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nobrandheroRead on Dreamwidth under the cut, or over on AO3.
----
John doesn't go back to the dorms when classes start up. He says it's because your apartment's nicer and costs him less, but you think he's grown accustomed to waking next to you, same as you're used to him curled against your side in the mornings. The commute is a pain in the ass, but Dave's already managed it.
Dave still isn't home much lately. John's made enough references that you've gathered they see each other on campus and in a couple of Gen Ed. classes, but even he hasn't bumped into Dave in the apartment that often. Your bro seems to stop by to crash for a few hours, grab a mouthful of food, and march right back to whatever trouble he's been up to.
So long as you don't get any phone calls from the police asking you to pick up your publicly intoxicated little brother, you don't care. Classes, work, and an awesome social life requires a fuckton of hours. It's no problem if he doesn't want to leave any time for family. Good for him, actually.
You settle into a new schedule with your roommates: You work on your videos while John's in class, you pull John into your lap as soon as he's home and barely disentangle yourselves from the heavy makeouts, and you exchange silent nods with Dave whenever you cross paths.
You know Dave's grown from teenager to proper adult when you check the mailbox one evening half-way through fall semester and find he's getting junkmail from credit card companies, insurance companies, and, of all things, a handful of universities. Christ, did they miss the memo that he's already in school? What are they trying to recruit him for so late in the game? You toss the envelopes on his bed for him to shred at his leisure.
For the first time in a long while, Dave isn't out the door first thing the next morning. You assume he's sleeping in after a test or something, until he slips out of his room almost as soon as John's left for campus.
He pauses in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame, and keeps his face aimed towards you. You pretend not to notice, pulling up a project on your computer.
"Bro."
You grunt. "Yeah?"
"We need to talk," he says, his tone odd. You can't actually place it.
You deign to glance his direction. "It serious?"
"Probably."
"Then google it."
"I got accepted into grad school." He says it in the same way one might announce they grabbed fast food on the way home -- as if it's an accomplishment so commonplace that you only need to know it happened so as not to make supper.
You're still a moment, then take both hands away from the computer as you turn to face him. "You're still a junior."
He shrugs. "I took heavy semesters and summer classes. I graduate in December."
You study him, making sure he's not bullshitting you. "Where?"
"East coast. I'm moving in January." He cocks his head. "You want to help with moving costs, that'd be cool, but if not, I'll start saving up."
"And how much is grad school going to cost?"
"Nothing. I got a fellowship." He snorts. "They're fucking paying me to go."
"They're paying you to get a master's?" you say, tone flat.
Dave shifts uncomfortably. "Doctorate."
...
...
...
You're speechless. You are actually fucking speechless. A doctorate. Someone is not just allowing but paying Dave to earn a goddamn doctorate. Your little bro has never taken you this off-guard. Dr. Dave Strider? Is he even fucking serious?
"The fuck are you studying?" you manage, an embarrassing splutter in your voice.
He sticks his hands in his pockets. "Dead shit. Dinosaurs. That sorta crap." He frowns. "Paleontology." He shrugs and heads for the front door. "Just thought you should know," he says before leaving you alone in the apartment to digest your shock.
There is no way in hell you can concentrate on work today.
You shove the computer chair back and stumble to the futon, collapsing on it and staring at the ceiling. You knew Dave was leaving sometime in the near future, but you thought there was another year, thought he'd stay closer, thought he'd be getting a job, not a fucking doctorate.
All this damn time, he wasn't being indifferent and chill as he kept his school life to himself. He was fucking hiding it, because he knew a science degree wasn't cool by any definition, no matter how far he stretched the irony. (Well, it could be funny that he's earning a B.S., but the humor dries up at the thought that he's following it with an M.S. and a goddamn doctorate.)
You should have known better than to assume he was just learning to keep his ironic accomplishments to himself. If his major was chosen ironically, he would have bragged. He would have left his fucking homework lying around for you to find, he would have found ways to shove it in your face, he would have let you know just how cool he thought he was being...
But he hid it.
And you're an idiot for not realizing what that meant sooner.
* * *
"Dude, how did you miss that shit?" John asks without even glancing up from his Chinese food. "He's been interning at the museum for like two fucking years."
