It is a knight’s job to protect the heir.
Even before you knew you were the knight, you were taking care of the heir.
John has always come first.
You’ve sacrificed multiple lives to save his ass.
It’s not like you’re complaining though, because you aren’t. You just wish John would see things the way you do sometimes.
You take the bacon out of the frying pan and set it onto a plate. Grabbing two eggs and cracking them directly into the grease. Hot oil and egg white splashes up and scalds your bare arms, you don’t even flinch.
On a separate burner, you have a rather large pancake in the shape of what’s supposed to be Mickey Mouse’s head. Instead, though, the pancake batter has run all together and formed a blob. It’s still edible, so you flip it then go back to tending to the eggs.
You have anywhere from 1 minute 20 seconds up to 10 minutes before John starts waking up. He’s sick, but not sick enough to sleep past 8 AM. On the other hand, you wouldn’t be up before noon if it wasn’t for John. John and his stupid runny nose and his big watery eyes and his pathetic cough. How he hacks into the sleeve of his elbow then looks at you dramatically and wheezes, “Dave its okay go home.”
You want to scoop him into your arms and whisper sweet ironic nothings into his ear and tell him that your home has always been where he is because ‘home is where the heart is, herp derp.’ You doubt he’d take it the way you want him too, but in a perfect world John would swoon and tell you that you are the ‘Cameron Poe of his dreams’ or some shit, and then he’d lean in for a kiss, and the screen would fade to black.
Damn, maybe you should go into the movie industry.
The eggs bubble and pop, on a separate burner a kettle whistles for your attention. Both snap you out of your thoughts, and also wake up John.
You hear him coughing from his room, blowing his nose, then a groan. “Da-ve….” It’s drawn out and nasally, poor John. Sometimes you wish he had insurance, or a better paying job. He’s a broke college student who can barely afford the standard packet-ramen-noodle-dinners. The pancake mix, eggs, and bacon were all bought on the way over here. You plan to ‘accidentally leave them’ like usual.
You plate everything, then carry it to his room. When you open the door John raises up, eyes the plates, then tries his hardest to laugh, which ends up coming out all choked up and water-logged.
You set them down on his nightstand, then hand him a paper bag.
“I bought you cold medicine.”
He looks like he’s about to fucking cry.
If this were a movie, or a perfect world, he would shed a single tear and then kiss you right on the mouth and pull you into bed with him. You’d have the perfect morning sex and then eat cold, long-forgotten bacon, eggs and pancakes.
Instead, he slaps you with the bag and says, “You shouldn’t have!”
You do your best cool kid shrug.
You measure the cold medicine into the cap while he takes the first few bites of egg, before making a face. “Who taught you to cook eggs like this? You don’t put the eggs in the grease.” John shoves his tongue out at you.
“If you think that’s bad, wait,” you hand him the medicine cap, “after you take this you’ll be begging for my eggs.”
After you say it, you realize that could have been taken to a new level of homo-erotic irony. Damn.
You two talk for a while about John’s classes and about your work. He eats all the food you put on his plate. Even the eggs. By the time he’s done, he’s feeling better, but sleepy. He starts to doze off while you’re still sitting there.
You pull the sheets over him before grabbing the dirty plates and taking them into the kitchen. Halfway through washing them, you realize that you will never be the perfect ironic 1950's housewife to John’s perfect totally-sincere-and-not-ironic 1950’s husband. You’re trying too hard.
Maybe you should ease up.
Maybe you should let it go.
Maybe you should stop pining for the same guy that you have been pining for since you were a preteen.
There’s a thud from John’s bedroom, and you drop the plate, flash-stepping out of the kitchen to John’s room.
He’s in the floor tangled in blankets staring up at you.
“I rolled off.”
What a fucking idiot.
You help him back onto the bed, swiping your palm briefly across his forehead to check temp. There is none, which is a good indicator that he isn't going to die from anything except maybe embarassement and stupidity.
"You got in here really fast..." John whispers to you when you hand him a glass of water, urging him to drink.
You just nod.
It's your full-time job, after all.
You may DJ on weekends, write webcomics during the day, and wait tables during the nights, but John is your full time responsibility.