#but seriously dude i had a fic planned involving how dewey would handle the idea of marriage

[regrettablewritings]

If you are so inclined. I’m in love with the way you write for one Dewey Finn. So. Perhaps letters F, M, O, and W?

Heehee~ Welcome to the cult, fledgling :3

F = Feelings (When did they know they were in love?):

Dewey knows he’s in love when he realizes he’s growing beyond himself.

He’s a pretty forward guy at first glance: He’s loud, he’s impulsive, he lives his life according to the rules of rock ‘n roll. So you wouldn’t be blamed for buying into the idea that he’s about as confident as he acts, completely forgetting the fact that Dewey is, in fact, very low on actual self-esteem deep down. He knows he’s not the tallest, he knows he’s no Adonis by any means (hell, he’s lucky if he can even be considered a Dionysus at this point), and even though he’s aware that realistically, there is no race in growing up (especially at this age), he still feels insecure about where he appears to be compared to his peers.

But you stick around anyway, which is weird to him in a sense, but also very nice because having you around means he doesn’t have to think about how crappy he feels about himself. When you’re around, he can goof about and make jokes. He can pretend like he’s going to eat the last slice of pizza, only to pop it in your mouth because he knows you’ve had a rough day and it’ll cheer you up. He has someone there to remind him that sometimes he actually needs a plan before he does a task that’ll land him flat on his ass. Hell, he even enjoys show tunes more openly because seeing you sing and dance to them makes him want to join in, too, and  --

That’s when it hits him. Well, not exactly then, but in the moments in between where he’s by himself. He generally doesn’t like these moments because for so long, they’ve just been moments where he falls into introspection (something he’s already terrible at) and winds up falling further down a rabbit hole of despair.

But after a while of dating you, these moments of introspection start to change. It starts off small, barely noticeable. Until one day, he manages to take a look at himself and not think himself into a flinch; he just thinks, “Hm. That’s . . . not a good thing about me. I should probably fix that . . .” And he does. Well, he makes the effort to. Which is certainly more than he would’ve two years ago. He has no idea where this energy has actually come from, however. Maybe he’s more confident because he’s found a purpose in life? A relatively steady job? Or --

Yup. That’s when it hits him: Maybe he was giving you the last slice because he didn’t feel comfortable being greedy like normal and he wants you to feel nurtured in some way; maybe he’s letting you help him plan things because that’s the responsible thing to do instead of just fucking bullrushing into every damn thing; maybe he’s enjoying musicals a bit more than he ever would’ve admitted because, well, there really is more to rock ‘n roll than he would normally like to admit. There’s more to himself than he would normally be able to see.

And you see that in him. Sure, you see this chubby, overexcited and brazen rock god wannabe. But you also see this insecure guy doing his best, who has the actual drive and potential to be something far greater than what even he knows -- he just needs the right push.

He’s glad you’re his push.

M = Memory (What’s their favourite memory together?):

It’s difficult for Dewey to actually choose to be quite honest. He absolutely treasures memories where he’s able to marry his two passions in life: You and music. Does he go with the first time you saw him perform with the School of Rock? The first time he heard you play chords he’d taught you? The first time you two did karaoke together?

No, actually. Because try as he might, it’s actually a lot simpler than that: Date night at Fat Sam’s Donut Hut. It was after 9 in the evening, and you two had hunkered down in a booth and were having way too much fun playing a dumb little game where one would sing a tune of a song but only using the word “donuts” until the other one guessed what it was.

It was so. Stupid. And that was probably why the both of you kept playing it (well, that, and competitiveness). He was actually quite surprised with how many of yours he was actually able to get right, considering many of them were actually pop songs and musicals specifically chosen to throw him off. He didn’t even know he knew anything from Putnam Spelling Bee! He’s not even sure why this particular memory warms him up inside at first, but he theorizes that it may have something to do with the absurdity of it all, or the authenticity of it.

And while those are certainly contributions, the reality of it is that later that evening, post-shower, he took a moment to glance at himself in the mirror. He can’t help but swear he looks . . . a little different. He’s still weighty, but it’s almost like he’s carrying differently. Like his normally godawful posture has progressed to just, well, mediocre posture. There’s some color to his cheeks that he knows isn’t there due to the hot shower. And honestly? He probably thinks this way because he actually feels good about himself for a change. Huh. Weird . . . He wonders why . . .

And that was when it clicked that he loved you.

O = Orange (What colour reminds them of their other half?):

Bright orange. If only because of a rather unfortunate hair dye incident . . . Also maybe black, but that’s only because that was the color of the wig you had to wear until you could get your hands on some dye. He tries to nickname you based on the orange color, but it turns out Orn’gy Porn’gy/Orgy Porgy just . . . He can’t get away with that.

W = Wedding (When, how, where do they propose?):

Bold of you to assume he would ever want to get married. (Okay, but seriously, I actually had fics planned surrounding some of these topics, how dare you make me have to skirt around things in this?)

Dewey actually never really put much thought into marriage for most of his life. Maybe because marriage and rock goddom generally don’t mix. Or maybe it’s because watching his parents’ failed marriage scarred him more than he would like to think or admit . . . Nah, it has to be that first bit. After all, what could be cooler than not having to settle down, being able to travel the road, bang a groupie on every continent? Settling down with in a nice, safe environment created by the both of you’s contributions of excitement and cooperation, thus giving him a sense of belonging and accomplishment the likes of which he’s secretly felt lacking for much of his life?

. . . Oh, shit, that actually does sound pretty nice if he has to think about it.

So nice, in fact, that he just blurted it out as the two of you sat on the floor of the apartment together.

“Hey . . . Do you wanna get married?”

He wants to kick himself for its shitty delivery. It sounds less like he’s asking you for your hand and more like he’s an overly curious kindergartner snooping about his teacher’s private life!

And suddenly, the normally thoughtless Dewey Finn is abuzz with everything wrong with this scene. He didn’t plan this out; he hadn’t begun the week thinking, “I’m going to propose to this beautiful fool”, much less woken up that morning thinking that. He wished he had taken a note from your book and put himself on hold to think this through. Maybe then he could’ve thought about enlisting Ned’s help and making the moment memorable. He knew fancy establishments weren’t your cup of tea, but at least going to a nice place might’ve commemorated the evening. He at least could’ve grabbed a cupcake or something from the bodega a few blocks down. But he didn’t.

And now you’re going to reject him or, at the very least, strangle him or give him the silent treatment or --

“Really?” It’s not said with the bemusement or cynicism he had expected. In fact, if anything, it sounded . . . hopeful.

Okay, credit where credit is due: Sometimes, it helps to be spontaneous.

Thanks for asking!