Chapter Text
Dirk pricks himself with the needle, once, twice, before throwing the entire goddamn puppet down and resting his shaking hands on his legs, drumming a quick, syncopated rhythm against his thigh and squeezing his eyes shut. Dave was probably coming home now, from his first day at high school or whatever public cesspool he was required by law to go to. Pursing his lips, he tried to push all thoughts of his brother out of his brain unsuccessfully, and he growled lowly at nothing in particular before running his hand roughly through his hair, focusing on the faint pinpricks of pain on his scalp to distract him. Dirk had never denied that he was fundamentally screwed up from the deepest molecular level, foot tapping anxiously against the floor as he buried his face in his hands and bending over with a sigh, but this was a new low.
It'd started a month ago, these fucking needling thoughts that prodded at that mass of depravity inside of him - but he'd be damned if he'd ever act on them. Dave’d grew up nice, he’d admit at least that much, but anything beyond that was strictly forbidden territory. He’s all kinds of fucked up, but there are lines not even he’ll cross. This would pass, he’d told himself, but the intrusive thoughts had been appearing more and more frequently lately, until he’d been forced to practically avoid his brother. For all his self-control, he's not so sure this is something that'll go away easily, and Dirk growls lowly under his breath in frustration. His neck snaps up to attention as he hears the faint click-clack of steps in the hallway, and he tenses, grinding his teeth together until his jaw aches and the sounds approach the door with increasing frequency.
Dave practically flings the door open when he walks through it, slamming it with no remnant of his usual grace, backpack slung over his shoulder haphazardly and a textbook in his hand, hair disheveled and a thin sheen of sweat glossed across his skin. Dirk glances up from his sewing machine questioningly, taking his foot off the pedal and gingerly lifting the smuppet from the needles before throwing it nonchalantly into the pile behind him, landing with a faint thud. His eyes scan over Dave's appearance, swallowing thickly before taking a deep breath and biting the inside of his cheek viciously. A dark, dangerous thought passed through his head, hands curling into tight fists on his legs when Dave ran a hand through his hair, drops of sweat making a slow path down his neck. Dirk curses internally, drawing blood by the ferocity with which he clenches down on his lip.
He was fucked up, sure. Dirk had just never thought it'd go this far, pupils darkening when Dave lets out a soft groan under his breath, back sore from the heavy backpack and he watches as his brother lets the textbook plop onto the floor, stretching wearily. His shirt rides up on his waist, a thin strip of skin exposed to the air and Dirk’s breath hitches almost imperceptibly before he exhales all at once, a frustrated huff of air blowing through his nose as he mentally berates himself. Dave shoots him a curious look, but it’s quickly gone, replaced by the exhaustion - Dirk doesn’t blame him either, glancing out a half-shuttered window at the blazing sun outside.
Dave breathes heavily, bending over and resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath, stepping fully inside. Dirk winces at the bright red patches on Dave's face, most notably across his nose and cheeks, ghostly pale skin looking mildly sunburnt in the Texan sun. Dirk gets up, walking into the narrow bathroom before grabbing a bottle of some suspiciously green sunburn aloe crap and padding back out, tossing it to Dave with a quick "Think fast." He catches it, applying some of it with a cringe before dropping the bottle onto the ground, slumping over and shuffling towards the sofa. His face twitches a little, probably stinging, and Dirk pointedly ignores the urge to stare at him when Dave walks by.
"I'm, ah, assuming the first day didn't go so well." Dirk raises an eyebrow, watching as Dave threw his bag onto the floor before sprawling tiredly across the couch, throwing an arm over his eyes and running a hand through his hair. Dirk spots a faint bruise on his cheek, and gives his brother a sharp look at it, a thin spike of anger surging through him when Dave shifts, hiding the injury with his forearm and biting his lower lip.
"Don't really want to talk about it. Shit went as smooth as a knife through butter, except this butter was stale. And rock hard. And the idiot who bought it probably froze it or some shit like that," he says, cursing under his breath and rambling slightly, purposely not talking about the faint purple on his face or the small cuts on his knuckles. Dirk breathes out a sigh, reaching over and adding to the mess on his head even more by ruffling it gently, almost reaching down to run his fingers over Dave’s cheek before he remembers what he’s doing and quickly withdraws his arm a little too quickly, but the younger doesn’t seem to notice. "Who the fuck freezes butter, y'know Bro? That's like how much sense school fucking makes."