You scowl. "The museum, as if there's only one in a city of two million."
John rolls his eyes. "The museum with the fucking fossils, dumbass. Which museum did you think he was interning at all this time?"
You shrug and busy yourself with your fried rice in hopes he doesn't push further. You didn't even realize Dave's job was an internship instead of a proper job. You wonder if it paid or if it was just for school credit.
"Man, good thing he got accepted to his first pick though," John mumbles through another bite of orange chicken. "It took him and his girlfriend like a month to decide on a grad school they both liked."
You glance up. "Girlfriend?"
"Yeah, man, he's..." He falters, frowning at you. "He's been dating a girl from the Law department since freshman year. She graduated in spring."
"Oh," is all you say.
He sets his food down. "Dirk, do you know... anything about Dave?"
"What's to know?"
He lowers his gaze. After a moment of silence, he murmurs, "Guess you really aren't his dad."
Of course you fucking aren't. You know that better than anyone and you've been telling him that from the get-go. Even so, coming from John, that stings somehow.
* * *
Dave doesn't bother walking for graduation. He says he's got no one to impress and those caps look dumb anyway. You can't say you were looking forward to two hours of dicking around on your phone as you wait for your kid to have his five seconds of fame on stage. All the same, you check the college website for the winter commencement program and find his name.
The fucker's graduating with honors. Highest honors.
You don't even know what to do with this. You grab a birthday card meant for an aunt at Hallmark and write "good job, bro" in the margins of the corny poem printed within before tossing it into his room while he's out. What else can you do? He's the first Strider to survive college and you didn't even graduate high school. This successful education shit is new and uncomfortably unironic and you never thought you'd have to prepare for it.
He doesn't ask you to do anything. He borrows your credit card to pay for airfare and his apartment deposit, but beyond the financial snags he handles everything on his own. You glance in his room late in December: all his crap is packed into boxes, ready to ship to his new place. He gives you permission to toss or sell anything he leaves behind.
You don't ask where he'll be getting furniture or how much his girlfriend is chipping in. If John hadn't mentioned her, you still wouldn't know about the girlfriend.
In too little time, you're at the airport and John's hugging Dave good-bye, demanding texts and IMs as soon as he's on the ground again. You exchange a fistbump and a nod with your little bro before he grabs his suitcase and heads for the security checkpoint. He doesn't look back.
It's at that moment you realize you're not sure if you'll ever see him again.
You're quiet on the drive home and John lets you have your silence. He doesn't even say anything when you unlock the apartment, let him in, and head for the stairs to the roof instead of following him.
You have no sparring partner and you're really not in the mood to train by yourself, so you just sit against the AC unit and stare at the cityscape, lost in thought. It's at least two hours before John comes to find you. He settles next to you without a word, just resting his head on your shoulder.
After a long moment of silence, you voice the words that have been running through your head all evening. "I fucked up."
He catches your hand and squeezes it. "Yep."
You snort. "Well, don't hold back or anything. Tell me what you really think, John."
"When have I done otherwise?" He kisses your cheek. "You're the one who holes up and pretends he doesn't have emotions. Or, prooobably more relevant right now, regrets."
Part of you wants to shove him away and storm downstairs before this conversation can get any more vulnerable. The other part reminds you that that kind of evasive behavior is how you're in this fucking mess to begin with. "I should've just let his mom put him up for adoption," you mutter.
He cringes. "Dirk..."
"I had no damn business raising that kid," you continue before he can interrupt. "I just... didn't want him going to a couple of fucking strangers." You glare at the ground. "I'm a selfish dickhead like that."
"And a control freak."
You scowl. "Great, you noticed."
"What?" He quirks an eyebrow. "Was that supposed to be a fucking secret?"
"Nah." You sigh. "Just another item on the list of reasons why I'll probably never hear from my little brother slash genetic son again."
John's still a moment, then reaches up and slides your shades off, setting them aside. (He does that every so often. The only place you stop him anymore is in public.) He climbs onto your lap and cups your face for a long, gentle kiss. He smiles at you afterwards, keeping eye contact.
