Summary: John and Bro's first ever date. John's a nervous wreck, but eventually calms down.

This is your first date with a boy. Ever, in your entire existence. And only the third date you've had period.

You're scared shitless.

It's not very reasonable. No one's staring at you funny, and Bro isn't being ridiculous like he sometimes is. You're just watching a movie and going out for ice cream afterwards. No big deal, right?

But all through the movie you're almost shaking you're so nervous. You can hardly focus on the comedy; all you can think about is what could go wrong, how badly you could be judged, every possible bad outcome. You're building up a sweat by the time the movie is over.

Bro doesn't bother you about it. You can't tell if he notices or not, but you doubt he doesn't.

When you step out of the theatre and make your way to the ice cream shop, the october air is chilled, and it feels good on your hot skin. Your hands stuff themselves into your pockets, and you feel really awkward. Bro doesn't attempt to lighten the mood.

It takes a minute to walk to the shop. Bro lets you have whatever you want, but you lack your normal enthusiasm. You end up getting bubble gum with sprinkles.

You and Bro sit down to eat your respective ice creams (he got Rocky Road), and you hear a girl snicker behind you. You freeze, your cone held close to you face, and start shaking; it touches your nose. One of them whispers the word fag, and you feel a surge of anger and humiliation.

You knew this would happen.

Bro is obviously having none of it. He glares at the girls and leans forward, licking your nose, before kissing you hard. You're too shocked to respond.

He stands up, taking your hand. "Let's go," he says gruffly. He grips your hand, and you can practically feel the anger rolling off of him.

When you're a little ways away, nearing his car, he slows down and relaxes a bit. You squeeze his hand.

You feel less nervous now, even though you're holding his hand. The warmth of the large, slim appendage comforts you and eases your nerves; the smooth, worn leather is familiar and nice.

You reach his car fairly quickly. "Thank you, Bro."

He smirks at you. "Call me Dirk, Egderp," he says, ruffling your hair. You smile.

Your name is John Egbert, and Dirk Strider was a very good decision in your life, you think.