Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7394101.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      John_Egbert/Dave_Strider
  Character:
      John_Egbert, Dave_Strider, Dave's_Bro_|_Beta_Dirk_Strider, Dad_
      (Homestuck), Troll_Ancestors, Troll_Dancestors, Alpha_Guardians, Dirk's
      Bro_|_Alpha_Dave_Strider, Roxy's_Mom_|_Alpha_Rose_Lalonde
  Additional Tags:
      Psychostiders, Psycho!Striders_AU, Torture, Kidnapping, enslavement,
      Rape/Non-con_Elements, Stockholm_Syndrome, Dismemberment, Incest,
      Underage_-_Freeform, Self-Harm, Stalking, Love_at_First_Sight, Falling_In
      Love, Obsessive_Behavior, Gore, Angst, Eventual_Smut, Psychological
      Trauma, Physical_Abuse, Sexual_Abuse, Child_Abuse, Non-Consensual_Blow
      Jobs, Rape_Aftermath, First_Time
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-07-07 Updated: 2016-08-09 Chapters: 3/4 Words: 21710
****** How The Devil So Adored You ******
by halcyonwhispers
Summary
     BREAKING NEWS: TEEN FLEES PSYCHOPATHS
     After four years imprisonment, John Egbert, 17, has escaped his
     serial killer kidnappers. Taken from his bed April 13, 2012, Egbert
     has been at the mercy of two brothers, Dirk and Dave Strider, now
     ages 34 and 17, in a deserted hotel on the outskirts of a small Texas
     town.
     As of now Egbert stands as the lone survivor of the mass murders.
     However, the young man’s mental health is put into question on how
     useful he will be to the prosecution as several sources suggest
     Stockholm Syndrome is at hand.
     See below for pictures of Egbert and Striders.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** It only hurts when you touch me. *****
‘Wait. Are you telling me that the reason why this case, the Ebony Killings,
have gotten this famous is the result of how good looking the Strider brothers
are?’ the interviewer asked, eyes widening dramatically. 
You hold your knees closer to your body, staring at the TV screen, soaking in
as much as you can before your Dad comes out of the shower.
The interview, Matt Lauder, leans forward in his chair. The person he’s asking
looks solemn.
‘What typically captivates the public during investigations are the brutality
of the murders and the killers themselves. The Strider brothers,’your eyelids
drop down as a picture of them fills the screen, ‘manageto accomplish both of
this. Ted Bundy’s case was similar. All aspects of this match up to what the
world saw back in the 70s.’ The former FBI agent continues to speak, informing
the millions wanting to learn about what happened.
‘The Striders, like many serial killers out there, have a very specific type.
Slim built, colored eyes, and of course, the black hair. The victims found
deceased at the location were later examined and those who didn’t already have
naturally black hair, were discovered to have had their hair dyed black to fit
the look the Striders sought out.’ This ex-FBI guy is old, worn, and had
probably nothing better to do than inform people watching The Today Show about
the number one trending topic on Twitter right now.
‘It wasn’t just a specific ethnic group or gender that the Striders sought out.
The confirmed victims were men, women, some were even queer-gendered. Black,
white, Latino… Korean-American in the case of the survivor, the Striders didn’t
care about these things as long the person fit their other ideals.’
Your hands brush through your hair self-consciously, fingers getting caught in
a knot. Tugging on it doesn’t help and suddenly, your mind disconnects the
knowledge that it’s your hand in your hair, replacing it with a larger,
stronger one.
Your hand snaps away from your head. There’s that sharp taste of bile at the
back of your throat again, ever present and just waiting for you to be reminded
of it.
Pushing your face into your legs, you wish you could just shave it off. Shave
all of it off and forget the days that were spent with him wrenching at your
dark hair. You want to dye it something completely different to help forget.
But not blonde. No. Not blonde.
‘There’s still a lot being held back from the media, the trial may be
compromised to some degree if the police and FBI aren’t careful.’
Matt Lauder nods lugubriously. ‘We have time for one more question, Mr.
Spencer. From everything our sources have gathered, do you think that the young
man involved will testify, and if it will help put away these men? After all,
there’s word of the young man making an appearance at the trail in Texas coming
up.’
Your ears ring, blurring out the low volume of the TV. You have to turn off the
TV. Dad will be out, the 15 minutes are practically over.
Turn off the TV.
The controller is suddenly in your hand as you lock eyes with the old, tired
man. Your brain is slow on hearing still, and it isn’t until after you see his
mouth form blubbering words does your hearing turn up the sound.
“…sole survivor of these murders. It’s going to be up to the lawyers if they
deem his mental health rational enough to be put up in the stand.”
A picture finds its way onto the TV, of a boy or man… or somewhere in between.
There’s a blanket thrown carelessly over his scruffy T-shirt.
It was taken when you was first escorted to the hospital, the first trip of
many to come. The paparazzi would later move in like roaches outside the place,
but one of them was there on the first day. A journalist with a third eye, who
snapped a picture just before everything would explode. Wondering how word came
to that person’s ears, you can almost hear the newspaper editor spilling the
sounds as the journalist ran out the door.
(therewasaboy.thatoldrundownhotelmilesoutsideoftown,yesthatone,heldthereforgodknowshowlong.getagoddamnquestioninbeforethosevulturesfromDallaspullthestoryfromus)
Now the world knew that picture as the first evidence of the torture.
Dirty, skeletal, with finger-printed bruises on your throat, someone had called
your name. You turned because it had been years since the last time you heard
it come from someone who wasn’t them.
That was the image on the screen; a broken kid with blood smeared on his hands,
a bruise blooming on his cheek, his black hair slicked to his forehead with
sweat, and blue eyes reflecting the morning sky – endless.
“Either way, John Egbert’s testimony will be of the greatest importance-”
The screen turns black and your glance at your hand to find a finger on the
power button. The remote control is tossed away from you, and you close your
eyes, shutting out your image from the TV.
Dad told you not to watch the TV. All that’s on the news is the killings.
Everything on TV is about them. Everything online is about them, about you,
about the stupid Ebony Killings.
You can’t go outside without seeing the lineup of varies TV crews camping out
your lawn. Most of them left after the fourth month, and now there’s a new wave
of ‘em sticking out the wait as the trials move on. The green grass where you
used to play on is now reduced to trampled dirt.
You remember asking Dad, after finally being able to look at him without
sobbing your eyes out, “Why did you stay at that house?” It had been almost
four years by the time Dad stormed into the hospital in that tiny Texas town.
“I knew you would come back, and well son, when you did, I thought this would
be the first place you’d look.”
Tears are already dropping from your eyes, and your clutch your forehead, the
newly hollow place in your chest weeping for someone, for him, to cling too.
You miss him.
He coddled you too much, so maybe it’s only natural it’s him that you’re
craving for. He was a safety blanket you could cling too after a beating or
when his brother made you feel no better than the dismembered body parts in the
Red Room. But he tried…tried to help in little ways. A blanket in cold winter
nights, or day without having to get on your knees and crawl around like the
dog they made you think you were.
You never realized until you left…that this void existed in you. He was the one
who kept it filled and kept you thinking that this wasn’t so bad, only if he
was there. If he was, you could find a way to keep breathing.
You’re a blubbering mess now. You sniffle and swipe the back of your hand
across your nose.
You need to pack for tomorrow. You need to try to hold it together for this.
It’s been a couple months since everything. You have to see them again. Him.
Him. Him.
D-
“John?” Your eyes snap up to see Dad standing at the doorway, a brush in his
hand, and in a dark gray robe. “John!” His voice is far away and his face is
fading in and out of your eyesight.
There’s a loud panting in the room, combined with shrill sobbing, and you hug
your knees at once, whimpering as you realize that it’s all you.
Dad races towards you and as soon as he’s within arm length, you find yourself
flinching at his outstretched hand. In the back of your mind, you know that out
of all the people in the world, Dad isn’t going to hurt you, but you can still
feel Bro’s hands.
As if he understands what’s going through your mind, Dad’s expression loses
some of the panic and softens. He gently grabs your elbows and quietly urges
you to raise them over your head. “In through your nose, out through your
mouth… Yes, there you go son. Breathe, breathe… Good, just focus on that.”
The hours it takes you to calm down in your brain speeds up to several minutes
in real time and the next thing you know, Dad rubs your back as you gasp into
his shoulder.
“John…” You know he’s going to say something. Something about being “mentally
stable” enough to travel away from the safely of Seattle to hellish Texas. But…
But…
“I want to go.” The words hang off your mouth and Dad’s hand stills for a
second, so minor a moment that it’s possible your brain scratched, like it
usually does.
You keep your eyes closed, taking deep breaths of your Dad’s body soap. “Son…
The only thing I ever wanted was, is, to keep you safe, but also I want to
trust in your decisions…” Your eyes open and the only thing you can find is the
posh feel of the robe. His grip tightens on you. “I don’t want you taken from
me again.” But don’t willingly go either.
The last part goes unsaid, and the raw memory of one psychologist comes
whispering in with those fucked words that left you throwing up right on the
her shiny black shoes.
Stockholm syndrome, feelings of trust or affection felt in certain cases of
kidnapping or hostage-taking by a victim towards a captor.
You jerk against your Dad, pulling away and standing up.
“I- I have too Dad! I need- This is the only way I can finish-” you stumble
over the words before biting on your tongue and start to count backwards in
your head. You push the palms of your hands under your glasses, into your eyes,
to clear you head. You get to 87 when you pull your hands away.
“The doctor said I was ok. I know I can do this,” hands wave around as you
speak. You desperately try to find a hint of disbelief in your Dad’s eyes, in a
fatherly face that looks closer to 50 than his actual 43 years. You want him to
doubt you. No, you expect it.
After all, it’s just you.
Instead, Dad slowly nods. “You’re right… I trust you, son.” He stands up just
as slowly, an old body filled with aching bones. He pauses where he is and
looks at you with so much compassion, you find yourself blinking away tears,
because this can’t be real.
You expect to wake up and find yourself laying on that dirty mattress in the
corner. You expect the old hotel room to close in on you when you awake. You
expect to feels the almost-nonexistent footsteps leading to your door, the only
ones that have you relax a little. You could never feel Bro’s dreadful presence
coming up on you, so it had to be someone else.
You could ask for a walk on the roof, if you beg sweetly enough and hold the
leather leash in between your teeth, because he likes that. He thinks it cute
or some kinky shit, but that’s fine. He’ll cave in for you because he l o v e s
y o u-
L o v-
Lo-
L-
“John?” Your name is cold in the heat-filled thought. Dad still stands in the
same spot as a minute (a second? a hour?) ago. His face tells you he wants to
believe you. This has to be real, at least for this Dad’s sake, it has to be.
“Yeah Dad, please just trust me.”
You’re back in his arms before you know it, and he’s so quiet that his next
words almost escape you. “I want to.”
===============================================================================
 
During the last two trials, Dirk Strider pleaded not guilty on all charges on
grounds of insanity, and now with this third one (hopefully the last), everyone
is sure that the jury will decide the sentence.
Dad didn’t allow you to attend the first two trials, as it might’ve been too
soon to face Bro. Yet now, there’s a better sense of confidence alongside
several psychologist notes to ensure everyone you are, in fact, not as
sympathetic as they thought you might be.
As you and Dad are being catered off to the courthouse, you know that Bro would
never say he’s not guilty.
As little as you understood, understand, him, you’re certain that Bro would
almost relish the idea of telling the world what he’s done. He wouldn’t show it
(because it’s fucking Bro Strider and he’d never care enough to show emotion)
but you know he’d like it.
His defense attorney must’ve worked hard at it to get him to agree. Or maybe…
You’re shivering as the comprehension hits you. Or maybe he just wanted to see
how this way would play out.
Dad glances your way and you move your eyes to meet his. He looks tried and the
usually vibrant dark gray of his eyes are dulled out with stress. Suddenly, he
catches you looking and he’s smiling, shifting his hand to have it sit palm up
in the tiny bit of space between your bodies.
You stare at it blankly for a moment, no idea of why he moved it like that. He
could be planning something… A prank?
The word prank hasn’t been on your mind since you were 12.
You’re still staring when his finger twitches a little and all at once, you
understand. He wants to hold your hand. Biting your lip, you nervously slip
your hand in his, dumb at how every instinct inside of you screams not to be
touched. However, you’ve long mastered to pretend the discomfort isn’t there.
The look he gives you makes how you’re feeling even worse. He looks so damn
happy and relieved, his hand giving yours a reassuring squeeze.
For God’s sake, it’s Dad. The over-protective man who lost his corporate job
because he spent all the time and energy he had on looking for you for four
years. He’s not going to going to slam you against the floor, his hand-
The last thought almost makes your heave as the driver comes up to the
courthouse.
“Alright, just like we talked about, no one say anything to the press. Those
bloodsuckers will take a peep you say and turn it into a national headliner,”
your lawyer says in a hurry as the loud shouting is coming closer. Something
Pyrope. You should feel bad about not quite knowing her name as she’s been with
you since the first week, but you haven’t been quite there the first week, so
it’s justified.
You vaguely remember her harden expression relax after she met you, saying
something about her youngest daughter being the same age as you. The one who’s
just as blind as she is.
Pyrope continues about holding onto her. She turns in your direction with a
lively grin, all teeth, and declares, “No one’s touching either one of you,”
before the door is yanked open by a security guard and all hell is unleashed.
