"What are you waiting for, then?" he asks as he nods and shifts in his seat, sitting across the table from me. His legs are crossed, just like mine, and now his elbows are leaning on his knees as his mouth is pressed against his intertwined palms. I just stare back at him, my gaze self-conscious rather than judgemental. Though, when it's just the two of us, those words could be interchangable.

"Nothing." I shrug,
"I guess I'm just scared."

"Of failure?" he laughs, then leans back in his chair, his arms falling to his sides just like mine,
"Every day you procrastinate, you're willingly giving up another day of your life to suffering. You know that, right?"

"I don't need you." I say it like a threat. His eyes squint at me, just as mine are squinting at him.

"You don't need anybody," he says with the same shit eating grin,
"that's the point. You're waiting for nothing and for no-one. Your feet are so firmly on the ground you're goddamn buried in it up to your waist."

"Being realistic is a bad thing now?" I demand.

"Yeah," he chuckles, "In our cases." I cross my arms, and he does the same a few moments after, an imperfect mirror,
"People like you and I aren't really... thinkers. We're do-ers. Whatever's shuffling around in your noggin is holding you back more than it's aiding you. It's stifling your growth, your escape."

"Escape into WHAT?" my arms unfurl, but his do not,
"The only thing OUT THERE is uncertainty, and violence, and... and..." I search for the words, but he finishes my thought for me.

"And potential." he annunciates like a smartass, and I catch him laughing again before he does.
"Aw, c'mon, you're a masochist too, what's so bad about a little violence?"

"I can't exactly defend myself."

"For now." he shrugs,
"Though I doubt you'll need it where you're going."

"You don't know that."

"Neither do you."

A silence insues. The dialogue stopped just as fast as it started, a thought in and out of my frenzied brain. But him? Oh, he's still there. He's not going anywhere. Arms still crossed and his gaze still judgemental, self-conscious, daring me to speak again. Of course I don't. What would I say? This routine has happened a thousand times and it'll happen a thousand more. He just wants attention, a challange, and right now, he feels most motivated because he knows he's not the most important thing on my desk at any given time.

My unfinished comic is on my left, my schoolwork and assignments on the right, and splattered paint, watercolours and graphite dust is spread out on the table as unceremoniously as he is when he's feeling particularly horny. It's not like I can shoo him away, I brought him here. His friends and allies are working on the deck just like everyone else that's invaded my brain in one form or another, they're all conflicted about working here, while this jackass is over the moon to be included at all.

He knows where the others are. The other characters I've made, my other worlds, systems, notes, imaginings... They're all stale, in one of my cabinet drawers I haven't opened in what feels like years. They're all there, waiting patiently, in stasis until I decide to give them another fresh coat of paint, then put them back to sleep. They're in stasis because I love them, but don't know what kind of home to give them yet. Their worlds are so simple yet so complicated, their stories undefined by a begginning and end making it unlikely they'll ever see the light of day, outside the eagre ears of my closest and most trusted friends.

He whips his hair again, the long blonde streaks falling to his back again while his bangs gently grace his face as much as they can in his mowhawk-esque hairstyle. His pitch black eyes piercing, his sculpted face managing to be intimidating, his eyebrows lifted impatiently, even as a sarcastic smile graces this finely curated face.

"What are you waiting for, then?"