“Dave,” Tony says, sighing deeply. “Why am I looking at a PowerPoint titled, “Jack Kelly + David Jacobs: A Comprehensive Argument for Maintaining Equilibrium.”
Davey pins him with a scathing look. “It’s a Google Slides presentation, you godless heathen.”
“What the fuck?” Tony asks, ignoring him, clicking rapidly through the screens. “When did you even make this?”
Davey shifts in his seat. “I mean, it’s more of a living document, so it’s never really finished—“
“Davey.”
“A couple years ago, I guess,” Davey says. “Give or take.”
Tony squints at the computer screen. “It’s saved on your old university account.”
“Okay, or maybe it was three months before graduation!” Davey admits, throwing up his hands. “It was a stressful semester and I was super nervous about failing my animal science midterm and Jack was out on a date with that PoliSci major that lived upstairs and— And the when isn’t the point! The point is, telling Jack isn’t worth the risk of ruining our friendship, and there’s the proof.”
“What are these graphs even measuring?” Tony asks, staring at one of the slides. “‘Overall Happiness, Jacobs v Others’?”
…..
“Well, your math is absolute shit, for one thing,” Tony says, frowning at a graph entitled ‘Art Pieces per Subject’. Davey’s name is sitting in dead last. “There’s no way these numbers are right. Jack draws you literally all of the time.”
Davey frowns right back at him. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Uh, yeah he fucking does,” Tony disagrees. “You’re, like, one of his favorite things to make art of, period. He spends about half his time bitching about how copic doesn’t make a marker that matches your eyes—at this point I’m pretty sure he’s got more drawings of you than actual pictures.”
“I think I would’ve noticed if Jack suddenly started drawing me,” Davey scoffs, shaking his head. “It’s not like he’s subtle when something’s caught his eye. Plus, he lets me flip through his sketchbooks whenever he finishes filling one and I’m almost never in them.”
“Which one?” Tony asks.
Davey blinks. “Which one, what?”
“Which one,” Tony repeats, oddly intent. “Which sketchbook does he show you?”
“What do you mean, which one?” Davey asks, irritated. “The only one! The one he always— it’s not like it’s some big secret!”
Tony stares. Then Tony sighs. Very quietly, Davey hears him mutter, “…pair of fucking morons.”