We were golden once, uttered the phantom in his mind, we were gods.

Do you remember being a god, David?

Do you remember me?

Do you remember time,

David,

Time that was cradled in your hands,

Soft and malleable and loving?

As soft as my heart,

Which you also held.

Do you still love me, Dave?

Dave strider looked into the mirror at his face, thirty and lineless. No crease nor wrinkle marred the pale expanse of his face. But he looked old. Even though something around his mouth, the lack of frown lines, of laugh lines, of anything, made him look young, youthful in its pale perfection. Even with all that youth, his shoulders told a different story. His covered eyes told an epic. His hands, the knuckles gnarled and knobbly, fingers covered in callouses and scars. They were old too, as old as his eyes and as old as his soul.

He had lived a thousand years, been reborn and lived a thousand more, each and every minute a hundred years and every second a day. He had raised children, had been happy and sad and angry. He had been born to people and had born people. They were family, always, but not really. More things, different things had happened. He had died again. Another reset, a new life. Died. Reset. Died. Reset. Born to be Dave Strider, again, for the hundreth time. Somehow he ended up Dave Strider more than anything else. He had lived so many existences, so many time lines. He had been so many versions and reflections of himself that he was no longer afraid to die, to become whiteness and painlessness and someone new.

But for now he was alive, in this world. This world is more like the first world, calmer somehow and less urgent. Purposeful. Everything moved to accommodate him - everything was soft, here, everything was easy. The world made room for him. It was an apology, he knew, for the hardships he had faced. He knew now as he had known the second he had become conscious, that the world was made to make him happy.

That didn't explain why he was so god damned miserable. So miserable and alone and desperate. No matter how many piers he walked off, no matter how many cars he stepped in front of, he lived. Always. He was nigh indestructible. He was always healthy, well, in tip top shape - no matter what. He could ruin himself, but in the morning he would be perfect and unmarred once more.

He thought, on such instances, that this was hell. This wasn't a world for him, not when he had seen and lived a thousand lives, had killed and died and watched the life drain from a thousand hearts. Not when he was this battle worn thing, twisted and dark, this spectre of himself, a knight without a castle or a prince to protect.

His Prince. Once he was a knight and his prince was golden, golden, golden and warm, with pale skin and icy breath, and eyes the color of Skaia. When he was made gold by that light, tempered like steel by the heat of his Prospit Heir. By the prince of his heart. His hero, his love.

Do you remember, David?

Of course you remember.

How can you forget, when the sky is the blue of my eyes, David?

When the wind kisses your cheek and giggles against your lips,

When the breeze combs through your hair like cool fingers,

Or when you hear a note from a piano?

How can you forget when every time you close your eyes,

It feels like I'm right there with you,

As I was a thousand lives ago.

Logically, Dave knew it wasn't John. The voice was softer, older, John's voice as he imagined it. It had become watery and insubstantial with age, a memory half forgotten. He knew John had never once called him David, had never had to. But it didn't matter. The phantom of his best friend, his love, called in his mind like a siren, running its fingers over the thoughts in his head and infecting them with cool blue light, the dim beauty of it shooting heat through him. He wanted John, more than he wanted anything else. He wished it. He wished it harder than he had ever wished anything in his life.
John.
Stupid John with his adorable teeth, and his little dimple in his right cheek. With his blue eyes and his messy, dark hair, and his little upturned nose that crinkled when he was thinking. His lips, pink and happy and soft, soft like silk, soft like petals. His cool lips and his warm mouth, his soft, long hands, so elegant and fine boned, a dove's wing or a swan's neck. Ragged nails, bitten off with stress but still elegant, elegant in their suffering and humanity. The six freckles on his face, and the three on his neck. The way he gnawed on his lip when thinking. How his eyes would light up when he caught sight of him. The ways he always, always died.
Dave breathed in, closing his eyes and seeing John, covered in blood. Seeing John with a sword through his stomach. Seeing John smile one last time.
It's warm over there. He had said.
In his next life he had missed him. Again. He had died before he was born, before he was conscious. And then he had missed him again. And again, and every time after, all except one. Once, when he was dying, he had been visited by a solemn seven year old girl with messy black hair and little, square glasses. A girl dressed in blue, with hair cut boy short, and eyes the color of the sky.
She had placed a small hand on top of his gnarled old paw, and smiled the smile of an old man.

