send.

(almost) honest

"Jon."
"Mm."
"Falling asleep on me again?"
"Nah. Resting."
You can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips, eyes crinkling as you adjust your blanket around your shoulders and rub at your eyes. They dance with spots of white, a side-effect of staring at the bright screen for too long. Your brain is sluggish and your body feels heavy and warm, but you can't take your gaze off of the pixelated video call.
The clock on your display reads 3:56, meaning it's only around 1:00 for Jon, but the boy looks even more tired than you feel. He'd taken his own laptop to his bed, too, turning it on its side next to his face so he could lay down while still looking at you straight on. You'd do the same, but you don't want to risk passing out. You'd hate to miss the sight of Jon like this.
     You know that sounds creepy, but you let the point stand, mainly because you are too tired to deny it but also because, well, it's true. A sleepy Jon is a rare Jon. Especially the kind of sleepy where he curls up in his sheets with his eyes constantly falling shut before fluttering wildly open again when he remembers he's supposed to be responding to you.
     Or when his replies drift into incoherent mumbling mainly comprised of him saying "Sock" way too many times in varying tones.
     Not to mention when you bust his chops about dozing off and he responds with a groggy, growly, "Napoleon Maxwell Sowachowski, I swear to god." It's enough to shut you up every time.
     Your face is red again, but you don't notice, smiling goofily as your own head lolls to the side a bit.
     "What are y'laughing at?"
     "You," you respond honestly, because your internal filters tend to shut down around this time of night.
     His own laugh rings clear in the darkness, even across the many miles between you, and for a moment it sounds like he's in the room with you. The idea makes you pause, blinking blearily for a few moments and staring past your laptop into the swimming shadows of your room. You half-expect him to come strolling out of the blackness, wrapped up in his blanket like a tired, grumpy burrito, typical Combs style.
     Until, of course, you remember how impossible that is, considering you're literally watching him lay in his own bed, at his own house, in another state far away from you.
A vivid imagination is a royal pain in the ass sometimes.
You rub at your eyes with the heel of your palm for a moment, yawning softly. Even though your body is screaming at you to sleep, you know it's impossible, not now, not when your head is swimming with a million uncontrollable thoughts about your stupid best friend.
"I'm serious," you finally manage to reply, breaking the silence that was filled only by the steady hum of your laptop. "How could I resist the urge to laugh at professional pessimist extraordinaire Jonathan Combs, wrapped up in a blanket cocoon?"
"Oh, bite me, Sowachowski."
"Don't tempt me."
Your tired grin lights up your face once more, running your fingertip over the trackpad to brighten the screen a bit and making Jon's own radiant scowl glow.
"One of these days, you won't be kidding."
You're dying to tell him that you never were in the first place.
You don't, of course. That's not how you work. You might've, if this conversation were happening when you were just a bit less conscious and a bit more desperate, but luckily for you, you are currently neither of those things. Your dignity is spared for another day. Hooray.
Sometimes you think it would be easier to just dump it all on him. Be completely honest. Let go and just see how he reacts. At least it'd take the weight off your chest.
Like always, even the thought makes you shudder. You can't imagine how horrified he'd be, knowing you saw everything as something more while he couldn't have viewed it as anything less. Realizing all those times you got a little too affectionate, a little too emotional, were all just a little too honest, a little too close to the truth you've been holding back for so long. You don't know what you'd do. You're not sure you'd be okay.
It's hard, knowing that someone who makes you so happy has the power to absolutely demolish you.
"I'm really beginning to think you fall asleep with your eyes open."
You blink a few times, remembering that you're supposed to be responding with witty banter and funny, suggestive comments, mouth opening and closing for a minute like a gasping fish. Your brain's gone and stalled like an old car in the dead of winter. Just your luck.
It's a solid fifteen seconds before you purse your lips and mumble, "Shut up. I do not."
"Ooh. Wow. Good one. Really got me there."
"Leave me alone. It's late."
"Not for you. You okay?"
Are you? You have no reason not to be. You know, other than the everpresent, incessant, suffocating lump in your chest constantly threatening to claw its way out of your throat and into your mouth so it can spill all of your deep, dark secrets to Jonathan.
But yeah, other than that, you're fantastic.
"M'fine," you murmur, your gaze flickering over his quiet, watchful face. You can feel his own tired eyes on you, even through the screen, examining every pixel for the sign of a lie on your face. You know he pretends not to care most of the time, but he's almost always checking for a tip-off. Some kind of sign that you're not as okay as you say you are. He's just more obvious about it when he's sleepy. Too much effort to hide it. You've figured him out, after all this time.
You wonder if he's figured you out, too. That's a horrifying thought.