"School sucks, lil' man,” he says, not unkindly, chuckling softly at Dave’s expression before continuing. “Got any homework?" Dave groans, rolling over to smother his face into the cushions, kicking his legs futilely at the couch. Dirk isn't unsympathetic - he remembers, vaguely, how high school had been for him. Somehow though, he doubts that Dave will ace his classes as easily as he had himself, and picks up a pen, twiring it through his fingers just to keep his fingers busy - and more importantly, away from his little brother. He winces internally at that thought, but Dave is talking again and he figures that now is not a good time to wallow in self-hatred. Later, maybe.
"What kind of demonic spawn of Satan gives homework on the first day? Jesus, one of them is gonna test us on their goddamn classroom expectations or something like that. Fuck," Dave mumbles, voice muffled faintly by the sofa. Dirk rolls his eyes, throwing a smuppet at him half-heartedly. Dave gave out an indolent squeak, swatting it away with a fatigued whine of "Bro!"
"Watch the merchandise, you little shit," Dave groans in mortification, and Dirk chuckles a little before yanking Dave off the couch by his ankle, cracking a devious smirk when Dave lands clumsily in a pile on the floor. "Go do your goddamn homework, Dave."
Dave huffs out a puff of air, annoyed, before sitting up, shades askew. He pouts a little, looking up at Dirk. Dirk’s chest gives a strange, alien tug, and he muffles the strangled sound that threatened to come out of his throat before looking up at Dave expectantly. "Roof later?" Dave asks.
Dirk gives an indulging nod, and runs a gloved hand through his own hair before walking away, throwing words over his shoulder nonchalantly that earns him a frustrated growl from Dave. "Finish your homework first."
He walks into his own room, closes the door, and paces over to his computer, sitting in it lopsidedly, legs going over an arm rest lazily. Out of sight from his brother, he lets his posture fall into a loose slouch, curling up and breathing out shakily. "Fuck," he growls lowly, because what kind of brother was he? He glances down at his hands, curled up into stiff fists and trembling minutely, and he rips off his gloves, throwing them roughly down onto the table. Dirk stares down at his hands, running a finger over old scars and gross discolorations on his palms before leaning back, resting his lower back against the opposite armrest in a vaguely uncomfortable position.
He stares up at the ceiling and wallows in a thin pool of self-hatred and anger, grabbing a throwing knife from his desk and running it between his fingers before snapping his wrist and embedding it in the opposite wall with a thin crack, hitting some obscure rapper's poster straight between the eyes. He feels like he’s transparent, a thin veneer of skin and bone covering up the turmoil inside of him, guilt and disgust rolling like waves against the shore of his ribs. He wants to tear it out, to open the floodgates in his chest and let it all flow out until he's a bloody mess on the floor, and he'd deserve it.
He stares at the knife in the wall for a long time, eyes unfocused and glassy, body unresponsive and cathartic. Dirk pauses, because for once in his life he is very, very scared, and something about the fear itself scares him.
He'd never been able to resist taking what he wanted. Never really had a reason to, anyways - but this, this is something on a wholly different level, fifty steps up on the hierarchy of depravity he's been climbing his whole life. Anger and disgust - and god, so much of it - churn around his gut until he's sick of everything and he just wants to do something, anything, to ease the pounding pressure in his skull, beating out a swift rhythm of accusation against his brain. He almost laughs - this isn't exactly something he can just channel out, compose freestyles about dreams of fucking your little brother - no, that wouldn't go well. Dirk sighs, feeling jittery, like fifty metric tons of caffeine had been injected into his bloodstream, and he bites his cheek thoughtfully.
Dirk is snapped out of his reverie as two tentative knocks sound on the door, weak and unsteady - almost hesitant. "Bro? Got a minute for this lone warrior, tossed out by the societal constructs of education?" Dave's voice is raspy and muffled from behind the door frame, and Dirk takes a quick moment to compose himself before calling out, "Come in."