It's okay, Dave. It'll all be okay.

Then there was only whiteness after that, and then consciousness. For the first five years, usually, he was not yet real. He was alive, breathing, and functioning, but not conscious - not really. Not until he woke up one morning, usually in spring, fully aware that he had lived this life and lives like it a thousand times. He had lived in every age, in every country, had been a king and a peasant and gone whole lives as being someone other than Dave. He had been each race and gender, and no longer found a distinction between them. He was in his first body, now, blond and red eyed like a demon, tall and lean and strong. He was handsome, his features sharp and regal, a knight. He was not ashamed to admire his visage - he had been ugly just as many times as he had been attractive. This body felt right, though, felt real as many of the other bodies had not.
But something was missing.
Something important.
John.
With a sigh, Dave walked from the bathroom, closing the door with a click as he entered the living room. His house was modest, quiet. So high up, the sounds of life, of a city, hardly made any noise at all. He wasn't sure why he had chosen Boston. New England had something about it, though, that he thought John would like. There was something quaint and nearly old-world about the colleges and libraries, the crazy, sprawling streets that made no sense. Something quirky and charming, and no matter how bad the drivers were, they weren't as bad as New Yorkers. He breathed in, walking to the worn leather couch.

His house was clean.

Neat to the point of being sterile.

Not a bachelor's house, not at all. It was an old man's house, orderly and well kept, with antique furniture that had always belonged to him.

He looked at his books, books he had hidden and books he had saved, books he had owned in past lives. They were his most prized possessions. Those and his Victrola, which sat on a small table with clawed feet. He had John's records, all of them, from when he had been a concert pianist more famous than any the predated him. He was no longer remembered. In that life, Dave had only just missed him - he had been late in awakening, and by the time he came to life, John was an old, old man, dying. He hadn't lived in that life long. Only long enough to gather his things and set himself up for his next life.

His mother then had been neglectful, cold. His birth parents usually were. It must have been instinct - Dave was not their child, not really. He was older than they were, old and worn, and they were only first time humans. They were new souls. New and young and beautiful, and it was painful to watch them. Painful to have them look upon him and recognize that he was different. That he was something more, perhaps, or something less.

Dave let his head fall back, closing his tired eyes. His shades, nearly the same as John's, were hooked to the collar of his shirt, and he felt the cold metal bite into his flesh in a nearly pleasant way. It was a sharp stab, saying that he was alive. He got up creakily, his mind making him feel so much older than he really was. So much older and so very tired.

He debated stepping off the balcony. Perhaps this time he would really die? Perhaps he could escape this life, too? To a new one - one with John. He knew he should feel the need to find the other two, Jade and Rose, his sister and his friend, but they were different. No matter how he loved them, he could live without them. He knew they were conscious, though, as he had once been betrothed to Jade, something he would look to in times of sadness. She had died young of tuberculosis, still a few years shy of their marriage, but the summers they had spent at the beautiful Villa in France were some of his warmest memories.

Fond memories were few and far between - sometimes he would go whole lives without a single sparkling memory to go back to. Rose featured in many of his favorites, as his daughter or niece or mother. He had also been Rose's twin, once, when they had been in the circus, a flying trapeze duo. They were beautiful then, and he had remembered kissing the lion tamer and telling Rose. About spending nights swathed in colorful costumes, giggling to one another. About holding hands and watching stars. About telling her about the wind. She had given him a look then, her violet eyes alight in her speckled face, hair the color of fresh spring mud, that said that she knew he still loved John, if only by the wistful way he talked about the wind.

Rose was alive now, he knew, as she was his niece once more. His biological sister, Cassidy, had given birth to her when she was seventeen. Rose was sixteen now, and brilliant beyond belief. She would be conscious soon, he knew, he could tell by the way she would sometimes look out the window with the eyes that he often saw in the mirror, the eyes of an ancient soul. She was always a late bloomer, so conscious of others but always oblivious to herself that she sometimes forgot to wake up.

He smiled then, looking out his window at the ground far below. He would live today, if only for Rose. Rosaline Strand on paper, but called Rose by Dave. Uncle Dave. Uncle Dave who was an author, a poet, a musician. Uncle Dave who could speak nearly any language, and had given her a pack of tarot cards made of ivory. Uncle Dave who had graduated college at age fourteen.

