1A/N: Inspired by Calvin and Hobbes, some of Bill Watterson's brilliant quotes are used, so I really, really, owe him lots. So basically, the comic strip is his, but Hackett and Rose are mine.
Hackett Pearce was a dreamer. He used to be a young schoolboy, where the jocks made fun of him, and even the dorks avoided him. He was a loner, lost in oblivion within the four walls of his classroom; the teacher's voice amplified in his brain only as echoes and nothing more. Living in a suburban area near the Midwest, his childhood was often spent with imaginary friends – be it stuffed tigers or snowmen.
"You know what's your problem, retard? You've got no common sense at all!" came the angered voice, channeled towards him.
"I've got plenty of common sense," he thought. "I just choose to ignore it."
"Rose?" he called out, when he heard footsteps shuffling outside his door. He turned his body from his workstation, and faced the tall figure in front of him. "Here's your peanut butter donuts for breakfast," said Rose. Placing the box of donuts on his bed, the bespectacled brunette handed him his coffee before ruffling up Hackett's blond hair, and bent over to see what he had been doing all Saturday morning.
It was mid-Autumn, and the leaves were starting to wither – an isolated bench surrounded by trees of a myriad of colors – green, yellow, red; the scenic view out of Hackett's window was accurately transferred onto his sketchpad. Rose had told him a thousand times that he could make easy money by selling his cute little interpretations of life – through his own looking glass – his window of opportunities. He just would not have faith in himself.
"Hackett, what state do you live in?" the Geography teacher inquired. .
His answer was short and sweet. "Denial." At least he was being honest.
'Rose' was short for Laurence Rose, Hackett's housemate. In fact, he was Hackett's one and only true friend who would stay with him when others think he was a nuisance. Both 27, Rose was the polar opposite of Hackett – he was a teacher's pet in school; roses were indeed, thrown in his way, and secured a stable career as a patent attorney. One might wonder how two distant stars could descend on the same spot.
"Hackett, I really think you need to get a job. You can't just hang around and do nothing?" Rose professed, carefully sitting on Hackett's unmade bed. It was adorned with Bugs Bunny bedspread and matching blanket. The blond stared at him quizzically, with an "I'm hopeless, who would ever want to hire me?" look. "I made you lunch and dinner," Hackett reasoned blankly.
"Yes, and I had to scratch them off from the pan," Rose rolled his eyes. He sighed heavily, before picking up the crumpled watercolor paintings of Hackett's, all which were scrambled all over the floor. "Tell me, what's this?" He held the papers and shoved it right to Hackett's face. "They might laugh all they want when they look at you, but this proves that you're not as worthless as they think you are, H!" he exclaimed, with hope and compassion pivoting violently in his silvery eyes, accentuated by the shine of his rimless glasses.
There was a brief silence as Hackett lowered his eyelids, not wanting to admit that his natural talent in art wasn't as appalling as he thought. "You can't just turn on creativity like a faucet," he said softly, while staring at a particular caricatured painting: Father and son, sitting on a bench by the street, watching the first snowflakes of winter, falling from heaven, kissing the ground gingerly. He swallowed his next words: "You have to be in the right mood," before heaving a deep sigh.
Sensing that Hackett was clouded by bitter memories, Rose thought for a while before responding. "What mood is that? Melancholic?"
"No…" Hackett replied, with a faint smile on his face. "Last-minute panic."
Rose crossed his arms, quite annoyed with Hackett's answer. "You don't even know how working on deadlines are like. Don't stray from the topic, would you?"
"You're just pestering me to get my butt off, aren't you? This is just an average artwork, Rose. They won't appreciate it. I'm just doing it because I can. For fun."
Rose shook his head, knowing that he would never be able to persuade Hackett to earn for his own living. "Tell me, what would you do without me?" he asked.
"I'll die of starvation, and no one will know where I was buried."
"You're hopeless, H."
"I thought you already knew that."
The last statement threw Rose off, and stood straight up, before leaving the stuffy room, slamming the door in irritation.
"It's my room, you know? No one has the right to slam the door but me!" Hackett cried out, before throwing his paint pellet towards the door. Blotches of vermeil, yellow, and crimson were splashed on the white wood panel. "Grrr…!" he growled, before setting his chin on the desk, his brush moved in a zigzagging motion on a sheet of blank, blanch paper. Deep in his charred heart, it was paralyzing to know that he had just let the only person who would do anything to lift him up, down.
Paralyzed. The word itself rang like a bell that jolted up his spine, to the neurons of his brain, degenerating his senses. The physical pain was long forgotten, yet it scarred him for life. He stared down on his pair of stiff, numb legs, reluctant to doubt Rose's true intention of befriending him in the first place.