True to her word, you’re sandwiched between Pyrope and your Dad. There’s a
guard at both ends of the line, probably for the best. The press is merciless
with their shoving and screaming, pushing recording devices through the gaps
between your Dad’s arms. He tosses his dress jacket over your head.
Under the dark blue jacket, you can hear it’s not only the media out here
today.
“Strider for the death penalty!”
“It’s the fault of societal regulations!”
“You’ll let the white man walk away from justice!”
“They were kids! They slaughtered our children!”
“It shouldn’t be up to Big Brother who lives and dies! God is great! He will
give what He has taken!”
From what you can see of the floor, you focus on the tap tap tap of Pyrope’s
walking stick hitting the pavement, letting that be your reliever.
The screaming melts together as you finally race up the steps and cross into
the building. The guard leads the three of you through the maze of quietly
swarming people into a huge, bright room. Weaving through the mass of people is
no easier than it was outside, and yet your heart is pounding twice as much.
Even when you find your seats, the first bench behind the prosecution, your
heart thunders on. You hear Pyrope distantly tell Dad about Samuel Nitram, the
man who’s taken charge in the Ebony case for the State.
Dad glances up the security guard and smiles tiredly to the man, and a closer
look tells you he can’t be any older than 21. Probably fresh out of the
academy. He’s nervous as hell by the amount of sweat on his brow, dark blue
eyes flitting left and right behind rectangular glasses. He nods grimly before
disappearing back into the web of people.
You take in the surroundings, twisting your hands together in silent dread.
Time in the room is warped, and you can’t tell if you’ve been there 10 minutes
or 10 hours.
Your sense of time vanished the first few days trapped in your room. The hotel
room, that is. Bro never care to tell you the time of day, never let you
outside much to tell, and only allowed the small window in the bedroom to be
your clock depending on the color of the sky when you were alone.
Dave was your time-keeper.
“Rise and shine Egbert, it’s 12:3o. Brought us lunch. Hope you like McDonald’s
greasy burgers, drenched in some teenager’s angst sweat no doubt,”he’d say,
waking you up after a partially hard night with Bro. You stayed seated where
you were because you were too humiliated to move out the small puddle of blood
and come around your ass.
Then that other time where he found out about the tally marked engraved on the
floor under your mattress, craved into the wooden floor by your nails. “Keep
the mattress over it. If Bro sees that…he’s not going to be happy.” Dave took
your face in his hands, and didn’t let you go even after you started to tremble
with such force he appeared like he was shivering too.
“Ask me and I’ll tell you, you don’t have to do that to keep track of the
days.” It was only after that did he release you. “After a while here, you’ll
stop caring anyways, ‘cause there’ll be no point.”
You did stop caring about it, maybe because in a sense, Dave would always be
there for you to lean on regarding time. He was safe. You sought that safety
out when you got pasted his…obsession for you. It was that or nothing but Bro’s
knife-like kisses and void heart.
When you first got home, the newspapers described Bro as tall, blonde, and
handsome. The fucking New York Times, NBC, CBS, CNN…the description was all
moderately the same, with each source calling a guiltless murderer handsome.
Like he was a contestant on the Bachelor. Is that just a human thing then- to
take in an appearance, despite already knowing the story behind it, and judge
on that?
There’s a sudden louder mutter of voices that brings your eyes up from your
hands. Dad tenses besides you, whispering to Pyrope in a low voice. You can’t
hear the words, but you don’t need too, you’re already looking at him.
He walks in like a god.
That is the first and only thought that breezes through your mind, soft and
biting. It wraps around your being and no amount of psychologists or
psychiatrists could never keep you from thinking for four years, he was your
god.
He controlled Dave. Dave feed you, clothed you, cleaned you. If Bro hadn’t
allowed that, you would’ve been dead that first week. You stare at him,
unblinking because, holy shit, he’s really in the same room as you.
Bro strides into the courtroom, elegantly, predatorily, despite his ankles and
wrists in shackles, dressed in that godawful orange jumpsuit that somehow looks
like it was tailored for him, head held up like everyone else in the room just
happened to be there. Blonde hair, always long and windswept, is cut short.
Shorter than you’ve ever seen on him, actually. It’s trimmed close to his
scalp, standard in Texan prisons.
That’s when you notice it. His eyes. They took his shades. They took those
stupid as fuck anime shades away from him. How did they do that? Did Bro fight
back? Did someone die?
You’ve never seen him without his sunglasses, and while you always thought
without them, Bro would appear more valuable, he only continues on looking
untouchable. It emphases the odd amber color of his eyes, the deep sun-kissed
tone of his skin… Other than his hair, he looks the same, and there’s some
unfairness in that. It doesn’t look like he lost a wink of sleep since you
escaped.
It makes you want to scream and point at your eyes, the bruise-like circles
around them, shove the countless journals you’ve filled out about those four
years in hell at him, show him Dave’s mugshot, because everything’s his fault.
His fucking fault. Not your’s, because killing and raping and torture are all
wrong. The doctors told him so, and while those things happen every day
somewhere, it’s still bad. It was Bro’s fault. He was the one…who was wrong.
You watch his eyes lazily wonder around the room, his face unrevealing in the
commotion happening around him. His guards lead him to an empty seat next to
his state attorney. The older man (Graham H. Makara, Pyrope hisses to your dad)
leans over, whispering and plotting.
The last time you saw him, (actually saw him) he was lying unconscious, cuffed
to the pipes in the broken wall, left side of his head knotted up with blood
after you hit him.
Your eyes are still glued to him when you take note of Bro’s attention once
again weaving in between people, his gaze slithering across the room- falling
onto yours.
The hissing mutters and murmurs in the room buzz in your ears, nothing legible.
The air in your lungs freezes in place and- and you forget how to breathe. You
can’t breathe. There’s a bleeding pain in your chest, under your ribcage, and
next to your lungs. Your heart’s ripping apart.  
All at once, you’re not in a courtroom. The setting dissipates away and you’re
in the Red Room, and fuck, his eyes bore into your skull as the thick blood
swishes around your bare feet. The floor is slated, but he told you to stay at
the edge, right where the black-red water starts to amass. You’re toes are
dipping in it.
“John.” Your name echoes through the space. After a year of beatings and
conditioning, you want to fall, to submit and bare your neck, waiting for the
knife that carved thousands of scars into your back for disobeying.
His hand holds your leash, and while he doesn’t tug at it, you feel like he’s
already tightening the grip around your throat.
Your heart pauses in your chest, your eyesight blur through cracked lenses, and
you can’t breathe. The room is devoid of air, replacing it with a misty scent
of metal on your tongue. Tears roll down your cheeks, and you’re close to
bending over and throwing up the bit of food in your stomach.
“John,” this time it’s Dave saying your name. Bro never repeats himself you’ve
learned, so it had to be Dave. It’s the voice that’s whispered into your ear in
the humid nights, a voice that’s never too far away, a constant reminder of who
was always watching.
You have to yield. Every fiber of your being screams, ear-piercingly, telling
you to drop and beg, beg, beg. Beg.
Dave stands on the other side of the room, in the puddle of blood grouped on
that side, his katana in hand. There’s specks of blood in his messy, white-
blonde hair; it’s blaring. He’s looking at you, you can tell by the way his
head is turned toward you despite his black aviators. Dave’s interested in
showing you whatever this is. There’s no way to tell by his face, but his thumb
keeps drawing circles on the handle of the sword.
Is he excited or nervous? 
 A person is hanging next to him by their wrists, the chain so old, you can see
the rust from your spot. Their head falls against their shoulder, the pain so
strong they must’ve passed out long ago. You blink, taking in how their pant
leg is tied tight at the knee. The bottom is soaked with crimson. They’re
missing a leg.
The realization is numbing and for a second, you forget that you’re standing in
a room that reeks of rotten flesh and metallic blood. They’re not wearing a
shirt, baring a disturbingly skeletal stomach that’s been skinned around the
naval. It’s a women, or so you think by the mutilated breasts, the ends of her
black hair crusted with dried blood. She can’t be any older than 20.
You force yourself to stare at her face, trying to memorize her features.
You’re going to be one of the last people who will ever see her alive. A closer
glance at her face reveals an infected hole on her check, showing the rows of
broken teeth on the inside of her mouth.
It’s shaped like a bite mark.
You can’t hold back the vomit. You turn away to toss out everything in your
stomach and even then, you can’t stop dry heaving. The aftertaste burns your
throat and the tears in your eyes keep dropping into the patch of puke.
You want your Dad, you want to stophimfrom touching and touching, you want to
sleep in a room where no one comes in every fucking night to just watch you,
and most of all, you want to stop being terrified.   
“Dave.” At the sound of Bro’s voice, your head snaps up on instinct, and
somehow your body freezes mid panic. It’s seemed to learn to tension at Bro’s
slightest actions.
Dave, with all the lanky limbs belonging to a 14 year old, understands what his
brother means and swings at the women’s other leg, slicing it clean off. The
thump it makes as it hits the floor is but a drop into the ocean as her voice
renews in that instant.
Her screams no longer sound human, and any words she might’ve known are gone
from her mind, replaced with sobs and grunts of agony. She starts to struggle
again, the chains that are holding her up ringing as she does so.
Your hands brace themselves over your mouth and nose, trying to stop yourself
from sobbing or gagging, or probably both. Closing your eyes, you want to go
back to your room and huddle into a ball on the mattress.
However, even you can tell Bro wanted you here to understand something very
simple: You’re only alive because they want you to be. They could end you at
any moment and it would be soeasyfor them to do it. Every day you take in
oxygen is a miracle on its own.
Dave moves in front of the thrashing body, the tip of his sword at the women’s
bellybutton, and oh god- 
You turn away, quivering. You’re scared you’ll faint and then Bro will really
be angry at you...
A hand laces over your face, a hand big enough that you can feel dull
fingernails dig into either side of your face. Bro thrusts your head in the
direction where Dave is slitting the women’s torso open. He doesn’t say watch,
but he doesn’t need to.
By the time her guts are hanging out of her and onto the floor, the women is
quiet. With a small knife in hand, Dave makes hushed grunting noises as he uses
it to pull out different organs: a kidney, pancreas, a single deflated lung, a
piece of the intestine… Each falls from his hand and into the ocean of red at
his feet.
You know he’ll collect them later and fit each one into jars for preservation.
They’ll become little less than decorations on his shelfs. You’re seen them in
the Polaroid pictures of his room, a place you’re forbidden to go to by Bro. 
Bro releases your head from his clutch, and he stands next to you, arms crossed
over his broad chest. He’s broad chested and with a narrow waist like the
perfect bodies of male models, or masculine super heroes have in comic books.
He doesn’t fit the image of an insane person.
Even Dave with his weirdness doesn’t make sense. Dave can be odd but doing
this? How is this real? How could Dave do this so effortlessly? What about the
harmless Dave that awkwardly ranted minutes on end about the way he saw you
practice the piano?
Then you remember the months of stalking he must’ve done to even see you play
the piano. The thought process dies in your mind.
BANG
A scream drips from your mouth at the sound and you know so must’ve been hit.
You did something wrong. Bro got mad. Why did you make him mad? You must want
to get hurt.
You stare at the other end of your leash on the floor as you ball up, hands
covering your head. There’s no pain. Bro had let go of your leash, and the
heavy brass handle had hit the floor.
Bro walks over to Dave, reaching for the dead body with his fingerless black
gloves. Dave moves back, away from Bro in a manner that tries to look calm and
nonchalant, but the cautious and stiffness is in his step in the way a muscle
in his neck jumps.
The man calmly caress the corpse’s face, thumbing over her cracked, bloody
lips, and threads his hands into her knotted dark hair. He watches her for a
moment, not a single hint of emotion you can see in his face.
You wonder by the pretty Latino traits in her face if she spoke Spanish, and if
she had ever wondered this was how it would end.
Suddenly the demented, almost tender scene, breaks when Bro slips his hand into
her chest. The squish noise emerges at every flick of his fingers. Unlike Dave,
who used the knife to pluck the organs from the body, Bro’s hand simply
clutches downs on something andpulls.
You think he stares at the dark pulpy heart through his sunglasses. “Das herz
war zu kaput, es getan werden musste,” he speaks it lightly, caressing each
syllable around his tongue. The words are unfamiliar and almost sound poetic in
the way most foreign languages tend to. What is that?
Out the corner of your eye, you see Dave staring at you, his head cocked to the
side. Looking up at him slowly, you can’t understand why he’s eyeing at you
in…surprise? Then you realize that no one is holding your leash, the door
behind you is open, and Bro’s on the other side of the room with Dave.
You could run but- Your gaze stays at the open door as you start panting
harder, crying harder. You tell yourself there would be no point; Bro and Dave
are so fast, most of the time you can’t even see them move. There would be no
point in trying.
But really, the thought of leaving was too much to comprehend.
***** i‘ll steal flowers from the cemetery for you *****
Chapter Summary
     You find yourself looking over at Bro, looking for any hint of
     emotion. Makara is spilling everything. Bro’s mysterious background
     is dissolving, which should make you feel…better. But it doesn’t.
Chapter Notes
     The chapter’s title is from Pierce the Veil’s “Besitos”. Great song!
     Thanks to all the people who pressed that beautiful kudos button on
     the bottom! And to bibliophileBiologist for being first to comment!
