Work Text:
Dave’s brother loved him.
Dave knew this because Bro made it clear. He’d gotten Dave glasses that looked just like his. He’d given Dave the only bedroom in their apartment, even though he was much smaller and could comfortably fit in the living room. He’d taught Dave how to use turntables, and he was getting pretty good.
Words weren't shared between the two very often. Anything said was concise, usually in less than 10 words. But they had their shared bond. They could share more through swords, through sick beats, than could ever fit into words.
Dave didn’t go to school, Bro made sure he was homeschooled as early as possible. He didn’t make him do any work, though, which Dave liked. It was more time to practice his sword skills, or watch some stupid shows on TV.
Dave didn’t go out in public much. It wasn’t like he had friends near him to visit, or like he had anywhere to be. The apartment was comfier than the blazing Texas heat most days. Dave didn’t like going out with fresh injuries, which he had a lot of the time. People asked too many questions. They’d stare at him and Bro, give him pitiful looks. It was normal for little boys to be covered in bandages, Bro had said. They’re supposed to be rowdy and messy. Dave believed Bro over everyone else.
When they’d go out to record stores, or to trade-in old games for some quick cash, they’d take the CoolMobile, as Dave liked to call it. It didn’t really have a name, as far as he was aware, but he’d felt pretty cool in the passenger’s seat as a kid and figured it should be appropriately nicknamed. It was a boxy bright-orange car, probably from the 70s or so– Dave didn’t know enough about cars to figure out the actual age. The engine would rev loud, and the inside would smell like something burning, but the seats were leather and it could zoom down the highway faster than any other car. Bro didn’t even make Dave wear a seatbelt, claiming they were for wusses. He wasn’t even sure if the car had any seatbelts; it wouldn’t surprise him if they’d been cut out. But that’s what made the car so cool.
Out in public, when they’d actually go out, Bro always held onto Dave’s hand. It was him leading, guiding, taking charge. You’d think it’d be inconvenient for them both, but they’d made it work. Sometimes Dave would look at something too long when Bro wanted to go, and Bro would tug on Dave. It was how he’d say We need to go. Dave liked that they’d formed their own nonverbal code. He could look past the throb in his shoulder to appreciate the silent ninja system they’d made.
Dave had thought about running away a couple times. It wasn’t that he didn’t like how he lived– he thought his life was pretty awesome– it was more of a fantasy. A little kid like him, out in the big wide world. If he actually did leave, though, Bro would find him pretty fast. Dave knew that. Bro cared about him.
Dave would have maybe liked it if their fridge had actual food. Or if their freezer had ice, at least. Bro had a cooler that he mainly filled with ice and beer, but Dave wasn’t allowed to touch it. Sometimes after strifes, he’d wish he could ice some spots that really hurt. He understood why he couldn’t use the cooler, though. He knew letting a kid so young drink a beer could be bad, or distract him from his training. Dave could push through the pain out of respect for his brother.
If Dave was injured bad enough, sometimes Bro would patch it up for him. Dave knew this went against his belief in self-reliance, but he did it anyway. His cuts were wrapped in slightly-too-tight bandages, his blood wiped up, cold beer bottles held to his bruises. Dave was lucky to have someone take care of him like this.
Dave didn’t like strifes. It was a core part of how Bro raised Dave, and Dave knew that Bro didn’t really want to hurt him. The sun would beam down on the two, and Dave would end up scraped and bruised. The pain was part of the journey. He knew that. Keep working through it. It’s for a greater cause. Dave had to remember Bro’s motivational quotes. His justification for the pain. Dave knew it was all for his own good. He really did.
Dave didn't remember most of his strifes anyway. They all felt like a blur. He’d stand, firm grip on his sword, blink, and find himself laying in bed covered in new bandages and fresh clothes. He wasn’t sure how much he was learning if nothing about any lesson stood strong in his memory. It was okay, though. He could feel himself getting stronger. The ache in his muscles meant he was growing.
The smell of metal was something Dave couldn't stand. Between the swords and blood, it just reminded him of getting hurt. The clinking and grinding of metal was even worse. He’d feel a pit form in his throat hearing any kind of metal make contact.
He didn’t know why these things upset him so bad. He needed to grow. Bro was responsible, he was doing what needed to be done. Dave needed to grow. Dave needed to get stronger.
Every cut from a sword was like a hug from a regular parent.
Every look of disapproval after failing was like a compliment.
Every dirty-handed trick or sneaky move was a fun joke with a regular parent.
It had to be.
Dave was strong now, in ways he could’ve only been because of his training. He could bandage his own wounds. He could go long periods of time on little to no food. He could tell when he was being watched from the darkness.
This would be crucial to his survival, Bro always seemed to imply.
Dave could survive. He’d been doing it as long as he lived in his apartment. Conditions that would’ve killed other kids were the only ones he could imagine. He was strong, he became strong.
Dave thought about death a lot.
He collected animal bones he found when he’d go out with Bro. He thought about the crows that’d flock outside his room, and how they were called murders when they were in groups.
Sometimes he thought about what would happen if he died in a strife.
It was a gross line of thought, Dave knew that. Bro would never let him, anyway. He couldn’t get out that easily. But the thoughts would all follow each other like something falling down the stairs.
He’d get hit too hard, or a sword would slip in slightly the wrong spot. He’d collapse. Bro would take the cool shades off his face and close his eyes. Take him down to the shower and clean off his injuries. Take him back up to the roof and have a funeral with the murder.
Bro would give a eulogy, saying all the words the two could never exchange. Talk about how brave and strong Dave was. Or maybe he’d say nothing. Respond in the same way he’d responded to everything else.
He’d put the body in the trunk and drive out to nowhere. He’d bury it deep in the woods and use the shades as a stone, marking that Here lies Dave Strider, the coolest kid around. And the world would keep spinning.
It would be a noble way to go out. The way he’d think he was supposed to. A life building up to an ironic death. He imagined it, fantasized, even,
more than he’d care to admit.
But Bro would never do anything like that. Dave knew that. The strifes were training, they were in good fun, they were what boys did. They could play fight and then act like nothing happened. Dave could ignore how he’d never landed a hit. Bro would keep ignoring all the hits he’d landed. Things would go exactly the way they always had. And it would be right.
Because Dave’s brother loved him.