Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“it— it had started out a good day. well, at least i think it did…?”

bryan's hands tremble as he speaks, trying not to let the flood of emotions washing over him be too visible. he knows he can repress them down deeper, but that would freak dylan out. he also knows that if he lost control of the reins, he'd break down immediately. 

that was the worst part about being part of the portal, bryan thinks. it takes everything so literally. flashbacks aren't just glimpses of memory, no, they're far worse— he relives it word for word. he feels his mind melt as the world around him crumbles, and he forgets anything that was happening before and plays his part perfectly. 

though, it is rather easy; he had no clue he was acting, after all. 

the effect lingers after the flashback dissipates too, like salt in a wound; a previously forgotten and yet painfully reopened wound, that is. it takes time to restore his mind to its current state; its awfully fragile when like that of a child's, after all.

but, at the very least, the resculpting of bryan's mind brings him comfort. memory floods back and familiarity returns, and the mental walls bryan has worked so hard on making just right come back into place. with the melting, it's different— he knows this is wrong, yet the nostalgia is comforting. as those old clothes are slipped back on and his body shrinks and reverts, he tries so hard to fight the sensation of becoming that sweet, naïve, unshielded child. 

yet, he always fails. perhaps it's for the best, though; this is the only state in which he remembers his script. after all, it's only a couple of minutes, isn't it?

bryan bites his tongue, attempting to hold back spare tears. the flashback is over now, yes? then he should be fine. why is he shaking and tripping over his words and unable to think? he's just… sitting there, desperately trying to recall the sensation.

and dylan just sits there with him. her tail is swaying softly, and her legs are crossed as she waits for bryan to gather his words. god, she's so patient. why is she so fucking patient?

“it w…was, um—” bryan tugs on loose strands of hair, trying to properly speak. he hates how hard he makes this for himself. it's like a balancing act; if he doesn't perfectly even out his feelings and emotions, he'll crumble. he's already enough of a mess now, he doesn't need his little sister to see how truly pathetic he is. 

“take your time,” dylan says, and bryan can't help but choke back a sob. he's not quite sure why those three words have absolutely destroyed him. he's sputtering and stumbling and making a fool out of himself, and yet dylan waits. bryan has done nothing but make her wait.

bryan finally manages to breathe, and he tries to find his words. “...mom and d-dad. fighting. i got involved, i t-think—?” there's silence for a moment, and bryan's breath hitches. the memory replays in his head over and over again, an annoying song that just won't stop playing. dylan nods for him to continue, and he falters for just a second. 

“she… she hit me.”

dylan's face falls. it's only for a moment, but it's long enough for bryan to notice. “it— it was an accident!!” he stammers out, but he's lying. he knows full well he’s lying. part of him hates himself for lying to dylan, but he already sees her poorly hidden rage and he can't take it.

bryan sighs, before starting again. “matthew— no, dad, um… took me to your mom's after that. i-it was before you were born, i think? but they, uh— were friends…? colleagues? work buddies? i dunno.” 

the silence is thick, and dylan cuts through it with a knife. “why did she hit you?” 

bryan freezes. oh god, that's the one question he didn't want to answer. his hands start shaking, and air escapes his throat. god, how does he even go about answering that?? he could say the truth of ‘i don't know’, but that would probably fuel her anger into fury. 

“i mean… i k-kinda deserved it—?” the words make bryan feel sick to his stomach, and the look on dylan's face makes him feel sicker. dylan cups bryan’s face with her hands, wipes a few tears from his eyes. she pulls him closer and gives him a small kiss on the forehead. 

“you didn't deserve it, bryan, you were eight.” her voice is soft and quiet like it usually is, but with a newfound firmness. “no eight year old deserves to listen to constant fighting and get hurt by the people who should care. if you'd be upset it happened to someone else, you should be upset that it happened to you.”

and with that, bryan finally loses control. the reins are lost, his balancing act coming to a harsh end, and he sobs. he clings onto dylan and stains her nice letterman jacket with snot and tears, and yet she holds him and waits. she doesn't make any comments about how he's an ugly crier, she doesn't get fed up and tell him to stop clinging on so tight; she just hums a tune to ease him. 

when bryan finally finishes his sobbing, he still holds on tight to dylan. her presence is comforting, soft and gentle but still harsh and firm when needed. even if her own life is also a wreck, she provides a sense of stability for bryan, a stability he never had growing up. a stability he never has now, and has to reach out and long for. 

“you feeling better now?” dylan asks when bryan pulls away. “not meant to, like, rush you or anything—”

bryan shakes his head. “no no, it's fine!!” a soft layer of silence follows, and bryan embraces it. he's never been the type to enjoy an awkward silence, but it's not awkward right now. it's peaceful. 

after a moment, bryan manages to mutter out a small “thank you.” dylan nods, gives him another gentle kiss on the forehead. 