"When we were younger," he murmurs, "Dave used to tell me all about how he had the coolest fucking big brother in the world."
"And when'd he change his mind?"
"Sixteen, probably." He nuzzles against your cheek. "But I think he still looks up to you, dude. And I can't really blame him."
You wrap your arms around his shoulders. "Thought you didn't think I was cool."
"Yeah, you aren't." He smirks and runs a hand through your hair. "But you took in a kid you could have abandoned and you kept a roof over his head and you made a successful career, all while a single parent and a teenager. That's not cool, but it's still a lot to fucking look up to."
You're startled silent for a moment; those are not the kinds of compliments you're used to getting. "Doesn't change the fact I was shit family."
He sighs and tilts his head one way, then the other. "Well, maybe you were still right to keep him, even if you sucked at being a dad. Maybe if Dave had gone to a better qualified couple, he'd be unhappy and inheriting his adopted-dad's pig farm right about now."
"Pig farm," you repeat flatly.
He grins. "Yep. And they'd have named him Billy-Bob and made him marry his cousin Annabelle at age sixteen."
You try not to laugh, you really do, but maybe you need to laugh or something because you sure as hell can't stop yourself.
He chuckles with you. "Dirk, you just sent Dave off to be a fucking dinosaur scientist and you're worried he would've been better off with another family?"
"You saying you're not happy being adopted?"
"My dad is awesome and I would never trade him for whoever my genetic parents were." He pokes your cheek. "But I did not end up on a pig farm, unlike Dave, who totally would because that is just his luck."
"I still could've done better for him."
He rolls his eyes. "Fucking duh. Not much you can do about that now, dumbass, other than try harder in the future and stuff."
"Provided he even gives me the chance," you mutter. You sure as hell don't deserve it.
John looks thoughtful as he strokes your jaw. "He is my best bro. There is no way in hell I am letting him get away with not visiting me. Also," he kisses you, "you have a fucking phone."
"Mm." For once, you're the one pressing your face against his shoulder. He hugs your head with one arm and rubs your shoulders with the other.
Under normal circumstances you'd never allow him to coddle you. Right now, you can't bring yourself to care. You fucking need this.
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----
John doesn't go back to the dorms when classes start up. He says it's because your apartment's nicer and costs him less, but you think he's grown accustomed to waking next to you, same as you're used to him curled against your side in the mornings. The commute is a pain in the ass, but Dave's already managed it.
Dave still isn't home much lately. John's made enough references that you've gathered they see each other on campus and in a couple of Gen Ed. classes, but even he hasn't bumped into Dave in the apartment that often. Your bro seems to stop by to crash for a few hours, grab a mouthful of food, and march right back to whatever trouble he's been up to.
So long as you don't get any phone calls from the police asking you to pick up your publicly intoxicated little brother, you don't care. Classes, work, and an awesome social life requires a fuckton of hours. It's no problem if he doesn't want to leave any time for family. Good for him, actually.
You settle into a new schedule with your roommates: You work on your videos while John's in class, you pull John into your lap as soon as he's home and barely disentangle yourselves from the heavy makeouts, and you exchange silent nods with Dave whenever you cross paths.
You know Dave's grown from teenager to proper adult when you check the mailbox one evening half-way through fall semester and find he's getting junkmail from credit card companies, insurance companies, and, of all things, a handful of universities. Christ, did they miss the memo that he's already in school? What are they trying to recruit him for so late in the game? You toss the envelopes on his bed for him to shred at his leisure.
For the first time in a long while, Dave isn't out the door first thing the next morning. You assume he's sleeping in after a test or something, until he slips out of his room almost as soon as John's left for campus.
He pauses in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame, and keeps his face aimed towards you. You pretend not to notice, pulling up a project on your computer.
"Bro."
You grunt. "Yeah?"
"We need to talk," he says, his tone odd. You can't actually place it.
You deign to glance his direction. "It serious?"
"Probably."
"Then google it."
"I got accepted into grad school." He says it in the same way one might announce they grabbed fast food on the way home -- as if it's an accomplishment so commonplace that you only need to know it happened so as not to make supper.
You're still a moment, then take both hands away from the computer as you turn to face him. "You're still a junior."
