Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Dave was six when it began. Whatever ‘it’ was.
Back then, Bro still let him climb into his lap. Dave fit easily, scraped knees tucked in, his cheek pressed to the solid wall of Bro’s chest. The smell of dust, warm plastic, and metal hung in the air, a smell that would always remind him of home. The blinds were drawn against the sun, the room painted amber in its’ glow. Especially when he was young, the two brothers never had much; they never talked much, never mentioned when the heating went out or the water ran cold.

Bro worked, slicing pieces of film apart with a small pocket-knife while some stupid animated movie was playing on the TV, one Dave had no interest in but Bro was looking at with rapt attention. Really, beneath it all, the true pleasure of moments like these were the slow, steady rise of Bro’s breathing under Dave’s ear. Bro didn’t say anything, but the arm around his back kept him balanced. That weight was enough.

It only shifted near the end, when the movie had long since finished and the amber glow of the afternoon had faded into a cool, dull hush. Dave felt it first in the way Bro’s chest tightened under his cheek, a catch in the rhythm. When he looked up, with those wide red-eyes of his hidden beneath his matching pair of shades, Bro was looking down at him with a rapt attention. Then Bro’s hand paused mid-motion, blade hovering. His throat worked once, the gulp audible in the silence of the room.

Dave tilted his head up. “What?”

Bro didn’t answer. His jaw flexed, unreadable beneath dark shades, and then he went back to slicing tape as if nothing had happened.

Dave stayed pressed against him, small and unbothered, thinking only of the comfort of his older brother. But years later, when the memory returned, what burned a hole into the back of his head wasn’t the warmth. It was that hesitation - the split-second where Bro had gone still, like he’d realized something he couldn’t name out loud.

Dave was eleven when he started keeping time.

He’d wait until Bro left the room, then slip into his spot by the turntables. The machine was too tall for him, his chin barely reaching the edge, but he made it work. Fingers splayed over the vinyl, he dragged it back, then let it roll forward. No cut from the crossfader, just the raw squeal of vinyl on needle. It shrieked uneven, messy. He knew it was wrong.

He tried again. Again. The room hummed with the squealing of his attempts and the ambiance of a hot afternoon, the squawking of birds on the roof.

Bro appeared in the doorway without a sound. He was always like that, his appearances sudden, as if he’d been there the whole time. Dave wondered for a second if he had been there for the whole time. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, shades fixed on Dave. Still, he made no sound.

Dave’s hand froze on the record. “I was just-”

Bro moved closer. It wasn’t fast or threatening, but it held with it the kind of weight that made the air shift, and the room heat, and Dave’s little heart quiver a bit. He cued the record back to its start mark, thumb and needle moving with surgical precision, then flicked the crossfader off, the silence snapping clean. Bro didn’t say anything. He just turned the table back to its resting state, movements precise and almost surgical.

Bro was so, so cool. Dave’s chest buzzed with embarrassment. “I can do it right. Just need-”

The sentence died. Bro didn’t answer. He adjusted the fader, lined the needle up exactly on the groove like a practiced ritual. Then he stepped back, leaving the space empty, his shadow stretching long across the carpet, swallowing up his little brother and the turntable in front of him.

It felt worse than if he’d laughed and worse than if he’d told him to stop.

Dave stared at the decks. His palms were damp, but he set his fingers on the slipmat and tried again. Back and forth, slower this time, his other hand hovering over the fader but never daring to cut in. Trying to find the rhythm and trying, desperately trying (although he had learned to never, ever look like it) to make the silence give way to something comforting.

Behind him, Bro exhaled. Not a sigh, just a curt breath, but all enough to tell of his disapproval. Then came the the faint squeak of a door hinge as he left.

Dave didn’t follow, he stayed there, rocking the record back and forth over the same bar until the groove wore down into fuzz and static. With the crossfader left wide open, every stumble bled through, harsh and unlistenable. His throat was tight, his chest hot, but he told himself he could still see the afterimage of that gloved hand: steady, effortless, never missing the pocket. If he squeezed his eyes shut hard enough, he could almost feel it ghosting over his own, guiding the motion. That was enough. That had to be enough.

Later, he’d remember the shape of that moment - not the failure, not the silence - but the nearness of Bro, the weight of his presence leaning over him, resetting the needle with ritual precision. Whatever that feeling was, it felt even heavier than touch. Dave guess that that was closeness, now. And he had earned it.

And from then on, he practiced until the skin on his fingertips grew sore and thin from the slipmat’s drag. Every scratch, even the ugliest ones, was proof he could bridge the gap if he just worked hard enough, cut clean enough, wanted it enough.

Dave was fourteen the first time he noticed the space Bro left behind wasn’t accidental.

It was late-two in the morning, maybe later. Dave had spent a long day celebrating his birthday earlier - him and Bro had sat side-by-side on the couch (which was already rare), ate pizza and watched some shitty film. One that Dave had wanted to watch, instead of shitty ironic moe anime or MLP reruns.

