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I shook my shoulders slightly, up and down by millimeters, stretching and stiff as a boulder made of basalt encoated in diamond. A dulled pain, quick as a cheetah on an overload of cheetos, succeeded this feeling of feeling immobile, and rather slithered through my lower arm.
"Hey, hey." Came a familiar voice. A head hovering over me came into view, slightly blurred. Bro?
"How're you feeling?"
"Like shit." I tried replying, but the words came out so dry I wondered whether or not I hadn't gone in for a windpipe replacement. "But better than yesterday."
"At least you feel better than yesterday."
"Anything is better than yesterday."
"Dirk, give me some form of relief for like the same amount of time it takes for me to snap my fingers in realization." Bro snapped his fingers soon after. The sides of my mouth couldn't help but lift slightly. "Would you like some water?"
"I'm not supposed to drink anything for a few hours." I croaked like a fucking frog, but I wasn't in the mood to point out how he was supposed to know this. I guess this process must've been stressful to him at least a little. "What time is it?" My head felt heavy, drowsy with general anaesthetic.
"They're coming in to set the cast soon. It's 1:30." That's why I feel deprived of food. I haven't eaten food the whole day in preparation for this surgery. Finally, my gaze fell onto my arm, the source of all my discomfort - HOLY FUCK THAT'S A SHIT TON OF STITCHES.
"Mother of a little baby Jesus, I'm a cyborg." I gawped. My heart beat quickly. "That scar will haunt me forever, why am I a zombie, walker, biter - whatever they call it. Wow, was it really that bad?" Suddenly, I felt revived. My stomach's irritance magnified.
"Guess you can audition for a character on the walking dead."
"This is going to mess up all of my cosplaying plans."
"Cosplay?" Dave's eyes went wide. He wasn't wearing his shades. In fact, I don't think he'd worn them at least in front of me the whole day.
"Yes, I cosplay."
"Like, cosplay? Cosplay what?" One corner of Bro's mouth lifted. He shuffled around in his chair expectantly. "I have the entire day, practically."
"Just shit from animes, and junk."
"'Mmkay, be that way - but we have to talk."
"Oh shit. Are Mom and Dad here?" I lolled my head to look at the other Strider in the eye. "Tell them to go away."
"No they aren't."
"Oh," For some reason I felt a pang of sadness inside me.
"Who cares? They're fucking asshats, but we - we should talk."
"Are you stuttering?" For a second, Bro opened his mouth as though he were going to say some sick comeback like Regina George the second. Maybe 'are you fucking high on NOS from your surgery?', but then he shut his mouth again. Partially to my disappointment. Wow, maybe I was high on general anaesthetic and morphine.
"We need to talk about the things you said before the stairs."
"Which you had never actually warned me about."
"Exactly, if we're putting it in Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff terms that's what I did wrong. I made you feel like I didn't warn you about the stairs." This conversation was about as emotional as it got between us both. It was like there was some sort of weird barrier between brotherhood and emotions. Some sort of fault in brotherhood. "i was really shit at warning you about the stairs."
"Bro, you should've warned me about the stairs."
"I should be there to warn you about the stairs you'll face in your life. I should play a part in your life." He said, with conviction. He was being serious. "I should be an actual parental figure, and I know that now, and fucking hell, I ended up with you in hospital - it won't happen again."
Well, I did still have another arm. "It's not your fault I broke my arm. It's also probably due to all the hormones that are soaring 600 miles per hour inside me, they're like jets hyped up on the latest junk."
"Yeah, but all I've been doing thus far is have cups of coffee and bury myself in my study and leave dangerous movie props and merch laying around. How did you even survive that first year when you were 7 years old with me?
"I am legally your guardian, Dirk. Not even by paperwork. We're brothers. I'm supposed to watch out for you instead of being consistently busy with the next big script or comic. It's time I start acting like your older brother instead of a lazy-ass deuterantagonist from a Jack Black movie."
"Dave, listen." I closed my eyes, still feeling sick to the core. I felt like an apple, slowly turning brown. "I've got crazy amounts of aesthetics and pain killers running through me right now but it's obvious to me that not everything I said before the stairs was fair on you."
"Bro, no, if you want me to actually focus on your life rather than your shades then you're right."
"No, I just, I-" Bro sat up in his chair, attentive. "I just wish sometimes that you yourself wouldn't put on such a fucking show around me all the time. You're every kid's role model across the country. Lowlifes look up to you; 6 year olds watch your films hiding behind the sofa looking over their parent's shoulders; you own a fucking media emprie for God's sakes. I just wish that you could drop all the facades you hold for some stranger sitting in mexico in front of their phone screen, and just be home yourself. That's who I look up to. It irritates me when you put that person back away. I just might've come off harsh before, so I also apologize."
"Drop the cool guy shit at home?"
"Yes, at least at home. You're a director, not an actor - though that one film you did begs otherwise."