     <3
     I know shit about the American judicial system so if anything is just
     totally wrong, that’s why.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“All raise for the Honorable Judge, Concordia Peixes!” The strong voice breaks
through the nightmare of a memory haunting the back of your mind. Your eyes rip
away from Bro’s hold, and you almost fall over when you try to stand along with
everyone else.
Dad mutters to you, gentle but filled with worry. You stare at your feet,
clutching his elbow hard, and try to calm yourself. You’re safe. You’re safe.
You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you here. Your god has been stripped of
all power.
You fretfully glance in his direction, but he’s left you alone, opting to watch
the judge walk in with two guards.
By the time you’re sitting down again, Pyrope quietly suggests you and Dad stay
in the waiting area outside. You don’t even have to look at Dad to know that
he’s seriously taking the advice to heart, despite your words together in
Seattle.
You grab ahold of Dad’s hand, tightly, and whisper, “I’m ok, I’m ok. Not yet.
Please.” Your eyes are still tied down at your feet though, still petrified.
Anyone looking at you could see how scared you must feel. But there’s must be
something in your voice that convinces Dad to let you stay. He holds your hand
as the trial comes to a start.
When you finally look up, you see the judge is a regal-looking women in her
late 50s, skin black as coal, with dark hair tied up in a thick bun. Her
glasses, large, rounded and pink, sit on the crooked bridge of her nose.
Her presence demands respect and her every motion, the way she arranges some
papers to the way her eyes roam the room, are equal to a queen or empress. 
You close your eyes again, your mind urging you to keep calm or else you’ll
have come for nothing. You need to see what’s going to happen in person. So
many people are dead, and if you can’t even see this through, then they really
wouldn’t have a voice.
Why was it you of all people? Why are you the one alive while hundreds of
people had to die? There should’ve been at least one person to live and done
right by hating Bro and Dave, like how it should be.
A part of you, you’re ashamed to even acknowledge it, wants to apologize to the
Striders. You feel…guilty for doing this.
After all, you have to be just a little grateful to Bro. He was just trying his
best to take care of you. All those dead bodies? Things happen like that every
day, it’s not something so strange. The beatings? You were being bad. The rape?
No, it was just another form of punishment, you were asking for it. You
wouldn’t stop asking to leave, to go outside. You wouldn’t stop asking to take
off the collar. You broke his rules.
(dave)
God, you want to see Dave. You know you could handle being around him more than
Bro. Dave was always more of a friend. He never meant to hurt you. He didn’t
know how it felt when you had to crawl on your knees naked. He liked the
bruises. As time passed, he got better and better to talk to, if he wasn’t
talking about you.
And he always tried to be gentle with you. He loved (loves) you so so much.
No.
                                                                                              
No. No. That’s all wrong.
Hurting others like that is wrong. What they did to you was wrong and
disgusting. They should rot somewhere, like they did to that poor women in the
Red Room.
You try to recall what Dr. Serket said, that nothing was your fault. Both Dave
and Bro are very ill inside their heads and that even then, it was no excuse
for what they did to you or anyone else.
If it wasn’t for Aranea, you wouldn’t have been allowed this chance, if you
just end up freaking out, or keep on thinking like that, all of your time with
her, all her trust will be worth squat.
You quietly breathe through your mouth, blinking to take in the scene before
you with a semi-clear head.
Makara’s talking about something. He’s a hulking man, the suit he wears almost
looks like it’ll rip apart any second. You don’t like the snipping smile he has
on. It feels like he’s winning a game. Your free hand tightens into a fist. 
He walks to and fro, his hands accordingly placed behind his back. He gestures
with his dark head at a large picture on an easel. Both the judge and the jury
are listening with close intent at what he’s saying. Your gaze lands on the
picture, honestly expecting a grisly photograph, and instead, you see Dave.
However it can’t be Dave. The man in the picture is at least in his mid-30s,
with trim blonde hair on his chin. His face is a handsome bony one, the well-
defined angles someone might see on cover of magazines. His overall complexion
is shades paler than the Dave you know.
His hands are pushed into the suit’s pockets, head inclined to the side as if
the camera had piqued his interested. The man’s thin-lipped smirk matches the
one Dave has given you on occasion. He even sports a similar pair of black
aviators, his thick, darker blonde eyebrows curved upward to his hairline.
It makes you wonder who the person on the other side was to have gotten this
reaction from this man.
“…elementary human social skills are instilled into the person at a young age.
Dirk Strider’s home life was a troubled one, filled with questionable role
models such as David Strider,” Makara points to the picture, “and Rosaline
Lalonde. This quickly caused a lack of said skills for Dirk to learn.”
Another large photo comes out, this time of a stunning women on her 30s. She
appears mysterious by the sly curve of her mouth, like you may study her for a
hundred years and never understand her.
She’s also fair-haired, her asymmetrical bob more of a dirty blonde than the
man’s, with profound and strange lavender eyes framed by almost brown lashes.
Rosaline has the same dash of freckles on her otherwise blemish free face like
Dave…and Bro.
A frozen chill licks its way up your spine. These people are their parents.
“David Strider was a genius 18 year old German immigrant when he came to the
United States on student visa and film scholarship. Close associates say he was
a quiet and sarcastic young man with big dreams of conquering New York with the
satiric tone in his works.”
This time when the picture comes up, it holds the spitting image of Dave. It
makes your insides ache with sadness. The hollowness in your chest sobs.
18 year old David Strider, blank faced, holds up an old fashion bulky camera,
same shades hiding his eyes. On his arm is a younger Rosaline, plush lips on
the man’s cheek. Her eyes close as if she’s enjoying the moment for the both of
them. However, another young women kneels next to Rosaline, hugging her waist.
The camera caught her in a fit of giggles. Her gaze, an interesting color of
pink, cut into half-moons, her mouth open.
You can almost hear her laughter booming into the attentive courtroom. She
feels like the type of person who could makes anyone smile just by being near.
The girl looks like Rosaline, from the color of her hair to her facial
structure. She’s almost identical. No, she is.
You lick your lips nervously. You can see the same mess of freckles on her face
too, and while her hair is longer than Rosaline, the ends curly and upbeat as
she is, you’re confused. These two girls are obviously twins.
“It was no abnormality to hear of David Strider’s lure to charismatic and
captivating things- in this situation - people. So after meeting Rosaline and
Roxanne Lalonde, it was really no surprise that he grew attached.
The girls were second generation Polish-Americans living in New York, each one
very different for the other. Roxanne was well on her way to the astrology
portion of NYU while Rosaline’s…interests laid in the occult. Rumored a
Satanist by the majority in the neighborhood,” Makara steps close to the jury,
making eye contact with many of them, “she was known to be involved with things
that were, in today’s definition, witchcraft.  
It was around this time that both girls got into an argument so bad, they
stopped talking to each… But let’s get back to this later.
Rosaline was pregnant within the year of meeting David-”
“Objection!” Nitram calls from his seat, making you jump. Dad squeezes your
hand. “Your Honor, just how relevant is it to tell the defendant’s entire
backstory?”
Makara’s teeth grind together. You can imagine the type of anger issues he has.
“Overruled.” The judge taps her fingers on the wood. “Get to your point,
Councilor.” Her voice is unlike what you would expect from her; it’s high and
airy.
The defense attorney nods firmly, moving back to the pictures of an older David
and Rosaline.
“David Strider was a careless young father, choosing to run off for weeks,
months, leaving Rosaline to care for their newborn son. As time went on, she
began unorthodox pagan rituals to cure her loneliness, her husband’s frequent
departures… A result of these stressful procedures caused Rosaline to find
solace in alcohol. 
Previously discussed at much length, Doctor Scratch made clear how intense
events to infants can cause lifetime consequences into adulthood. From the time
Dirk could walk, a mere baby, he was accustom to neglect.” As he talks,
Makara’s hands became animated, his voice almost excited.
He gestures to someone off to the side, who passes out pieces of paper to the
jury. He himself hands a sheet to the guard closest to the judge. The man, a
large scar over his eye, grabs it and passes it on to the judge.
“Social Services records show how many times Rosaline was visited regarding her
child. A total of 15 times by the time Dirk was five. 15. The only explanation
on how he was not taken away from her, was that the system was rusted in 1987. 
13 years old and Dirk had already ran away from home 22 times, each time always
returning because the thought of leaving his alcoholic mother was too much. She
had conditioned him that leaving her was the vilest thing he could do!”
You find yourself looking over at Bro, looking for any hint of emotion. Makara
is spilling everything. Bro’s mysterious background is dissolving, which should
make you feel…better. But it doesn’t. Actually knowing what happened to him
should make things clearer, see how a monster was created, but all you feel is
pity.
Then you remember the feel of the dirty mattress, the sensation of wading
through ankle deep blood in the Red Room. You can feel lips against your neck
as Bro fucks you raw. You can’t look away because you’re on your back and
there’s more blood running down your thighs and god it feels like there’s a
rusted knife stabbing your stomach again again again again again-
Dad leans in to you. You’re trembling. “If you feel like this is too much, we
can take a break,” he whispers. He’s still holding your hand. You’re 17 years
old, and you still need your hand to be held by your Dad. It feels natural,
like the 12 year old you never really got the chance to hold it.
The picture of David Strider catches your eyes, and you can absolutely say you
hate that man. He doesn’t deserve the name of father. He didn’t deserve the
tiny kid that Bro was either. Or Dave.
You find yourself shaking your head at Dad’s offer.
“Objection, Your Honor! How can Mr. Makara claim Rosaline Lalonde believed Dirk
Strider leaving her was a “vile” thing?!” Samuel Nitram stands up at this, his
palms resting face-down on his desk. The lawyer is a wide-shoulder man with a
booming, strong voice. His presence beckons attention.
The judge’s mouth twists, thinking a second before saying, “Sit down Councilor.
I’ll allow it.”
Nitram reluctantly does so, appearing disappointed.
“Dirk was close to getting a full ride to his choice college if it wasn’t for
his father telling him not to take it, that his mother would need his help with
the new baby. Keep in mind that Dirk had only seen his father a handful of
times by this time.  
All of this placed Dirk in a fragile state of mind. Everything told him that
adults were cruel, selfish beings who only did things if it was to their own
gain.”
Makara pauses, his dark eyes roaming the room. Seeing a captive audience, he
takes a drink of his water glass. More paper passes around the jury, and Makara
repeats the process to give the judge her own copy.
“The file being passed around to Her Honor and the jury is the NYPD’s case
folder, dubbed Stri-Londe by the officers.”
At the words, you stare at Bro again, knowing that he has to look like-
something, anything. Still, you’re met with nothing but a vacant expression.
Why doesn’t this hurt him? The years you spent with him made you question Bro’s
emotional capacity, and now, after seeing all of this, it leaves you thinking
(again) he can’t feel.
“When Dirk was 18, his brother a toddler, their mother had a mental breakdown.
It was a cold Christmas Day when David returned home, an oddity all on its own.
Once he entered the vicinity, Rosaline calmly questioned him over several
letters she had received from Roxanne. After years of no contact, 18 years to
be precise, the other Lalonde sister had confessed to Rosaline she was a
mother. The children, both girls, were David’s.”
There’s movement out the corner of your eye where Bro is. He shifted in his
seat. His hands on the table move into his lap, hiding them out of sight.
Almost squinting, you can see the muscles in his arms seizing. His face is
still stoic as ever, though. But you know the tiniest signs of his to tell
something made him angry. Very very angry.
Bro’s eyes are trained on Makara.
“He didn’t know…” The words are half formed in your brain when you say it out
loud. He didn’t know that his attorney was going to discuss that part of his
past. Bro obviously didn’t give a shit about his parents, at least not enough
to warrant a reaction.
“Bro has a picture of ‘em. I saw it once, just a peek. Got a concussion from
Bro but I was bein’ noisy, so it’s an even trade…” Dave uttered in your ear,
his hot breath relaxing in the freezing winter night. “The one that’s same age
as me… She looks like me.” Dave had mentioned them before.
Bro’s relationship with Dave still confuses you. It’s clear to you he cares
very deeply for Dave. You don’t think he hated him, or even disliked him. Bro
loves Dave. But Bro was constantly dominating him. Everything Bro did might’ve
was a mixture of endearment and putting Dave in his place. If his parents
really were like this, then it’s no surprise what you’ve seen.
You think of the days when you could hear Dave screaming on the roof, then
coming down a couple days later with a new scar or broken bone. You recall the
nights when there were echoes of running feet all over the floors until it
abruptly stopped, loud moans replacing them.
(oh dave. dave)
Bro cares for these girls. For some reason, he cares a lot.
“The girls are close in age to Dirk and his younger brother, meaning in one of
his continual disappearing acts, David sought out Roxanne- not once but two
times. It was close to this first time that both Roxanne and Rosaline had a
fight. About David. It seemed that both could only agree that he would only
result in a problem for one another.
Roxanne left for school soon after, unaware of Rosaline or herself being
pregnant.
In her letter, Roxanne expresses her sorrow over keeping this a secret and the
fear of Rosaline hating her for letting this to happen. Close friends of
Rosaline said that no man could ever stand in between the sisters.”
He points out to the jury of the letter inside the folder for them to see
themselves.
“So what we can speculate that drove Rosaline over the edge was the fact that
she allowed just this to happen. She must’ve realized that so much time passed,
so much time wasted on David and hoping he would finally become a decent
father, she lost her twin sister for almost two decades.
