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“He thinks you never loved him.”
Six words. Six short, insignificant words like those found on some cheapass daytime drama old lonely housewives devote all their free time to. And yet despite the cliché, they somehow have the same effect of shattering through your defenses like a brick through the window of an antique fine china store. You like to think yourself unreadable, the tension that rocketed through you nothing more than a casual blink behind too dark shades. But the little shit watching you knows better because he is you. Even if you grew up in contrasting circumstances you somehow managed to form the exact same coping mechanisms. Yours have just had twice as many years to be refined to perfection, not that it stops your mini me from being able to call you on your shit. And it's then that you notice one of his tells, that slight shift of a shoulder that screams to you of tension melting away faster than blood down the shower drain. That's probably what gets you to speak above all else because for such a simple action it's more like a screaming neon sign stating he believed the words as well, feared them to be true and had been blaming himself for your being so fucked up.
“Never was the brightest crayon in the box with social cues.”
For a moment the kid looks like he's ready to throw down, that slight twitch of gloved fingers itching for his sword, before that impressive brain of his registers it wasn't Dave you were referring to.
“Some shit seems to be engraved in our very soul.”
And isn't that a fucked up thought? No matter what life you lived or how alone or surrounded by people you were, you would never have it in your capacity to understand basic fucking human emotions, decency or social interactions. Him as only having physical interactions with robots of his own design and you with living in one of the busiest cities in the country, every night spent out on the town in the hottest clubs playing the crowds like they were just more of your ironic puppets. And yet you both came out of it with roughly the same idea of how this whole social life bullshit works. At least the kid seems to have improved himself since being in actual human company and for that, you gotta give him some respect. You know it had to be a bitch and taken a fuckton more effort than you've ever cared to expend to get to where he is now.
“Funny how the weirdest shit is transuniversal. You know the only reason we don't have an AJ fountain to go with that god awful ‘Orange soda only’ fridge you two assholes shoved in the kitchen is cause Dave spends most of his time at his boyfriend's house. And the fact that we don't trust prankster pieces of shit not to piss in it for shits and giggles. I swear, that kid's got no sense of self-preservation. One of these days I'm gonna end up accidentally stabbing him in one of his little scare attempts and it's gonna be a just death ‘cause he was being a little shit who had it coming.”
You thought you were used to D’s voice by now, so close to the kid you raised and yet so different with how he's about your age, and you would've bet your hat he was incapable of making you twitch after so much time together waiting for the kids to show up. And then mini me had to go and tell you Dave is convinced you never gave a shit about him and suddenly you're flinching away from the sound like it was the first time hearing it.
Whatever Dirk was going to follow that up with is pushed back as he watches the way his idolized big bad director of a brother sprawls himself out on the couch next to you, feet hanging over the edge and head tucked onto your lap like you weren't in the middle of stitching up your new line of smuppets. Lameass shades staring up at you in a challenge you respond to by shoving smuppet ass right against his face. The bastard retaliates by turning his head toward your stomach, shades dangerously close to digging into sensitive areas and with an almost soundless grunt you toss the half-finished masterpiece on the pile next to the couch. You think you sense some jealousy coming from the kid and your thoughts of bitchy spoiled house cats are pushed aside in favor of petting the prick like he is one. Serves Dirk right, with the way Dave only talks to him and slips out the window to avoid the rest of you like the plague. Or just you. At least now you've got some context as to why, even if it's not something you wanted to hear.
Both of you are only half listening as D’s mouth shoots off rambling about troll divas vs human divas and some other pointless shit he had going down on set today. You know the moment he starts discussing work at home without being prompted is when he's making an obvious as fuck distraction from what he really wants to discuss. Seems like the kid gets the hint too and you watch as he stuffs whatever motherboard he was tinkering with into a bag. “Gonna head out for some parts, don't wait up.”
It's four in the afternoon, so either the kid's gonna go get laid to spite you getting all buddy buddy with his bro in ways he's afraid to or he's gonna be cockblocking Dave at the troll's place. Either way, the moment the front door’s lock clicks behind him, the entire apartment is silent. You're the master of this game, practically fucking invented awkward silence forced confessional, and yet you're still the one to crack first after nearly half an hour of staring through two pairs of shades.
“Fuck.”
“Eloquent.”
D’s ready for the hard shove and instead of satisfyingly falling on his ass he does some bullshit fucking twist and spin that turns him to kick his feet up over your lap while he gets cozy against the armrest.