“of course. i love you.” 

for the first time, bryan manages to reply to that phrase with sincerity: “i love you too."

Chapter Text

“bryan.”

dylan's sharp tone startles bryan out of a hypnotically-induced daze, and he turns to look at her. deep eyebags coat his wide eyes, and his grip on the ladder rail tightens. the attic isn't very far up, but it's dark and probably horrifically dusty. the thought of it makes dylan's skin crawl. 

when bryan stares at dylan, she can feel her expression soften. in a quiet voice, she asks; “are you sure you don't want me to come up there with you? in case something like—” dylan gestures vaguely. “that happens again?”

there's a pause, and bryan smiles at her. it isn't one of those happy bright smiles that bryan puts on at work and in front of crowds, the ones that don't reach the corners of his eyes. it's soft, reassuring. it makes dylan less tense. bryan's able to do that to her so easily; no one smiles at her like bryan does. 

“i'll be fine, okay? i promise.” bryan goes up to dylan and squeezes her hand. it's weird being able to feel his calloused fingers, and his thumb rubbing against the illusion disk on her hand softly. “if i start struggling or find something that i want you to see, i'll let you know?”

dylan nods. “okay.” she hates the feeling of his hand pulling away from her, hates the rattling sound as he climbs the creaky ladder steps. but dylan knows this isn't about her until she lets him in; dylan has had her whole life to grieve, and bryan has only started processing a couple months ago. 

so, she watches him ascend. he turns around, shoots dylan a wink and a finger gun. she can't help but snicker, and she finger guns back. and with that, he's gone, deep in the darkness. and then, she waits.

dylan remembers the day bryan told her about the attic. he had just come back from a therapy session, one that was apparently really good for him after the fact. he had come to her doorstep, shaking, asking dylan if they could talk, just for a moment. 

the attic was a trigger. carefully implanted deep into his brain by years of hypnotherapy. methodically planned sessions to make bryan “just right.” he had said that he thought he was just never interested in going up there, that there wasn't anything odd about it. it clearly scared bryan. 

they had a long talk about it. bryan had, surprisingly, not called his parents. his therapist said it'd only make it worse. but he was horrified and angry, and dylan was given a chance to help, of course she'd take it. and they got a really good discussion out of it, too; they talked about agency and autonomy, their childhood, what could be up there. 

and of course bryan and dylan wanted to know what's up there. what could be so bad that bryan needed to be conditioned to not go up there, not express interest in it, not even think about it? there had to be something up there, a piece of the puzzle lost and yearning to be found. that's why they're here, after all.

bryan's voice suddenly cuts through the air. “d-dylan?” his voice is wavering, choked out like a sob. it makes dylan stiffened in place, peering up into the darkness of the attic. 

“bryan? are you okay??” one, two, three beats of silence. dylan feels bile crawl up her throat. “i'm gonna come up there, alright?” her hands grab onto the creaky ladder. she hates the groaning noise it makes as she climbs up, but she persists. he needs her. 

it takes a moment for dylan's eyes to adjust to the dark, but then she sees it. he's hunched over something, shaking. she can hear him crying. “come— come over here,” he mutters, just loud enough for dylan to listen in and comply.

the first thing that catches dylan's eye is the book. it's big and pink, littered with happy photos from when bryan and dylan were young. each photo has a cute handwritten note. dylan stares at it, staring and staring and unable to peel her eyes away. because, really, how could she? it's his words, his writing. it's all that's left of him.

the other thing that catches her eye, though, is the urn.

it's basic silver, with fancy engravings in it. as if that'd make the loss any less painful, any less heart wrenching. the basic stuff is engraved on it. name, date of birth and death, a little phrase; “the sun shined brighter when he was here.” dylan supposes the urn is right.

bryan's voice cuts the silence; “it's— it's all up here.” his words are small, barely speaking above a whisper. “my god, dylan, t-they hid more from me.” dylan hears him choke down a sob. “i want out.”

dylan pauses. “are you sure?” bryan nods, wiping tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. matthew's jacket. she hates how it clicks in her brain. 

“okay. let's get out of here.”

they take everything home that day. the urn, the photobook, dozens of matthew's belongings. bryan keeps the urn on his lap the ride home, trailing his fingers on  the engraving. dylan rests a hand on the urn. “it'll be okay.”

“are you sure?” bryan responds, grasp on the urn tightening. he looks at dylan with those watery doe eyes in an expression she hardly ever sees; one of a deep sadness that she struggles to grasp. 

despite this, she smiles. “i'm positive."