At this point, David must’ve felt cornered, and the arguing started. Dirk took
his two year old brother and hid in his room upstairs. Several minutes passed,
the yelling and screaming morphed into physical fighting.
Rosaline took one her knitting needles and stabbed him right in the chest.”
Makara mimics the motion of stabbing himself with something.
“Now, soon after this, Dirk finally comes back down with a baby on his hip. He
walks through the broken glass and furniture to see his father bleeding on the
carpet. Rosaline is straddling him, her hands still holding down the needle.
The report explains she stabbed him so deeply through the heart, that it left
an indention on the floor underneath.
Imagine being this 18 year old kid, whose whole life was filled with nothing
but disappointments, loneliness, and pain, watching his mother kill his father.
Then, Rosaline takes the other needle and pushes it into her neck. Much like
this.” He suddenly picks up a long, slender item off the table, holding it up
for the jury to see. It’s a knitting needle.
“Basic human instinct do not allow for this type of self-impairment, it
would’ve needed enormous strength and willpower to do something like this into
one’s own throat.” He slowly pretends to slide the needle into his throat.
He pulls out a bigger photograph, revealing two bloody bodies, the women
slumped on top of the man.  
“It was this that drove Dirk to run. He panicked, so terrified of what he saw
that he just left. The search began for both of them but every lead turned up
cold and nothing was to be found of Dirk or Dave. Contact with Roxanne a week
after the Stri-Londe case resulted in another tragedy. She committed suicide,
the loss of her sister too much to bear.
The loss here surrounds Dirk Strider to this very day, twisting his moralistic
views 'til the outcome showed itself in the form of what happened in that
hotel.”
===============================================================================
 
A short recess is called, and for good reason, it’s been close two hours of
Makara’s side. You don’t know is you can handle another two of the prosecution.
Dad offers you to rest away from the crowd and the hushed mutters. Honestly,
you want too. You’re nervous of being the same room as Bro, of thinking
thoughts that crisscross over another.
You really just want to go to sleep, listening to the faint hum of How Do I
Live in the background.
But in the end, you know that’s not how it’s going to play out.
Chapter End Notes
     I know what you guys might be thinking, “Where’s john and dave’s
     interaction?!!11??1” Welp, this whole chapter was for some background
     info and John’s thoughts about Bro in general. Next chapter will
     answer all of your questions (hopefully).
     It’s gonna be looooong, so look forward for it. I’m a kinda ¾ done
     with it and I also have the last chapter planned out in my head.
     I’m always happy to hear your thoughts. Thanks again for reading!
***** i need your love before I fall *****
Chapter Summary
     "I have built, deep in my heart, a chapel filled with you."
     -Marcel Proust
     Dave misses John. John misses Dave. There are horrors written in
     these words.
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title is from a line in the song, “Save Me” by BTS. I’m kpop
     trash too guys.
     This chapter is ridiculously long, so keep that in mind. I also
     changed the rating for the fic. It gets intense here, around the
     middle-ish, so keep the tags in mind ‘cause here comes the non-con.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
You stare at your hands.
They aren’t special.
You vaguely remember the first time you held a sword, tiny, chubby toddler
fingers curling around the handle. You can recall the memories from when Bro
dropped you in the middle of a forest (maybe it was in California), with
nothing more than your katana, and left. Seven year old Dave’s hands got pretty
bloody that whole week from gutting rabbits and fish.
Then from people.
Your left thumb twitches.
There’s a heavy feeling pulsing inside your chest, everyday growing. Bro’s face
pops into your mind, and you miss him. God, you fucking miss that asshole. You
worshiped the ground he walked on, stitched his scarce words into your heart;
he was god.
Was.
Before you laid eyes on your soulmate and converted. The moment your eyes
spotted John, time stopped.
You never wanted something (someone) as much as you wanted him. Before you knew
what happened, you followed him everywhere for months. From the park where he
played with a redheaded shit to his piano practices to climbing up his tree as
many nights as you could to watch him sleep. Sometimes after he left, you’d
open his window and lay in hid bed. You didn’t dare take anything. Everything
in his possession was too blessed, too untouchable, for you at that point.
You followed him into an old indie thrift shop once too. As his dad went about
lookin’ for a suitcase, John picked up a pair of shades off the stand. Giggling
he tried on the aviators, and left them back after showing off to his dad.
You bought them with the all the money you had on you, which wasn’t much, but
enough to pay for ‘em. The next time you saw Bro with the new shades on, he
didn’t need to say anything. His approve was obvious.
John was everything. You’ve never seen anything so innocent. Like a strong gust
of air, it brushed away all of the weigt off on your chest. You needed him.
“Da-”
Sure, it was a spontaneous thing to suddenly grab him on his birthday, but it
was a now or never sorta moment for you. It needed to be done. You knew deep
down, he needed you too. You thought of it as a birthday present for him-
bringing him together with his soulmate.
After years of sparring with Bro, it wasn’t hard to hold him down, smothering
his nose and mouth with the rag, letting him breathe in the chemicals that
would have him fall asleep.
Bro only quirked a brow when you brought in an unconscious 13 year old to the
van. Picking up his chin, he pried one of his eyes open, and at spotting the
brilliant shade of blue, he ran a hand through his messy black hair. He looked
up at your grinning face, all excited, one of the few times where your Strider
cool blew away. “Happy late birthday, lil’ man.” It was all that was said about
the matter.
The three of you were out of the state as the sun rose, and by the third day,
you brought John to his new home with you and Bro. It took him forever to get
used to it, but you knew he would.
You remember how big his blue eyes got when he gave you his fingernails for
your 14th birthday. He looked all small and weepy-eyed as Bro held down his arm
for you to get with the pliers. John was scared of pain. He was delicate like
that at first too. You kept muttering sorry for the hurt, but the five cracked
fingernails looked like stars on your ceiling. He shuttered away from you the
following weeks but Egbert knew you were his, and he got over it.
John understood Bro’s patience wasn’t fucking infinite, either. Egbert stopped
talking about leaving after a year, and he realized he wanted you back too.
You had John and that was all that mattered.
Yet the loyalty pounded into your soul yearns for Bro’s forgiveness. There’re
regrets weighing inside your chest and then shame for even feeling those.
You were the one who gave John the drugs for Christ’s sake. You stood by as Bro
closed his bedroom door, knowing that today was the last day your world would
stand straight. You watched as John (your best friend, your only friend)
slammed the butt of Bro’s own sword into his head and tied him to the wall.
And you did nothing.
It was all for John, though.
“-ve.”
Every day you expect Bro to show up and flip you onto your stomach to teach you
a lesson. He always said you would never been old enough for a lesson.
Your chest tightens, practically hearing his voice at the base of your spine.
“Dave!” Your eyes groggily inch up to meet with your state attorney, lawyer,
whatever. There’s no difference to you. You can’t even remember his name.
He clears his throat. You watch him for the longest time, until he shifts in
his seat (must be the eyes, fuck, you miss your shades). “I’ve got some good
news and bad news, Dave.” He pauses, waiting for your response, and when you
stay silent, he clears his throat again. “Good news first then. After looking
at your background and your age, the prosecution took off the death penalty.”
You didn’t even know that was a possibility. But… But it was up for you, then
Bro must’ve-
“What about Bro?” The sound that comes from you is hoarse from weeks not
speaking. It’s almost painful, but you’ve done worse.
This takes Lawyer Guy off guard, his eyes flint down to his little notebook and
writes something down. He angles the paper so you can’t see it. You frown.
He clears his throat again. “The bad news, Dave, is that they’re demanding a
life sentence without possibility of parole.” He’s not answering you. Why isn’t
he answering? “Since we already pleaded guilty, we just need to try for a
chance of parole. You-”
Your hands slam onto the table, snapping, “What about Bro?!”
The guards at the door get to you faster than a white chick to a pumpkin spice
latte. Each one grabs ahold of your upper arms tightly. You could break their
wrists. You should break their wrist. Bro- He-
Lawyer Guys comes to your rescue, motioning the guards to stop moving as harsh.
“Dave- Listen to me, Dave. This is your last chance here, stop struggling and
you can still back down with me, ok? Let’s just calm down.”
Your jaw clutches at the shit baby talk that’s barfing out this guy’s mouth.
The “choke on a dick” lays on the tip of your tongue, but you need to know
what’s happening out there and that won’t happen if you’re stuck in your cell
the next three weeks. You stop “struggling”.
The old man looks pleased with himself, nodding to the officers. They drop you
down in your harshly.
“Watch it guys. I’m the most important princess in the room right now,” you
drawl.
“Dave, please. I’m here to help you. Let me help you. We need to work
together.” You look past him, over the top of his too big right ear. You hear
him clear his throat like a bee was set loose in there. “I’ll tell you what
happened with Dirk Strider if you agree to what I’m about to propose.”
Your gaze drags back to meet his. You sigh, dragging your hand through your
short hair. You hate it. Bro would surely have mocked you for the lame style.
The Strider hair was practically holy.
“Keep talkin’.”
“Talk to the psychologist, Dave.”
“No.”
“Why not? If we want to try for a chance of parole in your sentence, we need
someone to evaluate your mental health.” He’s face stays patient, but it’s his
the tone in his voice that betrays the look. He sounds done.
You lean back in your chair. “I’m not talkin’ to some dick who thinks he’s some
sort of BL expert.” His blank stare makes you roll your eyes. Your body pushes
itself back close to the table. “I’m not talkin’ about Egbert. Not with him or
anyone else you pay to sit their ass in front of me.”
Lawyer Guy opens him mouth, starts with something, yet cuts himself off before
the first word can fully leave. His hand blindly writes down another note, and
as he catches you trying to see it, he flips the whole damn thing over.
“Deal. Mr. Egbert will not be discussed unless you bring it up.”
“Not likely…” Sigh. “Deal. And Bro? What he sentenced to? His trial was just
eight days ago right? It’s hard to keep track of time in here.”
His lips purse. He clear his throat. What the fuck is wrong with him? “He’s
been found guilty on all charges, every one of his acts deemed he committed
with a capable mind. Dirk Strider was sentenced to the death penalty.”
No way. 
He starts babbling about how your case is a lot better than his and it won’t
end like his and fuck. Fuck. They’re going to kill your brother. They won’t let
him stay in some prison, they want him dead.
Your big brother.
They don’t even know Bro. They don’t know about the first couple years with old
Jake, how Bro was different, softer with you by his side. You were only 4, but
you remember. You remember living in that tiny, shitty cabin with the two of
them. You remember the feel of Jake’s scratchy white whiskers on your face. Bro
made airplane noises when he fed you.
Bro taught you how to skin a fish.
(a person)
Bro told you never to listen to anyone who said you weren’t good enough.
(you were better than them)
 Bro loves you.
The pressure behind your eyes build and builds, your throat’s goin’ to close
up. It burns. It burns. John. You want John. His touch was a soothing breeze
whenever you felt too much, it erased all the pain.
Hammering in your chest, the pulsin’ gonna explode, there’s so much shit. If
you saw John, you’d died and come back, like when you first saw him. You’d be
saved all over again.
You want Jo-
The door opens up, and someone sticks their hand in, a single piece of folded
paper in between their fingers. One of the douches in blue by the door grabs
ahold of the piece, reading it and nodding to the person hidden behind the
door. The officer walks up to Lawyer Guy and bends down to whisper something
into his ear.
He nods, hand covering his lips as he responds. You watch Lawyer Guy clear his
goddamn throat.
“Dave, answer me this please. Do you think you behaved well during this time?”
For the first time this whole conversation, you glance over to where the camera
stands, like an obnoxious bird perched in a tree.
“Want me to suck your cock while I answer?” you keep your gaze on the camera,
murmuring the words without much thought.
“Dave,” his voice turns sharp.
Meeting his eyes again, you flatly reply, “I’m serious.” He gapes like this one
chubby guy did right as Bro slipped a knife into his lungs.
He abruptly stand up. “You have a visitor, Dave. Consider this a bonus for
agreeing to the psychologist.” He turns away quickly, his hand scribbling
something else onto his notebook.
You catch the single word:
Vulnerable.
===============================================================================
 
Dad can’t come into the room with you. Some rule about being one on one or
something. The guards kept reassuring him that while no officer would be in the
room with you, there would be on Dave’s side. You’ll be stuck with a video
camera recording your exchange.
Dad didn’t really have much of a chance after that. It was either this or
nothing. You weren’t going to have nothing.
Now as you sit in a plush chair staring at empty space in front of you, you
feel at peace for once. The hollow inside of you whimpers at knowing you’ll see
Dave.
Dave. Dave. You miss him. You miss him so damn much. He’s all wrong and
everything he did was wrong, and you’ve told yourself you’ll hate him (one day)
and that’ll have to be enough. Yet for now, now you need him.
Suddenly the door behind the glass opens, and he steps in.
Your eyes lock and the empty place fills with warmth. An impossible sense of
safety hugs your being.
The stupid creaking door alerts every time someone unlocks your door, but then
Dave’s voice, his presence, appears like aloe on your body. You can’t remember
the last time you saw him. It’s been a while without any contact with him or
Bro.
“Shit, hey Egbert. I had stuff to do with Bro this whole week. Did ya eat what
we left you?” he whispers, coming closer.
In the early morning light coming from the tiny barred window, you see
something in his hand.
