Chapter Text
Dirk sighed, eyeing the abandoned carton of apple juice on the front door step. His younger brother had probably forgotten its existence. Sometimes, he liked to equate Dave's attention span to that of a magpie; no matter how hard they tried, both were constantly susceptible to shiny, eye-catching, things.
What was it this time? Did Dave discover another one of Bro's wretched puppets that he'd failed to shred? Did Rose drop off another one of her - ridiculously gaudy - homemade necklaces? Or worse, was it Roxy with their canny ability to tell exactly when Dirk wasn’t home?
Brooding at the entrance would not yield any answers. He would have to enter the battle zone. Many moons ago, the Strider brothers (Dirk and Dave; Bro never counted) had aptly dubbed their humble abode as a ‘battle zone’ after facing the ire of a furious Rose Lalonde. She hated germs and the Striders lived to breed those.
He tentatively entered their home, his left hand clutching his car keys for dear life. Dirk had learnt that his younger brother could be very bizarre, when left unattended for too long. The boy often befriended many dubious people under the guise of appearing ‘cool’.
Dirk hated them.
It wasn’t totally horrendous, though. Dave's newest friend was a cheerful boy named John Egbert. He was a good influence on Dave and, sometimes, Dirk could see remnants of his younger brother that had existed pre-Bro Strider going absolutely insane—
He shook his head viciously. Enough of that. Dirk was a man on a mission and he had to locate his younger brother before dusk fell. Everybody knew that was when Dave began claiming he was lost to the ‘Fields of Awesomeness’ (privately, Dirk believed he'd been trying to reference the Fields of Asphodel but to each their own). Nothing was more infuriating than trying to drag out a teenager from their self-proclaimed afterlife.
A muffled giggle invaded his ears.
“Oh no,” He began dryly, ignoring how the laughter increased in volume upon his acknowledgement. “I wonder if that’s my piss-ass little brother. He's about as tall as thimble, likes apple juice, and also likes to laugh at me.”
A moment of silence passed.
“This is not Dave. Walk away.” Not-Dave warned.
A smirk unwillingly tugged at the corners of Dirk's mouth, despite his best attempts to maintain his rigid poker face. He decided to play along.
“Okay, Not-Dave,” He asserted. Dirk delicately sat cross-legged directly in front of the storage room, where the laughter had first erupted from.
“Do you think you could listen to me? I need some advice.”
Not-Dave was silent for a total of three minutes. To pass the time, the older boy diplomatically laid out sunglasses in front of the closed door as some form of peace offering.
“Speak.” Not-Dave commanded, voice deepening for extra vocal emphasis. Dirk smirked faintly and did as he was bid.
“You see,” He sighed heavily. “I'm a little worried for my piss-ass brother.”
Not-Dave ignored the crude description and jumped straight to questioning.
“Why?”
Dirk grimaced. The Striders never truly deigned to talk about their feelings. He would not be surprised if they all carried some generational trauma related to suppression. After all, they locked themselves away to ultimately cope.
“I think he needs some help but he won’t ask for it.” He admitted softly.
Not-Dave fell into another silence. This one lasted far longer than the last and Dirk had accepted the accruing pins and needles. He observed the dark sunglasses blending in with the room as the sun began to set. Harsh orange light reflected on them temporarily.
“You wanna know what I think?” Came the lazy drawl of Not-Dave, slicing through the thick atmosphere. Dirk pretended like he did not minutely perk his ears.
The storage room door unlocked with a sharp click, and abruptly swung open. He narrowly avoided being whacked in the face with his fast reflexes, borne from a decade of dodging.
(If he ever got his hands on Bro—)
Not-Dave looked remarkably similar to his younger brother. Dirk told him so, and received a self-satisfied smirk for his trouble. It felt good, though. To see this mild imitation of his self-dubbed ‘awesome’ little bro stretch his liberties to the limit — it rejuvenated Dirk.
“I'm actually Dave.” The confession was abrupt.
Dirk blinked. Then, he smiled.
“Nice to see you, bro. I hope the Fields of Awesomeness didn’t capture you again…” They lapsed into gentle chatter as he ushered Dave into the dining room to finally sit down and eat.
It was only when the younger boy had long settled into bed, and Dirk was preparing his glorious daily ritual of passing out at 5am, and awakening whenever Dave needed him, that he realised—
“Huh. He didn’t tell me what he actually thought.”
The Striders carried the nefarious habit of avoiding feelings, and emotional conversations, in their bloodstream.