Your name is DIRK STRIDER. You are twenty years old and live by yourself in a shitty apartment. You consider yourself a pretty average guy. You’re just trying to make ends meet with your innovative puppet creations and your skills with robots. Unfortunately, it’s hard to be average when you have the ability to walk through the dreams of others and effectively see into (and sometimes destroy) their hearts. You are a DREAMWALKER, and a damn good one at that.
Jake is rubbing circles and designs into your hands with his thumbs, and it's making it hard to concentrate on his words. You have to fight against the urge to just fall forward, and rest your head on top of his. God, you're so tired. And it's fucking weird because that's rarely something you admit. You don't sleep. It's a fact more than anything. Thinking about being tired is just...a waste of energy. Because you'll never not be tired.
But fuck, you're admitting it now, you're tired. You are putting up with just so much bullshit, and you're a little done with it. You're done with overanalyzing and trying to figure stuff out. You just...want to sleep. You want to get a good night sleep.
Jake mentions something about people being in your head, and you suck in air sharply. You don't want to think about that either, even though you should. You don't want to think about the fact that it's possible for someone to delete your memories just like you delete other people's in your dreamwalking. You feel vulnerable, and violated, and angry at your brother for leaving you like this. And angry at Jake for moving here and getting all this shit started. Even though you're not really angry at Jake. Because you don't want to leave Jake right now. You just want to stay here with him rubbing your hands and fuck you're tired.
He starts speaking comforting words, giving your hands a light squeeze, and you force yourself to release the air that you had been holding in your lungs. You do need to calm down. You're being ridiculous. The two of you need to think about this rationally, and come up with a solution.
But you don't know what do. For the first time, you can't kickstart your brain into action and come up with a plan. You're out of gas.
"...I don't know what to do," you admit finally. "I just...this is a lot more than I've had to deal with before. And it's all been so damn sudden. I...I don't know what to do."
You fight with yourself for a few seconds, wanting to drop your head forward onto his shoulder, but not wanting to appear more pathetic than you already look.
Instead, you flop your head back so it's leaning against the wall again, swallowing thickly. You never ask for help. You don't do it because people will let you down every time. The only person you can depend on for help is yourself.
God this is so awkward. How the fuck do you even begin? Your stomach is still churning with the emotional turmoil you’re still feeling, and the dull pounding headache that’s throbbing within your skull is making it difficult to find the right words.
You're not sure how you expect him to react. Maybe to looked shocked, worried, confused. To splutter a bit as he answers. To have a flash of pain ghost across his face thanks to you bringing up memories of deceased family members. To say 'no'.
What you don't expect is for him to walk forward and pull your hands out of your pockets, and you freeze with shock. It's only as he begins pulling off your gloves, the material scraping against the raw and blistered skin, that you flinch.
He flinches at the exact same time.
And that's a little suspicious.
You'd assume it was because he's upset by your injury, if not for the way his hands twitch and tighten slightly, as if curling up in pain. It's weird. Especially given how he flinched at the exact same time that you did.
Your mind is a little overwhelmed trying to deal with all the information coming at you on top of the stuff from your dreamworld that you're still trying to digest. Jake knew about your injury. Oh shit. Fuck. How the hell did he know? What else does he know? Shit, you don't want him to ask about it. You don't want to tell him. It's embarrassing and pathetic and you don't want him to know at all. How in the hell did he find out?
Your internal freakout is derailed as Jake answers your previous question. The question that, if you're being honest, you already knew the answer to. It was obvious, frankly. However unlikely and illogical it might be, it seemed almost a given that whatever serendipitous relationship that you and Jake are a part of extended to your guardians.
Jake keeps talking, and you only half listen to him, distracted instead by the feeling of that constant throbbing pain leaving your fingers and palms. The ache in your head also recedes, and you're simultaneously alarmed and filled with a sense of peace. It's similar to that warm feeling you got in your chest when you and Jake...had that heart to heart in you dreamworld. A sense of lightness, and comfortable heat, that pervades your entire being.
As nice as it is, it's also worrisome. You have a serious dislike for things that you don't understand.
Jake looks up at you, and you register that he's finished talking. It takes you a moment to register the words that you've been hearing him speak for the last minute or so.
"I...I don't know. I really don't," you begin hesitantly, still a little off-center from the weird no-pain sensation, "I...I remember we used to visit each other's dreamworlds. Me and my brother. But we never- we never talked about it. It was never a 'thing'. I wasn't in school yet, so it's not like he had to worry about me telling anyone else about it. I...I know shit about this. Seriously."
You suck in a deep breath, because you seriously fucking hate not understanding things. You also hate feeling useless.
"I only remember her calling him that one time," you continue, your voice a little quieter, "So maybe...maybe she only used the phone because of how urgent it was. Of how worried she was." Which, again, raises the question of just how your bro and Jake's grandma knew each other. A question that can probably only answered by the two people who aren't around to answer it.
