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He calls you Davesprite, calls you Orange Dave, calls you "Could I talk to the real Dave for a second?", and goddamn but if that isn't the most painful little moniker that his stupid bucktooth mouth has ever laid down. You'd cut it in half if you could, chop that wrong fucking nametag flash in two and never deal with it, slap your proper god-given title back up there and that would be that. You'd be the Dave of Guy, no wings, no sword, no SBurb...

...And you'd be totally okay with that.

The worst part is, the 'real' you, his you, doesn't defend you. Himself. Whatever. He just takes his/your red text and brushes it aside, brushes you aside, and you marvel a bit at how little you know yourself. 'Wouldn't give a shit' your feathery orange asshole, but this is the future you came back to protect, so what's a fuckton of ingratitude from one self to another?

You've done the grinding, done the skipping, done the time shenanigan thing more often than you'd care to remember, days and weeks and months of this hellish game just to stop one timeline from going sour, and he can't even call you by name. You're not his. Bullshit you're not his, well fine! He's not fucking yours, either, never was, and you were trying your damndest to keep him from being yours, because yours was fucking dead.

You have no other names for him, though, no 'Johnsprite' quips or 'Blue John' jabs. He is just John, the One, the Only.

You wonder why that makes you so sad.