Your name is Dave Strider and pain rips through your right side as you slide across the hot Texas pavement. Fuck is that going to hurt later. For a moment you lie there basking in your failure and the heat, everything is white and you're not sure if it's your head or the bright ass sun shining down on you. Nope, it's not an injury because you can now clearly see your brothers silhouette standing over you making what would be a nice shade if you couldn't see the look on his face, that smirk that means "I won again, Dave." You open your mouth to talk and get greeted by the taste of iron dripping thickly from the blood on your face, it might be from your lips or nose, it could be from anywhere.

"Too much for you?" that asshole spits with zero venom at all but it feels as if his words are a fucking knife tearing at your metaphorical skin, he's already torn up your not metaphorical skin, and that hurts like a bitch but the skin he's peeling away now is the skin guarding all your hidden cool kid feelings.

You want to loose it, a mixture of pain, suppressed emotions, and hormones makes you want to scream and cry. Thank The Lord you have enough pride to keep it all in at least until you get back to your room, so you hold your ribs and lift yourself up as fast as you can under the circumstances and haul your ass to the ladder leading to the building's main staircase.

It feels like there are way more fucking stairs than usual as you basically drag yourself to your third floor apartment. Once you get inside you start balling, not dramatic sobbing or anything, you have dignity, but you can let the tears freely flow and they do. Bro makes his way into the room and you start half sprinting to yours so he doesn't see you being a complete pussy, (you would like to do that in private.) However you've never been that lucky and Bro grabs you from behind and tackles you to the ground, your already hurt torso smacks the hardwood floor with a loud thud and you involuntarily hiss out loud in severe pain.

It's not like Bro knew or anything, it's not his fault technically, but when he leans down and sees the tears streaming down your face his entire mood shifts and you can feel the air in the room change. "Oh shit, I hurt you.", his brows crinkle in what you think looks like guilt. He picks you up honeymoon style and carries you to the futon. "Lift your arms", he demands while he tugs at your shirt. "What are you doing?" You ask even though you're complying anyway, "Damage control."

He rubs his hands gently across your left side and then rolls you over. You see the worried look on his face as his eyes scan the nasty looking bruises surrounding the right side of your rib cage. When he touches you, you make that fucking hissing noise again. He's never hurt you this bad before and you know that, and you know that he knows that, and you also know that he is beating himself up right now and it's written all over his face.

"Don't" you whisper, you didn't really mean to, you were thinking it and it slipped out. "Don't what?, he asks, "Don't be so hard on yourself, you didn't know." "What are you saying?" He tries to cover himself up, "I don't feel bad at all, you're a Strider, you'll be fine." "You're right.", you say, he's not fooling anyone but you respect his attempt at trying. He gets you ice and all that bullshit, drugs you up with pain meds, and you drift off to sleep on the futon.