Chapter Text
Bro was never a guy to lose his cool. You've known that ever since you could walk. No matter how many temper tantrums you would throw, or how much you'd draw all over his turntables, he would never yell or lose his head.
You're thirteen now and you've never seen your Bro this scared.
He'd just gotten off the phone with some lady he called Caroline. She said something that seemed to make him... angry? Sad? You don't know. All you know is that his shades are off and you can see his eyes. This was the first time in years that his shades were off in front of you. You saw the fear in his eyes more clearly. You don't like that. No matter how much you hate to not know what he's thinking, knowing what's on his mind is more scary and uncomfortable than you could have ever imagined.
"Bro?" No answer. He just keeps pacing and murmuring to himself.
"Bro what the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Go to your room Dave." His voice sounded shaky. Watery even.
Was he- was he crying?
"Bro what's the mat-"
"I SAID GO TO YOUR FUCKING ROOM DAVE."
You didn't even think to say anything else. You flashstepped to your room without so much as a glance in his direction. You sat down around your desktop computer and logged on to pesterchum. Rose was the only one online.
TT: Good afternoon, Dave.
TG: not really rose im kinda freaked out here
TG: bros acting all weird and scared like
TG: its creepy as fuck
TT: Well, do you have any idea as to why your brother is behaving like this?
TG: yeah maybe a lil bit
TG: he got off the phone a couple minutes ago and now i think hes crying
TT: Dave, go see your brother right now.
TG: what
TG: why the fuck should i
TT: Because I think he's lost custody of you.
TG: wait what how the fuck
TG: how the hell would you even know about that
TG: wait i fucking told you didnt i
TG: but i thought that was dealt with years ago
TG: how is this happening
TG: seriously rose how in the fuck is this happening
TG: was there just some seriously sick fuck fucking things up for me and my bro
TG: am i going to have to go to a home now rose
TG: im going to get buttraped in the home arent i rose
TG: its like jail but for kids
TG: and its not juvi neither
TG: its full on halfway house buttsex room
TG: this sucks ass rose what the fuck do i do
TT: Dave, just do what I said.
TT: I understand you are panicking right now, but you need to talk to your brother and figure this situation out with him.
TT: I cannot help you.
You stand up from your computer and flashstep to Bro's room. You walk about a foot in to see him curled up in the fetal position, sobbing on his futon. You sit down beside him and curl your arms around his midsection. He sniffles loudly.
"Dave, I thou-thought I t-told you to go t-to your r-room."
This is fucking torture. It was bad enough to know he's crying, and that you might get buttraped in an adoption center, but your Bro stuttering is a new level of pure evil.
"I don't want to leave." You start tearing up.
"Bro please don't let them take me."
"I'm not in c-control of that l-lil' man."
"Can I do something then? Tell them that I want to stay? Anything?! Do my wants even fucking count here?! Am I supposed to just sit back and be torn from the only life I've known because of some dumbass social worker saying that you're an unfit parent?! What the fuck do they even know?! You take care of me a hell of a lot better than anyone else could!" Now you're the one crying.
"Shh, calm down, kid. There should be a trial of some sort in a week were you can give your opinion, but during the time period between now and then-" he stops to clear his throat. "They're gonna take you."
"No. No, no, no, no, no, no! I want to stay at home with you! I can't fucking leave! I don't want to leave! DON'T MAKE ME LEAVE!" You snort and snot all over his shirt. You sound like a two year old. (Albeit one with very strong language, but still a small child.) This doesn't bother you. You can't leave your home. You can't leave Bro.
The seven days you are forced to spend without him, are going to be the worst days of your entire life.
You wake up at about 5 am on a Saturday morning, completely flummoxed. Why are you not in bed, and why are you so warm? Oh. You fell asleep in Bro's room. You roll over on your side and look up at him.
"So you're finally up, huh?"
You sigh.
"I'm guessing today's the day I have to 'move out'?"
"Essentially yes. I know you want to stay at home with me, but leaving is probably for the best. I'm probably a really shitty guardian anyway."
Your jaw seems to unhinge with disbelief. He needs the fucking what for.
"Bro, shut the fuck up. Don't even start with all of that 'I'm an unfit parent' bullshit. I'm not having it. I know what everyone else deems fit for a family isn't exactly what we have. I understand that. But it fucking fits. I like being here and getting my ass kicked for being a little smart ass and getting the shit kicked out of me during strifes and having almost no food in the house, all of it being replaced with pure, unadulterated irony. Bro, even though it isn't practical, I fucking revel in being able to say I live here with the best substitute for a father I could ever have. I don't want to leave because I can't leave. If I do it'll be like I started a conversation with you and never fucking finished. Like I set John or someone up for the best rap ever and went offline for months. I can't leave because If I do...I'll-I'll never be able to tell you what you need to hear."
You stop yourself before you fuck your little speech up. Don't tell him. You can't tell him.
"Kid, alright. But pack some shit. The lady is comin' to pick you up at 9 am sharp."