He looks unconvinced, squinting a bit before giving a soft shrug from under his nest of blankets, rolling to his back to stare up at the ceiling. It gives you a nice view of his profile; the nose with the slight bump in the middle, a result of the break he got in sixth grade, the watchful eyes, shadowed with dark bags, the pursed lips...
Lips. Jon's lips.
Jon's lips on your lips.
You can feel your brain frying inside your skull with the heat that fills your face, instantly trying (and failing miserably) to banish the thought from your mind. It's no use. Every last corner of said thoughts are awake and whirring with the idea of a certain, snarky, bitter mouth against yours, and you think he'd taste like energy drinks and coffee, and his stupid fringe would probably fall in the way and tickle your nose, and oh god, what about his hands--
You're fairly certain you're open-mouthed and drooling when he speaks again, his voice gravelly and throaty and low, sending another wicked shiver down your spine.
"How much are plane tickets nowadays?"
"... Plane tickets?"
He gives a small grunt of confirmation, letting you know that yes, that is indeed what he just asked, and are you deaf or just stupid? It takes a few seconds of clicking and typing on your part to open up a website, and you stare at it silently for a while before the hesitant, confused question leaves your lips.
"From where to where, exactly?"
     "From Seattle, obviously. And to Boston. Where else would I ask about?"
     Boston. As in, your Boston. The same Boston you currently inhabit. Your stomach instantly tangles itself into a record-winning knot. Seriously, this thing could take a Guinness prize. It's practically reaching your throat, straining your voice when you respond after another few seconds of quiet tapping.
     "JetBlue has tickets for $387."
     "Cool."
     "... Jonathan?"
     "Mhm."
     Your mouth is resembling the Sahara at the moment, and you run your rubbery tongue over your lips before gnawing at them, worry already tearing at your insides. Your voice is timid, and you hate yourself for it, but you can't help it. The idea you're getting is simultaneously enthralling and absolutely terrifying.
     "Why are you asking about plane tickets to Boston?"
     "I don't know. I feel like it's about time I get over there. Or I get you over here. Who knows. Something like that."
     There it is. The confirmation sits in your stomach like a boulder, uneasy and unsettling. Like a three-ton boulder wrapped in dynamite, to be more accurate, and the lit match is dangling from the back of your tongue, inches from striking the fuse.
     "... Why?"
     "What d'you mean 'why'? Four years is a long time, man."
     Your silence is deafening, but you can't find the words, choking on your mixed emotions. Half of you wants to be excited - really, you do. Why wouldn't you be? Your best friend wants to visit you.
Because, your brain screams, hiding your ridiculous emotions is going to be absolutely impossible if he's around.
"Sock, if you don't want to see me, you can just say so."
He's taken your silence as a negative, and even though you're reluctant, you don't want him to think any of this is his fault. It never is. If only you weren't so confused, so conflicted, so scared...
"No, no, no, it's not that, I'm just..."
'Nervous'?
'Paralyzed with fear'?
'Drowning in the potential mistakes I might make'?
"... Surprised. Caught me off guard. I'd love to meet up. Really."
You see his slight nod and let out a long, slow sigh of relief through your nose, though it does nothing to ease the sense of foreboding that's running through your body like whitewater rapids, the waves beating underneath your skin, making it crawl with goosebumps. You need to shape up. There's no way you're letting him see you like this.
You're still on edge an hour later when Jon passes out mid-sentence, and you sit there listening to his low breaths and occasional snores for a bit before disconnecting the call. Laying on your back, your eyes stare up through the murky darkness to trace patterns across the ceiling, doing nothing to relieve the anxiety that continues to eat at you. What the hell are you going to do if he follows through with this?
Your imagination offers an answer to that question, but it's an awfully unhelpful one, considering it's calling on the same mouth-centric fantasies from before.
Mouth-on-mouth-centric.
You wonder if your reddened face cuts through the darkness like a night light, glowing with all of the heat it's giving off.
You will not be doing any of that.
Probably.
Damn it.
You need sleep.
Your brain continues to remind you of a multitude of other things you need as you roll over and hug your arms to your chest, all of them involving the same ocean eyes and messy hair and curious hands and stupidly soft lips. They play out like scenes from a movie on the back of your eyelids as you squeeze them shut, praying that sleep will be merciful and take you soon. Even you know it's a hopeless endeavor.
You're in for a long night.

( note: poor sock.... what no im not laughing :-))))) sorry this took so much longer than expected. it was a bit hard to write with school starting and all. i hope you guys are enjoying it so far because i'm having a really good time writing it! i swear i'll find the time to make a cover soon. i just have to find the skill and creativity to go along with that time...
i'll try to update as often as i can because i know i can't be the only one who's crazy over these precious dorks. thanks for taking the time to read ❤️ )