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Dirk squinted against the sudden cascade of light as Dave’s name was announced. He felt guilty about paying more attention to the way the back of his hair looked on the two big projection screens than watching his brother make his way up to the stage, but it was hot and his style had fallen and there were cameras. He sipped at his too-condensated glass of water as Dave hiked the stairs, his slim-fitting suit creasing just about his ass with every step— Dirk wasn’t watching, not really, but he should’ve been. It was his brother’s first Real Win, the kind that appeared on Google headlines within minutes and would go on to forever junk up the covers of DVD cases in raised, wheat-bordered text.
“Huh,” Dave breathed into the mic, his bourbon still sloshing in a glass he’d brought up on stage with him. He paused, before raising it to his lips and drinking for one, two, three, four seconds, until it became evident he was draining his glass and the moment became comedic. The audience laughed. Barks and applause broke out again when he finished and nonchalantly toasted no one in particular.
“Three blockbusters later and all you tightwads at the Academy decide to give me is a glorified Vitruvian butt plug,” he drawled, handling his award in his opposite hand. Dirk leaned back in his seat.
“You know, I’d always imagined this moment going a little differently, but since Sir Patrick Stewart refused to be my plus-one tonight, I’ll take what I can get,” he said, completely straight-faced. More laughter. Dirk internally groaned at the performance, which may or may not have been worsened by the all the alcohol his brother chugged. Dave’s category was pretty late in the lineup this time around, and attendees were steadily losing their composed sobriety by the minute. One R. Lalonde (seated two tables away with her daughter and Daniel Craig’s wife) was particularly guilty of sloppy inebriation. She kept winking at Dirk and pointing at her eyebrow, which really made fuckall sense— he was quite certain that he still had both of his (carefully shaped and attended to; shut up, Jake, it’s called attention to detail).
It kind of made him nervous. She knew something was up between Dave and him, and he gave her more credit than to drop hints about their incestuous schlong hockey in public, but it was scraping at his insides like a rusty spoon. The scary part about Rose wasn’t the fact that she got into everyone’s business. Rather, she had a knack for weeding out the darkness in everyone and disappearing into it for weeks, until it wasn’t apparent if she was judging you (behind the charming smile and childish demeanor) or simply waiting to strike. Dirk assumed that’s why she had Dave wrapped around her finger— and why it was so easy for Dirk to coerce him as well.
Drunk, it only made Rose lose whatever battle plan she’d intended on adhering to. Dirk really couldn’t afford that sort of unpredictability, so he’d been texting Roxy in an attempt to get a handle on the situation. Dave had since been schmucking up his Best Original Screenplay acceptance speech. Strangely enough, he was behaving himself.
“… So I guess I owe a big one to the execs at Warner, my co-producer the darling Mr. Apatow, Jim and Havana at Stereo D, the entire crew over at Divide Nine …”
Dirk’s phone finally lit up and vibrated loudly against the table. He got a reprimanding look from an elderly man three seats over before he hurriedly picked it up.
tipsyGnostalgic [TG] started pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 07:12 PM.
TG: sup boiii
TG: u happy for your bro?
TG: look at him up there all swaggery n doin his thing what a badsass
TG: *badass
TG: fuckin swoon
TG: yooo what were you talking about earlier w/the “ur mom” thing
TG: well my mom w/e you know what i mean
TT: Yeah, he’s a regular media savant. Wind him up and watch him go.
TT: Rose keeps sending me signals that I can’t read either because she’s as far gone as a frosh sorority recruit at a kegger or because it’s a Lalonde Thing.
TT: Patent pending.
TG: looool no shes p drunk
TG: def not a lalonde thing because i cant understand her for shit rn either
TG: she keeps trying to play hangman with me on a napkin
TG: the fuck is pederastquie is french even allowed in hangman
TG: *pederastique/
TG: *?
TT: Oh my god.
TG: ???
TT: Don’t worry about it.
TT: Just make sure she doesn’t, you know, say anything.
TG: about what
TT: You know what I’m talking about.
