You're still getting used to seeing his face.

It's like a dream - seeing him here, now, alive. You spent day after day for months, excelling in the game, wracking up gear, sweating away most your thoughts, whatever - but not once did the image of his face ever leave your mind, as if it were branded there for you to remember always. The giddy look he must've held with those buckteeth as he blasted off to his doom, and the look of terror that you imagine encompassed his expression as his death ultimately befell him. The death you didn't stop him from. Heroes weren't meant to die like that - it was unfair and cold and pointless and why couldn't you just have fucking stopped him?

But here he is, alive. He looks tireder every day, but still he is happy and still his heart beats rampantly and with the spirit of his you've always admired. Sometimes you think about how he's not really your John, but honestly, he may as well be - mere moments are the only fleeting differences, and those are the very moments you entirely rewrote yourself as a means to erase in the first place. So therefore, you feel just the same as you've always felt for him (which is much stronger than you'd ever like to admit). Yet you're no longer his Dave, and you know that. You're reminded every time he forgets you without a thought, and every time he talks with Jade about missing Rose and Dave (you know he doesn't mean it that way, because when you hover over them with your one golden wing he jumps and he smiles). Still it's weird, the feeling of your own name detached as it rests on your tongue.

But it's alright, because you can see his face - and you suppose he doesn't really need to look at yours in return. Even before all this you never really expected that (though you dreamt of it, you dreamt of it like some lovesick little schoolgirl and it was just disgusting yet somehow tragically hilarious).

You wonder sometimes if Dave (detached, so detached) will do what you were never brave enough to do, if he'll realize what took death and loss and four months of loneliness (and then some) to realize - that you love John, that you really always have, and that you'd give anything to just tell him and maybe even just tryto make him yours. But that's not your place, not anymore (is anything your place these days?).

And yet, will the other you even try for what's right in front of him? You suppose as the years are beginning to pass, the separation is strong - and maybe that'll be enough for his eyes to keep turning to that flirtatious, sharp-tongued nymph of a troll. The fact that he even properly got along with her still sickens you - you suppose aside from John, she was alright, and maybe even had her reasons, but you can't get the filthy taste out of your mouth anytime you think of her, or of any version of you being with her.

But still that doesn't mean it's carpe fucking diem up in here ('quite yet' you wanna say, but that makes your chest ache and enough of your body aches as it is), so things are what they are, you guess. That's good enough - good enough is about all you strive for anymore. And even just, enough. You're too tired to do much else; physically, mentally, emotionally.

But you've found that despite your exhaustion, sprites don't really 'sleep' (as if you really slept very much before anyway). You sort of rest, and maybe close your eyes for a while, but it's not quite the same. It's helpful for keeping guard while John sleeps though, back in his own bed on his own planet, where you fend off the imps that seem to just never get the fucking hint. You went back to your own place once, but there's too many memories that don't quite feel like yours anymore, and really you just don't need any more reason to think about it. Being there while he rests is fine though, you think it makes you feel more at peace than you ever did during your "full night's sleeps" you had prior to becoming how you are now. He just looks so… blissful, and the tired lines from his face seem to collapse with the night's falling.

Once while you're racking up gear (he always grins at you then, because you got way too good at doing this, and that space in your chest aches again) he falls asleep, a bit of a ways from his comfortable bed. You lay your for once honest eyes on him and gather him up in your arms that feel so little weight and all of the weight of two universes at once, flapping your single wing while you bring him home to rest.

You've grown accustomed to indirectly caring for him - trying to maybe make up for not having his real best friend with him. But holding him so close in the peaceful state you adore him so in (you almost think best, but that leaves so many other states of his you also adore), and your claw-like fingers curl into the blue fabric of his shirt as your face slowly rests in his black nest of hair. Somehow it still smells like shampoo, and you wonder if he found some stash of his dad's that he's been using - and that makes you a little sad, for him, and for your Bro (he was the only one who still stood by you like you were you), so you hold him as little closer as you go.

But soon you're setting him down under the blankets, fluttering your wing (and what's left of the other) slowly as you watch him, a happy smile on his face.

It takes all you have to try and restrain yourself, but not even your attempts matter as you lean down and brush back those dark strands, pressing your orange-tinted lips to his forehead. "Sweet dreams, dude."