#dealuke

at first, you hate him. he just seems…weird to you, somehow. he never smiles at you when you say good morning. after a while, you just stop saying it. 

he never stays on his side of the seat. his feet are constantly bumping into yours.

you get the feeling that he doesn’t like you very much either. but you can’t really tell, because he seems to have a major case of resting dick face. 

eventually, though, he starts to warm up to you, and by the end of eighth grade, you two are best friends. 

you don’t even remember how it happened, really. you suppose that one morning, the two of you just actually get around to talking to one another. and from that moment, dean martin becomes a permanent fixture in your friend group.

he comes out to you the summer before freshman year, on one of those sticky-sweet hot july nights. you’re sitting on his back porch, popsicle in hand, shades pushed up into your hair, when he turns to you. 

"i think i like boys," he says. 

and because you’re only fourteen and an idiot and don’t know how to properly respond, you give him a thumbs up.

"cool with me, bro," you say back.

years later, you’ll apologize to him for not responding in a normal fucking way, but he’ll brush it off, laughing. 

"it’s fine," he’ll say. "i know you meant it in a supportive and loving way."

halfway through sophomore year, you realize that you’re hopelessly in love with him. you’re in love with his shy smile, so rare and coveted that you’re convinced you’re one of the only people who’s actually seen it happen in real life. you’re in love with his laugh when you say something unexpectedly funny that catches him off guard. if sounds were visible, you’re positive that dean’s laugh would sparkle. you’re in love with the way he inches closer to you for warmth when the morning bus ride is too cold on autumn mornings. 

you come out to him on the morning bus ride the day before thanksgiving break. it’s not often you see dean smile. he only really smiles under extreme circumstances. but still, he smiles at you. his semi-permanent scowl is wiped off his face for a rare moment. he holds your hands in his.

"welcome to the club," he says.

you beam back at him. you desperately want to tell him that you love him. that it aches to be in love with your best friend. but you’re afraid that telling him could ruin your friendship, so you keep your mouth shut. 

you kiss him for the first time during the summer before your junior year. you’re both at a party, the bass from the speakers pounding in your ears. you’re sort of mildly drunk out of your mind.

you’re not thinking straight, and dean just looks so good that you feel the need to say something.

so you do.

"you look good," you say.

"what?" he shouts back, clearly struggling to hear you over the blaring music and general deafening party noise.

"i said you look good," you shout back. 

he blushes. it’s hilarious, because he’s still got that godforsaken scowl on his face, but his cheeks are turning a beautiful rosy pink. you want to grab his face and kiss him until he can’t speak.

"i want to kiss you," you yell over the music.

"so kiss me," he yells back.

so you kiss him. 

it’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of.

you always thought it was such bullshit when people said kissing someone was like fireworks, but now you get it. there’s a whole fourth of july fireworks and sparklers show going off in your head as he deepens the kiss.

the two of you have a long talk about it the next day. by the end of it, you’ve made plans for your first date.

it’s typical first-date shit. just the classic, dinner and pretending to watch the movie when really you’re staring at your date the entire time.

he holds your hand throughout the entire thing.

just before you’re about to start walking him home, you remember that there’s a photobooth tucked into a little corner of the movie theater lobby. you drag him by the hand to it, begging him to just sit in the booth for, like, two minutes.

he agrees.

"just smile," you say just before the flash goes off.

he does not smile. you giggle, because you know he’s just doing it to piss you off.

you kiss his cheek, and you can feel him smiling in a cute little surprised way as the second flash goes off.

he turns to you to give you a proper kiss, his mouth on yours, and the third and fourth flashes go off, but you don’t stop kissing him until another couple shoos you out so that they can take some photos of their own.

the pictures turn out fucking great.

you tell him you love him during your junior year. 

"i’ve been meaning to tell you this for a while," you say. "since before i even kissed you."

he just blinks at you.

"you don’t have to say it back yet if you’re not ready," you say.

he kisses you sweetly, tenderly, and you’re on cloud fucking nine.

dean tells you that he loves you the summer before your senior year. 

he’s sleeping over at your house, and you’re cuddling until you eventually doze off.

you’ve been asleep for a while, but karkat taps your shoulder lightly until you wake up. 

"i love you too," he says.

you're happy, and nothing hurts.

things start to change during senior year. he seems more distant, less open. you know he struggles with his mental health, but you’re not sure that you’d even know how to help him if he opened up to you about it.

you only ask him about it once.

are you alright? you ask, and he smiles back at you, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

i’m fine, babe, he says back. 

you can tell he’s not, but you don’t want to push it any further, so you simply don’t say anything. 

you kiss him on the forehead and tell him that you love him. you tell him that he means the world to you.

you wish that had been enough to keep him from killing himself. 

you see dean martin for the last time when you’re eighteen years old. his body is lying in the solid wood coffin his mother picked out for him. 

his eyes are closed, and his arms are crossed over his chest.

he doesn’t look like himself, you think.

he looks too peaceful, too happy. your heart aches. you long to be with him. you lean in to get closer, to get just a few more seconds of contact before he’s put into the ground forever.

later that night, you pull out your old photos of dean. pictures from sophomore and junior homecoming. pictures from junior prom. pictures of him and you together in the photobooth on your first date. those pictures feel like they were taken ages ago, now.

you stare at your favorite photo of him, a more recent one. it’s a great candid shot. he’s laughing, his smile as bright as the sun. 

"it’s not fair," you say to him, though you know he can’t hear you. 

"you’re too young," you say. "to die, i mean. too young to be so miserable that you…felt like you had no choice but to…"

you trail off.

you take a deep breath. 

"i wish you hadn’t done it," you say. "i wish you had talked to me. i wish you had talked to anyone."

you realize, suddenly, that you’re crying. you wipe at the tears with the back of your hand.

"i wanted to go to senior prom with you, dean," you say through your tears. "would’ve made it a whole big deal. stretch limo, matching tuxedos, the whole nine yards. i wanted to graduate with you. i wanted to go to colleges in the same city, so we could still be close. i wanted to get married to you. hell, i wanted to start a family with you."

your tears won’t stop flowing now, and it’s gotten to a point where you just don’t care about wiping them away anymore. you stare at the photo again for a few moments before a thought hits you.

you don’t know how to go on without him.

the next few minutes are all a blur, but by the end of them, you’re sitting on the bathroom floor, medicine cabinet open, a sea of pills on the floor around you. you vaguely remember swallowing a shit ton of them.

the crying has completely become full-body sobbing, at this point. everything hurts. your heart is pounding, and everything’s far too loud.

then, all of a sudden, there’s a brief second of silence.

you let out one last sob, and then all of the pain stops. everything stops.

life stops.