"Stop trying to stroke my ego, but yeah, I think I looked great as a post man space warrior don't you?"
"Ace."
"Excuse me, sir," A stranger's voice entered the room succeeding a knock on the door. "We're going to need to put the cast in.
Bro sighed. It was one of the first times I'd seen him look genuinely stressed. I'd nearly forgotten how emotional his eyes could be. The curse of the Striders. "Can you give us 5 more minutes?"
"My pleasure." The doctor shut the door, and Bro turned back around and looked at me.
"Dirk, and about your sexuality."
Fuck, I'd nearly forgotten about that. Choosing to come out when you're being an asshole is probably not the best choice.
"I completely support. I'm fine with whoever you choose to love. I actually think Jake English is quite a good option."
"Yeah, I'll, um - take that into consideration." My cheeks got hotter. Or was it just the room? I used my right hand to rub the red away from my face.
"What color cast did you choose?" Dave continued, trying hard to make conversation. It didn't look like it was being too difficult. Actually, the brotherly cool conversation starters didn't annoy me besides being small talk. He had a natural knack for it.
"What do you think?"
"Orange?" He took a shot and hit the donkey right on the center of the tail with the pin.
"Like there's any other color, really. Everything's just different shades of orange." I laughed, and then suddenly stopped and frowned. Did I really just say that out loud? "Do you know how much gas they gave me?"
"No, but man, they really did give you a lot." Dave got up from the chair he was seated in, starting to get the Doctor. Amidst all of the saying my name, and last minute phrases to end various conversations like we were in some sort of a Shakespeare play lacking lighting, I tried having my own last minute say I might get with my brother for a while.
"Dave?"
"Yeah, lil' bro?"
"Could you stick by me while I get my cast done?" I asked. I'd searched up how the entire process worked. I knew the exact positions every piece of plaster of paris was supposed to go; how long it would set; what colors would leave marks on your arm and which would fade away quickly. I just wanted my brother in that moment.
"Of course."
"Thank you." And I wasn't thanking him just for sticking by me as I got my cast done either.
~~~~~~~POV OF THE RECURRING CHARACTER OF PERFECT IRONY (BRO. BRO. THE ANSWER IS ALWAYS BRO)~~~~~~~~~
After a while I suppose you get used to the world changing around you. Of course by the world I mean and the hospital, and by getting used to I mean being able to stomach it without your insides churning from worry. I needed Dirk to be completely recovered, to only get the best care I could buy - I didn't give a shit whether or not I would end up on the cover of "Today" magazine, not with Nicholas Cage this time, but with a large head title of "BANKRUPT AFTER LITTLE BROTHER BREAKS ARM". He needed to be okay or I would never forgive myself.
Jake became a regular face surprisingly fast. He was a sociable kid in comparison to Dirk, pretty easy going. Mom and Dad not even bothering to visit Illinois from Texas to see Dirk, it was nice to have a familiar face in the hospital. Someone to talk to about things other than autographs - which, yes, I kept getting asked for. I wanted to ask them for privacy back, but hey - fans are fans. They're the reason I'm famous.
I passed by Jake in the hallways to the hospital, where he gave a sympathetic nod as though to say everything was fine.
"How did that go?" I checked in with him. I felt like a biological parent. Was this how Mom and Dad had always felt taking care of Dirk and I? Shit, they were such bad parents. Hopefully, I one up them both in Dirk's mind, or else I truly was a shitty guardian.
"It went swell, actually." Was the British reply before he continued, "It's strange because when he was in the emergency room we had absolutely nothing to talk about in the beginning until I pointed out that this was the first time I'd seen him without shades. His eyes have this great vibranc-"
"Wait, first time?" I questioned. He wore his shades less than a hungry man on a deserted island craved food, that is he fucking never wore his shades.
"Yeah, he always has those stupid anime sunglasses. I thought it was some sort of peculiar irony thing, like usual, but -"
"Irony? He buys into that?"
"Yeah." Jake screwed up his face. "Didn't you know?"
"No." The word left my mouth slowly.
"That in its self is truly ironic." Was the reply. "Anyways - I'm going to retrieve my things for sleeping over. I think I absent mindedly left them in the waiting room. I'm such a twat sometimes. They're doing pain management aren't they?"
"Yeah.." Dirk was ironic? He wore shades? Near straight away, my mind flashed back to that shitty argument we had had two days ago. His room. I just realized I hadn't been in it. Maybe ever. Sure, it was clean - but there were people to hire when it came to cleaning rooms - I don't think I've ever been in there anymore than a medieval pauper would have visited a tower for the fucking King of scones land.
I followed in the direction that Jake had gone, and was just about to leave before I turned around to see the Brit caught up with the receptionist. He had a stern, patronizing face on, and Jake looked lost.
Quickly, I turned around with a calm face and went towards the man.
