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He plays piano on days that you have migraines, soft and flowing, like a gentle breeze, and it soothes your restless state once incapacitated by the migraine—if you feel like sparring with some swords the migraine will stop you in your tracks! haha no swords for you dave—it cries out and tightens its hold on you as it sends you hiding beneath two blankets in a pitch black bedroom.
When this happens, John knows to leave you alone; his blue eyes concerned as he gives you plenty of water and your medicine and space (but that's the thing you don't want space you want him him him!) to wait out the migraine. He plays the piano in the living room, far enough to not disturb you, but too far away for you to watch his fingers move; his body sway, and his eyes flutter open and closed as the melody continues on.
You want John there with you, curled up against your back and humming scales up and down the vertebrae of your spine. You want him to sing you lullabies in his native tongue, and listen to the lilt of his voice as you attempt to imitate. You want the feel of his skin against yours.
The cocoon of blankets around you shifts, and you wince as you readjust your shield from the outside world slightly. The silence of the room soothes you, and also makes you ache for your dorky, bucktoothed boyfriend. Eventually though your migraine is too insistent, and you retreat to the nirvana your medicine; and a gulp of fresh cold water provides, and sink into a slightly uneasy sleep. The melody that drifts in and out of your ears as John plays rocks you to sleep, the tune familiar of faint rap battles with your bro and the first time you told John repeated “I love you”s laced in sincerity.
When you wake up it’s even darker in the room (nighttime, your mind supplies helpfully, hazed with sleep and drowsiness), and there’s a weight against your back. Warm breath tickles the nape of your neck which makes you shiver, goosebumps rising on your flesh, and shift so you can slightly crane your neck to see John fast asleep. Your lips curl upward slightly, the action doing nothing to agitate your head and you can feel the clarity a good rest and some medicine does for you.
“…Dave… love you… so much…” John’s lips move almost silently, but the proximity allows you to hear his mumbled words; and it makes your heart jump into your throat. The look of pure relaxation on his face makes you feel safe, and it makes you love him all the more.
You shift and turn around so you can easily watch his face as he sleeps, his eyebrows furrowing at the disturbance; but evening out once you’re curled as tightly against him as you can. You inhale the scent of the spicy kimchee he made a few days ago, tangy and sharp, but you also smell the warmth radiating from his body, and his shampoo—forest-y and rain filled—swirling together to create a scent that’s all John John John John.
Eyes fluttering shut, you listen to the sound of his breathing (and occasional muttered words) and attempt to drift off once again. Sleep doesn’t come, however, and when you open your eyes John’s eyes are staring back at you, sparkling blue and happy to see you. His lips break into a wide grin, and you can’t help but smile slightly back at him. It makes him laugh, a quick and airy snicker that makes you roll your eyes, and he kisses the tip of your nose.
“…hi.”
“…’sup.”
“Feel any better?” his voice is barely a whisper and you nod your head slightly at his question. He leans in and kisses your lips once, twice, three times before you pull him back to kiss him properly. His hands tighten their hold on you, and it makes your heart skip a beat. He rolls over to straddle you, and he smiles into the kiss. He ends up running his fingers through your hair for a few moments before tracing paths from your cheeks, down your neck, across your collar bones (you shiver and he smiles even more into the kiss), and down your sides.
Your breath catches in your throat, a gasp that lets his tongue slide to explore your mouth. Your hands reach up to pull him closer to you, he obliges, and before you know it, your lungs scream at you for air. The two of you part (him with a reluctant whine) and he sits back on your thighs, grinning brightly.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
He smiles at your answer, and you look away your face burning with a blush you’ll later deny never happened. He curls up on your chest and traces nonsense shapes on your shoulder, and you get a face full of his black hair. It doesn’t bother you much, and the two of you lay like that, curled up beneath the blankets and pleasantly warm from the Washington winter wind blowing outside. John sighs, the warm puff of air on your skin making you shiver slightly again, and presses his lips to the center of your chest.
“When you feel like it, do you want watch me play some songs?”
You perk up and blow at the tufts of hair in your way. John graciously shifts so he can look up at you, shades off by the bedside table, and your red eyes. Raising a slender eyebrow at his question, you quirk a corner of your mouth upward.
“Will you sing for me?”
“Of course, Dave!”
Your heart skips another and another and another beat, and you press a kiss to his forehead. Today was almost a terrible fucking day, but waking up next to John completely erased everything to the bone, to the bare fact that you are completely head over heels for John Egbert, and you love him.
You love him love him love him love him.