The door opens with a slight creak, and Dave shuffles in, smelling like shampoo and with damp hair, holding a textbook gingerly, as if it were radioactive. He stands in the middle of the room awkwardly, and Dirk raises an eyebrow at him expectantly before he speaks. "How are your algebra skills?" Dave says, huffing out a sheepish breath and gesturing to the book, as if it had offended him. Dirk rolls his eyes behind his shades, gesturing for Dave to give him his book. He does so, stepping closer, and Dirk tries his best to ignore the electric dance upon his skin when Dave's fingertips brush against his. Opening the textbook to the page where Dave had stuffed his papers in to function as a crude bookmark, he glances at the problems before giving Dave an unimpressed look.
"You're seriously asking me for help on absolute value equations." It comes out as a flat statement, and Dave sputters, embarrassed. "It's not my fault the teacher's as engaging as listening to paint dry, alright? Plus, I was sleepy as fuck anyways. Now, are you gonna help me or not?" His cheeks are red, blush rising to the surface, and Dirk almost stares until he bites down on his tongue until the pain snaps him back to attention, and he takes a deep breath before explaining the lesson. He'd considered going into engineering or robotics for a long time, but that'd been over with when Dave had come along, giving it up in lieu of staying at home and profiting off the bottom feeders of the internet instead, so the math comes easy to him, numbers and equations rattling off his tongue smooth like his raps Dave admires so much.
Dirk pauses, because suddenly it hits him how central Dave is to him, and vice versa - and it’s terrifying, how it feels when you realize that to someone else, you are their world. Dirk swallows thickly, and when Dave gives him a questioning look, he just shakes his head and marks Dave’s answer wrong again, pointing to the error in his work with a patient sigh. It’s scary how much he’s sacrificed for his little brother as well - he thinks back to the times before Dave was his responsibility, the accepted applications to MIT, CalTech, Stanford - and for a second the nostalgia hurts, brings back memories of hopes and dreams to be someone, but when Dave finally understands the math and looks up at him with barely hidden admiration and gratitude, his thoughts settle, picking up a hand to ruffle Dave’s hair with a quirk of his lips before telling him to hurry the fuck up and finish his homework.
Maybe if Dave thinks he’s someone, that’ll count for something, at least. The thought quiets him, and it gives him a vaguely familiar twist in his chest, and that scares him just as much as their strange codependency, because they have a system and they have roles and they have lines, but this, whatever this was, this was crossing so many lines, Dirk wasn’t even sure he could count all the rules he was breaking. Something lodges in his throat, and he clears it softly, eliciting a curious glance from Dave where he was sprawled out on Dirk’s futon, working on his homework. On any other day, Dirk wouldn’t have hesitated to kick him out, but something in the hunch of Dave’s back today made him hesitate, and he held his tongue. Instead, he flickers his gaze over the faint bruises on Dave’s face, and finally broaches the topic.
“How’d you get hurt?” he asks softly, and when Dave opens his mouth with a fake, plastered on smile, he stops him. “Don’t bullshit me either, I know you didn’t trip over a fucking crack in the sidewalk or something.” The smile slides right off of Dave’s face, and it nudges at something rough and jagged in Dirk’s chest when Dave takes off his shades and looks down, folding them in his lap and turning them in his hands with a melancholy expression. Dirk knows that expression, knows it all too well, he’s known it since he was ten and the first classmate he met pushed him to the ground and kicked him in the ribs for having fucking weird-ass eyes, and when Dave says, “I’m a freak, that’s all there is to it,” it’s all Dirk can do to resist the urge to just - to just do something. Instead, he ignores the cutting pain between his ribs and kneels in front of Dave where he’s seated on the makeshift bed, meets his eyes with his, taking off his own sunglasses.