His words register a second later, and you blink hard and fast to keep the
tears at bay, because to you, it wasn’t a week of “stuff with Bro,” it was an
endless period of bondage within your thoughts and the
fuckingworriesthattheyweren’tcomingbackforhim.
Dave sees some of the horror sweep across your face. He quickly slumps down to
your level on the mattress and shoves the thing in his hand under your nose,
his cheeks alit under his suntanned skin, blocking out the freckles on them.
“Happy Birthday…John.” Tears come at that moment. You wish it was only ‘cause
it marks year two, two whole fucking years of pain and blood, of bruises on
your bones that will never leave you, and wondering thoughts if Dad ever gave
up on you.
Yet some of these tears are because he cares enough you get you this red woven
bracelet. It’s a small wooden circle engraved with D on one side and J on the
other. He would later show you the anklet around his skinny ankle, everything
the same expect the color. You never found out how he knew blue was your
favorite color.
‘John,’ his lips form the word. A shiver passes through your body just by
watching it.
A guard nudges him to sit down. He does, eyes never leaving yours. Your hands
tremblingly (desperately) grab the phone at your right, bringing it to your
ear.
“John.”
You gasp softly into the phone. Buckteeth bite into your bottom lip as you
start to cry. Your hands push up your glasses to palm at wetness.
“John.”
Weeping, you close your eyes, keeping the phone to your ear, trapping the sound
of your name on his lips into your memory. It’s been a while.
“Dave.”
Through your horribly blurred eyesight, you see Dave’s shape on the other side.
His blonde head slumps against the window and you can hear him crying too, hard
and beautifully broken.
The two of you don’t cry for long. They told you one hour, and you’re sure they
told Dave the same thing. There isn’t much time to sit and sob, there’s too
much to talk about.
After a moment, you finally sit with a tearstained face. On the other side,
Dave does the same, staring at you with those eyes, red as rubies. Like Bro,
his hair’s been cut short, and like with him, you’ve never seen Dave’s blonde
hair this way. It sharpens his facial features and highlights the scatter of
freckles.
You’re reminded of David Strider and Rosaline Lalonde. Looking at Dave with
what you know now, you can tell he inherited a lot from each of them. The dark,
tired circles around his eyes are the only thing he has that look like you.
The media went on and on about Dave. His mugshot popped up even more than
Bro’s, or maybe it just felt like it did to you. Either way, there were clear,
steady reports of a good-looking young man helping slaughter 60 plus people
along with his older brother. There were fan pages brought up by groupies,
girls and guys who Bro and Dave wouldn’t look at even if they did dye their
hair. Church groups went on and on about his devilish red eyes, condemning
without even knowing him. Fuck those bible-humpers, you thought then.
The color suddenly pulls you out of your thoughts. It’s what’s he’s wearing. A
bright orange jumpsuit. There’s a set of numbers escribed on it; 12395. After
this, Dave will return to a cell somewhere. You remember seeing his mugshot
every time the news reports about the Ebony Killings. You swallow thickly.
Dave’s the same age you and he’s in prison.
He’s such an idiot.
Your eyes flutter close again, trying to take in air for your lungs. “You
should’ve come with me Dave,” you utter into the phone.
Your fingers tighten around the phone at Dave’s rusted voice. “How could I
leave ‘em?” He sounds like he hasn’t spoken in the months since he was
arrested. He’s beyond emotional too, accent thick with each passing word.
“You should have! You’re a part of everything that happened Dave, but this is
just as wrong. You should be out here with me, getting help, and aiming to fix
all of this shit.” You begged him to run with you. If Bro woke up to see Dave
standing around, untouched, Bro would’ve tortured him for not stopping you.
“He’s my brother, Egbert. I couldn’t...”
There was no other way after Dave refused your offer. Another part of you
crumpled as he did. So you punched him once, on the cheek, logical part of your
brain knowing to make it look real so that Bro saw he put up a fight. A bigger
part of you punched him out of frustration and ache that he could actually let
you go.
He didn’t even raise his arms to defend himself. It took that once punch to
knock him out. Your hand broke, the pain not as horrific as the one bleeding in
your chest then.
Now, it’s his undying loyalty to Bro to blame for this.
“And what about me?!” Your eyes are open now, your body shaking with emotion.
“You said you loved me, but I had to go through everyone staring at me, telling
how I’m suppose feel about Bro- about you. All by myself. Everything you said,
that you loved me more than anything else…was that all a fucking lie?!”
His mouth falls open, his round eyes shining in the room’s ugly pale yellow
lighting. His lips look red. Your gut twists because you want to kiss him. You
want to kiss him and hug him, keeping him close to you.
The rational part of you (it sounds like dr. serket) pleads with you that it’s
wrong. You need to hate him, but you can’t. Now as you can finally see him in
person, hear him, the hole inside whispers to you, crying, you hate what he
did, but you can’t hate him. Not now, not as long as you feel like this. 
“Egbert, John, no.” He bows his head, the tears still unshed. His hand pounces
against the glass and stays there. “I- I love you… So much. The second I saw
you, I knew. I wanted to be your friend. You were the best thing I’ve ever
seen.” His voice chokes up, trying to keep his tone neutral with some forced
laughter. He sounds desperate to make sure you know this.
“I never knew Asians could have blue eyes, but there you were with your nerdy
glasses, babblin’ to anyone who walked in front of your house on that weird as
fuck ghost toy.”
His eyes ask (plead, beg, beseech) you to believe what he’s saying, to trust in
his swords. At once, you feel conflicted about it all. You’re not sure how
trusting him in the past has done you much good… Yet it did those last couple
days, didn’t it? It took you weeks of begging him to get you the drugs and a
syringe, but he got them.
How would’ve it played out if you hadn’t trusted in Dave then?
“I never knew how it felt to not feel heavy, but for the first time ever,
everything felt light.” His right hand rests on the glass. You can see his
tremble.
The next time he speaks, his voice is so gentle, so soft, you want to cry all
over again. You want to trust him almost as much as you want him with you. “I
hated it when he hurt you. I wanted you to be happy with us.
I showed you pictures of that den of rabbits by the hotel. You told me all the
jokes you knew, and I even laughed when they were stupid as fuck. You loved all
the tapes I made for you. You told me I was your best friend.
I tried to make it better. Didn’t I?”
Yes, he did. He made you happy. Even sitting like this, between a two inch
thick wall of glass, he makes you happy. The air is breathable and the empty
place inside fills with bliss. “Yes,” your voice cracks, but you finds yourself
not caring.
Dr. Serket’s voice fades to the farthest corner of your mind. Dave gives you a
watery smile at your answer. His fingers curl a little where they are against
the glass. “Don’t leave me hangin’, Egbert.”
Your tiny laugh sounds crooked when you place your left hand on his. The glass
is cold, you can see your fingers are longer than his (piano fingers as someone
described once upon a time), but his a little bigger. You take note that his
tan has faded, leaving him a faint brown rather than the darker bronze of
before.
“I wish you were with me.”
“I am. I am.”
That makes you smile, a tiny loser of a smile. You know you can’t change what’s
happened, so now, you have to work with what’s going on now. Licking your lips,
you reveal out loud for the first time, “I can’t stop having nightmares about
him.”
“Bro?”
You nod, eyes still trained on your hands. You wonder if the police will ever
give you back that red bracelet, claiming it “evidence”.
Dave makes a soft, almost painful noise. “He’s gonna die, ain’t he?”
You look back at him, surprised he knew that. “Yes,” you finally say, throat
tight. You can’t say you hate Dave, and while you prefer never to see Bro
again, knowing he’s going to die, it make you feel…sad. It’s disturbing.
Your hand falls away from the window. Dave’s frown deepens and his eyes search
yours, as if trying to find out the mistake he made on your face. His eyes look
all watery again, so you end up blurting, “Why didn’t you ever mention Jake
English?”
His confusion only shows itself in the way his brows bend together. “What?”
You know that the camera watches you from the side. Looking up at the guard
with Dave, you know that you made a mistake. “How did ya know that name?” You
hear, his voice even and low. Both of you are too aware of the prison guard
behind him.
Taking a big breathe, you know you need to say this as quickly as possible.
“That was his trigger, Dave. After he took you and left home, he met someone
named Jake English. Apparently he helped Dirk and you go off grid and they-
They fell in love.
But…you guys weren’t with him too long before he died. He fell during a hike.
He was an old guy.” You try not to speak it like you’re hyped on sugar, but if
they notice you talking about this, they’ll take you out. You can’t talk about
an open case, especially with Dave.
Dave’s lips part but he stays silent as you quickly continue. “They brought in
his granddaughter, Jade Harley, for questioning. She found his cabin recently,
somewhere in Montana. Jake had some sort of diary hidden and it was used as
evidence. The point is, Bro started everything right after Jake died. Right
now, they’re looking into the resting period he did in 2010 for a couple
months.”
You have a feeling what, or rather who, they’re investigating about that. 
Dave stares at his hand, lips still parted, eyes lost in whatever his mind
paused at. When he speaks, volumes lower than yours. “Bro told me never to
mention his name.”
“Dave.” He brings his gaze up to yours. “They had a picture of him, one around
the time Bro met him and another when he was younger. He fits the profile Bro
went for, Dave. He’s the reason for the profile.”
Dave’s Adam’s apple bobbles as he swallows, wiping a hand over his face. “I
never thought of that… You look like ‘em, don’t you?” His hand covers his eyes.
“John, that’s why he kept you. It was all about Jake.” Your heart catches at
his words, they sound so exposed. “I-I’m sorry.” His voice hums near rambling,
it’s shaking so much. The wet trails of tears start to peer from under his
hand.
This time it’s you pressing a hand to the glass. “Dave… Dave. Look at me.
Look!” His hand slowly moves away, revealing bloodshot eyes. “I won’t ever
leave you, I promise.” The turmoil that swirls inside of your chest still lays
at a tranquility that you‘ve only experienced whenever Dave visited you inside
the hotel room.
More tears fall from his eyes. You would give anything to make him stop crying.
“I love you, John.”
The words shape in your mouth, distorted and waited on for years, “I-”
‘Time’s up.’ The guard with Dave snatches the phone out of Dave’s hand,
returning it to its place. Immediately, you see Dave snap at him and even look
like he won’t stand up. He glances over you. He must see the worried expression
on your face, because he chews on his bottom lip, eyebrows stitching together,
and does what he’s told.
You sit there for a moment, listening to the approaching footsteps outside of
your door.
The words stuck in your throat go unsaid and unnoticed as they escort you out.
Officers swarm around you and Dad takes the lead talking while your mind stays
back with Dave. Dad checks out and even when he calls your name, you ignore it.
The ride home is quiet. You know Dad’s bidding his time until he can gently get
around asking you, but as soon the car pulls up in the drive way, you and he
race inside, avoiding the reports outside.
“John?” Dad starts to say something once you two get inside the house, panting
a little. You shake your head, inky black hair falling into your line of
vision, and sluggishly head up to your room.  
It’s the sound of your footsteps walking up the stairs that slows your
heartbeat. Soon enough, you lay in your unmade bed, staring at the ceiling.
You almost told him you love him.
Wetness glazes over your vision, and you bit hard enough on the inside of your
cheek that you quietly gasp at the sting. You should have told him that before.
He certainly did, time and time again, but you were so stupid not to tell him
when you were with him.
You unseeing eyes close and you stand in front of the open window, as far as
the chain around your neck will allow you. The cold night air’s your only air
condition in the stuffy room.
Your fingers grip the collar. The skin under there’s itchy, and you wonder when
Dave will give you your next bath. You’re allowed to a bath three times a week,
maybe four if you’re bloody enough. Dave has to bring up the buckets of water
for you, with your bathroom not having any running water. You’ve long forgotten
the embarrassment of having to take a piss or shit in a bucket.
Sighing, your hand slips from the collar, moving to push up your glasses
instead.
Right now you may be hot but as the night drags on, the room with freeze up
until you bundle up in the thin sheet on your mattress.
Off to the side, the door creaks open like it always does. It forces your
attention to move there.
 Dave closes the door behind him softly. You almost relax knowing it’s him
who’s paying a visit and not Bro. When Bro comes in, you never know if he’s
going to want to have sex, or hit you. Dave only comes in to watch you sleep.
You still don’t know how many nights he comes in to watch you, but he’s never
come in with you already up and awake.
“’Sup,” he says first, his usual greeting. His hands are pushed into his sweat
pants, his whole stance casual as if he simply happen to watch into your room
in the middle of the night. His tall, slender figure draws a moonlit shadow on
the floor, stretching high up.
You smile despite yourself, taking ahold of the chain so it doesn’t drag on the
floor on the way back to the mattress. It’s only after you sit down that you
reply with a “Hey”.  He nods, his shades catching the moonlight. There’s a
moment of silence where you two stare at one another.
Your hands moves to pat the spot next to you. He stays where he is, and you’re
worried that you messed up somehow, but then he walks over to you, bare feet
soundless on the wooden floor. You grin up at him, knowing it’ll calm him down.
He sits about a foot away from you, staring down at his feet shyly. He must
feel awkward about being caught, you think. You see his blue bracelet around
his ankle and think back to yours, hidden in a small hole under the
floorboards. Nonetheless, it encourages you.
“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask indifferently, pretending you don’t know he comes in
often. The first year or two, you would’ve felt disturbed that he did that, yet
now all you can feel is a little flattered.