He shrugs. "I took heavy semesters and summer classes. I graduate in December."
You study him, making sure he's not bullshitting you. "Where?"
"East coast. I'm moving in January." He cocks his head. "You want to help with moving costs, that'd be cool, but if not, I'll start saving up."
"And how much is grad school going to cost?"
"Nothing. I got a fellowship." He snorts. "They're fucking paying me to go."
"They're paying you to get a master's?" you say, tone flat.
Dave shifts uncomfortably. "Doctorate."
...
...
...
You're speechless. You are actually fucking speechless. A doctorate. Someone is not just allowing but paying Dave to earn a goddamn doctorate. Your little bro has never taken you this off-guard. Dr. Dave Strider? Is he even fucking serious?
"The fuck are you studying?" you manage, an embarrassing splutter in your voice.
He sticks his hands in his pockets. "Dead shit. Dinosaurs. That sorta crap." He frowns. "Paleontology." He shrugs and heads for the front door. "Just thought you should know," he says before leaving you alone in the apartment to digest your shock.
There is no way in hell you can concentrate on work today.
You shove the computer chair back and stumble to the futon, collapsing on it and staring at the ceiling. You knew Dave was leaving sometime in the near future, but you thought there was another year, thought he'd stay closer, thought he'd be getting a job, not a fucking doctorate.
All this damn time, he wasn't being indifferent and chill as he kept his school life to himself. He was fucking hiding it, because he knew a science degree wasn't cool by any definition, no matter how far he stretched the irony. (Well, it could be funny that he's earning a B.S., but the humor dries up at the thought that he's following it with an M.S. and a goddamn doctorate.)
You should have known better than to assume he was just learning to keep his ironic accomplishments to himself. If his major was chosen ironically, he would have bragged. He would have left his fucking homework lying around for you to find, he would have found ways to shove it in your face, he would have let you know just how cool he thought he was being...
But he hid it.
And you're an idiot for not realizing what that meant sooner.
* * *
"Dude, how did you miss that shit?" John asks without even glancing up from his Chinese food. "He's been interning at the museum for like two fucking years."
You scowl. "The museum, as if there's only one in a city of two million."
John rolls his eyes. "The museum with the fucking fossils, dumbass. Which museum did you think he was interning at all this time?"
You shrug and busy yourself with your fried rice in hopes he doesn't push further. You didn't even realize Dave's job was an internship instead of a proper job. You wonder if it paid or if it was just for school credit.
"Man, good thing he got accepted to his first pick though," John mumbles through another bite of orange chicken. "It took him and his girlfriend like a month to decide on a grad school they both liked."
You glance up. "Girlfriend?"
"Yeah, man, he's..." He falters, frowning at you. "He's been dating a girl from the Law department since freshman year. She graduated in spring."
"Oh," is all you say.
He sets his food down. "Dirk, do you know... anything about Dave?"
"What's to know?"
He lowers his gaze. After a moment of silence, he murmurs, "Guess you really aren't his dad."
Of course you fucking aren't. You know that better than anyone and you've been telling him that from the get-go. Even so, coming from John, that stings somehow.
* * *
Dave doesn't bother walking for graduation. He says he's got no one to impress and those caps look dumb anyway. You can't say you were looking forward to two hours of dicking around on your phone as you wait for your kid to have his five seconds of fame on stage. All the same, you check the college website for the winter commencement program and find his name.
The fucker's graduating with honors. Highest honors.
You don't even know what to do with this. You grab a birthday card meant for an aunt at Hallmark and write "good job, bro" in the margins of the corny poem printed within before tossing it into his room while he's out. What else can you do? He's the first Strider to survive college and you didn't even graduate high school. This successful education shit is new and uncomfortably unironic and you never thought you'd have to prepare for it.
He doesn't ask you to do anything. He borrows your credit card to pay for airfare and his apartment deposit, but beyond the financial snags he handles everything on his own. You glance in his room late in December: all his crap is packed into boxes, ready to ship to his new place. He gives you permission to toss or sell anything he leaves behind.
You don't ask where he'll be getting furniture or how much his girlfriend is chipping in. If John hadn't mentioned her, you still wouldn't know about the girlfriend.