“Hey, that’s not true, okay, lil’ man?” He tries to soften his voice, but it still comes out gruff - he winces a little, internally, before forging on. “Don’t let anyone give you any shit, ya’ hear me? It ain’t anyone’s fault how they’re born, alright? And hey - if they’re saying you’re different than the rest, take that as a fucking challenge and fuck their shit up to prove just how different you are, alright?” Dave nods, but there’s still a wisp of doubt in his eyes that makes Dirk feel like the most useless guardian in the world, and his fingers curl at his sides, wanting to touch, to comfort, to do something that’d break character completely - but that’s not what Dave needs, that’s not who he is to Dave. He’s aloof, stoic, he’s the brother-father something that is entirely too parental for his own liking, and something bitter worms its way into his thoughts, along with something darker, and he banishes those thoughts as soon as they appear, because he’s not taking advantage of Dave, not that, not him, not like that. He bites the inside of his cheek, and he’s not sure what to do, so he rests a light hand on Dave’s shoulder, nudging him up to look at him.
“Seriously, okay, don’t listen to what those shitheads say about you. It ain’t true,” he says, and he caves for a moment, raising a gloved hand to Dave’s cheek and running a finger over a fading bruise before he almost snaps his arm back, because Dave’s almost leaning into his hand, nodding softly and eyes lidded in weariness, and hell, if that isn’t giving him second thoughts about everything he’s ever done. He almost shoots a resentful thought at Dave for teasing him, but he shuts that part of his subconscious up, horrified, because Dave is definitely not the one at fault here. The wave of guilt hits him hard, and every breath feels like wind rattling through dried leaves in autumn, deadened and wistful through his lungs. He swallows until the slight nausea twisting its way through his gut is gone, grinding his teeth together before pulling away from Dave entirely, getting back on his feet and sitting firmly in his chair, at least far enough away to keep him from doing anything stupid. There's a strange cruelty in loving someone, the contradictory hate for making you so earth-shatteringly dependent on them, and that's the most painful part of it all. He swallows it down, forcing his eyes back up to examine the injuries again, before giving his brother a mischievous glance.
"Give those assholes double what you got, hear me?" Dave shoots him a smug smirk at that, and Dirk feels a strange pride blossoming through him when Dave describes, in detail, the "thorough and complete comeuppance served to those shits, Strider style." Still though, even after the fierce protective streak was quenched, Dirk itched to put his hands on the injuries for a whole other purpose, thoughts turning onto a completely new track as he thought about marking on top of them, possessive and dark until he recoils from his own brain in horror, leaning back in his chair and pressing a firm poker face on before internally imagining slitting his jugular with a knife, just to escape the barrage of horrible, terrible things rising to the surface. Almost as if on cue, thoughts of tenderly treating the injuries bubble up, thoughts of gentleness and courtship - and those scare Dirk so much more than any messed up fantasy, because that differentiates him from all the other freaks on the block, and he turns back around to his computer before Dave can spot the cracks in his facade.
He lets his head plop back against the crappy headrest, exhaling softly and rubbing his eyes beneath the shades wearily. He feels so, so tired and old - and he cracks a dark, indulgent smile at that, because compared to Dave, he really, truly is. It's strange really, how his frame of reference was made up of Dave and only Dave, where lately his internal rambling'd started to compare everything, subconsciously, to Dave. The logic is shady at best, and the echoes of his brother's name bouncing around in his head makes Dirk queasy. His brother was his reference point, and the extent to which that holds true is equal parts shaming and frightening. They're in orbit around each other, and Dirk is certain that his gravity will cause them to collide in a sick, mutually assured destruction. He feels ants crawling over his skin at the proximity to Dave, and he stands.
"I'm gonna take a shower," he mutters, Dave nodding disinterestedly before he steps into the bathroom and shuts the door, resting his head against the wood with a dull thunk. He strips quickly, business-like, eager to get into the water and scratch his skin raw. Dirk takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror, ego snapping up the firm outlines of muscles throughout his body before stepping into the shower.
He lets the water run over him and squeezes his eyes shut, imagining that they could wash his sins away and let them just flow down the drain - but then he snaps back to reality, a glimpse of red eyes and pale, flushed skin flashing behind his eyelids before he's slamming the temperature setting as cold as it'd go. Dirk perches there for minutes that seem like hours, shivering and disgusted with himself until he finally tears himself out of his self-pitiful stupor and shuts off the water viciously, trotting over to the sink and splashing more water on his face until his eyes burn and he's not sure if the tears reflexively prickling his eyes are from the water or not. He stands there and thinks, arms bracing his body against the ceramic with a slight tremble that sends fierce waves of irrational anger coursing through him until his emotions calm into something malleable and he can regain enough control to slam them down beneath the surface again. He double checks his poker face, satisfied at the lack of tells before donning the pointy shades resting on the sink with a sigh, wrapping a towel around his waist and staring at the drips and puddles on the floor, irritated.
