"Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival." –C.S. Lewis
His voice hits the barrier you have built up around yourself.
"Earth to Rose Lalonde, come in, Rose." he says. You put your book down with a smirk.
"We are not on Earth anymore, Dave. Please choose a more appropriate choice of wording next time you wish to signal for my attention." You've gotten him now, you think.
He scoffs and sits down next to you, edging his way into your barrier. He flips through the pages of one of your older books, but his fingers are clumsy and you can see him accidentally tearing the pages. You snatch the book from his hands and set it down next to you.
"Can you not do something else? Surely, there is someone else on this rock who would appreciate your company more than me?" He holds his hands to his chest in mock surprise.
"I'm offended, Rose. Wounded, even." He pauses, to watch the reaction on your face turn sour.
"I'm hurt, Rose." You consider throwing the heaviest book you have on your person to knock his shades right from his long nose. Instead you continue reading.
He picks at a stray red thread on his cape and whistles through his teeth just to annoy you. The sound is threatening to break through your barrier, again. You push your nose closer to the pages of your book.
"Rose." Don't answer him.
"Ro-se." Pay him no attention whatsoever. Bury your nose into those printed words.
"Roooo-sssse!" God, that doesn't even sound like a word anymore. More like, string of vocal sounds produced by utter asshole. He moves his mouth close to your ear and whispers your name loudly.
You throw the book at him. Not figuratively, as in arrested by a person of the law, but literally. Your aim is better now, and you hit him square in the chest. It's a relatively flimsy, paperback novella, the kind of things middle age mothers would read in their spare time. He takes note of this, and raises an eyebrow at you.
"Your literary tastes have literally gone down the drain here Rose." he says, holding the book closer to his face. "I'm so ashamed, I'm almost in tears."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot I was talking to none other than the creator of the greatest masterpiece of the modern era, 'Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff'. Why, it's Dave Strider, of course." Ah, now you've got him.
"Critics are calling it the contemporary Shakespeare, combining flawless written word with amazing art."
His eyebrows -newly pierced, you note- are raised high, and you can see the top of his eyes peeking out from his shades.
"Don't diss SBAHJ, man. That's like, my magnum opus." He's being serious.
"It's the highest I've ever gotten as a person. I mean, people loved it!" He raises his hands to the air.
"I was gonna start selling t-shirts." He settles his hands back in his lap, picking at his frayed cap again.
"T-shirts?" you inquire. "Would they let a thirteen year old run a paying business?"
"I was gonna get Bro to do it for me. He was gonna put the ads up on his website or whatever." he replies.
"What, so puppet proboscis connoisseurs would be completely sidetracked by your amazing clothing line whilst they were furiously-"
"Yeah, yeah, okay, maybe that wasn't the ideal target audience. But..." He sighs and pushes his shades up.
"You should've seen them, Rose. They were the sweetest, most ironic things ever made. You could've gotten one for a newborn baby, even." You pat his knee.
"I'll be sure to get one for myself at Christmas. Do Zazzle deliver to meteors hurtling through space?" He starts laughing, so much, that he takes off his sunglasses, and sets them on the floor to cover his eyes. You find yourself giggling along. Incredible. He's broken through your barrier completely.
"What would I do without you?" he says. It's genuine question.
"I don't know." What would you do without him?
"Your sentiment is appreciated." he huffs, and rests his head on your knee. You find your sentiment for this boy getting the better of you. You shift his head into your lap, and begin to stroke his fringe. His hair is a few shades lighter than yours. He has his mother's nose-your mother's nose.
"I'm tired."
"Go to sleep then. I'll nap with you, as well." He sits up, looking at you with his brows raised, again.
"The last time we did that we died." You snicker and push him back down. He takes that as an order to rest, and his eyelids droop. His dark circles, virtually invisible under his shades, are now more prominent than ever. He looks much older than sixteen. You stroke his face and feel unshaved skin.
"Are you trying to grow a beard?" He nods his head.
"Efforts to produce a full blown lumberjack piece complete with moustache have failed, so I'm trying to get one like my bro had."
From the one photo Dave had sent you of your father –complete with blingee effects- you could see he did indeed have a beard, and that he was as lanky and awkward as Dave was. You suppose he did look like him.
It's not long until Dave drifts off into sleep, his hands resting on his chest. All this talk of pre-game life and families has made you tired also. What will you do after the game finishes? Will everything return to how it was, with no memory of what had happened? Will you- God forbid- have to forget Kanaya, and the rest of the trolls? You hit your head against the wall with a thump, and Dave stirs.
"Will you shut up; some people are trying to get some well needed R&R here."
"Oh, yeah, sorry." you reply. You pick at your skirt and wrinkle your nose. Orange is not your colour under any circumstances. You hear footsteps from the corridor outside. They're faint, and you can't pick up whose they are. Someone who you may forget.
Dave doesn't move from your lap. You stay awake, smoothing back his hair. You won't forget him, you hope. The footsteps outside grow quieter and then silent. The almost silence, save for Dave's faint breathing, is soothing, but it lets thoughts creep through your brain. You think of John and Jade, of your mother, of the girl who looks like her, waiting in another universe. Of Kanaya.
And you think of Dave. Dave, your universal constant, who can break down your barriers and talk with you normally because he doesn't care what you think. He is your brother and, probably, your best friend.
You will never forget him. You won't let yourself.
You will never tell him this, though.