Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The inside of your skull feels like it has been infiltrated by gallons of boiling water, and oh shit, you swear to everything ever that your face is prickling. You tentatively knead your right temple with quivering fingers and find that the sweat there is cold, even though you swear you are nearing temperatures that are only present in the deepest layers of hell, what the fuck. Second thought, you decide to just go complete face-in-hands and give yourself a fucking subsuming face massage, just wiggle those fingers all up in there, just everywhere, yeah.

==> Realize your shades aren’t on your face.

Wow, it’s been a while since the bridge of your nose has been this exposed. You squint your eyes in the darkness while haphazardly feeling around with your trembling hands—why the fuck are all my appendages shaking so much this isnt a vibra-thon—and you feel an inexplicable rise of panic in your gut. Or maybe that’s just nausea. It’s probably nausea, yeah, you are pretty terrible to your innards most of the time.

You shakily try to stand up, but nope, that isn’t happening, so you drowsily roll yourself around until you’re on your hands and knees, and you’re so proud of yourself you could almost cry. You sternly look in front of you and find that your shades have somehow climbed their way to the top of Beer Can Mountain—a lopsided, suspiciously moist pile of PBRs—and you’re so proud of them that you almost cry again.

==> Celebrate accordingly.

Those shades need to get on your face so fast, and you are going to include it in the best face massage of all time, and it’s going to be so great, the greatest of greats, hell yeah. You reach your hand towards them, noticing just how pale you look in the dark—holy shit im a glowstick—and your fingers touch the cold plastic wheel of your computer chair.

Dammit, you missed. But wait, that means your computer is nearby, and aw yeah, it needs to get in on this face massage action too. But first, you’re feeling bare and vulnerable to the elements without your shades, even if they were touched by Ben Stiller’s grubby digits at one point. You have a feeling it’s partly because of your mutant eyes are visible, that’s always an inconvenience, but it’s mostly because they somehow connect you to someone you often deem your best bro. That is a title you gauge with utmost importance and magnitude, and as far as you’re concerned, typing it out is the equivalent of being knighted by The Queen.

Wait, shit, no. “Knighted” doesn’t seem to fit your bro well at all. It’s almost as if he knighted you without even meaning to, and you insisted on it, and now you’re his eternal protection-bro forever, and somehow you feel as if he will always be more capable and important than you are, and you don’t even give the slightest of fucks. You don’t care about being important, you just care about being important to him, and you think you nailed that a while ago. Prime-time accomplishment, yeah.

It takes quite a bit of blindly grappling around because your vision is doing this weird swirly thing and everything is too blurry because of your current physical state and too clear because of your current shades state and you didn’t even know that was possible, what the fuck, but you eventually manage to get a grip on the side of your shades. As you shakily place them in front of your eyes, you absently wonder if your best bro touched them where you touched them, and it brings all of this heat to your head, ah. Not to mention the heat going to your crotch, oh jeez, and you’re suddenly wondering whether or not that was a sign from the universe—is john telepathically messin w my dick oh my god.

In your crashing wave of realization, you roll right over Beer Can Mountain and feel the metal crush underneath your weight before you grab at the seat of your computer chair, the pads of your fingers ultra-sensitive to the rough fabric of it. You’re absolutely sure that your shirt is now covered in splotches of beer, but whatever, you’re fabulous enough to work it, so you just dismiss it as you struggle to pull yourself over your computer chair and in front of your desk.

Eventually, you work yourself into this half-standing-half-perched position that strains your loins and makes you have to awkwardly angle your fingers to type, but whatever, you did it, and you deserve a medal. You wiggle your computer mouse, and your desktop whirs to life, and oh my god, that is so bright, you are blinded for life. You shakily bring one hand up to adjust your shades because they didn’t fulfill their one purpose, how does that even happen, and you use your other hand to navigate your cursor to the smiling Pesterchum icon. You click it twice, and after a few seconds, you see a familiar blue username. Thank god he’s online, you can’t stop smiling, hell yes.

-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 21:57 --

TG: im going to need you to be straight up with me on this issue

TG: john

TG: do you want the dick

EB: uh.

EB: if you mean dick clark! that man is a fine silver fox.

TG: my dick specifically

TG: do you feel even the most minuscule flare of desire when the subject of my dick finds its way into your derpy cerebral mattter

EB: well, has your dick been nominated for 21 emmys like dick clark?

EB: also

EB: derpy???

TG: dont worry bro its the kind of derpy thats charming as all hell

EB: i don’t think you even know what you’re talking about.

TG: yes but do you know what i know you know youre talkign about

EB: what.

TG: ok john im going to grant you the honestest of truths here

TG: im home alone and i may have found bros stash of cheap rancid beer

TG: found repose in them you know just kept them by my side for company

TG: and they may have tasted exactly how broken dreams feel

TG: or you know that feeling when you brush past a really sharp corner of a table and you have to keep walking and pretend like it didnt hurt but it so did and it almost brinngs a manly tear to your manly eye

TG: yeah that was the entire cheap beer experience

EB: i don’t expect you to care about this at all but you’re underage!

TG: shhh john im not done

TG: im not even tipsy yet i feel like im only entering the shyly revealing floozy stages of a wanton jezebel’s journey through a night club jjohn

TG: but john i cant stop saying your name becuase its one of those words that just feels awesome in my mouth

EB: jesus.

TG: hahaha im just sitting here saying it to myself like a fucking loony

EB: wow! uh. i guess your name isn’t too bad either?

TG: damn straight

TG: fuckign

TG: three syllables yeah thats just the right anmount of syllables

TG: oh shITf john your name is three syllables too

TG: why haverent we bonded overe this before

EB: i don’t know, maybe because we bond over way more important things?

EB: wow, even though we live hundreds of miles away and we are only connected through the wonders of stable wifi,

EB: i feel like i’m totally taking advantage of you right now! all your defenses are gone dave!

EB: no sarcastic guarding, only dreams now.

TG: oh shitfd thats kind of hot

EB: settle down that dick clark of yours, that is not what i meant to imply just now.

TG: too late john it has already been done john

EB: wow, dave, i don't think you're saying my name enough.

TG: john

TG: john john john john jooohn johnhnnjohnjhohn

EB: hehehehe.

EB: are you actually saying it? out loud?

TG: hell yes i am granting my tongue the pleasure of saying it out lud

EB: i want you to scream it. make all your neighbors hear.

EB: ...

EB: dave?

TG: the deed is done

EB: oh my god.

EB: this is going to be hilarious tomorrow! make this a lesson against underage drinking! i’m throwing some mad morals at you right now!

TG: john

TG: wow i

TG: huh

TG: all that screaming kind of made me a litttle dizzy

TG: dude whne did my neck get so weak and why is my head made out of the densest of concretes im so pissed this is inconvenient as helll

EB: dave?

EB: oh shit dude do NOT sleep with your head back okay.

EB: i watched this thing on tv once where this guy suffocated on his own puke or something.

EB: if you don’t pester me in the morning i am taking the liberty of flying my ass over to the south and punching you right in your irresponsible face.