TG: oh u mean
TG: bareback mount him
TG: starring the illustrious striderbros
TG: nah she wont/p>
TT: Call me a nonbeliever but I’d assumed she held her liquor better.
TG: eh shes a rookie but u know how it goes
TT: I’m just being preemptively cautious for obvious reasons. Look at the reaction Dave gets when someone gives him a platform and holds a spotlight on his apotheosized bullshit.
TT: Don’t get me wrong, Hollywood loves a success story, but it tears the fuckin’ flesh off of its fallen angels. Nobody likes an Icarus tragedy.
TT: By that I mean Icarus is Dave and his wings are made of slicked-up underaged foreskin.
TG: ok eww
TG: but i get what u mean sorta
Dave began to finish up with a nod to his lead actors, agent, and Cantonese sign language interpreter. Dirk looked up from his phone.
“… And last but not least, the legendary Rose Lalonde, without whom I would not be standing here today; may your success continue to skyrocket and fuel your obstinate refusal to remove your nasty bare feet from my coffee table on Sunday afternoons."
The cameras caught her reaction, which was an ever-classy PHHHHHBBBBTT! of a raspberry.
“All of my love to her daughter Roxy, and none of my love to my smelly prima donna of a little bro Dirk. Thank you.”
Despite what he said, Dave locked on to Dirk and made a nod in his direction. Dirk quietly thanked the gods of television that Dave’s collar was high enough to cover last night’s hickeys.
He looked down when his phone vibrated again.
TG: but still
TG: i think everything will turn out ok
Dirk read her last sentence with a bit of a weight in his chest. He offered a smile when she looked over at him.
TT: Yeah.
TT: You’re probably right.
He squinted. He was never so anxious in his life.
How and when everything would blow up in their faces, he didn’t know. It was easy enough keeping “the relationship” (as it’d been dubbed) in confidence with the Lalondes, but the investigative media was steadily getting a foothold on their personal lives. Dirk had somehow become a spectacle in his own right; his achievement in the robotics field was only further broadcasted by the fact that he was Dave Strider’s Brother: sixteen, an honorary member of MENSA, and one of Time Magazine’s Most Influential People of 2012 for advancement in ambulatory prosthetics.
(That was a weekend project. It wasn’t meant to be a Thing. It was fueled by several boxes of Kid Cuisine and a marathon of Storage Wars.)
Back when Dave had finally given in and let Dirk touch him, it wasn’t too hard to handle. Dirk had a shameless sort of obsession; nothing meant more than to feel Dave’s gaze settle on him, or to have the rougher skin of his hands scrape against the back of his neck or his cheek or his hip bones. It was a crushing problem that invaded his concentration, yet the thought that it was unhealthy for a fifteen year-old to study the lines of his guardian’s naked body never crossed his mind for long.
It was simple and satisfying to lust after Dave when the only innocence he had to worry about was his own. But now, with the possibility of legal catastrophe, Dirk could single-handedly ruin his brother’s life forever.
It was terrifying, dangerous, and an incredible, conscious-crushing turn-on.
“Bam,” Dave said as he set the award trophy down on the table in front of Dirk, snapping him out of his daze. “The real deal this time. None of that plastic ‘World’s Best Dad’ cop-outtery you got me for Fathers’ Day once.”
“I was six and you teared up.”
“You were seven and you were holding out on me.”
Dirk slugged him in the arm and pocketed his phone. Quentin Tarantino was currently waddling his way up to the stage. Dave may have beat him in the Original Screenplay category, but he still had a long way to go before gunning against the pool of Best Directors.
(Well, at least in the eyes of the Academy. It wasn’t Dave’s fault they couldn’t understand half the content in his movies.)
“So how’s it feel, hot-shot.”
“What, winning an Oscar?”
“No, having my cock shimmy its way up your urethra, what do you think,” Dirk said, kicking a foot up on his opposite knee.
“Jesus, I told you I wasn’t into sounding,” Dave said, hailing a server for another drink. He paused before asking Dirk if he wanted one too, but Dirk casually explained that the rest of the world didn’t take kindly to sixteen year-olds getting sloshed in public. Dave explained that it was technically a private event, and the world actually loved that sort of thing.
