important i guess: no longer ShaeTheFag. didnt suit me anymore v_v
unplanned, unrelated updates wooo. i think im gonna make one of these for alpha dirk, too.
also, working on a long, srs fic so expect that soonish maybe?

If you had asked, you wouldn't have gotten an answer. Because fact of the matter was, Bro Strider didn't even know what the fuck just went down.

It had been a normal day, a good (good?) day: he had checked his sites, filed orders, organized stats.

Hell, he'd even gone out of his way and ordered Chinese, a diversion from his usual diet of pizza. And the food hadn't even been for him, but for the kid (he was still considered a kid, right?), who Bro was pretty sure was just holed up in his room still.

So with nothing left to do, he catapulted himself over the back of the futon, landing (smoothly) on his ass and snatching up the controller from the table, all in the same span of a second.

He hit the power button on the remote, which in turn powered up the main console- whether it was a Playstation or an Xbox was lost on him. He had just gone out one day and when he came back, there it was in his arms, just waiting to be carefully installed next to a pile of smuppets.

A container of some sort of chicken was also with him, one he poked at rather unenthusiastically. Shit was nasty, but Dave always seemed to like it.

As his thumbs flicked out commands with the buttons, playing god knows what (seriously, what the fuck was this, his sprite was just running around with swords and dragons screaming at him and spouting fire all over the damn place), he didn't notice when his stomach gave a little lurch.

Or, he noticed, but he chose to disregard it. Wouldn't have meant anything anyway.

But then not even a minute later, it happened again, more forceful, demanding his attention. He made a face down at his lap –or, would have, if he made faces, so really, he was just scowling to himself.

When the feeling didn't relent, even had the nerve to intensify, Bro figured he just needed to go piss or something.

He stood up.

And that is precisely around when shit went down.

One second he was standing there like the tough ass guardian he was, feeling peculiarly queasy and mouth watering (what the hell he just ate), and the neck he was in the kitchen, feeling for all that he was worth like he was losing his innards to the sink.

Which was correct, in a sense, because what was going in the sink would definitely be considered his innards. Just not the important, attached ones.

Bro's throat burned, his stomach burned, his eyes burned (just because of the acidic stench, he told himself, not because they were watering or anything), everythingeverythingeverything burned.

Not trusting himself to move just yet, he stayed slumped against the counter, experiencing all of it with an airy sort of manner.

He wasn't worried about himself, didn't even care in the slightest for himself. The only thought that had flickered through his head was shits gonna clog up the sink cant afford that.

And then, as quickly as it popped up, it transitioned into something more urgent, much more crucial to him then the bills.

i cant get sick have to take care of dave have to be healthy for dave have to be strong for dave

Everything was fuzzy, and he had to keep a tight grip on the sink (why was the room spinning?), leaning over it, elbows splayed on top to support himself, chin pressed into the metal.

He noted with a detached type of fascination that fireworks covered in Brogunk exuded a pretty rad pattern.

Oh, and shitty Chinese food tasted better the first time, no matter the starting level of shittiness.

Just that thought made him nauseous all over again, so he squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head further down to press his mouth against the cool metal of the sink.

It didn't help, and soon enough, he was sending the rest of his stomach's inhabitants on a one way trip to the sink with a teary farewell.

Sometime during that emotional adieu, a tiny hand had settled on his leg, tugging at his jeans.

Slowly, the blonde lifted his gaze, then his head, and he looked down past the counter to find a little version of his sweet shades, darkened chips of red peering up at him.

Dave's mouth was turned down, his eyebrows furrowed. "Bro?"

God, his voice was so small, and beyond his façade (only seven years old and had a poker face like a world-known gambler), Bro could see the concern. He rested his forehead against the edge of the counter to watch him.

"'Sup, lil' man?" He was all but rasping, voice scratching against his throat, and the elder inwardly cringed at how terrible (weak) he sounded.

Dave's grip on his pants tightened before he reached up for Bro's arm. Upon touching it, he pulled it down to his level –the other Strider wasn't stopping him only because he was interested in what he was doing, really- and took the much larger hand in his smaller one.

"Bro what's wrong." He would have chuckled at how the kid was speaking, taking no pauses and sounding so determined, but chuckling hurt so he didn't.

"Nothing," he replied then promptly turned back to the sink and oh, what do you know, there was more shit in him.

After a moment of burning out his throat, dry heaving when nothing else came out, he coughed, trying to gather enough moisture in his mouth to spit. But that didn't really work and he was stuck with a thin trail of gross hanging from his lips.

He tried to bite back a sniffle (Bro Strider does not sniffle) and Dave tugged at his hand again, making a soft sound of surprise. "Then why are you crying?"

Bro blinked once, twice. "I'm n—" Three times, confused as to why his eyes were still stinging and his vision was blurring.

A drop of water dripped off the tip of his nose and Dave's incessant tugging increased, pulling the older out of the sink and down into a crouch.

Even then, he was just barely at eye level, but he used his free hand to reach up and brush away the tears and then wiped off Bro's mouth.

He rubbed whatever he got on his hand off on his heart shirt before replacing it at the elder's cheek.

He stared at him from behind his righteously awesome shades, red eyes visible and wide this close; Bro didn't doubt Dave could see his, too. He wondered what kind of a disaster he looked like.

The young Strider nodded at what he saw, patted Bro's cheek, and said in as serious a tone as a seven year old could muster, "That's okay. I'm not angry."

Bro blinked again, startled, suddenly trying that much harder to resist the stinging that prickled at his eyes, to beat back the heat threatening to wreak havoc across his face.

He sniffed, trying to swallow around the sudden obstruction in his throat, grimacing at the bitter taste. Unconsciously, he leaned his head into the dry, cool, chubby little hand and the other hand worked against his for a minute before their fingers were laced together. Bro wasn't about to deny that it felt…nice.

He closed his eyes for a minute, and when he opened them, the room was much brighter and his shades were in Dave's hand, the kid giving him a little smile.

"C'mon," it was more of a sound than a word, but it got the point across and Bro stood, the younger helpfully keeping him balanced.

He hadn't untangled their hands yet, and that's how Dave led them from the kitchen back into the living room, tossing the game controller off the futon and then pulling Bro over onto it.

Once the younger made sure he was settled, he went about and dutifully collected a pillow and blankets, scavenging them up from wherever he could find them.

Bro watched him, wary as he spread the blanket over him.

Then the kid was climbing onto the cushions and snuck under the throw, snuggling up to his sibling's chest and placing his hand back on his cheek.

Belatedly, Bro realized his little shades were gone too, and he was looking right into that red, red gaze (had they always been that bright?).

Dave reached down to take his hand once more. "I'll stay here and protect you," he vowed solemnly, nodding as if he was making a promise to himself, too.

The older managed a little smile and rolled his eyes, ignoring how it made him dizzy again. "My knight in shining armor." His voice still sounded awful and hurt like a motherfucker, but he could deal with a little pain.

Dave smiled too, laughing a little. And before Bro even knew what had happened, the smaller blonde had stretched his neck forward, leaving a quick kiss against the corner of his mouth.

He pulled back, still smiling, and squirmed closer against him, tucking his head under Bro's chin; in return, the older blonde squeezed his hand just a little.

Neither said anything else, didn't have too.

And even though he woke up about two hours later to vomit in the bucket Dave brought (the kid staying faithfully at his side, rubbing his back), he couldn't remember a time he felt better.