You've long since ceased to notice the sun beating down as you dodge, duck, parry, lash out at your bro. It's a background detail. You can't be bothered by the background details. Just focus on the glint of his sword, leap backward to avoid another shirt ruined, slice in hopes of this time splattering the rooftop with his blood instead of your own. You've got this. You're in the groove, nothing can shake you now.
"Status report?"
Nothing can shake you except for that, one of his fucking status reports as you try to avoid taking another blow that will require stitches. You don't respond; just keep your full attention on the here and now, block another blow and flash-step around behind him.
He blurs out of existence before you can land a hit on him. You barely dodge another blow.
"Don't pretend you didn't hear me," he says in that tone that you know is a warning, one you've failed to heed one too many times.
"I'm in some dream bubble looking for Roxy's sleepwalking ass." To your credit, you manage to keep your voice level even despite the exertion. And despite the fact that you're lying through your teeth. It's your only option, you can't focus on your bro's incessant pace and your dreamself both at the same time, it's fucking impossi—
He strikes and you pull to one side; only too late do you realize it was a feint, and he zips around to come at you from behind. In the next instant you're on your face. You don't even cry out when your nose starts bleeding for the third time this week.
"Don't fucking lie to me." He steps back. "Get up."
You do.
God, you can't stand him.