you are entitled to more autonomy under the state. Which is why I wanted to wait until I could get your permission to ask you this.” He shows you the top sheet of his collection, and your eyes widen as you read it. John and Jane try to peek, but the cake blocks them.
“Dave? What is it?”
“Yeah, what’s he asking dude?”
Instead of responding, you remove your shades. John goes to turn the lights off to make things more comfortable for you, but you stop him.
“David, I’d like to adopt you. It’s alright if you aren’t comfortable with it, but up until this point you’ve just been my ward, and well- I think of you as my son. I’d like to make that official. What do you think?” Oh god, oh wow. Your eyes burn, but instead of putting your shades back on and holding them in, you let the tears fall.
There’s no hesitation in your answer.
“I think I’d like that a hell of a lot.”