His head tilts up your way a bit, a corner of his mouth pulling up. “You know
it. Crows ‘n trolls run through my brain like its fuckin’ fun night at
Disneyland.” You don’t bother to tell him that trolls and crows aren’t exactly
a Disney thing. “It’s crazy up in there, blood splatter and guts everywhere.”
His last words unconsciously cause your throat to dry up and you look away from
him to the window.
Yesterday, someone had gotten out of the Red Room. Bro kept the new people
there although they’re never there for more than three days. But yesterday you
knew someone had made a run for it. You could hear a shockingly clear,
unfamiliar scream all the way up from the roof where Dave was taking you out
for your daily walk. 
“Help me! Help me! Anyone! Please! Help me!” You couldn’t tell if it was a girl
or boy but Dave was already running to the agape door, his sword at his back.
The door slammed shut behind him and you stared at it, the yelling increasing
and the words dwindling. Against your better mind, your hand gripped the handle
and pulled, but it was locked.
Not long after that, the screaming stopped altogether and you sat in the
scorching Texas sun, waiting for Dave to return.
“Egbert? Hey, Egbert?” Blinking the memory away, you turn to look at Dave. The
expression on his face resembles worry. The sense of self-disgust hits you
harder than Bro ever could. Dave shouldn’t look like that for you. “Are you
ok?”
You’re dry throat can’t speak the words to reassure him you’re fine. You
imagine what they must’ve done to that person, because when Dave came back for
you, he was bathed in blood.
Dave’s face loses that playfulness from a minute ago, replaced by something
older and sadder. No matter what Bro’s done to you, you know he must’ve done
worse to Dave. After all, the four years you’ve spent with the Striders can’t
compare to the 17 years Dave’s been with Bro.
No wonder Dave’s so fucked up. Being raised by a monster like Bro.
“I should go-” he murmurs, shoulders curling in.
Panic clouds your mind, it’s like a slap to the face. You don’t want Dave to
hate you.
“Dave?”
He stiffens next to you, his movements stopping immediately. You lean in close
to him, your hand reaching over the couple inches to lace your fingers
together. He trembles in your hold, taking in a breath. “Can I kiss you?”
It’s the only thing your brain can think of to keep him from hating you. From
leaving you. He’s your best friend. And you know he wants more than that.
You’ve seen the way he looks at you. He loves you with all his heart.
The first few months with him made you think he was different in the worst
ways: murmuring under his breath whenever you looked at him, ranting on and on
about personal things no one could’ve known unless they went into your bedroom,
your school, ripping off your nails with this saddened happiness on his face.
You’ve come to know it’s a result of a lack of social skills and a crush.  
Dave loves you.
With a shaky nod of his head, you swallow to keep down the butterflies in your
stomach. He keeps you sane, bound to the ground during times when it would’ve
been so easy to float away. Nothing hurts as much if you’re with him.
Your remaining hand reaches over to gently pull off his sunglasses, a pair of
aviators like the ones Ben Stiller’s worn. You place them on the floor and
repeat the same with your glasses. Dave’s red eyes glow in the darkness of the
room. Without his shades, every single one of his emotions strikingly
clarifies.  
You close your eyes, hoping to push back the nerves and fear. This isn’t your
first kiss, you gave that to Karkat on a dare in the fifth grade. It’s a thing
Bro Strider wasn’t able to take from you too.
But this is special. You’ve choosing to kiss Dave because maybe you love Dave.
If you’re miserable, he slips his old headphones over your ears and plays a
mixtape on his Walkman. He shows you Polaroids of the places he’s been too.
He’s always the one to bring you food, to carry the seven buckets of water it
takes to fill the bathtub, to listen to you talk about the magic tricks you’ve
learned.  
Closing the gap, you can feel his warm breath on your lips.
You find out that he’s a good kisser, probably learned from the mouth of his
older brother. You push away the thought of Bro, and continue to kiss Dave. His
lips are warm, yours might be chapped but it hardly seems to matter now.
The remarkable difference between this one kiss and the thousands Bro’s taken
is howsoftit is. Someone’s quivering, you’re not sure who it is, and one of
your hands move to grip Dave’s shirt. It’s black and worn, but in your clutch
it feels better than silk. Beneath your fingertips, you can feel his heart bang
against his ribcage.
Bump-bum
Bump-bum
A tiny whimpers slips from your mouth and he devours the sound, hands pushing
into your hair, brushing through and tugging on it slightly. His teeth bite
down on your bottom lip, then come back to suckle on where he bit. Again you
moan, a strange heat swirling down in the pit of your stomach.
Pulling away, he pants, red lips shiny with spit. Dave’s eyes open and he
stares back at you like he’s never seen you before. His hair looks like white
gold in the moon’s light from the window. The room should’ve gotten cold by
now, but your blood’s burning.
He comes back to kiss you, hesitating just as his lips meets yours for a second
time. You push forward, taking his tongue back between your lips, almost
sighing at how perfect his heat feels inside of your mouth.
You stumble onto your back, trying to rearrange your chain so it won’t dig into
your skin. Dave follows you down, lips pressing and begging for more.
The next time you both stop for breath, his hips are pressed firmly against
yours. Your dick is hard, harder than you can remember. Bro always so rough, it
always hurts, you’re half hard at the best of times. But this… Your arousal
spurs you on, tugging on Dave shirt as a gesture to take it off.
He does it quickly.
Dave towers over you, bronze skin blurred because of your horrible eyesight.
You use your fingertips to see instead, skimming over his abs, tracing the
defined muscle he has on his stomach. You can’t recall him having this when he
was 13. He sucks in a breath, abdominal muscles quivering under your touch.
He’s panting sounds louder now, more pronounce.
 This time his mouth falls on your collar bone, sucking to the point where
you’re squirming under him to move harder against your straining erection.
His tongue licks the spot one more time before planting tiny chaste kisses
upwards: one on the base of your throat, one on the collar, on your chin,
finally whispering across your mouth.
Your eyes half close, bucking your hips upwards, striving for more friction.
His legs move to either side of your hips, kisses still spreading over your
face.
“Want to fuck me?” his voice is throaty and shaky; it’s the loveliest sound
you’re ever heard.
You blink, breathless. The words don’t make sense in that blink of an eye.
“What?”
His voice is next to your ear now, “You’ve only ever been on bottom, right?”
You slowly nod, abruptly moaning as his hand slides down your chest and into
the waistband of your loose pants. “Has it ever felt good? ...Made you see
God?” You bite down hard on your lip, his hand reaches your aching dick, thumb
brushing over a thick vein.
You shake your head, panting, toes curling. It’s never felt this good before.
“Can you…fuck me too?” It doesn’t even sound like you. The voice’s all low and
gasping.
“Yes,yes. I’ll do whatever you want. Anything.” His wrist pumps you harder, and
he plays you like an instrument, a flicker here causing you to whimper, a
squeeze there making you pant. He fingers the head, using the beads of precome
to smear onto the rest of your dick.
Almost silently, he tells you he’s going to take off your pants. You nod
jerkily, lifting up your hips to help him shimmy them off, and soon they’re
thrown to the side.
He comes back to work you, perfect fingers curling around your cock. You groan
his name, pushing into his hand until he suddenly stops.
Tears are already dripping over your lower eyelids, a plea trapped inside of
your throat because he’s justnot moving. Dave sits up, murmuring your name as
he does so. His hand’s at his mouth, sliding two fingers inside. The distance
is too far, you can’t see him clearly.
“Dave,” you cry out.
“Hmmgh,” is the only reply you get, his fingers still in his mouth. He pulls
them out, and even from where you’re at, the digits look glossy with saliva.
Your eyes can’t see the details, but Dave pushes off his pants and underwear,
those wet fingers inching backwards. His cock, such a pretty pink color and
slightly bigger than yours, shines with precome at the tip. Your own dick weeps
at the sight of him like this, fingering himself while his cock twitches.
 A gargled noise arises from his mouth and you realize that it’s your name.
“Mmmh, John.John.” His eyes are on you even if you can’t see it exactly.
You can’t do anything but stare and you think you do see God.
His fingers take ahold of you and lead you into him. You throw your head back,
biting into your hand because he’s so warm. You’re enveloped into a heat so
tight and soothing, you’re not sure if you’re going to come. Dave coos
something at you but all you hear comes in the form of blood rushing through
your head. “Mmmh! D-Dav-ah!”
For the next couple of minutes (hours, days) Dave’s name is the only word that
comes out of your mouth, everything else fluxes between moans and uncoherent
pleas. His hips snap at the perfect pace, drawing out these ciphered cries from
you.
One of your hands rest lightly on his hip, the small still thinking part of
your mind whispering not to grip him to hard. You know from experience how much
that hurts.
He’s still hovering on top, out of your reach to see him clearly. But for some
reason, you can’t get the words to shape properly to tell Dave to come closer.
“John…aghhh!”
“Dave…ahhh… Dave!” More. You want him closer. You see his mouth form a smile,
breathtaking as the sunset. The shape of his hand grabs ahold of his bouncing
dick, jerking it with every thrust of your hips.
He bites his lip to keep his own sounds from escaping, it’s impressive how
silent he can be compared to all the nonsense pouring out of you. Dave finally
leans over you, bringing your mouths together in a starving lip-lock. From
here, you can hear his sounds better, from the wanton grunts to the fevered
moans.  
Your hands move to hold him, the sound of his heart guiding your body’s
rhythmic motions. “Dave… Wanna come. Dav- so close, so close… Ahhmm…!” The
words are barely more than breaths on his lip, but Dave must understand because
he suddenly slows to a stop.
Your fingers tighten against his back, mind blanking out if it’s hurting him.
You keep thrusting upwards, your orgasm within your reach if only he keeps
moving.
“D-do you still want…me to…” His mouth’s against your neck, lips tenderly
kissing on the underside of your jaw. His voice trails off almost timidly.
It takes a moment for you to grasp what his question. Once your mind catches up
to his words, you nod, still trembling from the pleasure. You could care less
about who on top or on bottom, as long as Dave’s lips keep pinning tiny kisses
to your body, you don’t care.
He leans over you, arms supporting himself and either side of your head. Dave’s
out of your sight range, his blurred image seemingly intensely gazing down at
you like… “I see God every time I look at you…” he says it like a prayer. Maybe
it’s the closest thing to one he’s ever said. You can’t even see his lips move
and the words are just loud enough for you to hear, but the way he says it
makes time slow down to a point where the very air you breathe pauses.
You pull him back down and steal some of the air in his lung, mouth slowly
becoming familiar with every inch of his.
Yet he pulls back again, his swollen, red lips hovering above yours. Each hot
puff of his breath is a thing of star-bursting magnificence. You pant back
against him. “Sorry… Don’t have lube.” His cheeks are a bright as he brings up
a hand to his mouth.
Before you can ask him what lube is, he covers his fingers in more salvia and
spits in his hand. To your amazement, that hand reaches in between your bodies,
down to your ass. A shiver slips through your body as a wet finger circles and
then enters you.
A moans falls past your throat, trailed by a soft whimper from Dave. Your hands
jump to grip his shoulders. You can see his teeth gnawing down on his bottom
lip. “Good? Can I put in another?” he starts to say, but your fingernails cut
half-moons into his skin.
“You. I want you-” He leans back, supported more on his legs now. His other
hand moves onto your dick, pumping you harder than before, hushed groans
leaking from him. “D-Dave!”
Your eyes close when the sensation of his cock at your ass. He feels hot and
sleek, and you gasp as he finally (finally) fills you. “Joh-ahhhh… You’re so
warm,” he murmurs back besides your ear.
The two of you stay still, the only sounds a mixture of your panting.
You’re the first one to move, grinding your hips on his until Dave makes a
noise. He bites down on the small part of your throat where the collar doesn’t
cover. The hand on your dick slowly starts up again, taking the dripping
precome and using it to make the movement easier. Your eyes are still closed,
whimpering louder.
His mouth traps the noise quickly and you remember that Bro is somewhere in the
building.
You urge Dave to move faster by pushing your hands into his hair, fingers
lacing through the golden locks. Your senses are overwhelmed; his taste on your
tongue, his moans in your ears, the sweat from his skin mingling with yours.
He gargles something, hips jerking. Dave’s hold on you tightens. “L-look at me…
Ple-ease,” you hear from above you. Your eyes open and immediately marvel at
how he looks. His forehead touches yours, crimson eyes half open and focused on
you.
“I love you, John.” It’s not the first time he’s said that, but it is the first
time you’ve accepted it. “I’ll do anything for you…”
You’ve heard it on the first night, when you were 13, awaking to him whispering
to you, then as he handed you a dead bunny in a jar, then again as he showed
you a picture of the park you used to play with Karkat. He’s said it mixed with
apologies after he took the fingernails from your left hand, after he held you
down for Bro to bind you with the collar. Once more, shyly, quietly, sighing it
when you hugged him after Bro broke his leg.
He’s said it so many times. You should fear how with each of Dave declarations
has made you feel idyllic.
Dave comes inside of you, and you know you should be scared, but there’s only
bliss.
For the first time, you acknowledge his love, staring into his eyes.
You come a little after he pulls out, his hand tenderly finishing you off.
You and Dave stay on the mattress, his face on your shoulder, breathing hard.“I
love you.” You feel him mouth on your skin. You should tell him. You should
tell him that you’ve come to love him too. But you don’t. For some reason, the
words hang inside of your mouth, unsaid.
