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John doesn’t cry.
He probably did when he was a little kid, but every kid cried sometime during their first couple of years. You certainly did. Bro has a small scrapbook of moments when you’ve cried (sometimes you two like to look at it and laugh). John is not an exception to this rule, but at some point he just stopped. Mr. Egbert told you that it was during elementary school. John told you that he was bullied in elementary school. He had laughed when he told you and you knew how to connect the dots, knew better than to push the issue. You two never talked about it again.
You kind of wish you two did because John is crying right now.
You stare at him in surprise and your expression is reflected in his face. He doesn’t know why he’s crying either, but he’s crying right now and that’s all you can focus on. Those big fat tears pouring down his cheeks, snot dripping down his nose, and his chest heaves as he sucks in huge gusts of air. His hiccupping breaths –wait— oh god is he hyperventilating? What do you do what do you do what do you do?
You don’t know what to do.
His face is a gross blotchy red and his glasses are smeared from where he pressed it into his eyes in an attempt to stop the tears. It didn’t work. He hides his face in his arms instead, curling in on himself, ears burning red. “John?” Your legs bring you down to your knees and you’re not thinking when you place your hand on his knees. His knee jerks and he looks up, scandalized by the contact, red-rimmed eyes shocked and affronted by some misinterpreted cues. But his eyebrows furrow and he just looks so embarrassed, ashamed that he’s crying when he’s human and there are things John should be embarrassed about, but crying isn’t one of them.
You reach forward; wipe his nose with your sleeve. He stills and you’re afraid that was the wrong thing to do, but he then laughs a little, his hands slipping under his glasses to rub at his eyes. You relax. “Sorry about my nose and uh, pretty much everything. God, I’m pretty gross,” he says, tired smile on his face. Small hiccups disturb his words and tears are still trickling down, but the worst has passed and that’s good enough for you.
“No man, you’re not gross. The snot thing you have going on is gross, but you’re not gross.” You swallow; push his glasses up his forehead. He’s just watching you, eyes hooded, and you’re more nervous than you’ve ever been when you use your other sleeve to clear away the leftover tears. “You… you’re one of the coolest guys I know okay? You’re also the dweebiest guy I know, but that’s just the thing. You don’t give a fucking shit about what people think about you with your titanium shield up deflecting all their condescending and patronizing bullshit. Like Wonder Woman with her bracelets or some shit.” You pause, leaning in closer. “John…”
Your lips brush against his eyelid and you can feel him stiffen under your touch and this is it, game over, why did you do that why did you let your guard down you dumb fuck you always mess up you messed up you messed up— but he relaxes then, a soft sigh pushing past his lips. He blinks slowly, eyes flickering up to meet your gaze. “Dave?”
You switch to his other eye, press a gentle kiss to that one, and he hums when your hands smooth themselves over his face.
“I don’t get why you have to be so hard on yourself.”