Disclaimer: Homestuck is absolutely not mine, and I make no profit from this story.

This is the first time I've written anything in second person, so please do be gentle about it.


Running fingers through blonde hair you bring your favorite painkiller to your lips, staring out into the darkness as you try to calm yourself. Your fingers are shaking, but a long drag does a lot to calm them. You're still unnerved and your stomach is tied in knots, but a heavy sigh starts to relieve the tension in your shoulders. You take another drag as your hand drops to rest by your side, balancing what's left of your cigarette between your fingers.

You used to hate the smell of smoke, and it's enough to make you laugh with more than a little bitterness. You still hate it, but you're hooked. Addicted. In fact, you're pretty damn sure you couldn't live without it. This habit is going to kill you eventually, but who cares?

The weight of your memories is like a fucking brick on your chest, and remembering clamps a hand so hard around your throat you can hardly breathe. It's fucking pathetic. John would be so disappointed if he knew what you were doing. You're pretty sure he'd never leave you alone about it. It's bad for you. You're stronger than that. Your breath stinks, and your teeth are-

Yeah well fuck you, John.

You're not here, and neither is Rose. Or Jade. None of you are here, not even those goddamn pain-in-the-ass trolls.

You're not even sure if those guys are all right. But John and Jade…

The two of them died years ago. You never even had the chance to know them. Your best friend in the world is gone. It's like he never fucking existed even. He's dead and stuffed—fucking stuffed—in some stranger's house and every now and then you can see him on your brother's computer. It hits you hard like a fucking punch to the gut and you just stand there staring. That's your best friend in the fucking world. He was everything to you.

But you can keep it inside. A few drinks and a pack of cigarettes later and you're all right. You're actually a little horny and feeling good and you can fucking sleep. You'd spend the rest of your life wasted if you didn't have to worry about your little brother. You remember when you were his age. The first time you were his age. You wanted to be recognized by him so badly, and you aren't sure you want to do the same to him. So you have to stay sober. You have to be there.

And you can't just break down and cry over the sight of some stranger's corpse. You only cry when life hits you especially hard. When you see John and realize that he's been living this hell longer than you have. That he spent most of a lifetime without his friends. It's times like that that really hurt. It's times like that when you find yourself depending on your brother again. Even though you're the adult. Even though you're supposed to take care of him.

Every time you really stop and think about it you end up with an awkward hand in your hair.

Every now and then he'll even go so far as to hug you, although it's an awkward, reluctant display of affection. He used to crawl in your lap when he was younger, now he touches you like he's afraid of you. Which is fine, because he's your brother and not your goddamn woman. You don't need him hanging all over you. But when he hugs you, sometimes you think that maybe he remembers, too. And then you pray to god that he doesn't. And it's not even ironic. It's a sincere, 100 percent fucking plea.

Sometimes you do the same for the others. It would be great if you were the only one who remembered. It's part of why you won't contact Rose. You like to keep up the illusion that she's living a normal life. It helps keep you sane.