With eyes still shut, you wrap your arms around him, pull him closer despite
the mess on your lower regions and the thin layer of sweat covering each of
you.
If he notices a lack of verbal reply from you, he doesn’t mention it, instead
snuggly deeper into your hold.
“Sorry ‘bout comin’ first. I usually don’t that fast, but it was my first time
on top,” Dave mumbles. You can practically his face beet red against your pale
shoulder.
You nuzzle your face on the top of his disheveled hair, whispering, “I don’t
care about that.”
“…Really?”
“Nope.”
“Can I take a nap with ya? It’ll be short. Short as you when you were 13.”
Snort.
His eyelashes tickle you as they close.
“I’ll be gone before mornin’. Don’t want Bro to know. I don’t wanna walk back
to my room right now either. Sometimes Bro waits for me and starts randomly
sparring. I don’t even know why the hell I need to know how to use a sword.
Before I thought it was cool as fuck, but now, I really don’tgetit. I thought
it was ironic, havin’ two white guys know how to kickass with a sword…”
You smile in spite of yourself, the low hum of Dave’s voice reminds you of past
nights, where he would come in to talk and snuggle before you would fall
asleep.
“…then Bro said our Grandpa, Ambrose or some lame shit, learned in Japan back
in World War II and made our dad learn. Bro was so fuckin’ drunk when he told
me all this shit, I wouldn’t have known otherwise. Got as hammered as a nerdy
college student at their first party with the cool kids…”
Your eyes close for the last time that night, falling asleep with a smile for
the first time.
It seems only a moment later, your consciousness awakes. You spy the morning
light behind your eyelids.
With some effort, they slothfully reopen a little. You’re facing the wall,
Dave’s arms draped over you, heavy with lean muscle.
A sliver of panic sets in as the sun’s morning heat covers your body. Your lips
part, about to call out to Dave that he’s still here, when you see it.
Extended high on the wall looms a shadow, broad chested.
Your heartbeat stops in your chest and every ounce of air in the room
dissipates until you almost gasp out loud, dying from lack of it. You want to
die from it. You would rather die from that than living the next few minutes
with what’ll happen.  
Your eyes shut, and like every other time, you want your Dad. You want Dad to
tell you that tell that monsters aren’t real. The lie would ease the child in
you, because the 16 year old you knows monsters do exist.
You bit hard enough on the inside of your cheek to taste blood. You know you
need to calm down before you start crying. It’s an automatic sense when you
know he wants something. He likes it when you cry.
All your thoughts are begging Dave to wake up and run. He’s seen Bro fuck you a
couple times before. Bro’s made him see it. Each time, you know you’re tainted
and sickening, but it’s those times especially, you feel the filth on your
soul.
The blood’s pooling inside your mouth now. Your back’s going to snap in two
from how tense you are. The only thing that gives you comfort is the how Dave
will care for you after it’s over.
“Up.” To anyone else, the voice would almost be considered pleasant, a smooth,
low sound, but to you, it equal to agonizing torment.
You’re about to sit up, sob stuck in your throat, when Dave unexpectedly moves.
You’re still looking at the wall, but a feather touch of Dave’s hand under the
sheet(‘move slowly’) has you shifting upward.   
Bro looks back silently, face set in that ever disinterested setting. Nothing
hints on his expression that he’s annoyed or furious.
You don’t know if he’s watching you or Dave, his sunglasses blocking the little
emotions you might’ve been able to read otherwise. His arms, thick with muscle,
cross over his chest.
He beckons you in front of him with a hand. The flinch involuntary happens as
you jump to do so, regardless of being naked. Your chains raddle as you scurry
over the bed and onto the floor.
You knee before Bro, Dave’s eyes burning into your bare back.
You watch with numb mind at how slowly Bro undoes his belt. You can see the
outline of the large bulge under the denim. He calmly pulls himself out and
you’re left staring at his erection. It’s the only thing you can see clearly.
He’s bigger and thicker than you or Dave, with a darker patch of coarse, blonde
hair above his dick. The head’s already dripping with precome, a bead of it
swelled at the red tip.
Behind you, Dave makes as much noise as empty cemetery.
You don’t notice the wetness appears on your cheeks up until something
splatters on your hand.
He doesn’t tell you what to do, just keeps his head lowered in your direction
to watch you. Without any hesitation, you take ahold of him and lead him into
your mouth. The second you do so, he entwines a fist into your hair and forces
you to take all of his cock.
“GAHHG!”  
It’s sudden and at once, you start to choke. Your hands land on his thighs to
pull away, but his grip only tightens on your hair and he thrusts deeper. “Mmm!
Ghmmg!” Tears pour down your face, as you’re unable to breathe. Your nose rubs
on his hair at every tug, dripping tears into it.
No matter how much you pull away, Bro yanks you closer again, fucking your
mouth harder. Shallow pants seep from his mouth. It fills the room like
pollution.
“Ghhmhmm!”
You know better than to try biting. The one and only time you did, he slapped
you across the face, making you see black for the next hour and locked you in
the Red Room. You slept surrounded with the bloody, rotten dismembered torsos
and heads as your only company.
His cock hits the back of your throat, and the pain burns to deeply, you know
you won’t be able to eat properly for the next couple of weeks. Snots mixes
into your tears as you try begging him to stop, stop, s t o p
Please.
“Bro… It’s- it’s hurtin’ hi-” Dave breathes hoarsely from distantly behind. He
sounds small and helpless.
You hear Bro answer far away, monotone despite the breathy quality, “You’ll get
your turn, lil’ man.”  
Dave’s jaw closes with a snap and then nothing.
You stop struggling altogether, useless arms dropping next to your sides.
You’re going to die like this. You can’t breathe when Bro’s yanking you over
and over onto his dick, smothering you.
The sound of his saliva slicked cock pumping in and out of your throat is the
all your ears can comprehend. Your tears and snot mixture soak onto your upper
lip, and you unintentionally take in the taste along with the bitter, salty
taste of his precome.
“Ggghhm…” you weakly cry around him, throat sweltering as the throbbing
increases.
His hand jerks your head up, staring at you. His cock slides half way out your
mouth. With his other hand, he gently thumbs under your eye. The eye twitches
under his scrutiny. His cock twitches in your mouth.
The first time you saw him, he looked like an angel, cold and glorious all at
the same time.
He tilts his head, as if he could see you better that way. The freckles on his
tanned face are fainter than Dave’s, like dim stars in a light-poisoned city’s
sky.
Now, you see horror drenched in an angelic glow.
Bro’s blunt nail sinks a little into your skin, right below you eye, and the
terror strikes you right in the chest, harder than a stomping foot. He release
your face, and shoves his cock into your mouth, harder than before but you
don’t try to move, praying to whatever’s out there, that he’ll finish soon.
Whatever you prayed to answers in the form of an eruption of come into your
mouth. His orgasm lasts long as you knew it would. He milks himself with your
mouth, pouring so much come and so close to the back of your throat, you hurry
to swallow some so not to drown in it.
“Keep it in.” You recoil from the words, twisting in on yourself, and instantly
cease from swallowing. Come overflows from your mouth, but you try to catch it
with shuddering hands, hoping Bro meant not to waste it.
He wipes the last drops on your cheek, smearing it with thick seed.
You want this to be over.
Bro wrenches you by your hair, twisting you until you’re facing Dave on the
mattress.
He’s still without his shades, the sheet covering him from the waist down. Even
without your glasses, you know Dave shouldn’t look like this, dread latched on
to every single one of his features. Dave’s beautiful, wide eyes shouldn’t be
filled to the brim with tears. But hedoeslook like this and his brother’s spunk
inside your mouth tastes like vomit.
Bro heaves you towards Dave, almost landing in his lap. The come drips down
your chin a little more as you start to quietly weep.
“Kiss.”
That one single word rips a sob from you. By the time the sound’s half way out
of your mouth, you know you’ll shatter for not promptly following Bro’s order.
Dave’s mouth tumbles clumsily onto yours, breaking off the cry, and saving you
from another scar on the back of your knee. He must taste, feel, the come on
his lips, and still pries your mouth open with his tongue.
The result ends with a disorder of thick, warm come oozing down your chins and
dripping onto your naked chests. Dave takes in every one of your sobs, his
hands stay limp in his lap as he caresses the inside of your mouth with slow
fervor.
This kiss can’t be real. It’s mocking the ones you two shared last time. This
one stains revulsion in your being.
Dave’s own tears combine with yours whenever his face brushes you. He quivers
so much, the kissing makes your teeth clink together too much. You’re throat
aches too.
You pretend Bro’s gone away, that he’s isn’t standing a few feet to your left,
watching you exchange his come with his little brother. If you block him out,
you’re simply with Dave, unhurt and clean. Dave loves you so you’ll be ok. Dave
loves you, so you’re not afraid. You have Dave.
And then, it disappears.
Dave’s warmth vanishes from under your lips, and when your eyes open, Bro’s
hand grasps white-blonde hair. Dave’s expression falls into something so
destroyed, the image stays etched into your eyes as the older Strider drags him
away from you and to the door.
Fluidly, Bro hurls Dave out the door, landing with a heart-wrenching crack
against the floor. Bro turns away from him before Dave can even lift himself
off the ground. He leaves the door open.
“Dave!” His name spills gruffly over before you realize your lips moved. Then
the vision on your right side all but goes out. The scream slashes through your
throat the instant the brute of the blow lands against your face. You ball up
on your side, crying louder and hold your face. Something on your face bleeds,
your come soaked hands catching the blood.
“Bro,” you hear Dave say, winded. “Bro!” It’s hushed, like trying to calm an
instable beast.
He turns to look at you on the bed, naked and coated in come and spit. Bro
lazily unbuttons and takes off his white shirt, letting it slip past his
fingers.
“Das herz war zu kaput, es getan werden musste.” You hear the familiar, yet
alien words appears through your dim senses. It’s the most you’ve ever heard
him say.
His shirt pools on the floor, looking like snow.
A glance confirms what’s going to happen; he’s hard.
On the other side of the door, Dave stands, chest heaving as his weeping start
slowly and painfully. He falls to his knees, just beyond the threshold, and
begs, “Bro…! Please!Please!” He cries harder by the tremble his shoulders, sobs
inaudible. But he makes no move to try to come into your room. You can’t blame
him, either.
You can’t move.
“John!” Dave sounds raspy and wretched, like he already knows what’s next. “Bro
don’t… Please don’t break him…” You can imagine how this feels to him; like
watching a plane fall out of the sky, right before his eyes.
Bro smiles, softly, hideously, the side of his lips tilting upward. “He really
likes you, kid.” Bro’s tone is the closest you’ve heard to anything (mocking)
as he comes closer and closer. The words don’t register to your ears because
something else attracts your attention.
The reflection in Bro’s shades mirrors a living dead boy.
You jerk out of bed, falling to the floor with a bellow. Half of your face is
numb with the pain of Bro’s punch.
Dad storms into the room not even a second later, trying to bring you down from
another panic attack, another nightmare (dream) of a memory. You scream into
his chest until your voice gives out.
===============================================================================
 
“Mr. Egbert, can you tell me who this is? What is his connection to you?”
Lawyer Guy loudly asks and points to you where you sit, wrists and ankles
shackled together.
John wrinkles his nose to push up his glasses, and nervously follows your
lawyer’s finger. At last, his blue gaze settles on you and you see the same
light that convinced you to bring him the drugs. It shines brighter than the
biggest, widest eyes ever could. It’s more like the blaze of a crescent moon at
midnight.
You want your expression to stay still and passive, but damn. Damn it all, he
looks scared. He has the same expression like at your visit: tired and wary.
But unlike that time, there’s a tenseness in his shoulders. If it wasn’t for
that, you would appreciate the suit he’s wearing. It’s well-fitting on his thin
built.
“T-that’s Dave Strider. He…took care of me when I was…taken.” He’s still
watching you when he says it. You can’t (don’t want too) look away from him.
The lawyer nods, and lets out a small humming noise. “You say took care of you?
What sort of things did he do?”
John visibly swallows thickly, finally looking away. You can see the bounce of
his Adam’s apple as he does so. “He bathed me, took me out for walks on the
roof… Um, he was the one who brought me food and water. Gave me a blanket when
it was cold. He opened the window when it got really hot at night… Just stuff
like that.”
“Was he the one who volunteered for this or did his brother make him?”
John makes frowns, like the question confused him. His eyes slip past the
lawyer and off to the side, behind his grimacing blind prosecutor. You incline
your head to see what’s captured his attention and you see him. Egbert’s dad
face is a plain one, with a big nose and salt and pepper hair. You honestly
can’t see the resemblance between the two, and wonder if it was Egbert’s old
lady who gave him those baby blues.
“Mr. Egbert?” You hear Lawyer Guy ask, tone firm. You could fuckin’ rip out his
tongue for talkin’ like that to John. When you look back at them, John’s
clearing his throat.
“He asked to do it… He, Dave, asked Bro- I mean Dirk, if he could do it.”
“Do you know why?”
“I… Dave wanted a friend.”
There’s a sick twinkle in Lawyer Guy’s face, and you know the expression well
enough to get that Egbert just gave him something to work with. The frown on
your face deepens. So much for your fuck it face. “What did you do about this
aim for friendship?”
John’s nervous eyes swing back to his dad a moment before meeting Lawyer Guy’s.