“Textbook Lindsay Lohan.”
“What?” Dave asked.
“If you were famous and my age, you’d be a textbook Lindsay Lohan—- don’t give me that look, you know it’s fuckin’ true. Insecure and reliant on the attention of others? That’s you.”
Dave grimaced. “Dude. No. One, I’m not ‘insecure’,” he said, making air-quotes, “And two, I’ve never agreed to work with Charlie Sheen in this or any lifetime, so I hardly constitute as having Lohan-brand desperation.”
“Okay, maybe not Lohan-brand.”
“Maybe Strider-brand. Dirk-Taking-It-Up-The-Ass-Against-The-Dishwasher-Because-He-Couldn’t-Wait-To-Bring-It-To-The-Bedroom-brand.”
Dirk cracked a smirk, but nudged him before he could go on. “Grab your drink.”
Dave turned to the server with a mumbled “thanks”. It was one thing for a judgment-impaired Rose to let a few grimy details slip in public, but Dave was just as careless himself. Luckily for everyone, he could write it off as “sarcasm”. Or something.
“But yeah, it’s kind of cool I guess. Come a long-ass way from SBaHJ comics drawn on KFC napkins,” Dave said, leaning back comfortably. “I got a little too excited up there. I think I almost looked like I cared.”
Dirk’s phone vibrated again, and he spoke while checking it. “Damn shame.”
TG: o so mom says theres an afterparty and were not allowed to go because were poopy babies
TG: wanna drink at home w/me
Dirk shot a glance over at the other table, where Rose and Roxy were currently balancing breadsticks between their noses and upper lips. Both fell off immediately and they laughed in tandem.
TT: Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass.
TT: It looks like you’ve already got a head start on the fun, and that’s just cheating.
TT: Ask for a couple of waters next time the waiter comes around, yeah?
Dave set his glass down. It was already half-empty.
“You should hang out. You don’t get to see Roxy that often anyway.”
“Stop reading over my shoulder,” Dirk said. “You going with Rose?”
“Mmmmmmmm. Probably.”
“All right.” Dirk slouched and opted to watch one of the final award winners cry during her speech.
“Is that okay,” Dave said flatly. Dirk stared at the actress.
“Are you asking if I’m cool with going home alone, or are you asking me for permission to go out?”
Dave swirled his drink around in his hand, making an unnecessary clinking noise. He did it for a few seconds before saying anything. “Iunno. Sup to you.”
The audience broke into applause as the actress finished up and the emcees concluded the event. Dirk breathed out a sigh of glorious relief and pitched his head backwards against the top of his chair, blinking periodically against the flashes of lights and cameras scouring the theater top-down. “You don’t have to humor me,” he started, though he wasn’t sure if Dave could really hear him over the music that started playing. “I appreciate the effort and all, but I’d rather you go out and celebrate how you want to celebrate.” He cocked his head back up. “You know?”
Dave didn’t say anything, but twisted around to look at Rose’s table as guests began to filter out. She already had her opera wallet in hand and was saying goodbye to a reporter before she turned and waved at Dave. Her face was red, but she still looked pretty. Both her and Roxy stood and edged their way around scooted-out chairs and cameramen getting shots for the tv credits.
”Congrats Strider, you’re a bona-fide, Academy-approved tool now,” Rose smiled, extending a hand to shake. Dave stared at it, and lifted an eyebrow in greeting.
“Flattery will get you everywhere, tutz.”
She leaned down to hug him, laughing much too whole-heartedly to be anything resembling “graceful”.
“No, really, I’m proud. It takes a lot for someone to find the right balance between niche artistic genius and mainstream preference, so kudos,” she said, though it took her a few tries to get the sentence out without flubbing it. “Bluh. Can’t talk after two and a half Long Islands. Whoops.” She then perched her squishy, gown-padded ass upon Dave’s lap, and he let out a small groan.
“Chick on my dick.”
“Maiden on your maypole,” she corrected.