"Nothing is worse than sympathy, than fake sympathy," he told Rose feebly, while lying on the hospital bed. He refused to even look at the dark-haired boy. "You murdered my father. You, and your wretched Bentley!"
Diagnosed with dyslexia, Hackett's situation worsened as he grew up sullen and misunderstood. Succumbing to his own alternate reality and mind tricks, he sunk further into depression when the remains of his kindred spirits were interred beneath the solitary grounds. A marble marker was the only remembrance. He couldn't even run into the woods to explore his own nature of being, or have snow fights with his father in December, leaving trails of footsteps and laughter along the way. Being stuck on a wheelchair wasn't fun.
His father used to say; "Everybody's got to feel the way they reinvent the wheel…everybody's got to stand up on their feet. Everybody needs a dream, when their spirits get too weak," as they sat on the bench, watching the snow crystals fall, like an early Christmas present from paradise.
"Are you hungry?"
His eyes snapped open. Rose was standing in front of him, holding a plate of tuna sandwiches. Hackett glanced at the clock and smacked his forehead. It was already noon. Munching the sandwich bit by bit, he finally blurted out, "Can you bring me to see Pop today?" The question was indeed; out of the blue, yet Rose wasn't surprised. He raised one brow as if to decline, but he nodded approvingly. "Sure. It's been a while since our last visit."
Gazing at the multihued, golden-bronze surrounding, the graveyard resembled a seasoned Garden of Eden, and the chilly breeze was scarcely felt, if at all. Hackett's blond hair shimmered in the sun, radiating warmth from the closeness to his father. Trapped in the moment, he envisioned a brighter beginning at the end of the tale, now that the zenith of his ripened imagination was harvested into his mind. This fall, he would rise up and reach for the sun. His pure, white, unscathed canvas would be laid out and ready as winter approaches. The profound serenity would become his muse.
"Thank you God, for this blessing," he thought. "We're so busy watching out for what's just ahead of us that we don't take time to enjoy where we are."
As the skies turned as violet as his eyes, Hackett lied on his bed, his fingers caressing the ends of his paintbrush. Leaning on Hackett's bedroom doorframe, Rose asked, "Do you dream about your father often, when you go to sleep?" The blond nodded.
"He was the one who told me to keep on dreaming, in my dreams," Hackett replied absentmindedly.
"I don't want to sound queer, or anything, but; I think we dream so that we don't have to be apart so long. If we're in each other's dreams, we can be together all the time," Rose whispered selflessly.
Both of them might have given it much thought, for there was absolute silence for at least 5 seconds.
Drawing a deep breath, Hackett hinted, "I'm off to sleep now. See you in my dreams," he beamed.
"Good night, mate. I'll meet you there," Rose grinned, before switching off the lights and closed the door.
The dark-haired lad sat on the bench together with a fair-haired elderly man, watching the snow crystals fall, like an early Christmas present from paradise. "You must be Laurence," the wise sage said. "Hackett told me lots of things about you."
"Really?" Rose's cheeks blushed beet red, even in the bracing weather. "Forgive me, I didn't have the chance to, uh, say sorry. About the accident, I mean," he stuttered, as he gazed into the familiar pair of amethyst eyes.
The man smiled. "There's nothing for me to forgive, because you didn't do anything wrong." Rose's gray eyes widened, as wide as the clear, gray, wintry skies.
The conversation was put to a halt as they saw a tall, lanky man walking from the distance, clutching a drawing pad in his arms. As the man drew nearer, he took off his snowcap, revealing his disheveled blond hair. "Sorry, Pop. I'm late."
Rose shook the blond man's gloved hand and proceeded to give a high-five.
"Look who's here," he smirked
"I did tell you that I'm going to see you again, didn't I?"
His footsteps left a trail in the snow.
"What are you drawing?" Rose asked, pushing his glasses up his nose.
"Your home," Hackett answered nonchalantly.
"You mean our home," Rose corrected.
"Uh, yeah. Speaking of the devil," Hackett paused, "Sorry about the door. I'll repaint it with whitewash. Tomorrow. I promise."
As the three men sat on the bench, Hackett began to sketch the world from a different perspective, from a different looking glass.
Hackett Pearce is a dreamer. It is good to know that this time, he has a friend for real, even if he wakes up.
"I'm a misunderstood genius," he confessed.
Rose frowned. "What's misunderstood about you?"
"Nobody thinks I'm a genius".
It's bound to change.