God this is so awkward. How the fuck do you even begin? Your stomach is still churning with the emotional turmoil you're still feeling, and the dull pounding headache that's throbbing within your skull is making it difficult to find the right words.
You clench your teeth together, fighting to keep your expression impassive as you try and separate yourself from your feelings in order to remain calm.
"In the note, he said that if I ever woke up in my dreamworld, I should find someone named 'Jade Harley' and go to her island. That I'd be safe there," you continue, hating the words that are coming from your mouth. Because if it's true, if it is Jake's grandma, then this might hurt him almost as much as it's hurting you.
"And I found some pictures by my bed," you add in a rush, before he can reply, suddenly tripping over your own tongue, "When I touched them I...I remembered all the stuff I had forgotten. From...from before I was at the orphanage. And I remember hearing my brother talking to a 'Jade' on the phone, and her telling him he wasn't safe, and him not believing her, and-,"
You suck in a breath, shutting your eyes and letting your head thud back against the wall. You've unconsciously clenched your hands into fists, and pain is flaring up all through your arms. You let your fingers relax, and open your eyes a slit to peer over the tops of your shades.
"Jake," you ask hoarsely, "Was Jade Harley your grandmother?"
Your phone vibrates a few minutes later, and you can’t tell if you hate or love Jake for replying so quickly. With some effort, you haul yourself back up into a sitting position, freeing one arm from Lil Cal in order to reach towards your phone.
Jake opens the door looking about as good as you feel, and a sharp shooting bolt of guilt lances through you as you wonder if some of your naseau and general crappy feelings leaked over onto him.
He moves aside to let you in, and you tense up, noticing his eyes flickering down to your hands quickly. You really fucking hope he doesn't ask about them. At this point, you're honestly not sure if you can actually lie to Jake. You have the distinct feeling that this damn bond would have you spontaneously combusting if you even tried. It would be more beneficial if you could just avoid the issue altogether.
Years of crappy foster homes have made you sensitive to the smell of alcohol, and you wrinkle your nose as you enter the apartment, shooting Jake a concerned look out of the corner of your eye. Though you feel like you should, you don't say anything, the throbbing in your hands reminding you that just as you have things that you don't want to admit to Jake, he might have things that he doesn't want to admit to you.
You turn away from him, shoving your hands into your pockets as you move to lean against a wall.
"Sorry for showin' up on such short notice," you begin with a shrug, "I just...I needed to talk to you about some things. About your grandmother." There's no point beating around the bush. It'll be better for both of you if you get straight to the point.
You swallow thickly, pulling out one hand to run your fingers through your hair, wincing as you do.
Your phone vibrates a few minutes later, and you can't tell if you hate or love Jake for replying so quickly. With some effort, you haul yourself back up into a sitting position, freeing one arm from Lil Cal in order to reach towards your phone.
You wince a little as you pick it up, your frostbitten, blistered hands throbbing and stinging as you open the app. You're still furious at yourself for letting this happen, and mentally berate yourself even as you read over Jake's short reply.
His first message makes you smile despite yourself, and his other messages have you raising a bemused eyebrow. Which one of you is the one with the injured fingers?
Nah, it's cool. I'll come to you. You type quickly. Last thing you need is Jake walking in on you when you're not completely decent. Or before you've gotten your emotions and naseau under control.
You tuck your phone into your pocket and push yourself up off your bed. You're not exactly indecent, put you replace the shirt you're wearing with a new one all the same. Your shades do a good job of hiding how emotionally and mentally tired you are, but you still splash some warm water on your face.
The last thing you do before you leave your apartment is pull on a pair of gloves to hide the bandages. The tight fabric just makes them hurt more, but you don't want to freak Jake out or have him ask questions. The last fucking thing you want is for Jake to ask you about your hands. Because what the hell do you tell him? That you're a dumbass who has lingering OCD and lost control because he couldn't deal with a note from his probably dead long lost brother? Fuck no.
Adjusting your shades one last time, you grab your keys and exit your apartment, locking the door behind you.
The path to Jake's door is familiar, which is still kind of surreal, seeing as you didn't have a single friend in this building just a few weeks ago. You shove one hand into your pocket, and knock on the door, firmly implementing your poker face. You really don't want Jake to see what a mess you are. Especially when you were in such a good place the last time you were together.
You left your dreamworld earlier, still feeling horrible and emotionally drained, and stayed curled up on your bed, moving only to reach for your phone and call in sick to your job. You don't think the owner of the dojo is too pleased, since you missed yesterday as well, but fuck it, you don't want to move.
Your head is still pounding, and your eyes stray towards your desk, cluttered with robot designs and spare parts as usual. You're going to fall behind on commissions if you keep going like this. If you're not careful, you're going to lost your job as a martial arts instructor. If you're not careful, you're going to fuck up your life before any whackjob scientists can get at you.