He leaves the water there, too lazy to do anything but let them evaporate on its own time. Walking back out of the bathroom, he finds Dave in the same spot, homework left ignored and open as the younger sprawled out on the sheets, pair of headphones clasped securely over his ears. His eyes were shut, fingers twitching faintly along to the beat and mouthing the lyrics softly. Dirk doesn't bother talking to him over the faint rumbling of the obnoxious bass, just tosses a note at him and flashsteps away. He needs to get away, to get the thoughts away until nothing exists but the heat of the battle and the pounding of his heart in his chest.
"Strife, now," it read, sharp scrawl scratched messily into the paper, and by the time Dave roused himself from his shallow stupor, Dirk was already waiting on the roof, steel in hand and staring out at the Houston skyline. Staring down morbidly, he wonders what it feels like to fall - to tumble through the air until the inevitable landing, bones fracturing and pain. In a way, he guesses, he already knows.
Dave opens the door, but instead of his normal blade, he held a thin sword that was usually stashed away in a fridge or two, needle sharp point flashing in the light as he swung it around idly. His fingers beat out a rough rhythm against his leg in anticipation, rounded aviators reflecting Dirk's face in the lenses. Dirk sweeps his eyes over his torso before stopping himself, quickly glancing away and focusing instead on the sword.
Dirk raises an eyebrow, eyeing it curiously.
"Seriously?"
“Bro, just humor me, okay?” Dirk rolls his eyes a little but relents, dropping his preferred katana in lieu of a rapier from the stash on the roof behind the ratty air-conditioning unit, recalling the stance from years ago. He winces internally at the shakiness in his posture - he hasn’t fenced in a long time, but he isn’t worried. His reflexes are diamond sharp, eyes flashing as he parries and lunges, breath coming out in smooth inhale-exhale-exhale cycles. The almost-dancing thrill of the fight is strangely familiar, fire in Dave’s eyes as he hops back and forth with surprising grace, footwork impeccable as he executes a perfect riposte, scoring a light tap on Dirk’s chest. The older Strider’s lips quirk upward, tipping the bill of his cap upwards in acknowledgement.
“Touché,” Dirk calls out, with an accented, lilting drawl, and a hint of something dangerous sparks back in Dave’s eyes before he lunges again and again, swords flashing. They parry and dodge and lunge, footwork graceful and quick, and it seems like hours before they stop, both breathing heavily, swords at each other’s throats in a standstill. Dirk feels the aggression die down at the lull, the fierce, slow-burning battle high dying down. Their eyes meet, and Dirk feels that familiar, horrifying stutter in his chest before quickly masking the guilt and pain behind a well-practiced poker face, lowering his sword and giving a genuine smile with a mocking bow. “Right of way, lil’ bro.” They break apart, then, Dirk noticing the practiced too-straight gait of Dave masking up soreness in his legs and arms, deciding to take it easy on him. School's tough, he muses, and he gives Dave a vaguely indulgent half-smile, lips quirking upwardly just enough to be noticable.
Dave smirks triumphantly, and Dirk lets him have his moment before quickly sidestepping behind him and ruffling his hair, grabbing his sword and throwing it back into their makeshift stash in the old, broken A/C unit on the roof. Usually, he'd just go back down to their apartment first, but Dirk hesitated before throwing Dave an apple juice can from the cooler perched on top of the unit precariously and grabbing an orange Fanta for himself, sitting beside Dave on the roof's edge, feet dangling perilously off of it. Dave pops the tab, a faint hissing crackle of air seeping from the top, and Dirk does the same, gulping down a mouthful of the soda and relishing the carbonated burn as it slides down his throat.