You don't know why, but you cringe when he calls you kid. You know exactly who you are, and you are just that, a child. A small soul lost in a sea of wonder, waiting for someone or something with any sense of direction to take you someplace and make you whole. Even though you are still small and still a child, that title doesn't fit you. It doesn't fit how you think. It doesn't fit how you speak, or act, or feel. You can't even begin to think about how much more simple your life would be if you thought like John or Jade.
But you don't think like them.
Your life therefore isn't simple.
You've known that ever since you were 6 years old.
You've never been to any sort of physical school building before. You've come in contact with only one person in your entire life. It was Bro. It was always, always, Bro.
When you were about 6 years old, Bro sat you down and had a talk with you about your eyes. About how the color would scare people. He told you that you would never go to any school building, because he wouldn't let them force you out of your shades to see your eyes and call you a freak.
That was the third time he'd taken off his shades in front of you.
They were gorgeous.
An extremely light brown with flecks of bright orange and crimson leading up into the pure black of his pupils.
He pointed to a small scratch on his nose.
"Ya see kid, here's where i broke my nose at about your age running away from some kids trying to burn me alive or somethin'."
That was a day where you became scared near to death of other children, and what they could do. That tiny 10 minute talk with Bro made you more aware of what people are capable of at 6 years old than any news reporter could hope to inform you as an over-worried, jittery, impressionable adult.
And all he told you was that a few kids thought he was a demon-spawn. All because of his eyes.
You, as a 13 year old already know that it won't just be a few days before this bad dream is over. People lie. You should be happy to see your Bro by your birthday in December.
It's mid June.
You pack a duffle bag with all of the essentials. A tooth-brush, toothpaste, body wash, shampoo, conditioner, (We in the Strider household take our hair very seriously. For ironic purposes of course.) clothes, 20 bottles of apple juice, more clothes, extra underwear, and... you need something. Something of Bro's. You yell for Bro to give you something for the road and he just tells you to take Lil' Cal.
You would be surprised that he offered his precious doll to you and ask him if he was sure, but you already knew he was. Even though he probably wouldn't full on admit it, you knew he'd miss you. He knows that you'd miss him. There are just certain things you don't have to talk about to get.
You hold the puppet close to your chest, put on a hoodie, and wait patiently for the social worker to arrive.
It's about 8:15 and you've been waiting patiently for almost an hour. You need something to entertain yourself. Bro was pacing and it seriously did not help any of the nervousness you had.
"Bro can you sit or something? You pacing is freaking me the fuck out."
"Kid, hush. I'm thinking."
"Yeah that's obvious. What about?"
"You need something."
What the fuck does that mean? You quirk an eyebrow up at him.
"You need something...something's missing on the list of shit you can take and I don't know..." His words trail off.
"You don't know what?" He dashes past you with only a wizz of air left in his wake as he moves in the direction of his bedroom. He walks back out slowly with his phone.
"Here." He shoves the device towards you.
You are completely taken aback.
Bro really hates when you touch his shit. You don't touch his puppets. You don't go for his food. Most importantly, you don't ever, under any circumstances, touch his electronics. This is big.
You grab his phone from his hands and put it in your pocket. Before the transaction was finished, your fingers managed to brush up against one of his hands. In a split second, you felt how large and slender his hands are, dwarfing yours in comparison. The leather of his gloves is soft and worn down from years of wear, tear, and use. His fingers are heavily calloused, yet still thin and woman-like. With all of the meticulous sewing, stitching, and crafting he does, you aren't suprised that his fingers look like those of a concert pianist. The way they move around when he's nervous or excited is just mesmerizing.
You blush gently and look towards the floor even though you know he can't see your eyes.
They doorbell rings at 9 am on the dot. Well, at least this lady's punctual.
Bro opens the door looking more harried and afraid than ever. You try your best to keep your straight face and cool kid persona. For once, it actually doesn't falter.
"Hello Dave. My name is Caroline. I will be the one taking care of you for a few days before the trial." She sticks her hand out towards you for a shake. Is this lady serious? You don't actually want to touch her, but you shake her hand anyway to prevent Bro from having any more things on his rap sheet to make him look like a bad parent. It was bad enough that they wanted to take you away because of his age and finacial instability, but you not having any manners would make matters worse.
Caroline gestures for you to leave with her, or at least leave the apartment. Before your foot steps out of the doorway, Bro pulls you into a tight hug. You can see a tear stream down his face. He's not wearing his shades. He hasn't been ever since last night. You pull down your shades a bit and look up into the crimson-orange crush colored eyes one last time.
"I'll miss you Dave." He hasn't called you Dave in a while. Not since you were about 7 and still needed a good talking to to get your little fresh tail in order.
"Ditto." He lets go of you and you walk towards the social worker la- you mean Caroline.
You leave the apartment and gently close the door. You hear a loud "Dammit!" from inside the front room and what seems to be loud sobbing. You can't stand to be near that. A tear stains your face as you jog down the stairs.