Roxy set her DS down on the table and hopped up on Rose’s lap, effectively sandwiching Dave down further. “Wow gross,” she giggled.
“Please stop,” Dirk deadpanned, the bridge of his nose dropping down to meet his fingertips.
“Dirk, sweetie, you’re a party pooper, and you’re too young to understand the nuance behind grown-up things like penis jokes.”
“That’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one.”
Dave made a noise from underneath the pile of Lalondes. “What was that?” Rose asked, leaning her head back into the crook of his neck.
“I said, did you still want to go to that after-party?”
Roxy motioned for Dirk to complete the chain and sit on her lap, but he very assuredly shook his head. Rose fingered the edge of the table.
“It’d be courteous to show up, at least. It’s not every day I’m on the West Coast,” she hummed. Dirk noticed the way Dave moved when she spoke; it must’ve tickled to have her mouth so close to his jaw like that.
Dave was always really sensitive around that area. A strange pang of something like jealousy hit Dirk’s insides, and he stared at Rose’s open-toed heels as he tried to lasso in his emotions.
It wasn’t that he disliked having Dave and Rose interact; the Lalondes visited frequently enough that they had their own box of tampons stashed away under the bathroom sink at the apartment. Still, Dirk had a hunch that the two had been an item in the past, or at least something scandalously close to Friends With Benefits. They certainly teased each other in ways that led the media to believe they were an on-again, off-again fling, and humor aside, it was plausible from an outside point of view. In his gut, though, he knew they weren’t right for each other— not in that sort of way. She definitely got under Dave’s skin, but he never warranted it. With Dirk, he opened up— let all advice go to good use, and let his mouth do more than talk eloquent jabs at his lack of masculinity. Dave breathed heavy for him.
Still, Dirk’s possessiveness was a monster of its own. For years as a kid, he domineered Dave’s attention, and for months as a lover, he wasn’t much better. His rational side told him that people needed to have their own space to breathe, but it was hard when he was used to seeing his brother bring home three people a week to fuck. Dirk made frequent trips to the refrigerator back then, gathering up nothing in particular just in an effort to be seen around the house. Look at me, Dave. Look at me, look at them, think of me while you look at them.
No. Dave had given him plenty of space in the form of absence. Dirk was simply reclaiming his rightful time.
It was a shitty sort of sociopathic way to think, but at least Dirk acknowledged it.
“Roxy, get off me, will you sweetie?” Rose finally asked, gripping the table to stand up. Roxy pulled the hem down on her shorter cocktail dress.
“I can’t feel my legs, doc,” Dave muttered, stretching them out before getting up from his seat. “Well, night’s been fun, but I think I’m turning in.”
“You’re not going after all, huh?” Rose asked. Dirk looked up, curious.
Dave collected his things from the tabletop. “I want Dairy Queen and I want bedtime.”
“Tame much?” Roxy said.
“I’m past my prime.”
“You’re thirty-five,” Roxy teased. “What a drama queen, god.”
They moved from the table as a unit, slowly ascending the walkway up and out of the theater. Rose paused to whisper something in Dave’s ear, to which he made a Face. Dirk didn’t really want to know, so he hugged Roxy and thanked her for the talk.
“Call you later?” he offered. She nodded.
“Definitely.”
—
Dirk rode with his head back against the plush leather interior of the limousine, the twinkling neon and soft silver glow of the mini-bar a thousand times more relaxing than the awards show. His thigh pressed against Dave’s, warm through the thin fabric of their tailored pants; each bump in the road caused the slightest movement between them, and the sensation was enough to keep Dirk on edge. Dave passively swiped a finger against his Twitter feed, which went on for pages— “Strider” was trending again. Big fuckin’ surprise there.
The chauffeur pulled off the main street into a mostly deserted parking lot near the roadside ice cream stand. There weren’t a ton of the outdoor sort left in California, but the few that remained were worn-down and humming with the a fluorescent electric buzz. Dave relieved himself of his tie and tossed it aside, before doing the same to Dirk’s without asking. “You get hot fudge on that suit and you’re paying for the dry cleaning with your college fund,” he warned, sliding out of the limo carriage. Dirk rolled his eyes.
