Dave tries to ignore the vibrations of the car beneath him as the taxi speeds down the street. His head bounces against the window, but he leans against it regardless, pretending to sleep. Bro isn't making much conversation, thankfully, and the driver is too preoccupied with the scores for whatever latest sports game has presumably just taken place.

The back seat is tightly packed with the previously forgotten sound equipment. He isn't entirely sure, but Dave thinks that this might have just been another precaution on Bro's part. Maybe if he's trapped between a rickety door and a mountain of tech, he won't try to run.

Normally, Bro would be wrong. Dave has no reservations about unbuckling his belt and throwing himself out onto the street. He decides it wouldn't be too different from jumping trains, really. Tuck and roll and try not to hit anything. Or be hit by anything, he adds, since streets tend to have the concern of additional moving vehicles.

Today is different, though. Dave is tired. He doesn't have enough stamina to welcome the possibility of injury. And really, he knows that if he were to jump out, Bro would chase him anyway. Escape just isn't an option.

So he goes back to leaning against the side of the car, being jostled and bruised as the ride progresses. He just wants to get it over with.

The taxi finally turns into the parking lot of the apartment complex and Bro begins to haul equipment out of the car, leaving the pieces closest to Dave for last. He stacks them on a cart and finally turns his attention to Dave.

Dave is still pretending to sleep. He knows it won't be very effective—Bro still has his shades somewhere, and it's hard to fake sleep when your eyes are uncovered.

"Come on," Bro says, unconcerned. "It's no use keeping up that stupid charade; I know fully well that you're awake." He doesn't sound angry, though. He doesn't even sound annoyed.

Dave sits up and undoes his seatbelt, then slowly pushes the door open and crawls out. Bro pays the taxi driver and gestures for Dave to come over. He does so hesitantly, but Bro offers no further signs of wanting to trap him. And why should he? Bro's already got him this far—a few floors won't make much of a difference now.

Dave drags his feet as Bro pushes the cart, careful to avoid any poorly managed holes in the concrete. It's been years since Dave has been here, but he feels like it was just yesterday he was walking to the elevator. Soon they'd get to their level and walk down the hall and Bro would open the door.

"Come on," Bro says again.

Dave nods but doesn't say anything. He shuffles along beside his brother and they manage to squeeze into the elevator beside the cart. Bro reaches around him and presses the button for their floor, then leans back.

For a split second, Dave imagines darting back out of the elevator as the doors close, as if he were in a shitty action flick. But his legs won't move and so he's forced to watch his last hope slide out of view, replaced by the scuffed metallic doors.

"You'd better get on those ablutions when we get there, kid," says Bro. "You look like a couple of morlocks got it on in a mud pit."

"I'm a goddamn hobo, what did you expect."

"For you not to look like one. You're still a Strider, aren't you? I'm not going to accept anything but sheer fucking royalty." The door slides open and Bro nudges Dave out. "Well, whatever. I guess it's my job to fix you up, anyway."

"It's not your job to do anything."

"I disrespectfully disagree. Now get moving." Bro gives Dave another nudge, firmer this time, and the boy stumbles. He tries to stay ahead of Bro, but his legs still feel like jelly and he's having a hard time balancing. He puts a hand on the handle of the cart to steady himself, but Bro doesn't mention it.

They stop at the familiar apartment door and Dave finds he doesn't have the urge to run. Maybe his mind has finally caught up with his body and knows that stressing himself out will only make him more useless. He follows his brother into the apartment and finds himself immobile with shock for a moment. Everything is exactly as he remembers it, right down to the scratches on the walls and the high end television on the back wall.

Once the nostalgia goggles fade, Dave realizes that there are some differences. Some of the tech has changed, been upgraded, and there are a few new gadgets around. There are fewer puppets, too. Dave wonders if Bro moved them when his doppelganger left for college. Lil Cal is still there, though, sitting on one of the computer monitors, glassy eyes as disconcerting as ever.

"Go wash away the filth," Bro says. "I'll see if I can find your skinny ass some clothes."

Bro starts towards Dave's old bedroom and Dave has a minor panic attack. He grabs Bro's arm. "No! Don't give me any of his stuff!"

Bro cocks an eyebrow, but he shrugs. "Sure."

"Promise me!"