Her mother Cass hated him. Hated that Rose loved him, hated that he was as miserable as she was. Hated that no matter how much he had, he was sad, lost. Hated, hated, hated. Hated that he had changed his name to Strider, like his good for nothing, absent father. Hated that she knew he was nothing like him. A twist of fate, or of perfect design.

Dave's phone buzzed in his pocket, then, and he answered, knowing who it was already.

"Hello Rose." he said, voice quiet and mellifluous. He had once lived as an opera singer, the most beautiful soprano in all of Italy. He remembers the smell of makeup still, when he sees a stage, and the sound of Italian sung in a voice given to him by angels.

"Dave," she said, and he smiled.

"I knew you were due to wake up soon, Rose. Not like I haven't been waiting around for oh, nearly thirty years. I told you dog, I told you, you gotta learn to wake up faster." he rubbed his finger over the cover of his coffee table book, smiling at the Russian words. He had been a czar, once, too, and a philospher. This was a book he had written.

"And I have told you at least three times that I am unable to wake up earlier. It is how I am. Now that we are on the same proverbial page, I am coming over. We have a lot to discuss."

"No problem, let me just drop everything so my favorite sister/niece/mother/daughter, and that one time you were my brother, can come over and shoot the shit. Anything for family, right? I mean, whatever. No big deal Rose, just been waiting around for thirty years, it's not like you need to say you missed me or anything."

"It's about John." she hung up, then, the line going dead within seconds. Dave felt his heart begin to beat for what felt like the first time in a thousand years.

Rose had hair that was slightly too long to look exactly the same, but in her sixteen year old eyes was the same girl Dave had always known. She stood in his door way in a black jacket pulled hastily over purple pajamas. She looked regal enough for it not to matter.
"Hey sis, what's up?" he said, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. These first few minutes together were always awkward - remembering all lives and this one all at the same time, being hundreds of different people but also essentially yourself. He knew the feeling was hard to handle, almost overwhelming.
"Hello Dave." she whisked past him, coat flapping. She always had had a flair for the dramatic, and it made his mouth quirk up into a small smile, only a tiny twitch of muscle before it was gone.
"Dave." she said, running her finger over an old photo album of a circus. Two near identical faces stared back from the first photo with eyes too old for the children's faces. She sighed, tracing her nail over the placid sienna colors, a small smile curling at her lips. She turned again to Dave, now lounging next in the doorway.
"Rose," he said, voice heavy, "let's get down to business. No dawdling, shit just got real." he breathed in, "John."

The smile that curled on Rose's face grew slightly larger. Dave quirked a brow at her, gesturing with one hand for her to start. It was strange, because he had always thought himself to be a patient person - at least, he had learned to be patient.

"He's my biology intern. He majors in genetics at MIT. He's brilliant, Dave. He's John Egbert again, I believe that we are all 'original' again, and he looks nearly the same. I can't tell if he's awake yet, but I suspect it's only a matter of time if he isn't, the looks he gives me when we speak are speculative. I think he's over due - I've only awoken with him twice before, once when he was my father and another time when he was my servant. He worked in the kitchens." she smiled again, toying with the edge of her coat. She looked drowned in her winter clothes, her hair damp. She tugged at a lock, then, and looked back at Dave.

"You love him." she said, voice quiet, "You still love him."
Dave considered bullshitting for a moment, side stepping the question, maybe, or if not that than ignoring it. He looked at her then, her face the same pale disc as it had always been, and he gave her a little sad smile.
"Yeah. I do."
"Even after all this time?"
"I'm going to love him forever, Rose. I can't not love him. Trust me - I've tried."
She nodded, walking past him to the kitchen. Her hands brushed softly against the counter top. She opened the drawer, pulling out a pair of scissors and weighing them in her hand. She turned to Dave once more, and placed the scissors in his hand,
"I think my hair is too long. Cut it for me, please, Dave."
He smiled at her, sitting her down on a stool. He had done this many times, in another life, when he was her mother. He snipped gently, watching the long blond strands slither to the floor, little feathers falling. He trimmed her fringe, smiling as her eyes closed and long eyelashes, much like his own, rested on pale cheeks. Rose, he thought, smiling. The over usage of their first names wasn't something he missed. It was something he revelled in. Getting used to a new body, getting used to knowing someone who was once other people you once knew. It was hard. But she was already Rose to him, no longer Eric, his son, or Minnie, his sister. Even on this chair she was no longer Elizabeth his daughter but Rose, who was originally his sister, Rose who was now his niece.
"Thank you," she said, once he had finished. Her hair was in a smart bob, steady and straight and perfect for her face. He wondered briefly why she had never considered it before. Her smile, warm and sweet, made him smile in turn, his icy face cracking under her eyes and becoming alive again, warm. He began to laugh, then, and Rose laughed with him, and their laughter felt like crying and screaming, but sounded only like laughter.