"What seems to be the problem?" Immediately, the receptionist looked up and his face looked shocked. Of course - she recognized me. "Yes, Dave Strider," I introduced myself "- what seems to be the problem?" It hadn't been the same receptionist that was there when we'd first arrived, so shifts must have been switched.
He paused a moment before continuing. "This young man hasn't been given permission to enter the room of the patient. W-we don't have any information on him."
"I signed in just a minute ago."
"People are required to sign in as they enter every hour. Especially for o-overnight stays. AND they need permission if they're not family." The stutter came out of the hospital worker's mouth. I hated it - but I was too busy to stay with Dirk overnight once again. I'd stayed glued to him last night, but this night I couldn't. More and more fucking celebrity shit was getting stuck in my hair as time went by.
"Okay, so where's the form." I questioned.
"Oh, it's um -" The receptionist shuffled around multiple papers, looking panicked. "Name?" He started.
"It's Jake English, and it's precisely how it sounds." Jake said, politely.
"Date of birth?"
"December 1st 1998, I believe."
"Name of the patient."
"Dirk Strider."
"Relation to the patient?"
"Oh, um.." Jake looked around, as though he might as well have said his relationship to the patient was 'sitting room'.
"Boyfriend." I pitched in. The brit immediately swung around to look at me, eyebrows creased, and eyes wide, as though I'd just been resurrected. As though to say 'you know?!'.
"No we're um, just friends." Jake laughed slightly nervously.
"Hey, I think you should give your relationship status a bit of ridin' around." I said, slightly offended. I nudged his shoulder. "My little bro deserves to get the title of your boyfriend."
"So is it friend or boyfriend?" The receptionist looked up, slightly worried he'd offend me.
"Boyfriend." I stated. "He's his boyfriend." I made my voice steady.
"Right, okay, then, and one more question -"
"How about no more questions, and I will give you an autograph alongside any other autographs you want to sell or to give other people. Just let this poor young brit get a chance."
"Uhhh," The receptionist mentally juggled the options that I set for him, before brightening his eyes. "Yep, that'll do. I'll just.. here's the slip just fill it out and give it back."
"Gosh! Thanks!" Was the eager reply. "Thanks, Mr. Strider!!"
"'Dave." I corrected, trying to keep track of Jake as he practically ran down that hallway. "No problemo!" I shouted back, using the phrase ironically of course.
I signed the autographs.
Eventually, I was in my car.
Eventually, I got home.
All the while thinking of everything about Dirk that I'd missed out on in those three years in which I wasn't home, but he was with Mom and Dad. Assholes.
Everything about Dirk that I'd still missed out on even though he was living in my very own house.
I started for the stairs, looking around. He'd really fallen and injured himself here. If only I'D HAVE BEEN A BIT MORE CAREFUL, for FUCK'S sake. It made me nearly want to move houses.
Eventually, I made it to his room.
And I stopped.
What was behind here would no doubt change my perception of him forever.
I might learn new secrets.
I might invade his privacy.
I might - oh who really cares, he practically gave me his permission and i AM his sibling - not a parent - it's normal for me to snoop around in his shit.
I swung open the door, like Clint Eastwood entering a bar, and the door got stuck on something. A squiddle. He liked squiddles... ironically. And then I looked around the entire room.
Posters of My Little Pony grazed the walls, some animes - Attack On Titan, Madoka Magica - Twilight. He really did care for irony. His bed sheets, which I had never even seen, were from Nicolas Cage's film Face Off. The shelf of DVDs lining one side of the room had only musicals. I didn't know this many musicals existed. Les Miserables was there more than once. I should write a musical.
I bent down, looking at the base shelf of DVDs. The fact that they were DVDs and we were living in the 21st century could have itself been considered ironic.
The thing is, those DVDs were all of films that I had helped to write. Sweet Bro And Hella Jeff; 50 Sheds Of Gray: Twilight Comes Back To Bite Again 12: The 10th season of glee. It was all there, hidden away. I sat down on my knees, and looked around.
Eventually, I noticed that they weren't the only things around the room that he had of mine. A large poster of Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff was on the back of the door, the action figures I had bought him were still laid out on his desk, in fact he had an ENTIRE fucking drawer filled with shades I had given him over the years in an attempt to get him to wear them.
He was proud of me. He admired me, acknowledged my work.
"MAPLEHOOF." I cried, and the little thumb sized pony started whinnying. Moving towards it, I marvelled at the hidden work of technology and science. This hadn't even been realized to be sold nor would it ever be. It was still moving and healthy.
And sitting there, with the little pony, I felt a tear roll down my face. A manly tear.
And I cried man tears of happiness.
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There's one more chapter to go. Oh my GOD thank you for reading this horrible junk. It's funny because it will have 14 Chapters, just like my Davekat Fic. Well dirkjake lovers! It's nearly done and don't worry, it's a nice ending. No more breaking arms.