"Yeah, yeah. I promise." He puts his hand on Dave's head briefly, then pulls away and heads for his own stack of clothes. "Towels are in the—"

"I know," says Dave. Without a second glance at Bro, he goes and grabs a handful of towels from a broken basket and goes to the small shower. He strips and washes, but the hot water makes his limbs feel weaker and he doesn't stay longer than he needs to. He towels off and opens the door a crack, peering out to see if Bro had left him any clothes. Dave finds a small stack of clothes and drags them into the bathroom, slamming the door shut as soon as the last sleeve is in. He eyes the garments suspiciously, but they don't look like they belong to his doppelganger.

In fact, he's not entirely sure who they belong to. But the shirt is white and it has a little orange icon on it, so it's really a best case scenario for him. He slides on the fresh clothes and leaves the old ones discarded on the floor.

Once he's done changing, Dave steps back into the living room. Without looking up, Bro gestures for him to come and sit on the couch. Hesitantly, Dave obeys, and he crashes down on the worn black leather. Bro wraps a cautionary arm around his shoulders and he winces.

"Alright," Bro says at length. "Are you going to start explaining or am I going to have to coax it out of you?"

"I don't know what to say," Dave replies, and it's true. For some reason, he had never given Bro's finding him a thought. There had been no imagined scenarios—not like the ones with his friends, at least, where he would talk to them when he was exhausted and hurt and alone. Bro was this unreachable figure, physically and mentally, and he had never even considered the possibility of their meeting. To be honest, he didn't think Bro would have remembered him if the had.

And yet, somehow, Bro did.

"How about you begin with the reason why you didn't come say hello for seven years?"

"Has it been that long," Dave says dully. "It feels like longer."

"Why didn't you tell me you were alive, you little fuck?" Bro's voice is level, but for the first time Dave can hear a tinge of real feeling behind his words. And Bro is pissed.

Dave finds that he still doesn't care. He gives a half-hearted shrug and says, "It didn't seem like something I should do."

"'It didn't seem like something you should do'…?" Bro repeats. "Well, what the hell did it seem like?"

Dave shrugs again. "There's a line. Going here would cross it."

"You're here now, aren't you?"

"That was an accident." Dave looks down at his feet. He doesn't want to look at Bro's face.

"Why didn't you ask for help?"

Dave pulls a smirk and he can't help but think his brother is surprised. "That's not what a cool guy would do."

"Dave." Bro's voice is cold and low and dead serious now. "That isn't fucking funny."

"No," says Dave, "it's not." But he wants to laugh. He doesn't know why but somehow it all seems so surreal that after seven years he's sitting on his couch in his apartment and it's all wrong.

"Why didn't you come to me?"

"You aren't mine. Why does it matter?"

"It matters."

"Everyone keeps telling me that, but I don't think it does. You're his bro, not mine. I shouldn't be your responsibility too."
"So we aren't bros anymore?"

"Why would we be?"

For a while, there's silence, and Dave is suddenly afraid. His brother seems to be contemplating something and Dave feels there is a huge possibility that he's going to get hit. He's not sure why he feels this; Bro's barely moved a muscle. Maybe that's why—he's deathly still now.

"It seems to me," Bro says, "that the question shouldn't be 'why would we be', but rather, 'why wouldn't we be'."

"How do you figure," Dave replies tonelessly.

"How old are you?" Bro asks suddenly.

"I don't know," Dave responds. "How old is the other one."

"I'm not asking how old he is, I'm asking how old you are."

"I don't know. A couple months older, probably."

Silence again. "We fought together, Dave."
"…yeah."

"Even if you weren't my brother—if we didn't even know each other—that makes us bros." He looks down at Dave thoughtfully for a few minutes. "Nice eyes, little dude."

Dave glares back at him. "Fuck you. It's not my fault the game went all colour swap on my ass at the end."

"Nah, you've got me wrong." Bro shakes his head, a hint of a cool guy smile on his lips. "I'm really not making fun of you. Not yet, at any rate."

"Then what?"

Bro pushes his pointed shades up, taking his cap with them, and dangles both casually from his finger. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's a taste of nostalgia?"

Dave narrows his eyes. "Are you making fun of me? You put in coloured contacts while I showered, you prick. Don't think I don't know you had those when I was growing up."

Bro barks a laugh. "Yeah, I did that. I had to keep you guessing, didn't I? There's no game without the suspense." He looks down at his little brother again. "But you're wrong, lil bro. I tossed them out a year ago. The game ended. This is au natural."

"I…"

"Surprised?"

"Holy shit. Just…just holy shit." Dave slumps back on the couch, suddenly very confused. What the hell had just happened?

"You're welcome."