"Yes, uracil, along with guanine, cytosine, and adenine. You really didn't miss much, just basic things, yeah? Do you understand now, Rosaline?" John Crocker smiled, round teeth resting on his bottom lip. Rose looked back at him, resting her face on her hand, smiling at him in a strangely indulgent way.
"Yes, I think I have it, Mr. Egbert."
"Alright, then. Do you have a ride home? I mean, it's getting late, and you missed your bus - that is, unless you drive, which would me-"
"Yes," she cut him off, "I have a ride. My... uncle is coming to pick me up." she smiled at him again, that slightly condescending twist that she had, her lips outlining her white teeth in matte black lipstick, something she had just recently begun to do.
"Yeah, I got it covered, teach. Grab your bag, will you, Rose? I've been waiting in the parking lot forever - I sent you a text twenty minutes ago telling you I was leaving."
Dave leaned against the door naturally, lounging in place as if he belonged there. His hair was a bright, well styled blond, almost the same color as Rose's, and his outfit was a rather well tailored suit - all black except for the stark white tie. He was handsome, really handsome if John said so himself, with a fine boned face half obscured with a pair of what appeared to be expensive aviators.
"Hello Uncle Dave." said Rose, rising from her chair. She grabbed her bag, a large knitted sac all done up in purple stripes. She smiled at the man, Dave, and John felt his heart thud in his chest painfully as the tall man gave some semblance of a smile. He thought suddenly of fireflies and red irises, the color of blood, and of miles of text. He thought of heat and gears and calloused fingertips, like something out of his dreams, or perhaps his nightmares. His night terrors, which pulled him screaming from the darkness of sleep to this very day.
John felt this and his breathing hitched, his hands beginning to tremble. He could feel the two gazes from uncle and niece, both attentive and old. He wanted, suddenly, to reach out and brush his fingers over Dave's features, to kiss his shapely lips, to run his fingers through the suave blond hair and mess it up until it was so disheveled it stood nearly on end. He looked at the pale, serious face devoid of emotion and saw an old man, lying on his death bed, and felt infinite sadness - but it ended as easily as it came.

Gone.

An empty feeling remained where there was once an amalgam of feelings.

Both pairs of eyes were still trained on him, though he couldn't be sure of the second - Dave's head was turned slightly toward Rose, but John knew, somehow, that he was still looking at him. Observing him.

John made a noise, and stumbled forward.
"Ah - would you. Like to go out for coffee?" he found himself asking, suddenly taken aback by his brashness. He wasn't a homosexual! He was rather straight, actually, and had had quite a lot of great sex with quite a lot of pretty women.
But the way that Dave's mouth twisted into a smirk, lifting and curling and stretching, etching little valleys in the perfect skin around his mouth, and the way that a single golden eyebrow peeked over the top of the dark glass - it bellied any thoughts of not being attracted to Dave.
"Well, let me see. I think that can be managed." Dave murmured, that mysterious little smile, echoed on Rose's face, still firmly in place.
"Well, if you two are done flirting and slobbering all over one another, I do believe we have to be going, uncle." said Rose, elbowing her uncle gracefully (forcefully) in the side. They both whisked their way out, then, but not before Dave handed him a card, and tipped his head forward in a mock bow. John felt his face grow hot, and his breath come short, and for the first time wondered at the age of his student's uncle - he couldn't have been a day over thirty, which was still a fair amount older than John himself, but he somehow conveyed a strange sense of age about him. John sat down heavily, ignoring the snickering from his boss, Mr., excuse him, Dr. Scratch.
"Well done, John old boy. He was a rather handsome fellow." said the bald man, raising his cup of coffee in a salute. John let his face fall into his hands, a smile stretching his lips thin.
"Yeah, yeah he was, wasn't he?"