“I wasn’t sure at first. I thought he was really weird and- and the things he
would do…” The twinkle in LG’s eyes fades a little and you smirk. “But,” The
smirk dips as that magic word as you see it reignites something in the lawyer.
John face pauses in an express of deep thought. “B- Dirk was hard on him…
Really hard.”
You could hear a pin drop in the courthouse. You gulp down the wad of spit and
your heart clutches in your heart.
“What would he do?”
John’s hands clutches his arms tightly enough to leave bruises on them. You
regret you won’t be there to lick them.
His next words are soft but they leave echoes imprinted on the walls as the
microphone radiates them for everyone’s big ears. “Bro raped him. He beat Dave
a lot. But even then, he loved him a lot too.”
LG falls silent for a moment, most likely to let the words sink in to the jury.
The judge, some black lady with glasses, narrows her eyes John, full lips set
in a line.
You close your eyes, and bring your hands up to cover your eyes. The rustle the
chains make sound are bursts of metal and you know that you broke the quiet and
that tons of eyes must be looking at you. Your middle finger aches to shoot up
but you shut your eyes more.
Egbert’s not allowed to lie here. He had to say- What the truth? Wasn’t what
Bro did to you lessons? Everything was a lesson, everything not without a
meaning to spend days on ‘cause Bro never understood the meaning of fuckin’
talkin’. Was that the truth?
“Who loved who a lot, John,” LG asks, voice the same volume.
You imagine John licking his lips again, ‘cause he’s too nervous to talk about
something like this. He had troubling handling the dirty shit, be it words or
the eyeballs of bird you gave him, he was too damn gentle. “Dave loved Dirk.”
His trembling voice makes you relax despite the actual words.
Your hands brush through your short hair, chains rattling, and look up at John.
You can tell they’ve made a point of telling him beforehand not to look at you
too much. He’s hardly glancing your way. “Did you ever see any of this abuse?”
“Yes.”
“Could you give us a run down on what happen one of these times?”
Egbert stiffens, eyes watery. “I think it was the first year, when I was like
13, when Dave took me out for a walk, and Dirk came up the stairs and they
started to spar.” His voice cracks on the last word, causing the mic to split.
He rubs his throat, you can just barely see the quiver in them. “Spar.” He
looks off to the distance, seeing the memory again. You know because it happen
to you a lot too. “Dirk won. And he dragged Dave close to the ledge and-and,”
John takes a small intake of breath, “threw him over.”
The room’s so quiet, a soft gasping sound explodes in the back.
You remember that day. Your eyes could barely see Bro move and every time you
jabbed your sword at him, your weapon couldn’t even hit his afterimage. You
fucked up and you kept fucking up. Bro said you needed to learn to do better
because you were weak. At least, that’s what you translated from his gestures.
If Bro won, you prepared yourself for breaking something.
Bro always won. He always won.
Wondering how the memory looks in John’s eyes, the setting around him fades and
fades until you’re only focused on him but he doesn’t look 17 anymore, and a
tearstained (practically permanent these first months) and delicately thin John
Egbert stares at you with big blue eyes.  
You make shameful whimpering noises at the back of your throat as your body
already starts steeling itself for anything and everything. A part of you is
grateful that your new shades won’t get broken when you just got ‘em. You think
they maybe have fallen onto the ground after Bro slapped you across the jaw
with his elbow.
You didn’t even last 20 minutes.
“B-bro,” you bit down hard enough on your tongue to feel the thick rush of
blood fill your mouth. Fuck your stutter. Fuck, why couldn’t you move fast
enough? There’s a feeling of blue eyes practically cutting into the back of
your skull harder than any needle or knife could.
Not in front of John, you wanted to say. But begging ain’t gonna do anything.
Striders deal and move on.
Of course Bro either ignores you or doesn’t hear. The latter being bullshit.
Bro always hears. He always sees.
He shakes you hard, fingers grip your hair as he pulls you silently pulls you
closer and closer towards the edge of the roof. Your brain instantly clicks
what he’s going to do and your body continues to tighten, tighten, tighten…
His hold releases only to fist the front of your white shirt. Bro casually
picks you up and over the edge, and in the background, you can see John
covering his mouth and nose in horror, more tears rushing down, and you can’t
help to feel a combination of awe and humiliation.
Then without warning (no words, there are never words), he lets you fall.
“What happened to Dave when he fell, John? The hotel building had 5 floors,
more than enough to kill him.”
You almost jerk in your seat as 17 year old John focuses back into view, and
huskily replies, “There were trash bags, lots and lots of trash bags and
leaves, from when Dave would rake around the building, and that’s where he
fell.” Your eyes stare at every words that leaves his bow shaped mouth. “He
dislocated his shoulder and broke his ankle.”
Lawyer Guy would smirk if he could, you figure, eyeing him with a neutral face.
Piece of shit. He’s about to say something else when John whispers, eyes lost,
“And the next day, I heard B- Dirk rape him. It was so loud, like it was just
outside my door. But Dave was trying to be quiet…for me-”
“Mr. Egbert, please retrain from talking out of turn,” the judge’s voice flings
out like a whip. John flinches at the words and jerkily nods, gaze downward.
Lawyer Guy clears his throat (you’ve dreamt about ripping it out) and puts his
hands behind his back. “No further questioning.” He turns towards you, but not
after glancing at the jury. There’re tears being held back in one old brown
man’s coffee eyes. Your lawyer could whip out his dick right now and jerk
himself off, and you bet that his damn orgasm wouldn’t feel any better than
what he felt right at this moment.
He side eyes John’s lawyer, murmuring, “Your witness.”
 Your think her name’s Latula or some shit. She’s got frizzy blonde hair and
thin lips that almost disappear whenever she frowns. Her red horn-rimmed
glasses seem too fashionable for a blind chick.
In her hands is a cherry wooden walking stick. At hearing LG, she stands
straight and the tap tapof the stick bounces off the floor. She straightens her
suit jacket as she walks.
A table is rolled out covered in bagged things you can’t make out.
“Mr. Egbert,” her voice sounds like it nails on a chalkboard and feels like it
too. “You spoke about young Mr. Strider ‘taking you out for walks,’ explain
this.”
John looks even more nervous, which you don’t get. Isn’t his lawyer supposed to
be on his side? Why does he look so scared?
“He would come get me from my room and take me up to the roof for about an hour
every other day. Nothing much to it,” his tone is defensive, like he’s trying
to silently tell her to back off whatever she’s up too.
She notices it too, a tick in her jaw popping up. “Would he restrain you, Mr.
Egbert?” Your heart skips a beat.
John’s chewing on his cheek. “…Yes.”
“How?”
He swallows loud enough that the mic catches it and replays it again to the
crowd. “Dirk had me wear a collar, and whenever Dave came for me, he would put
the leash on.” He refusing to look at you, and you know it isn’t because
whatever his people told him, it’s because he’ll start crying if he stares at
you too long.
You look away, at your hands, shackled on top of the table. You know because
that’s how you feel.
“A collar. Like this?” There’s that annoying tapping sound and a rustle of
plastic, but you refuses to look up until John makes a sudden choking noise.
Your entire body is tense and as your eyes leap up, the air seizes in your
lungs.
Latula hold up a thick leather collar with both hands, her cane left leaning
against the stand where John sits. In her right hand, wrapped around and around
her palm lays something else. He’s staring at it in horror, and his hand
reaches up to cover his mouth. He turns his head away slightly and by the roll
of his shoulders, he’s swallowing back vomit. “What am I holding up, John?”
His watery eyes inch back to it, mouth still covered for a second until he
brings it back down. “My collar.”
 She nods, and takes two short steps where the jury is and expertly walks up
and down their seats, showing off the collar. You don’t know how she’s supposed
to be blind, she looks like she can walk better than you could after Bro fucked
you that one time on the forest floor when you were 10.
His lawyer unwinds the thing in her hand and it falls all the way onto the
floor, pooling up there for all the see until she’s left holding up a brass
handle. “What am I holding now, Mr. Egbert?”
“My…leash.”
“Mr. Egbert, you said Dave Strider wanted a friend. Would you ‘walk’ your
friends, Mr. Egbert?”
John’s forcing himself not to sob now. “No…”
“Would you say you are his friend, Mr. Egbert?”
“I- I wanted to- to be, I was lonely-”
The women drops off the leash and collar on the table with a clatter. She
marches up John and snatches her cane away before grabbing some paper off her
desk. “Mr. Egbert, would you also force your friends to bathe in a tub full of
blood?” John recoils and his black brows draw together in confusion, but at his
third blink, he turns white as snow.
Looks like he forgot about that time, and honestly, you did too.
Bro had just killed this bulky black kid, after two days of chopping bits off,
and he let you have the body. There was still so much blood left in the guy,
you thought you could use the damn stuff somehow.
John was so impressed with how you could move this guy all by yourself, he
couldn’t even move when you helped him into the bath. 
“Young Mr. Strider also had you spit into a jar almost every day for, I quote,
“to help him jerk off.”” Her hands race across the paper in her hands, face
never leaving the direction where John sits.
Another thing you forgot, and apparently by his face, so did he.
“I- I-” he stammers, fear blooms on his expression more.
“He came in at night to watch you sleep every night. He look pictures of you
sleeping and bathing.” Her arm shoots out, slowly revolving the three Polaroid
pictures of a sleeping John balled up in a thin sheet. Peeking behind that one
is John sitting naked in the tub.
She slams them back behind the rest of the papers. “Mr. Strider stuffed the
hair of dead people into your bed, without you knowing for the first year. He
ripped off your finger nails and hung them on his ceiling, Mr. Egbert!
So, answer me this; to your knowledge, did Dirk Strider ever ask his younger
brother to do any of these things?”
John’s mouth opens and closes. It finally snaps shut with a booming click of
his teeth. His eyes race to where you know his dad is sitting and then, just as
quickly, back to his bitch of a lawyer. You would gouge out her useless eyes
and give them to him as a present, and run your fingers through his hair and
try to make him feel better.
“N-no…b-but-”
“Answer the question clearly, Mr. Egbert.” She returns back to her table,
grabbing a file and moving to pass it to some dick in uniform. The ugly scar
over his eye wrinkles as he shuffles the papers to the judge. It’s a copy of
John’s first questions, worded letters detailing what happened in John’s own
voice probably soon after he left you.
John cut off a low cry, eyes shutting tight and shakily moving his head left
and then right. He hugs himself tightly, hands enfolding around his upper arms.
John shouldn’t look like this. Bro was one thing, but this bitch? She shouldn’t
even be allowed to lick the ground he walks on.
“Mr. Egbert.”
“No!” John snaps, eyes a sapphire flame. “Dirk never asked him to do any of
that!”
“So, it was all him doing this? His own ideas that he went ahead and did to
you?”
“Yes! Wait, I- he did and Dirk never told him too, but-”
Latula slams her hands on her table, hissing, “Yes or no, John.”
You realize why John looked so scared.
His heavy gaze floats to you, sadly and heart wrenching. “Yes,” it’s soft.
It was for you.
The deliberation takes 6 hours, and when you turn from your monitored break and
stand along with about a hundred others, one of the jurors, the man with brown
eyes, hands the scarred security guard a paper.
“Dave Strider, you’ve pleaded guilty on 13 cases of murder in the second degree
by the State of Texas, 21 cases of torture, and 1 case of kidnapping of a
minor…and by this trial of your peers, you’ve been sentenced 50 years in the
Derse Mental Hospital for the Criminally Insane, with the possibility of parole
in ten years.”
Someone sobs, and it leads to a detonation inside the room. You hear slurs
about your German heritage and names, and cries about redemption ‘n shit, but
everything in your sight freezes. The judge’s mallet pauses before it strikes
the wood, the guards are stopped mid-step, the specs of spit fly out of one
fuming man’s mouth, they’re visible right in front of his lips, and there, next
to his dad…
There John stares back at you, wet cheeked and vivid eyes boring into you. He’s
giving you a broken, ethereal smile.
He was the one who sobbed.
The thought causes your own cry to come out and you grin back at him. You
fuckin’ love him. You love him. Hell, you’ll use a clichéd word and breath, “I
adore you,” into the noiseless room.
God’s (johnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohn’s) smile is the only salvation you’ll need.
 
Chapter End Notes
     About half way writing this chapter, I realized that John and Dave
     have become (or already were???) codependent. Like damn, sure it was
     planned from the get go that Dave had this obsession with John and
     that John has Stockholm Syndrome to deal with all the shit that’s
     happened to him, but it’s just now hit me that their relationship
     really is fucked up.
     Huh. I’m writing this and I’ve surprised myself.
     Also to the writers who write nothing but smut, you guys are amazing.
     Just geniuses. This stuff is hard to write. Did that smut scene
     between John and Dave seem forced to you guys? Comments about this
     needed to pounder over, please.
     Next chapter will be the last one! Idk how long it’ll be, not as long
     as this one, for sure.
     Thanks for reading!
End Notes
     Is everyone in character so far??? Considering everything? Like, if
     anyone has anything to comment, at least tell me this.
     I know i shouldnt be writing another multific, but i couldnt help it.
     I've had this idea for a while and I'm plenty excited to share it. It
     shouldn't go past 3-4 chapters but we'll see.
     This is gonna be pretty dark, just look at the tags, so consider
     that.
     Comments and kudos are always welcomed! Thanks!
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