“Dirk, you can't just pretend this didn't happen. This shit is exactly why Dave got to thinking that in the first place. Yeah, I get it, actions kicking the shit out of words and all that, but if there's one thing you learn in the middle of passive aggressive revolting against an evil alien overlord it's that sometimes words are the only thing you can trust. I'm not saying you have to pour your heart out and bleed yourself dry. Hell, I'm not even telling you to apologize for fucking up so bad. And I'm sure as hell not judging you for what you've done or not done ‘cause fuck knows I'm glad my kid didn't have to be raised by me directly. At least I can hide as much of a fuck up I am now that he's fully grown and just meeting me for the first time after years of hero worship.”
At some point during the rambling lecture, you find yourself swapping positions, moving so that your face is buried in his lap, even only giving a half-assed swat when he removes your shades without permission and deposits them on the side table behind him.
“But at the very least you've gotta give him a hug, tell him you've always loved him. Hell, make it into some lameass cheezy pun with you being a Prince of Heart reject, I make shitty failed time jokes whenever I'm late all the time. Point is he has to know you care, and you have to use your words so there's no way he can misunderstand. If you don't, you're going to lose him-”
You know.
“-because now that he's here in this world, surrounded by so many of his close friends-”
“D-” No, you don't want to hear it.
“-he doesn't need you.”
“ Dave.”
That’s what shocks him into pausing, to him barely reacting at how quickly you shoot up and snatch away his shades as he did yours, blazing orange glaring into off guard red. It was an unspoken agreement between the two of you from day one. You were Bro and he was D, and beyond that it didn’t fucking matter. Neither of you were the hero kid meant to save the day, you were the rejects who couldn’t succeed at the only job you had of raising the kids capable of being heroes. Yeah, when you’re alone he tends to let Dirk slip more often than not but as that was before your mini me showed up so you let it slide. But you’ve gone out of your way to avoid calling him Dave even before he took up the nickname of D, because there was shit you just weren’t ready to face and thinking of him as the grown-up version of the kid you failed was salt in a wound you never wanted to touch. So now for you to snap it with such emotion, even if it’s near unrestrained anger, comes as a shock not only to him but to yourself as well.
When he raises his hands in front of himself it’s not to reach for his shades like you were expecting, that’s what you’d do if your situations were reversed, but more like trying to pacify a wounded wild animal. You’d be insulted at the implication if it wasn’t basically the exact fucking truth. “I know it hurts, Bro, believe me. Just ‘cause me and my bro seem fine around each other doesn’t mean we are. He’s scared I’ll look down on him for who he is and I’m fucking terrified he’ll realize one day just how much of a fucked up fraud I really am. That one day he’ll walk right out that door once he realizes I’m nothing more than an overrated activist celeb who shoved his ass into the wrong fucking scene at the wrong time. I got the advantage that Dirk never knew me, just my reputation, and rationalizing that I didn’t have a choice in the matter and did the best I could for him. You got to have Dave, and you did the best you could with what you knew, but he was too young when shit got real. You didn’t have the chance to show him who you really were because you constructed an image he could be proud of and thought you were doing right by making him into a weapon that could save everyone and then died before you could tell him how proud of him I know you are.”
It doesn’t take more than the first few words for the anger to leave you, shoulders slumping as you flop yourself against the opposite arm of the couch, tossing his shades onto your smuppet pile instead of giving into the temptation of putting them on yourself just to have another shield to hide behind no matter how wrong it would look and feel. “That’d require the kid being willing to spend more than two minutes in the same vicinity as me.”
You don’t even realize you’ve closed your eyes until you feel the shitty cushions shifting instead of seeing the movement, and when a weight settles around your shoulders and half across your lap you let yourself sag even further against him. Because fuck it, both of you are already uncomfortably exposed and the natural conclusion of this clusterfuck of emotion is an old fashion broship snuggle pile. Not that you really have much experience with those, give or take a few with current asshole involved, but you’ve coined the phrase on principle. “Him avoiding you shows it’s still hurting him, which means there’s still hope for you. It’s once he’s gotten over it and has zero fucks left to give that you know you’ve lost him and can never get him back. So long as he cares enough that he can’t stand being near you, there’s something there that’s worth salvaging before it’s too late.”
You don’t bother telling him he’s right, the egotistical bastard knows he is, but you acknowledge you understand by draping one of your arms around his shoulders to pull him into an awkward sort of half-embrace. Now if only you could bring yourself to have the balls to do the same to your kid brother, you may have an iota of a chance at strifing him again one day. Or maybe just chilling kicking his ass at video games if he’s really not into fighting like you’ve heard. Fuck. Was there anything you did right with him? Statistics aren’t looking good.
You’re done making excuses and feeling sorry for yourself. You’ll find Dave, track him to his boyfriend’s house and subject yourself to the horror that is Suff’s hospitality if you have to, and make some sort of sincere attempt at reaching for whatever he’s willing to give you.
Later. Right now, you’re more than content to take advantage of a night of you and D having the apartment to yourselves and indulge a little in more selfish forms of comfort.