Warm rain dropped heavily onto Dave's shoulders. It ran thick through his stained undershirt, down his sides, and wetted the parched concrete below where it pooled. His back was sticky with sweat, and it mixed with the water on his brow and slid from his temple. He peeled his shirt up, with some difficulty, over the laceration on his side. It hadn't bled much, and what it had was mopped up by his shirt, slapped against his stomach. It didn't hurt when he'd first gotten it; he'd been too pumped up, teeth grit so tight that even now his jaw ached more than his actual wound. Every breath tugged uncomfortably at the skin surrounding the cut, so Dave tried not to breathe.
The concrete of the roof was grinding against his back, and though the rain fell hesitantly the drops were fat enough that they had began to leak under his shades. Dave sighed, pat his cut affectionately, and pulled himself upright. Here came the hard part. Putting most of his weight on his arms, Dave hauled his legs back onto the roof and, one at a time, got them underneath him. He barked a sick laugh. The last time he'd had his ass handed to him this severely had been over a year and a half ago.
Dave had been getting taller, leaner, and stronger, but to Bro he'd always be a scrawny little shit. So when his report card had come in the mail, Dave knew he wasn't getting out of today's rooftime rendezvous. Instead he took the katana thrust at him with not attitude but resignation. The slow rain on his window pane had wrapped Dave in lethargy- the sky was too dark of a gray for anything but dicking around on his phone. He knew before he ever even made it to the crest of the building how this strife would end.
Now he wiped a hand across the back of his forehead and squinted at the horizon. He knew that his grades weren't the only thing that had Bro uptight, so he when he made it to the bathroom he was surprised to find himself shoved to a humble seat on the toilet, the porcelain throne, and a gruff hand on his head. Its twin searched the medicine cabinet for antiseptic.
Dave coughed. "Your katanas are so shitty."
"You could buy me a nice one if you really wanted." The corner of Bro's mouth pulled up in amusement as Dave squeezed his side tighter and shuddered.
"No thanks, I'd like to keep my spleen."
"That's not where your spleen is."
His comeback died on his tongue with a grunt as the first harsh wipe of alcohol crossed his stomach. This was not the kind of bite Dave welcomed. Bro finished the final touches on his bandaging, wrapped tightly around Dave's midriff, and clapped him hard on the shoulder nearly dethroning him.
He was gone again without a trace, and Dave heard his bedroom door click shut softly. He stretched his arms above his head and scratched his hip as he trailed towards the kitchen. Starbucks sounded wicked, but with a sideways glance out the window Dave groaned and scrubbed his face with warm water from the sink.
This time, when he made it back to his room, he found his bed wasn't quite comfortable enough blankies or not, so he turned up his music and pulled his physics book out with a grimace. The heater creaked and came on with a pop.
It was a long, slothful evening.