Chapter Text
"It's solid, but you still need to change the subtitle."
"I don't see what's wrong with it."
"Electric Boogaloo is played out."
"The staleness is the point —"
"Maybe that'd fly if that were what you were actually trying to do, but it's not. Electric Boogaloo isn't played out enough for that to work. You're an old man trying to stay culturally relevant by reaching into a stale jar of dead memes long picked over by the kids, but the only thing you accomplish in doing so is making yourself look even more behind on the times than you already are. You're better than this pedestrian tier one ironic gesture."
"First of all: thirty-fucking-three is not old —"
"Like I said, ancient."
"— second, Breakin' 2 came out in 1984. This is hardly the domain of 'the kids'."
"A meme's peak relevance isn't always directly tied with the inception of its source content, and it's fairly clear that your decision to use it in the title is a response to its contemporary propagation — specifically, its transformation into a shorthand for a markedly absurd and unnecessary sequel which has all but divorced itself from any connection to Breakin' 2 itself — and not a rad retro callback to the yesteryears.
"And even with that aside, pop culture references are the last refuge of humor; simply mentioning something doesn't make substantive comedy, you have to actually do something with it. Electric Boogaloo has no contextually significant relevance to the content of the movie at all and its implications are not explored in any meaningful capacity. You have to go further than that if you want your work to have any lasting cultural impact beyond a couple of chuckles from whatever group of internet teenagers happens to currently be tossing around a given meme."
"SBaHJ is already built on a solidly self-contained framework of irony. One reference isn't going to undo everything I've established."
"Maybe not, but don't try to tell me you couldn't come up with a better title. You should aspire to define and manipulate popular culture, not platitudinously play to the whims of a transient zeitgeist. Make the new Electric Boogaloo."
"You are such a little brat."
Dave pushes open the theatre doors into parking lot, reflexively shielding his eyes against the glare of the Texas sun. His sunglasses hang from the collar of his shirt; so ubiquitous is his sleekly dressed bespectacled image that he finds himself a modern day Clark Kent, a change of eyewear between obscurity and conspicuity. Dressed casually in jeans and an ancient tie dye shirt that would have been supremely obnoxious had a decade not caused its colors to all but fade away entirely (a gift from his kid brother, mocking given; worn with the same ironic spirit with which it was bestowed, though the years have imbued it with a sentimentality that Dave admits is just a little bit sincere), the superstar has managed to attend a test screening of his own movie and escape relatively unmolested, the eye-assaulting enormity of his creation aside.
Dirk steps through the held open door — with no thanks, of course, because that's not something they do — and makes a brisk pace to where the car was left parked. As Dave trails leisurely behind, he notices that arrogant little skip in his step the kid gets whenever he thinks he's just won an argument; Dave's decided he's going to make the call tonight, so he basically did, but Dave doesn't have to let him find that out today.
As Dave approaches the car in the lot, he goes to dig in his pockets for the keys and is altogether unsurprised to find them missing — Dirk is gleeful in displaying his theft as soon as he notices that Dave has realized they're gone, in dangerous proximity to the driver's side door. Dave puts on his best impression of a Disapproving Dad face, though he has a feeling he's not particularly good at it.
"No way, kid," Dave says, making a half-assed grab for the keys that Dirk easily evades. "It's fucking rush hour traffic, I am not getting in a car with you behind the wheel. You haven't even gotten your permit."
"Please, like I haven't been stealing the car since I was 12," Dirk retorts; though his tone makes it sound like a joke, Dave knows that probably only means he started even sooner.
"What the fuck did I hire those babysitters for?"
Dirk laughs. It's become something of a joke between them — when Dave came home from a shoot years back to discover Dirk had driven the sitter to quit by building a robot facsimile to "do her job more efficiently and effectively without being a fat stupid bitch", Dave gave up and figured the brat could look after his own damn self. "Shut up and get in the car," the kid says, sliding into the driver's seat. Dave makes certain his brother hears his histrionic groan as he walks around to the passenger door.
