[For a frightfully long moment, there isn’t anything readable about Damain’s face. Whatever fears Dextera has, he won’t confirm or deny. Instead, his green eyes search Dextera’s face.
He swears he doesn’t need friends. He doesn’t know how long or short a time is required to be friends, and he doesn’t understand the constructs of what makes friends. He never had any for the longest time. Now, he has a few including Jon. Does he base every friendship around that standard? He’s unsure.] You think of me as a friend?
I haven’t done anything. [Is it like being a hero? A good person? Doing something worthy of it?] I’m not exactly friend material, you know.
no subject
He swears he doesn’t need friends. He doesn’t know how long or short a time is required to be friends, and he doesn’t understand the constructs of what makes friends. He never had any for the longest time. Now, he has a few including Jon. Does he base every friendship around that standard? He’s unsure.] You think of me as a friend?
I haven’t done anything. [Is it like being a hero? A good person? Doing something worthy of it?] I’m not exactly friend material, you know.