"Hey, Bro," Dave starts, licking his lips and pausing to take a sip of cider, "have you ever felt so bad about something that you've just wanted to..." he trails off, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. "Do something stupid. Hypothetically." Dirk nods slightly, turning the words around in his head and slicing them up in search of hidden meaning until there's nothing left but jumbled letters.
"Hypothetically," Dirk repeats skeptically, raising an eyebrow and viciously smothering the threads of hope that peeked their way out of his heart desperately at Dave feeling bad about...something. He looks down at his drink, gulping down a mouthful before wiping his mouth on the back of a glove. "How stupid are we talking here, exactly?"
"Like, not really stupid, just...wrong. Really fucked up. Like some Hannibal Lecter all up in this shit, minus the cannibalism and just leaving the giant mess of issues and guilt and trauma," Dave replies, a hint of a strange timbre - is that nervousness? - in his voice. "Not right." Dirk remembers listening to Dave's vacant ramblings for days about how Silence of the Lambs was a cinematic masterpiece, and vaguely recollects something about the villain eating his sister.
It's ironic, and not even in the good sense anymore.
"Way to be vague," Dirk responds, fixing his gaze determinedly at the horizon and not at Dave. "It depends on what you want, honestly. That's the most important thing. Doesn't matter what others think. S'long as it makes you happy, lil' man, go for it. Ain't the Strider way to not take what you want," he continued, vehemently ignoring his inner conscience’s cries of "hypocrite!" - because Dave isn't worth his selfishness, isn't worth his idiosyncrasies. He curls his hand tightly around the soda can, sloshing its contents around before downing the rest in one fell swoop, feeling Dave's eyes on him.
"What I want," Dave repeated doubtfully, keeping his eyes fixed on the horizon. Dirk pursed his lips, before settling his hand tentatively on Dave's shoulder, rolling his shirt between his fingers thoughtfully.
"Listen, kid," he says, with a soft sigh. "We always want what we can't have, right? That's just the way shit works." Dirk pauses, flicking a few pebbles off the roof and watching them fall down to the pavement below, tumbling in flight before dropping out of sight. He swallows thickly. "Fuck that. Who the hell says what we can and can't have, right? Go for whatever you want and don't regret nothing, y'hear?"
Dave nods slowly, hint of red irises flashing below the shades as his head dips down, and he relaxes minutely. Dirk debates whether or not to inquire further before deciding, why the hell not.
"What are you planning?" He means for the question to come out innocently, curiously, but to him it just sounds desperate and pained. Dave evidently doesn't notice, rolling his eyes before replying.
"Gonna give those fuckers the time of their lives tomorrow. I'll ask Egbert to help out, god knows he loves that prankster shit." The answer makes sense, but Dirk can't shake the feeling that that's not all there is to it. He pushes it away - he's probably just projecting, he reasons. Holding a dark chuckle, Dirk wonders how long it'll take for him to start projecting his more deeper desires onto Dave, before recoiling instantly in horror and disgust, barely escaping a visible reaction. Instead, he crushes the can in his fist, the sound crackling aluminum a balm to his anger. For a moment, he imagines the sound are his bones crushing on the pavement, and it doesn't sound too bad anymore, honestly. Dave doesn't look at him, eyes affixed on the fading light in the distance.
Dirk lets Dave lean on him, facing the setting sun and watching it go down, leaving the Houston skyline wrapped in a blanket of darkness. They glance at each other, wordlessly getting up simultaneously. Dirk offers Dave a fistbump, a silent acknowledgement of his swordplay today, and Dave returns it with a barely visible smile. Dave walks back down into their top floor apartment first, leaving Dirk alone on the roof, hands curled up at his sides and nails digging into black gloves with a dull ache in his palm. He stands there for a long time, staring up at the sky, lost in his thoughts until the air is chilled and Dirk can almost see his breaths as they puff out in the night. He curses under his breath, fingers itching for something - he pulls out a cigarette, flipping out a lighter and lighting the end, putting the flame out with a quick flick of his wrist before taking a deep drag of smoke into his lungs. He'd sworn off cigs for a long time, but he'd never been good at resisting temptation, the hedonistic bastard that he is.
Dirk repeats that last thought in his head before throwing the cigarette down with gritted teeth and bringing his foot down on the stub.