Dave walks into the cluttered apartment, and bro greets him casually. " Oh, sup Lil' man? How was school?"

"Same as it always is." A hallow response. Without a word, he glides across the room, and into the hallway that leads to his bedroom. A small thump means he dropped his backpack, a louder thump means he jumped up onto his bed. With a sigh, Bro turns back to his business.

Inside his room, Dave lays facing the wall and recalls the terrors he faces five days a week.

"Hey, Strider! Take off the shades, and show us what's behind them. Think your so cool? What does the cool kid have to say for himself? Loser."

"'Sup, my name is GAY Strider!' Freak."

"Do you bleach your hair? No, you were just born that way, weirdo."

And then some.

Even the wall is making fun of him. He turns away, and faces the door. Behind his shades are bloodshot eyes, and a single year runs door his cheek. A Strider doesn't let others see him cry.

On his desk lay a box cutter. He knows he shouldn't.

But he wants to see the pain, and wonders if his blood is as ugly as he feels inside.

Getting up, one more tear falling, he grabs the weapon and extends the blade. He just watches it for a second, the silver point that had grown from the black handle.

And he places it on his arm. Pressing slightly, he feels the edge threaten to break the skin, to cut his arm, to make him bleed. Dave closes his eyes, his cheeks damp, fighting his mind as to do it or not.

He tests it. He presses the point against him, wincing as it easily poked it's way through. Looking at the tiny line, he watches it slowly gather blood.

It was ironic.

The color he hated so much, that caused him so much pain, was making him feel better. The red blob should make him feel sick, but it doesn't.

He closed his eyes again. His mouth pulled into a frown as his hidden depression flowed out of him, hot tears blurring his vision.

He hated himself. He wanted it to stop, the pain. He wanted to end it right there.

He glides it across his wrist once, the burning edge etching itself a dark line. Putting the blade down on his desk, the point a dark crimson, he fell onto his wire covered floor. Silently, he shuddered and gasped as sadness washed over him. Nothing was right. He could feel the blood fall from the cut, pulling happiness out of him.

Then a big hand fell on his shoulder.

"Lil' man?" Bro tried to stay calm as he kneeled next to his little brother. He just peaked in before, and saw what he did.

Scared, Dave filched and looked at his brother and half expected him to yell.

But he didn't. He pick up his small arm, take a rag from Dave's desk and wraps it over the self-inflicted wound.

"I-I'm sor-ry, B-Bro." Dave stutters out between hiccups as Bro pulls him up lightly. His little face was heartbreaking.

"Don't be sorry. Just tell me what's wrong."

"Ev-everyth-ing...!" He cried out before he started sobbing, collapsing into the unexacting elder's chest.

Slowly, Bro wrapped his arms around Dave, holding him close to let him know he's here. Dave clings to him, as if he let him go he would disappear.

God how he didn't want him to disappear.

The next day, Dave stayed home from school. He slept soundly on the couch after crying himself out, a thin blanket carefully covering him. He had a Lil' Cal tucked under his arm, and his glasses lay on the table.

Bro left a little note on Cal, just in case Dave woke up while he was out.

"Be back as soon as I can.
Love ya.
Bro"

Dave woke up about an hour later. He snuggled Cal closer to him, feeling the post-it, and read the brief letter. Like a child, Dave got up, blanket hung around his shoulders and holding Cal at his side, and rubbed his eyes.

He didn't want to touch his shades.

Breakfast was waiting in the microwave, ready to be heated. It was his favorite: three Chocolate Chip Buttermilk Pancakes made from scratch. There was even real maple syrup, not the fake crap.

For the first time in a while, he gave a genuine smile.

At the school, Bro talked to the principle. After discussing a few things, Bro made a deal.

"Alright. Dave won't come to school for, like, a week... Or until he feels comfortable. While I take care of shit at home, you take care of shit 'round here."

"That seems fair." The man ignored the unessisary language. Bro gets up to leave, but he calls to him at the door. "Mr. Strider, thank you."

With a nod, Bro absconds. Within minutes, he is unlocking the apartment door, tossing his keys on the table and walking into the kitchen to find a sleeping Dave. Next to him is a plate with pancake fragments and syrup. The blanket has fallen off and lays on the floor, and Cal lays across his lap.

"I hope you will be alright." Bro whispers to himself.