AHHH too much sadstuck on my tumblr dash about John and Dave. Hello Rose is there too.
Here drabble about Scratch!Rose cause I think she needs more recognition. Although I'm not sure if I made her sound all smart and psychologist like.
Well I tried.

Disclaimer: Homestuck belongs to Andrew Hussie.

Rose's POV


It is strange. This life, it is as if it is not real. A job, a daughter, friends, I have all that I need yet, why do I feel that something is missing. The dreams I have are strange. There were four of us, we were all young, about thirteen. I am sure I know one of them from my daily life, he always comes to visit me on occasion. The other two . . . I think I knew them, but I cannot remember their faces or their names. All I see are glasses and black hair. Who are these people? Why does a part in my heart feel so empty?

He has come to visit again. He tells me he has had many dreams. They are same as mine. I have not told him yet. He seems to be able to tell me more about the strangers in our dreams. A boy with square framed glasses, he speaks of him like a brother, a best friend, 'best bros' as he said. He is confused. He has never felt this way before, he tells me of a collection of movies that he doesn't even like, but for some reason he cannot let them go. He dreams of a game, colourful text, his brother being older than him, and battles. He tells me I am there too, we are both young, all friends with the two other mysterious people. I feel that his latest dream has let him know more than I have. Maybe I will tell him about my dreams during our next session.

When he goes to leave, he reaches into his pocket to pay for his session. I tell him today is free for my dearest brother. He shrugs and leaves with a thanks. I realized I called him my dearest brother. I am not sure if he noticed or not. It seemed so natural coming from my mouth, it was strange. Why did I call him dearest brother? We are definitely not related. We only met because he needed someone to talk to about these strange dreams and my occupation calls for listening to these kinds of people. There was no further bond. He has asked to go out for a drink now and then and I have accepted but that is all. Nothing more. Why do I feel as if I've known him for much longer?

I dreamed of them again. This time it was a fierce battle against some strange black dog creature. I was angry. Why? I vaguely remember red everywhere. My mother . . . his father . . . something happened to them. I lost the battle. I see, I was fighting because the creature had killed him, but he lived. A kiss. Then I saw my brother, yes it was him, I made him fall asleep so I could go somewhere. Where? What is going on, what did these dreams mean? I do not recall any of this throughout my life at all. A past life perhaps? It is a possibility.

He came the next day. It was odd. He usually does not come the day after a session, he usually only comes around twice a week. He tells me he really needed to talk about it. I listen. It's about the other two again. He tells me of the long haired girl with round rimmed glasses, he was helping her collect frogs. Strange, he says it was because someone with angry grey text told them too. Then he described a battle with the same black dog creature that I fought with. The creature redirected the bullets fired from the black haired girl onto him and he died. Then he tells me I incapacitated him by throwing a ball of yarn at him. I remember that clearly and cannot help but laugh. I finally tell him about my dreams of the same people.

When he leaves he forces some money into my hands and tells me he won't take no for an answer.

"See ya sis," is what I hear once he leaves. I say farewell and close the door behind him, I freeze, I almost missed it. He called me sis. He may not have even realized it himself. He said it so naturally.

The dreams become more frequent. I can remember all that happens, the game, the worlds, the powers, the trolls. A comforting green text. There is similarity, admiration, intelligence and ranting. It is amusing, I think she liked me. Blue and light green energetic text never fails to avert my eyes. A daunting white text causes me to frown. I remember putting cute little creatures into hoods. They follow me. Something causes me to change. Anger takes over easily, I was hunting for that black dog creature known as Bec Noir, previously Jack. I remember everything. All the deaths, all the talks, all the strange information gained. Everything but the names and faces of those two friends. Why is everything so clear except for them? All these dreams frustrate me. Did they really happen? Is it something that is going to happen? Are they real or to be forever dreams?

I decided to take a break from work, the strange dreams of mine have begun to give me a headache. I've been thinking about it too much. I pass my daughter's room on my way to the door. She is texting her friends and drinking as usual. She is only 16 why do I let her drink? Why do I insist with these weird games. Is it because of the strange games I played with my mother in my dreams? She is very similar to my dream mother.

My leisurely stroll around town did help me feel better, but I still could not get the two black haired children out of my mind. I should know who they are. On my way towards my favorite café, I see a pair of familiar aviator shades and blonde hair sitting on the bench by the door. He's holding a DVD in his hands. I take a seat beside him.

"You skip work today Lalonde? Didn't see you in your office."

"A woman can take a small break from her occupation from time to time can she not? I apologize, did you wish to speak again?"

He shows me the DVD. It is a special edition of Con Air, "I saw this today and couldn't help but buy it. I think it was his favourite movie."

He was obviously talking about the boy of his dreams.

"Rose," his voice is soft and it surprises me, "I remember his name . . ."

There is silence. He says remember as if this whole time we only forgot instead of not knowing them at all. I wait for him to say it and I become more surprised when I see tear run down his cheek from behind his shades. It falters me to see this man who always wore a cool and calm demeanor to show tears in public, let alone one such as myself.

"John Egbert," he takes his sunglasses off to wipe the tears with his sleeve, "but I still can't remember his face. Rose. It hurts. Why does it hurt. I don't know who he is, and it hurts me dammit. Of all the things to break me, it has to be some guy I don't even know!"

His chuckle is shaky as he takes in a breath. He puts his sunglasses back on and turns to look at me. He flinches a bit and puts a hand to my cheek.

"You're crying too."

I blink unaware of what he just said. I lift my hand to my other cheek and feel the tears.

"It appears that I am . . ." a name rings in my head, along with an unfamiliar yet familiar term, squiddle buddies.

"I remember her name too," he waits, "Jade Harley."

He nods, takes his hands back and puts them into his jacket's pocket while sitting back. I take a cloth out to wipe my tears. It does hurt. It hurts so much. I feel so guilty about not being able to know who these people are. We were friends, I know their names, but why can I not see their faces?

We sit there for a few more moments in the comfort of each other's company. Dave sighs and gets up and offers to treat me to a drink in the café and I accept.

It hurts but all we can do is go on with our lives. We have remembered their names so it should only a matter of time until we remember their faces right? This pain is too much to bear. I hope that we can see them soon.