“College fund my ass. You could totally buy my way into MIT.”
“Dirty politics, kiddo,” he said, tucking his shades into his shirt as he scanned the menu. “Whatcha want.”
Dirk ignored the murmuring group of high schoolers waiting for their orders (“Is that?—” “Has to be, you see the limo?”) as he stripped his jacket off. “Banana split,” he said, walking back over to the limo and throwing it in the open door.
Dave returned ten minutes later with two handfuls of ice cream (double-toppings, extra cherries on Dirk’s courtesy of a very starstruck worker) and perched himself up on the hood of the car. “Get your skinny ass up here with me,” he said, passing the split over to him after he stole all three cherries. Dirk opened his mouth to protest, but Dave shushed him. “Nuh-uh, where’s your Academy Award?” he asked, dramatically hanging the cherry above his mouth and biting into it.
“Wow, really?” Dirk said, picking up his spoon. “Mature.” He dug around the side of a banana before Dave flicked him on the nose.
“Open,” he commanded, popping the last maraschino into Dirk’s mouth. “Better, princess?”
Dirk groaned and picked at the stem. “Shut up.”
“You owe me a cherry now.”
“Don’t know how many I have to give away to you at this point,” Dirk commented dryly, making sure the driver was currently out of earshot.
“Oh ha ha,” Dave rolled his eyes. He occupied himself with his Blizzard, scraping against the paper cup a little too enthusiastically. They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the last of the customers file out of line from a distance and disappear into their cheap Pintos and pickups. The green tint of the overhead light reflected off the surface of the hood, washing out both of the brothers in a sickly-colored mirror image. It was a far cry from the scene they were obligated to grace an hour ago, yet Dirk almost preferred it.
“You didn’t have to come home with me,” he said quietly, between sawing a particular banana half into precise chunks. “They probably expected you to show up.”
Dave leaned back against the windshield and sighed. “Yeah, well. That’s one reason not to go.” He turned his face toward Dirk, the red of his eyes a muddy color in the crappy fluorescent lighting. “Reason number two being you put up with my dumb event all night, so I figured you deserved a thank-you.”
“Force myself to shoot the shit with one-percenters for five hours, get Dairy Queen. Great trade,” Dirk smiled. “I think you owe me a little more than that, bro.”
Dave hummed as he cocked his head sideways against Dirk’s midsection. “I’ll buy you a pony.”
“You say that every time.”
“I’ll buy you two ponies,” he said, smirking into Dirk’s belt loop.
“You have no shame, do you,” Dirk said, eyes darting around the parking lot. “Someone will see.”
“I’m drunk.”
“No fucking shit.”
Dave sighed over dramatically. “Lay down with me. You can almost see a couple of stars tonight.”
Despite the attempt at protest, Dirk slid down against the windshield parallel to his brother, setting the empty plastic boat aside. “One of these days, people are going to cotton on to the fact that we’re fucking.”
“Hm. Maybe.”
Dirk stared at Dave, studying his face with a hard look. Dave never really cared, or at least appeared to care. It was his schtick, after all; the Strider mark of genius was nestled in enigma and absurdity. Still, it concerned Dirk, and he often wondered whether or not Dave had a masochistic death wish. Dirk was unafraid. Dave was foolish.
“Do we have to call it that though,” Dave asked quietly, hands folded on top of his chest.
“What?”
“Do we have to use that word.”
Dirk squinted. “‘Fucking’? What’s wrong with it?”
A siren blared on the main street behind them and Dave waited for it to pass. He decided against speaking and simply shook his head.
“Nothing.”
Dirk waited to see if Dave would say anything else, but the older only shrugged and sat up. “Home?”
The workers at the stand started closing up the windows with loud thuds and metallic clacks. Dirk took in the scent of alcohol on his brother’s breath, shallow and warm and inches from his face. It was always familiar, but tonight, a bit disappointing.
He heaved himself up and off the hood.
“Yeah. Sure.”