Work Text:
Your name is Dave Strider, and today is your birthday.
Your friends, all of them very dear to you still, had asked you to come out to dinner to celebrate that now you were 22 years of age. But you declined, as you do every year they ask, and you resort to laying in the dark, on the bed, the rain pattering hard against the window. You seem to find yourself in here every year on this day, on a bed that never belonged to you. But you always lay on your back, staring at the ceiling, thinking.
Pondering.
Remembering.
And it hurt. Your chest hurt. Your heart was struggling to hold on, as was the rest of your body. Your soul, because right now, all these people wanted you to be with them. To spend time with them on your ‘special day.’ They cared about you. But you always, without a doubt, ended up here. Bro used to sit here with you, when he lived here. He used to sit here and hold you on nights like this when you had terrifying dreams that left you shaking. When you were crying and you couldn’t stop. When you finally got the courage to tell him how you felt.
You remember how long it took you to tell him. He was in his room, on his laptop, working or something, you never really figured out what it was. You walked up to him, shaking, scared. You were 14 years old, and as he held you, you pulled back and kissed him softly on the lips, over and over, deepening it as you went on. You never told him that was your first kiss. He stopped you before it escalated, saying that that was wrong. That you were just confused. That you were misinterpreting his actions. And you remembered crying, sobbing in your room after he told you to get out, feeling like an idiot. Like a fool. You remembered trembling until you fell asleep that night, something Bro told you he’d never let happen. And you were confused. Not about loving him, not about being gay, but about how, even when he rejected you, he was kissing you back. Just as hard.
It took you a year of that awkwardness, walking around the house and barely speaking to each other, and you shutting down, beating yourself over what a huge mistake you made. You had slipped into a depression, and you couldn’t shake it, because you lived with him, and every time you saw him it was like a slap in the face. A reminder. And you hated that. You never fell for anyone else at school, or any of your friends. And you never told anyone either, about that night so long ago, because who needed to know? No one, as far as you were concerned. It was a struggle to get up each day. It was a challenge to simply eat dinner around him. He stopped comforting you when you tried to come to his room, sobbing, shaking, trembling like you always were. He gave up. He stopped answering his door at night when you needed him most. And you were broken. It only took you that long to realize he was broken, too.
It wasn’t until the last day of school when you were 15, the end of freshman year, that you really spoke to him. You walked in your building, passing the door to your apartment, and proceeded to walk up the stairs.. You were, instead, standing at the top of the building, peering over the edge.
You were done.
Done.
You began to step forward, the warm summer air brushing past you, a soft breeze. You read somewhere that when you were ready to die, you would know. At this point, you didn’t think you’d have a reason to keep going. Everyone hated you, right? Of course they did. You remembered feeling that emptiness, that coldness. The bitterness towards yourself and the world. And you remembered taking another few steps, ready to jump to the Houston traffic that lay below. And as you took the first step off the building, you had a hand on your arm in no time. You froze, you turned and heard Bro scolding you, telling you how stupid of a mistake you were making, and didn’t you know he loved you? No, you didn’t. You didn’t believe it until he pulled you close and held you, just like he used to, sitting there with you, rocking you in his arms for a long time. It must have been an hour of him whispering apologies and telling you stories of how much he loved you, because the sun was gone now. It was dark and cold and you were perfectly fine sitting here in his strong arms, a comforting hold being kept on you as you sobbed.
He pulled you away and for a moment, you locked eyes. It only took him a moment to kiss back when you pressed your lips against his. Because that time, he wanted to do it. He wanted you.
You ensued in kissing passionately for quite some time, telling each other how sorry you were, how you loved each other more than anything and how you each made a mistake. And you remembered never feeling happier in your entire life than at that moment. When he confirmed all the hope you had held for the past few years.
And you loved him. And he loved you back. That was all that mattered.
Your name is Dave Strider, and you are laying on your brother’s bed. It is your 22nd birthday and it is cold and raining. And you can’t stop thinking of him. Wishing he was here next to you, where the two of you had kissed and, eventually, when you were 17, had made love. It had taken a lot of persuasiveness and coaxing on your part, but it happened. And you were happy. You loved him so much, and you made sure he knew that.
Your name is Dave Strider, and on your 18th birthday, your brother never came home from work. The call from the police shocked you and you couldn’t stop crying. You didn’t believe them. You hated the world just as much as you used to because you never even got to say goodbye. The semi truck came on too fast, and he was hit. Broke his neck. He was killed on impact. And you never told him you loved him again. You never could.
Your name is Dave Strider.
It is your 22nd birthday, and your brother is dead.
And right now, at this moment, you wish you were too, just so you could see him again.