The first thing Dave does after he settles into the car is put his sunglasses back on, and instantly feels about a hundred times more comfortable — even the bright sun aside, he feels naked without them. The kid's fostered the same habit with his own pair of pointy shades; they look like a right couple of douchebags, too cool for this peasant Earth, and that's half the fun. Also, completely true.
Dave is immediately terrified the moment Dirk turns the key in the ignition. He has seen some shit in his life, but there is seriously little else more horrifying than getting into a car driven by a fifteen year old. Dave finds himself fidgeting and slamming on phantom breaks, and they're on the road for about thirty seconds before Dave is convinced he's going to die.
"Holy shit, slow down."
"I'm barely doing 45."
"It's a 25 zone!"
"Who the fuck drives the speed limit?"
"No one, but if you're pushing more than like 7 over we're gonna get pulled over by a cop."
"There are no cops around."
"They fucking hide, dumbass, slow down."
"What's the point of being absurdly famous if you can't get out of a speeding ticket?"
"You don't even have a fucking license, I'd get a hell of a lot more than a speeding ticket."
"My point stands."
"I am this close to murdering you."
Dirk takes exacting care to drive precisely 7 miles an hour above the posted speed limit for the rest of the trip, doubtlessly calculated to annoy Dave — but he bites his tongue and is thankful for any little thing that keeps his heart rate below "bursting out of his chest". Dirk makes a point of being good at everything he does, and driving is no exception — but while he's certainly capable of handling it well, he seems to prefer being as reckless as humanly fucking possible, much to Dave's displeasure.
Dave thanks a god he doesn't believe in when Dirk parks the car in the lot of their apartment complex. He does his best to shake it off and pops the trunk before stepping out onto the pavement. "Help me with my bags," he says to Dirk, who begrudgingly obliges.
They start to get looks as they make their way into the building, but the tenants mostly know what Dave's about and leave them be. They begin the long treck up the stairs — the elevator's out, again — and Dave is becoming increasingly wary of an impending midlife crisis.
"Why don't you just let me buy you a fucking house? Anything with less fucking stairs, seriously," Dave grouses as they reach the fifteenth floor, weighed down by the luggage and feeling exhausted. It's not like he's out of shape, but it seems like the climb gets harder every time he does it. Dirk hasn't even broken a sweat, and Dave is almost embarrassed.
"Why do you still wear that shitty shirt?"
"You gave it to me," Dave answers reflexively, and Dirk just laughs.
Dave wishes for death by the time they make it to the top floor. He shoves his key into the lock of their apartment door, throws it open, and drops his bags on the floor. The first thing he does when he steps into the flat is trip over a dismembered puppet.
"Jesus Christ, bro," Dave curses, now conveniently located in a prideful position on the floor. Dirk's schadenfreude appears to be in full swing today, as evidenced by the snicker he makes little effort to hide. "This place is a fucking mess. Hire a goddamn maid if you're too lazy to pick up after yourself, I give you more than enough cash."
"I like it. Squalor and disarray are my patron saints," Dirk jests as he finally offers Dave a hand to help him up, which he takes and uses to unsteadily clamber to his feet.
Dave notices a couple of things at that moment: the kid is nearly taller than he is now, which is new; that the only thing in the kitchen that isn't a puppet or a broken robot is a half-eaten bag of cheetos, which isn't; and that Dirk is still holding onto his hand, which he's not sure what to think about. He just cocks an eyebrow wordlessly and the kid pulls away, embarrassed, as if he hadn't realized he was doing it.
It's a while before Dirk speaks. "How long will you be staying?" He asks, in an artificially even tone that makes Dave feel obscenely guilty.
"I'm not sure," Dave starts, rubbing the back of his head. "The sequel's pretty much wrapped up, so until I sign on for another project, I can stick around."
"Do you have anything lined up?"
