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This was your bro, your ecto-son - the guy whose post-scratch work had a large hand in forming who you were today and whose post-scratch self served as a sort of esoteric father-figure to you.
And you think you might have just inadvertently butt-bumped his forehead.
Welp, so much for first impressions. You’re just kind of lying there now, dizzy and trying to adjust your brain to this… different situation (uh). You’re hoping the floor just might swallow you up if you force yourself into the metal hard enough.
Fuck.
In time, you’ll realise that Dave is very much in the same boat as you, or at least a similar one. Either that, or he’s reeling from a very minor concussion because neither of you get up for quite a while (you think quite a while. Probably more like 5 seconds). Then, you both sit up at the same time and awkwardly made eye contact. Shade contact. Whatever. Fuck Strider parallel… ility. Whatever.
Your heart leaps into your throat when you first properly see him, all pale and lips parted slightly in… confusion? Shock? You’d never been good at deciphering faces, but something about his expression makes you break just a little for reasons unknown. He’s a Strider. That much is sure. You find yourself unconsciously picking out the glaring similarities between the two of you from that moment to the rooftop through clandestine side-glances behind sunglasses. You know, like a creep. You still keep a mental list of them anyway:
You are about the same height, have similarly pale complexions and thick blonde hair with dark eyebrows and eyelashes. The shape of your ears is the same, the shape of your teeth as well. Your heart swells painfully for some reason when you notice the faint freckles splashed across his nose. You recognize your walk in his and you guess sensitivity to light was another thing you passed along to him -
The fucking shades, man.
They slide down his nose as he gazes to the road storeys down, his legs swinging idly. You catch a glimpse of red. It’s stunning in its disconcertion; the hue that bridges the colours of the Striders and Lalondes (you get absolutely carried away in your own mind because he does not want to talk to you, much less look at you.)
And then there are the minute differences within the similarities:
He’s about the same height as you, but more slender (his shoulders aren’t as broad as yours) and his hair and skin are a bit lighter than yours, not as golden, whiter.
Where your hands are large and tactile from years of handling swords and scrap metal, his are longer, more delicate. Surgeon’s hands, you think. You also think the most obvious difference lies in your noses. Yours is straighter, a bit narrower. His is turned up slightly at the end. It’s such a small difference that makes him appear that much more baby-faced and effeminate, reminiscent of a young, pyjama-ed Andy Warhol.
His beauty is obvious (and tragic when you notice the darkness around his eyes from lack of sleep. Yet another thing you have in common).
His voice is mid-range and pleasant. Its shaking and volume crescendos as he airs out secrets from years past. It wounds you, but you understand.
He runs a hand through his hair and you only realise how gentle they are when he wraps his arms around you. Lightly bruised skin peeks out from the collar of his cape, well concealed. You think he must be loved.
You know he is, actually. You put your hand on his back.