Text Me When You Walk Out

I blame too much EDM and gratuitous amounts of remixes.

AU - DJ!Dave - Implied Dave/John (one sided?) - EDM = Electronic Dance Music (Electronica, House, Dubstep, etc)

Your name is Dave Strider, and ever since you were old enough to grab at Bro's turn tables, you've wanted to be a DJ of some kind. At least that's what you remember.

Only 19 years later, and you've somewhat completed that goal. You DJ in nightclubs, and have once, and only once, been invited to a music festival of any sort. So here you are; in the biggest club the downtown strip has to offer, and you are making such sweet music any and all prodigious EDM artists would weep at the sound. You are still the small time "Godhead", and it's nothing glorious or really to be proud of, but it still feels good.

You might DJ for shitty venues, but even the shittiest of venues have their perks. Free booze, decent pay, and the fans, specifically the girls. Oh, the girls. So drunk, so in love with you, and so, so tempting.

You resist the urge.

Always. You have to, because there is someone who loves you much more than any hammered groupie ever could. He knows you, and not just by your music or by your devilishly good looks.

So you abstain.

Once before, you kissed a very drunk fan on the mouth, while also being very drunk, and felt horrible about it. You texted him immediately after, and apologized, voice shaking a little. You felt awful.

He just laughed and told you it was okay, that he really wasn't mad, and he just wanted you to text him when you walked out.

That's what he always told you.

"Text me when you walk out."

He trusts you even when you're drunk, alone, in a skanky nightclub stuffed to the gills with sloshed fangirls.

It happens once, it happens twice, and it happens again. You end up having sex with one of them, and you've never been more disappointed in yourself.

The kicker is that he always forgives you, not matter how much it must hurt him. It must hurt him a lot, but he trusts you so much. He always tells you he loves you, and always, always;

"Text me when you walk out."

Sometimes you wish he didn't trust you so much.

Especially tonight.

You end your set mixing a grand total of 45 songs into one, live, and it's so gorgeous Madeon would look like a fool compared to you. As the applause ends, you hop off the stage, letting the stage crew get to work. You reach for your phone. It shouldn't be long until you're home and holding him in your arms, but a small flock of girls stops you.

They giggle and laugh and tell you how much they love you, Godhead, the Turntech Godhead (though you no longer use your turntables as much, as they are a thing of the past, so now it's ironic). They grab your arms and pull you toward the bar, buy you a drink, and suddenly you forget your objective.

Soon, it's all lost in an alcoholic haze.

One of the girls is in your lap, breasts pressed erotically against your chest, her hands leading yours up and down her body. Usually, you never go this far. You usually resist the urge, and manage to pull away to go home.

You fail to resist the urge.

Before you know it, you've gone too far.

You wake up in unfamiliar, pink cheetah print bedsheets, and you are ever so silently freaking the fuck out.

She's in the shower, and you make a real dick move. You collect your underwear, pants, shirt and shades before sloppily putting your shoes on and getting the hell out.

You feel awful, and it's not just the hangover. You pull out your iPhone, and there's a gratuitous amount of voice mails and texts. He must be worried sick, but he can't feel as sick as you do, right now. You flag down the first taxi you see, tell him exactly where to go, and to step on it.

You've kept him waiting long enough.

You wrench the door open, and practically burst in.

John's sitting at your little kitchen table, dressed, his hair still damp from a shower, with a coffee mug in his hands. He looks up, and his blue eyes look misty with hurt. He takes look one look at you, and he covers his mouth with his hand and looks away. It's so obvious. There's absolutely nothing you can do to hide it.

John's eyes flicker up to you, and he asks how far it went.

You suddenly find the scuffs and stains on your Chuck Taylors incredibly interesting.

You hear him choke back a sob, and you take a step forward to try and explain yourself. He gets up too, and walks over to you, and shushes you halfway through. John is crying, just a little bit, and he tells you it's okay, that it wasn't really your fault, and that he knows it was an accident.

He tells you he's just sorry he couldn't have been to see you at all. You don't say anything, because you know that John works harder than both of you, juggling med school along with a shitty job at an electronics retailer. John puts his arms around you, and you tentatively put your hands around him too.

He laughs and says you smell like cigarettes, sweat, cheap perfume, and that you really need a shower.

John has forgiven you again, and you have no idea why, except for the fact that you know he loves you.

And you love him, don't you?

Of course you do.

But others would argue that you don't, or you never did.

It could easily be argued that you were an unfaithful philanderer, void of good judgment and bestowed with a love of boozing it up with unfamiliar women.

You wake up slightly hung over in another strange bed. The sheets are lime green with dainty white polka dots, and a girl sleeps topless beside you.

The guilt grips at your throat, and once again, you abscond from yet another townhouse. You don't even bother checking your cell; John must be worried sick, and you have to get home as soon as possible.

The cab ride seems to take forever.

You fumble with your keys, jerk the door open, and announce your arrival.

There is silence, and the air smells stale.

You wander about your apartment looking for John. You call out his name, and search for notes or clues to where he's gone.

You step into the room you share with John, and as soon as you see the closet, your heart plunges.

The majority of his clothes are gone, and so are his textbooks, his computer, along with some of the movies and CDs.

You immediately fish your iPhone out of your pants pocket.

There are a few messages from John, but the newest text only has one line.

"Walking out."

It's very clear that John is gone, and he probably won't be coming back. He walked out on you because you let him, because you chose to sleep with drunk floozies instead of simply being with him.

Because you couldn't just text him one stupid phrase and get home on time.

You have never regretted anything more.

I will not deny that Dave/John is my OTP of some sort.

I'm just a horrible person and cannot help writing situations when it doesn't work out.

I imagine Dave to have horrible judgment in a situation where he's surrounded by people who want in his pants, and he would inadvertently cheat on the person he cares about most.

And goddammit I worked the stupid "Everyone is Bi" trope into this. My apologies.

R&Rs never necessary, but always appreciated!