Dave wants to tell him no. "Few things kicking around, but nothing that's a set deal. A couple of months, maybe. I don't know."
Dave could tell him no, but he doesn't. At this point he's got more money than God, and could retire now and live comfortably for the rest of his life, but he doesn't. He feels guilty and negligent when he's away months at a time to film, but he knows he'll end up anxious and bored and itching to leave the moment he comes home, so Dave has stopped making promises he knows he won't keep.
It's been a long time since Dave has seen Dirk last. They speak on the phone, but probably not enough.
An awkward silence stretches between them when neither of them can figure out anything to say.
"Want to watch TV?" Dave finally broaches. He doesn't want to watch TV, and he's sure Dirk doesn't either, but the kid shrugs and agrees anyway.
They spend five minutes turning over the living area in search of the remote before Dave gives up and just presses the button on the fucking TV and leaves the channel as it is. Does anyone bother to learn how to change the channel with the box? Dave sure doesn't care enough. He flops down onto the futon next to Dirk and sits through a commercial in listless silence. He's positively overjoyed when the greasy orange face of The Situation fills up the screen. They are certainly not going to be bored.
The consumption of media in the Strider household is a transformative experience. They make it their fucking own. Swiftly they settle into their routine of vicious commentary; what would be a pathetic and embarrassing blight on entertainment becomes high comedy, or at least enhanced by a plethora of topical penis jokes.
A particularly uninteresting string of commercials interrupts their fun, and Dirk unexpectedly poises a personal question. "Have you been seeing anyone?"
Dave is curious where that came from, but figures it doesn't hurt to answer. "Nah. Haven't been on a serious date in, what, three years? Actually, wait, I had a thing with the Foxy Slunt for a while, but that ended so badly I've started repressing the memory."
"Oh."
"What about you? See any girls?" Dave asks. Loaded as hell.
Dirk briefly looks to Dave when he speaks, but doesn't reply. Dave raises an eyebrow.
"Well, that's one hell of a non-answer."
The commercial break has ended, but now neither of them are paying much attention to what happens to be going in or out of Snooki's vagina.
"I got what you were getting at, and you get what I'm getting at." He sounds almost nervous. If that much bled through the Strider Front, Dave has a sense of how uncomfortable he actually is. Sometimes it surprises him how much they manage to communicate by deliberately obfuscating their emotions and avoiding ever actually saying what they mean.
"I figured as much," Dave says quickly. He would be surprised they'd never had this conversation before if Dave weren't so phenomenally good at being a shitty absentee parent.
Another uncomfortable silence. Fuck, the kid's probably looking for him to be supportive or some shit, isn't he?
"I mean, it's fine. Good, even. Whatever you wanna be, that's cool with me." Dave immediately wishes he could have phrased that better the moment the words leave his lips. He inwardly kicks himself.
Dave wants to fidget in his seat as the next awkward pause unfolds. The both of them make a show of being transfixed by the television, though the tension has cut the hilarious commentary dead.
After a long time, Dirk tenders a hesitant question. "Have you ever...?" He keeps his tone cool and even, like he doesn't care about the answer, but the way he's incapable of actually finishing the thought is telling.
"No," Dave replies, but the swiftness with which he answers makes his brother stiffen perceptibly. He wants to leave it at that, but guilt pushes him to further disclosure. "I mean, kind of. There've been times I've... wanted to, but girls were always easier to deal with. Much more likely to be interested, anyway."
All he has to say to that is "Oh," but Dave can feel the atmosphere of the room shift. He lets himself relax a bit, and gets up to look around in the kitchen.
"When's the last time you went to the store? Seriously, there is absolutely nothing here but cheetos. I am turning this sty upside down and failing to procure anything that isn't a fucking puppet dong."
Dave turns around to see Dirk had, at some point, gotten up and moved to stand behind him. He raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"I missed you, bro."
And then Dave suddenly realizes that Dirk is standing... awfully close. "Um. Yeah, it's good to see you again, kid."
