(fate is cruel.)
"You're not her."
The moment the words leave his mouth, his orange face contorts into a grimace. You're not sure what to do, because your hands are balled into fists, and they're clutching at the soft, shimmery fabric of your god tier skirt, the gray sateen keeps your fingers cool against the boil of your blood.
Your green gaze holds his pale yellow steady, but you're not sure where he's looking. His shades are more problematic than, more frustrating than—
You don't want to talk about Dave right now. Not right now. His sprite tail flickers, and coils around itself, his arms are crossed, hands rub sides to gain warmth. Maybe he's nervous, and you wouldn't be surprised.
He just compared you to a dead love interest, the love interest that's somewhere buried deep within your chest, just waiting to claw out and cry cry cry.
You squeeze the fabric tighter, and search for the words to say. You can't find anything, you're scared your voice will crack into something weak, because you are Jade Harley, and weakness is not one of your main attributes. Your dreamself took a meteor for a boy. A boy she barely knew.
A boy who was currently whining and bemoaning all things pastry related.
Davesprite, of all people, shouldn't make you feel so vulnerable.
He was just (another doomed timeline, a copy, a feathered asshole) Dave.
That's all you can say, because you bite down on your tongue to keep yourself from saying more. You taste blood, the metallic sting spread and stained your teeth. He scratched at the back of his head, his wings flexed and he was sky-borne. At any other time, you would've been awed, yet again, by the color in his feathers, they're clementine, they're carmine, the lighting is never the same. Today, you ignore it and just stared into the distance, unsure of where to go next.
What to say next, what to do next.
He turned your back on you, and began to fly around the perimeter that was John's house, a road you've walked with him several times before. This time, it's different, the air is electric with fear and longing, and you're not sure who you're scared for. You, or him.
So, you follow, red ruby slippers take you to him, and he's mumbling something.
"She was the only one, back then," he starts, but there's this distance in his voice that informs you that he's not talking about the sprite you took in.
He's talking about the other Jade.
"After she was gone, I wasn't sure what to do, I mean," he stumbles for footing, he wants to take a hold of the memory, maybe he's thinking about her smiles and her saccharine demeanor, you're not really sure anymore because the two years ago Jade was made of sunshine and rainbows, she wasn't you. "Our session was fucked up, and to come back, like this?" He gestures to himself with a look of disgust, it flashes across his avian futures for a millisecond before he returns to his bitter scowl. "I've been living in a shadow ever since."
There's more, he wants to say more. You can tell, his lips quiver when he's not satisfied with his response.
You want to touch his hand in reassurance, but he's still not looking at you.
"I'm so sorry."
The words come out broken, he's holding back some sort of emotion in the back of his throat, he's choking on the sentence. He can't get it out, and you want to cry, you want to well up in sadness, and wallow for him, but you know you just can't.
So you shake prettily in your dress, and pull up your gray hood over your mess of tangled, black hair and white dog ears.
The conversation is over.
Dave—Davesprite, you clarify—floats above the banisters and disappears behind John's open bedroom door.
(and for the first time, for the first time in fifteen years, your heart clenched, and threatened to close up on itself.
you feel what can be defined as heartbroken.)