Later, he had spent his night and early morning texting his friends. He had known them for a few years, now, and they helped him more than he would ever admit. At some point, he had realized that his relationship with his Bro was not normal in any way. He had come to terms with it. Of course, he still loved his bro, but it was nice to have someone to talk to, really talk to. Even if they were what seemed like worlds away.

Dave stared at the name for a second before swiping to answer. His voice cracked anyway. “Yo.”

“Dude,” John said, half-laughing. “You sound like you just woke up. It’s, like, nine at night.”

Dave rubbed at his eyes, pulling the blanket tighter. “College hours, my man. Time’s fake.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Anyway, I was just checking in. We haven’t talked in forever, Dave. You alive?”

Dave let the question hang far too long to even pretend to be normal. He glanced at the empty space beside him on the bed, then turned onto his back. “Yeah. Alive.”

“Cool. Glad to hear it. How’s the whole big-city, higher-ed life treating you?”

“Fine.” Dave rolled the word around, trying to make it sound solid. It came out flat. He forced a cough, covered it with, “Classes are… whatever. Loud people. You know.”

John chuckled. “You never did like people.”

“Yeah.” Dave’s lips twitched, almost a smile, almost nothing. He stared at the ceiling, counting the blades of the fan. “Guess I got used to having someone around.”

John caught it. His voice softened. “Like… roommates? Or you mean back home?”

Dave’s throat worked. He swallowed, pressed his knuckles to his mouth. “Yeah. Back home. Apartment felt less empty.” He laughed, a horrible noise that escaped him quickly and painfully. “Now it’s just me. Lonely as hell.”

There was a beat of silence before John said, gentle but careful, “You can call me, you know. Doesn’t have to be forever between check-ins.”

Dave shut his eyes. For a second, the warmth of the voice on the other end was good enough to lift his spirits. It didn't hold the same weight nor the same wrong comfort, but hey, it was real. Something he could hold onto. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

John’s voice lifted, casual again. “Actually, I went home last weekend. Saw my dad.”

Dave blinked at the ceiling. “…Yeah?”

“Yeah. First time in a while. He’s… you know, still him. He made me a cake for my visit home.” John laughed, light and easy. “Burned the casserole again, though. House smelled like a crime scene.”

Dave huffed a small breath, not quite a laugh. “Classic Egbert.”

“Classic Egbert,” John echoed, grinning through the line. It’s nice. It’s simple, like when you were stupid teens. “But it was nice. Weirdly nice. Like, we actually talked. About serious stuff. College, work, life. Guess it made me realize I don’t check in with people enough. Which is why I called you.”

Dave pressed the phone harder to his ear. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“You ever think about going back home?” John asked after a moment. “Visiting? I mean, I don’t even know how far you are from… yeah. From there.”

Dave’s chest tightened. His eyes flicked to the blank wall, the shadow stretching across it from the desk lamp. “…No. Not really.”

“Not even once?”

He swallowed. The silence, that all too familiar thing, stretched again. He forced out a laugh, low and sharp. “You know me, man. Always forward. No point digging through the attic.”

John hesitated, then said, “Fair. Still. I think it’s good, sometimes. To… I don’t know. Remember where you came from, but not let it drag you down.”

Dave’s knuckles whitened around the phone. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Sure.”

The word remember clanged in his head like a skipped record, dragging him backward whether he wanted it or not.

John’s voice dropped, softer now. “You sure, man? I mean… you never really talk about it. Anymore.”

Dave’s throat locked. He shifted on the mattress, blanket tangling around his legs. “…Yeah, and maybe there’s a reason for that.”

“Okay,” John said quickly, but not unkind. “Okay. Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry. Just-sometimes it feels like you’re carrying around stuff and I don’t even know what it is.”

Dave barked a laugh that sounded nothing like humor. “Trust me, you don’t wanna know.”

Dave shut his eyes, chest tight, tongue a weight at the back of his mouth. He wanted to spill it, just to see what John would say. But he couldn’t. Not with John.

Because John was always… good. Too good. Too easy with his smiles, too open in the way he talked about his dad, even when he complained about things like birthday cake and ruffled hair. He carried a lightness in him, something Dave had never had. And Dave knew, knew if he ever let the truth slip, it would poison that.

So he pulled the wall up higher. “Drop it, man. Seriously. Not tonight.”

Another pause. Then John’s voice shifted, brighter, lighter, like he’d flipped a switch. “Alright. Dropped. Consider it dropped so hard it fell into the Earth’s core and burned up instantly.”

Dave exhaled, shaky. “Thanks.” John’s attempt at mimicking his speech was cute. It made him smile.

“No problem. Anyway, I’ll let you sleep. Or… do whatever it is you do at night.”

Dave almost smiled. Almost. “I’ll never tell, Egbert.”

“Cool. Call me whenever, alright?”

“Yeah,” Dave said, voice low. “Maybe I will.”

The line clicked dead. He let the phone fall onto his chest, staring at the ceiling. John meant well. He always had. But it was never easy, not with him. Not with someone who still believed the world could be simple, even when it wasn’t. Talking to John meant pretending to be lighter than he was, and pretending took more out of him than he thought that the silence ever did.