His expression is inscrutable. He doesn't want a hug, does he? The kid hasn't wanted a hug in half a decade. Dave stiffens uncomfortably.
Uh, yeah, that sure is a hug. He awkwardly pats his brother's back and waits for it to end.
Except it doesn't end. Instead, Dirk puts his lips to his ear, slips his hands under the waistband of his pants, and whispers, "Want to fuck?"
WHAT
Dave jumps out of his fucking skin. He flips the fuck out in a random direction and ends up toppling over backwards onto the futon. And it's just as well, because Jesus fuck holy shit why the fuck do I have an erection?
He scrambles to the opposite end of the futon from where Dirk comes to stand, putting as much space between him and his passively-onlooking brother as is humanly possible, and does his best to conceal the other kind of uncomfortable stiffness that has so inexplicably arisen. Actually, what's much more inexplicable is how completely fucking explicable Dave is finding it. What he most wants at that moment is to crawl under a rock and die, but second after that is a passionate longing for the power to forcibly burn thoughts out of his head.
Dave sputters a cacophony of unintelligible noises before finally composing himself enough to spit out a half-coherent string of sentences. "Oh my fucking god, Dirk! Fuck! What the fuck was that?! What — just — why!?"
The kid has his hands shoved in his pockets, calm as calm could be. He looks amused, if anything. "Just a question," he answers with a flippant shrug.
There's no way he doesn't notice how blatantly Dave is trying to hide his crotch. Oh god no.
Dave exhales shakily. "Don't. Just, fuck, don't do that. I nearly had a fucking heart attack, seriously. Not fucking funny." It was a joke, right? It had to be a joke.
Dirk isn't laughing.
"You're... you're serious."
"What if I am?"
Dave, for some reason, can't stop staring at his lips. He now wishes to gouge his own eyes out. No. What the fuck, no no no, this isn't happening. "I— wow, I just. No."
His brother just raises his eyebrows, eyes pointedly trained at Dave's drawn up legs. Oh fuck. "Why not?"
"Because you're my little — Jesus, I'm practically your fucking dad!"
"Genetically speaking, I would be —"
"You know that's not what I fucking meant, bro. I raised you. You're my kid. People don't do that."
"Actually, a significant plurality of people have and do do that. Not that I'm terribly concerned about what other people are or are not doing. That's entirely irrelevant to our individual circumstance."
"That's not — fuck, dude, incest."
"Wait, let me check something — " Dirk mockingly pats around the top of his head. "— oh, huh, it looks like I'm not anencephalic after all!" He drops his arms and crosses them across his chest. "Yes, addlepate, I am aware of that. Since this point is apparently eluding you, what I am attempting to communicate through my deliberately obtuse dismissals of your repetitive objections is that I don't fucking care."
Dave gapes, speechless. He opens and closes his mouth repeatedly. After a long period of silence, the only thing he can manage is "Why? Can't you find some guy your own age?"
Dirk bristles; he's clearly touched some sort of nerve, but since Dave has kept practically no tabs on the kid's personal life, he doesn't know what kind of mine he's stepped on. Dirk quickly brushes it off and answers like it should be obvious. "When you're as hot, hilarious and immeasurably perspicacious as I am, the pool of worthy romantic prospects shrinks considerably. Who's a better match for a Strider than another Strider?"
The kid never makes any move to come closer, but Dave feels trapped all the same. He just wants to run and not fucking deal with this anymore, but there isn't exactly any place for him to run to. His mouth has gone dry; he wets his lips.
"Maybe you should go to your room for a while," Dave suggests, tone carefully drained of any emotional inflection. Not a command or a reprimand; Dave would very much like to bolt and lock himself away, but Dirk has the only other room in the apartment that isn't the fucking bathroom.
Dirk stands motionlessly for a time, but eventually shrugs and turns to leave without a word. He closes the door to the hall quietly behind him.
Dave has never been more utterly fucking dumbfounded in his life.