"Bro."

The sound of his voice was wrong. It wasn't the mellow, even tone that he'd just tossed over his shoulder in his proclamation to hog the hot water for a shower. Having raised him from infacy at least let Strider know when something was seriously wrong with his kid. He automatically turned from his position at his mixing tables, with the query already on the tip of his tongue.

There was a soft push of wind, and a punch with a decent amount of strength and anger that followed behind it. It landed square on the corner of his mouth, the power and intent travelling through his skull rather than stopping at it. Maybe it was because he was caught off guard because he'd been expecting something other than a sucker punch, or maybe, just maybe, because the kid could not have moved that fast and caught Bro off guard. Normally.

Sprawling on his expensive equipment, tounging the raw spot his teeth gouged in his inner lip, he concluded this was not normal. Drops on blood scattered on the vinyl album beneath him as he worked his jaw, and he looked over his shoulder from his position rather than straightening from it. The neon green that graced his eyes was nearly blinding in its own right, and he blinked against it. "Nice duds, man."

"Don't." The same tone from before, when he called his name. Terse. Angry. Hurt that masqueraded as hate. Loss.

For a second, Bro's heart did some weird tremble flip, because he knew what this was about, and he knew he didn't have to front and pretend he was ignorant of this Dave and what he was so angry about, and he knew. Knew. That he didn't have to pretend that he wasn't sorry.

Because he was. He always had been, and it he always knew it would never make it less difficult when it happened, or less surprising, or stop his last moments on some god forsaken rock worrying about his kid.

So he only responded with, "Okay." He hadn't moved yet, allowing the kid the respect he deserved for the amount of growing up he'd done since he'd last seen Bro. Allowing him to decide how it was he wanted to mourn, giving him the decision. He tracked the tightness of Dave's cheeks, the tremors in his lips. Anger and sorrow at once, and he wanted to be told what to do, even if he would rather swallow his shades before letting it happen. He wanted permission to do something, but he was too angry to ask for it.

Well. Bro wasn't going to let him take the easy path. He half sat where he was, blood pooling in his mouth, watching Dave stiffen in the soft green suit.

He reflected that it wasn't fair to make the kid grow up at thirteen. Wasn't fair to treat him like some homie who done dissed him. Not at this point; maybe earlier, when he needed to figure out how to figure out to navigate this crap by himself, but not now. Right now, Dave knew all of that and was sick to his back goddamn teeth of silly bullshit.

It was his kid. And his kid was angry and hurt that Bro had probably known all along that he was vetting him to pretty much know how to take care of himself. How to be grown when he couldn't count on the grown up anymore.

He'd gone without one for... he searched the kid's face. A while. He'd gone without orders and flown by the seat of his pants rolling with it for weeks, maybe months. And in some way, beneath all that anger and betrayal that his only connection could just fucking leave him, probably on choice, like that, was a question.

Okay so it was several questions, but it could be resolved with just one answer.

He regained his feet smoothly, respecting Dave's newfound prowess by not surpressing his own. He watched his face a little longer, the anger making it just that much impossible to do what needed to be done.

So he grinned. "Don't be such a prick." And reached out, grabbing the back of his neck, feeling him stiffen against the contact, and pulled him against him. Just like always, Dave fought against the comfort. He had to, Bro was totally ignoring that he'd grown up so much, ignoring all the shit he'd seen and done and pretty much turning him back into the Dave who lived with him in the shitty little apartment. You can't undo what's already been done, that's what Dave's physical protest was saying. With that gotten out, for a few stony seconds with a teenager locked in his arms, they held out. Dave resenting, Bro withstanding it.

It was all written in his joints and the set of his jaw. What are you stupid? Do you think I'm stupid? Everything's all fucked up and it's your fault, and why didn't you fucking tell me, you knew it, you always knew it because you always fucking know everything.

But you already knew all that.

Didn't you. Dave held out, smouldering.

Bro's response was just as silent and much more simple. He lifted a hand to rub it against the shoulder blades beneath the green, plushy fabric. Dave felt like an alley cat beneath his palm, all angles and bones, horrified at the touch and relieved all the same. Built in his genetic code and conditioned from birth.

He relaxed, the harsh lines of his body collapsing against Bro's larger, sturdier frame. It was as much respite as he was going to give himself, and as much comfort as he would allow. Just enough give to let his arms loosen from their rigid stance, hands come up to grasp the fabric of his brother's perpetual tshirts where it sagged around his belt. Just enough so that he wasn't pushing away with his whole body. Just enough to let Bro hug him.

It was more of an apology he would have allowed himself to envision.