Chapter Text
==> Be the Cool Kid
Your name is Dave Strider, and your life fucking sucks.
You walk into the apartment that you share with Bro and kick the door closed with your foot. Gently. The last thing you want is for Bro to hear it slam and come out to see what's up. Or for him to come out and say something about it. So, instead you kick it closed gently and wander into your room, tossing your bag in the general direction of your bed.
You sigh and follow the direction of your bag to lay on the edge of your bed. Your eyes close and you lay your head back against the blanket pile that you didn't bother smoothing before you left that morning.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The sound reverberates around your head and you slowly open your eyes. You blink away the fog of sleep as much as you can, searching for the source of the sound. It takes a few seconds, but the sound is soon accompanied by Bro calling you for dinner.
“Dave, seriously. Dinner has been in the lounge room for fifteen minutes. If you're not out there soon, I'm claiming it.”
You grumble something intelligible and sit up, rubbing your eyes. With shades replaced on your face, you head to the lounge room and plop onto the couch beside Bro. He's sitting on the end of the couch, taking up way more room than he needs to. Which leaves you squished between him and the arm of the couch, trying to enjoy the sweet and sour pork. It wouldn't be so bad if you weren't sitting in the middle of Texan heat, sweat coating you where your bodies touch. But you are, and it's pretty fucking gross.
You wiggle in your seat, trying to make some more room for yourself and force him to move over. He doesn't take the hint. When you look up, he's smirking at you and you can't help but groan. Why does he have to be a dick all the fucking time? Seriously. If he's not crowding you and being a general dick, he's initiating strifes and kicking the shit out of you, or putting creepy-ass puppets around the entire fucking apartment. You found one in the shower once – after you'd soaped up. You nearly broke your arm when you slipped while trying to escape. But that little incident only bought you a two-hour reprieve from Li'l Cal.
So, you're squirming to get away from the heat of him, and all he does is spread his legs further until you're forced to slip off the couch and onto the floor. At least it's cooler there. You glare at him from behind your shades, and you're pretty sure he can tell because he arches an eyebrow as you flip him off and lay back on the cool wood. Whatever.
Only a minute passes before he starts nudging you with his foot, and you kind of want to punch him. You clench your jaw and shift slightly to get out of reach, but the guy has long legs. You stand up and glare at him again.
“I'm goin' to bed, Bro.” Short and sweet. No room for argument. Well done, Dave.
“At 8pm?” Well, shitballs. You pull out your phone and check the time. You shrug.
“I wanna pester John for a while first.” With that, you turn, leaving him on the couch and closing your bedroom door. You take up your earlier position on your bed before you open Pesterchum and check out your list. You have one chum online, and it is definitely not John. It's the perpetually angry douche-muffin with grey text and a size complex.
You toss your phone onto the blankets beside you.
The last thing you need right now is to talk to him. While it is always fun to talk circles around him, you're pretty sure he's going to have an aneurysm if you do it again this week. He doesn't seem to enjoy your company. You drop your shades onto the mattress beside your head and drape your arm over your eyes. Because, let's be honest, you're too lazy to get up and turn the light off. This will have to do. Looks like you will be going to bed at 8pm. Getting in touch with your inner child and all that jazz.
You groan roll over, burying your face into the pillow. You won't be able to sleep at this time of night. Not after you fell asleep earlier.
Grumbling, you get up and collect some clothes from a pile on the floor. You're pretty sure they're clean. Passable, at any rate. You open your bedroom door and peek into the hallway. When you see no signs of Bro or his puppets, you slip out and make your way to the empty bathroom. With the door locked (not that it helps, you're pretty sure the puppet was put in the shower after you got in), you strip and set the water to the right temperature. You've never been one for long leisurely showers, not like Bro anyway. You've always been a get in-get out kinda guy, with the exception of hair care. Because seriously, your hair is soft as all fuck and you'll be damned if it doesn't stay that way.
Which is why tonight you take longer in the shower than normal. You're makin' sick fires and enjoying the feeling of the lukewarm water running over your body and washing the suds out of your hair. Technically you washed your hair last night, but you have more time than you know what to do with, and you're actually having a good time. Bro certainly has the right idea about long showers because this shit is decadent. You feel like a princess. Ironically, of course.
You haven't even been in the bathroom for ten minutes (a third of Bro's usual shower time) when he starts banging on the door of the bathroom. It's like you aren't allowed a moment of peace when he's at home. God, you can't wait for the weekend when he's out at the clubs and you get most of the night to yourself. You sigh and quickly wash the remainder of the suds from your skin.
“Yeah, alright. I'm getting out. Fuck.” You continue to mumble under your breath as you dry yourself off and put your pants on. You throw your towel over your shoulder and leave your old clothes on the floor where they fell as you slam the door open and glare at him.
“What the fuck, Bro? A kid can't have a fucking shower around here?”
He's looking over your shoulder and arches a brow. You know what he's getting at. He's asking what you think you're doing, leaving them on the floor. You answer him with a silent shrug and move to slip past him. He interrupted you and cut your shower short. If he wants the bathroom so bad, he can pick them up himself. You slip into the hallway and he grabs your shoulder.
“Pick them up, you little shit.”
You freeze. It's not that he doesn't talk to you like this at other times. You've come to think of 'Little Shit' as a term of endearment. This time though.. There was an edge to his voice that made you stop. Something had pissed him off, and there was no way you're going to be the one that makes it worse.
You nod and turn back, gathering your discarded clothes in your arms and making your way past him. You don't look at him until you're entering your room again to throw them back into the pile of clothing that needs to be washed. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, and you can hear the shower running. You sag against your door as you close it.
You've heard that tone in his voice before, and you know what to expect.