[this is ... outrageously stupid. but if Ryuji's going to call back to something outrageously stupid that they did the very first time they ever met, then that's all the hint Dave needs to know that he understands him here.]
[because even the most sentimental and important moments they have are wrapped in a mantle of stupidity.]
You're saying you want me to kick your ass again? All right. [Dave's grip on Ryuji's hand tightens, and for a moment, it may seem as if time is slowing to a complete stop. like the universe is hitting the pause button so it can catch the outcome of a decisive rematch. the battle one for the whole burrito.]
[or maybe that's just one of the mild effects of forming a magical pact with a time player, someone who can't draw on the powers granted to a destiny he doesn't have anymore, but who's built up on pillars of seconds, minutes and metaphors all the same. if timelines were an observable body, if they aren't like the lines of lightning bolts, they'd also be pretty similar to asteroids, too: these monstrous things blazing forward on their own trajectory, scarred and reshaped by the space junk experiences that they collide with, but very scarcely ever meant to cross paths.]
[right up until they do. and if Ryuji closes his eyes for a second during their rematch, he might see timelines themselves in the abstract way Dave does: lines parallel to each other, like the lightning or the comets, or even the staff of sheet music, notations and pitches of every event that shaped it, stretching out forever into oblivion. he might catch sight of one in particular as it splinters and fires off in an entirely opposite direction, traveling at mach speed toward another staff. a new set of timelines. a convergence of universes that defied their own rules, and, if it weren't for a horror station light years away, probably never would have met to begin with.]
[he might see bits of a timeline that had only been described in passing, or bits that had gone unsaid, if only because they hadn't gotten to it yet. an apartment in Houston. a planet of lava. a planet full of melted snow and frogs. a laboratory on a meteor.]
[and if Dave closes his eyes, he might see something similar from the other direction — they are seeing the moment where two timelines two different people lived very different lives on meeting, after all. and this is a sort of pact that goes beyond words.]
[but nearly as soon as the metaphor starts and time stops, it's over, and two kids having a thumb war rematch out in space synchronize, and the seconds start ticking by as loudly as a grandfather clock's pendulum might measure them. gears that had been spinning above them, indicating the oath being made there, fade into thin air.]
[and Dave, once everything is said and done, and once the perception of time passing normally has returned, has Ryuji's thumb pressed down with both his pointer finger and his thumb.]
no subject
[because even the most sentimental and important moments they have are wrapped in a mantle of stupidity.]
You're saying you want me to kick your ass again? All right. [Dave's grip on Ryuji's hand tightens, and for a moment, it may seem as if time is slowing to a complete stop. like the universe is hitting the pause button so it can catch the outcome of a decisive rematch. the battle one for the whole burrito.]
[or maybe that's just one of the mild effects of forming a magical pact with a time player, someone who can't draw on the powers granted to a destiny he doesn't have anymore, but who's built up on pillars of seconds, minutes and metaphors all the same. if timelines were an observable body, if they aren't like the lines of lightning bolts, they'd also be pretty similar to asteroids, too: these monstrous things blazing forward on their own trajectory, scarred and reshaped by the space junk experiences that they collide with, but very scarcely ever meant to cross paths.]
[right up until they do. and if Ryuji closes his eyes for a second during their rematch, he might see timelines themselves in the abstract way Dave does: lines parallel to each other, like the lightning or the comets, or even the staff of sheet music, notations and pitches of every event that shaped it, stretching out forever into oblivion. he might catch sight of one in particular as it splinters and fires off in an entirely opposite direction, traveling at mach speed toward another staff. a new set of timelines. a convergence of universes that defied their own rules, and, if it weren't for a horror station light years away, probably never would have met to begin with.]
[he might see bits of a timeline that had only been described in passing, or bits that had gone unsaid, if only because they hadn't gotten to it yet. an apartment in Houston. a planet of lava. a planet full of melted snow and frogs. a laboratory on a meteor.]
[and if Dave closes his eyes, he might see something similar from the other direction — they are seeing the moment where two timelines two different people lived very different lives on meeting, after all. and this is a sort of pact that goes beyond words.]
[but nearly as soon as the metaphor starts and time stops, it's over, and two kids having a thumb war rematch out in space synchronize, and the seconds start ticking by as loudly as a grandfather clock's pendulum might measure them. gears that had been spinning above them, indicating the oath being made there, fade into thin air.]
[and Dave, once everything is said and done, and once the perception of time passing normally has returned, has Ryuji's thumb pressed down with both his pointer finger and his thumb.]
[because of course he was gonna cheat again.]