In too little time, you're at the airport and John's hugging Dave good-bye, demanding texts and IMs as soon as he's on the ground again. You exchange a fistbump and a nod with your little bro before he grabs his suitcase and heads for the security checkpoint. He doesn't look back.
It's at that moment you realize you're not sure if you'll ever see him again.
You're quiet on the drive home and John lets you have your silence. He doesn't even say anything when you unlock the apartment, let him in, and head for the stairs to the roof instead of following him.
You have no sparring partner and you're really not in the mood to train by yourself, so you just sit against the AC unit and stare at the cityscape, lost in thought. It's at least two hours before John comes to find you. He settles next to you without a word, just resting his head on your shoulder.
After a long moment of silence, you voice the words that have been running through your head all evening. "I fucked up."
He catches your hand and squeezes it. "Yep."
You snort. "Well, don't hold back or anything. Tell me what you really think, John."
"When have I done otherwise?" He kisses your cheek. "You're the one who holes up and pretends he doesn't have emotions. Or, prooobably more relevant right now, regrets."
Part of you wants to shove him away and storm downstairs before this conversation can get any more vulnerable. The other part reminds you that that kind of evasive behavior is how you're in this fucking mess to begin with. "I should've just let his mom put him up for adoption," you mutter.
He cringes. "Dirk..."
"I had no damn business raising that kid," you continue before he can interrupt. "I just... didn't want him going to a couple of fucking strangers." You glare at the ground. "I'm a selfish dickhead like that."
"And a control freak."
You scowl. "Great, you noticed."
"What?" He quirks an eyebrow. "Was that supposed to be a fucking secret?"
"Nah." You sigh. "Just another item on the list of reasons why I'll probably never hear from my little brother slash genetic son again."
John's still a moment, then reaches up and slides your shades off, setting them aside. (He does that every so often. The only place you stop him anymore is in public.) He climbs onto your lap and cups your face for a long, gentle kiss. He smiles at you afterwards, keeping eye contact.
"When we were younger," he murmurs, "Dave used to tell me all about how he had the coolest fucking big brother in the world."
"And when'd he change his mind?"
"Sixteen, probably." He nuzzles against your cheek. "But I think he still looks up to you, dude. And I can't really blame him."
You wrap your arms around his shoulders. "Thought you didn't think I was cool."
"Yeah, you aren't." He smirks and runs a hand through your hair. "But you took in a kid you could have abandoned and you kept a roof over his head and you made a successful career, all while a single parent and a teenager. That's not cool, but it's still a lot to fucking look up to."
You're startled silent for a moment; those are not the kinds of compliments you're used to getting. "Doesn't change the fact I was shit family."
He sighs and tilts his head one way, then the other. "Well, maybe you were still right to keep him, even if you sucked at being a dad. Maybe if Dave had gone to a better qualified couple, he'd be unhappy and inheriting his adopted-dad's pig farm right about now."
"Pig farm," you repeat flatly.
He grins. "Yep. And they'd have named him Billy-Bob and made him marry his cousin Annabelle at age sixteen."
You try not to laugh, you really do, but maybe you need to laugh or something because you sure as hell can't stop yourself.
He chuckles with you. "Dirk, you just sent Dave off to be a fucking dinosaur scientist and you're worried he would've been better off with another family?"
"You saying you're not happy being adopted?"
"My dad is awesome and I would never trade him for whoever my genetic parents were." He pokes your cheek. "But I did not end up on a pig farm, unlike Dave, who totally would because that is just his luck."
"I still could've done better for him."
He rolls his eyes. "Fucking duh. Not much you can do about that now, dumbass, other than try harder in the future and stuff."
"Provided he even gives me the chance," you mutter. You sure as hell don't deserve it.
John looks thoughtful as he strokes your jaw. "He is my best bro. There is no way in hell I am letting him get away with not visiting me. Also," he kisses you, "you have a fucking phone."
"Mm." For once, you're the one pressing your face against his shoulder. He hugs your head with one arm and rubs your shoulders with the other.
Under normal circumstances you'd never allow him to coddle you. Right now, you can't bring yourself to care. You fucking need this.
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