But that's just it, isn't it? What's the point of all this, if you're just going to be attacked and kidnapped by a bunch of whitecoats any given day now? You literally have zero understanding of your situation, other than the fact that the same creeps that got Jake's grandma probably got your bro as well, and you're in danger for just existing. You don't know how to fight back, how to avoid them. You don't even know for sure that they know about you. You've never had any reason to think that they're aware of your existence, except now you have a cryptic dreamnote from your estranged Bro telling you that you're not safe.
Fuck.
You role over and bury your face into your mattress.
The smart thing to do would be to call Jake. This involves him, and you still need to get confirmation that Jade Harley was in fact his grandmother's name. Plus, he's a lot more familiar with this shit than you are. Together, you might be able to make sense of this mess.
Slowly, begrudgingly, you sit up and reach for your phone, opening the pesterchum app and sending Jake a quick message, asking if he has time to chat.
Then you collapse backwards onto the bed, hugging Lil Cal to your chest, and fondly remembering the days when your life was simpler.
It is precisely two o’clock in the afternoon when you hand in a resume to the coffee shop, completed with your false identity. The girl you hand it to has purple hair and way too many facial piercings. You don’t think she was working when you and Dirk were here.
You grin nervously as she glances down at the sheet, teeth playing at the gold ring in her lip.
"Jacob Borbaur, huh?" She mumbles, then shrugs a shoulder. She’s turned around and left you before you can blink, yelling to tell you to expect a phone call in the next two weeks or so. That’s normal. This is normal, you tell yourself, running a hand along the back of your neck as you exit the store. It’s still rather cool outside- you shove your hands in your pockets and hunch your shoulders against the wind.
Getting a job. Working. This is what normal people do. They find someplace that suits their fancy, settle down and find employment. Normal.
And you are having trouble dealing with some things.
Your hands are aching, both from the continued exercise, and from being exposed to the cold winter air for a prolonged period of time. They look inflamed in some sections, and raw in others, with the beginning of frostbite at the tips.
You grit your teeth and curse your own stupidity as you wrap bandages around your fingers and palms, pulling on the cloth with your teeth. Your hands are throbbing dully, and your heart is pounding because fuck you thought you were passed this shit. Doing stupid repetitive motions until you calm down is only okay if you can maintain control and not let it get obsessive.
The idea that you're still capable of losing that control is terrifying, because it's reminiscence of a dark place that under no circumstance do you want to return to.
You just want to leave the goddamn past in the past.
Which is the current problem, isn't it? You've received instructions from your estranged brother to revisit your memories in order to discover who he is. Memories that you are unfamiliar with. That his notes insinuated were blocked purposefully.
You rest your hands on your thighs when you're finished bandaging them, staring at the white gauze with your teeth digging into your bottom lip.
It’s not a huge secret why you’re apprehensive about delving into this. Why you don’t want to explore the memories of your past, particularly now that you know your childhood might have been fraught with complications and danger, rather than relative normalcy as you originally imagined.
The reason you don’t want to see is because you don’t want to be like Jake.
Up to this point, you’ve managed to reassure yourself with the thought that there’s no chance of your Dreamwalking being a threat to you, because no one knows what you are. Your childhood was painfully mundane, one of a million rejects of the American childcare system. Even with learning all about Jake’s past and the dangers associated with him, you were able to reassure yourself that, aside from those brought with your association with Jake, your dreamwalking would bring you no trouble.
But it now seems likely that looking into your past will reveal the same sort of tumultuous, danger-frought events as those that Jake experienced. Perhaps even moreso, since he was able to stay with his grandmother until he was eight, while you were deposited into the orphanage just before you turned six.
But at the same time, your brother signed his notes with the same last name as you, meaning he didn’t change it when he checked you into the system or whatever. Jake had to change his name in order to escape detection or suspicion. Does that mean you’re safe, because whatever went down that caused your brother to abandon you, it wasn’t tied to your last name?
Your fingers begin to curl into fists and you wince, willing your hands back open. This ceaseless pondering is ridiculous, because there is an easy way to answer all of your questions. It’s unjustifiably childish that you’re avoiding looking into your memories because you’re afraid that they’ll tell you you’re in danger now. You need to know if you’re in danger now. Remaining ignorant could get you killed. Could get Jake killed.
There’s a twinge in your chest, and you’re reminded that you and Jake are now explicitly tied to one another. Any negligence on your part could somehow affect him, just like you’ll be screwed if any of those scientists or whatever find him again.
Closing your eyes, you release the breath that you had been holding, relaxing and letting yourself fall back onto your bed.
You have to do this.
You have to do this now.
You reach out and pull Cal into your arms, burying your face into his shirt as you slow your breathing and imagine the orange and green of your dreamworld.
When you open your eyes again, Cal is gone, and you’re curled up on the smuppet-print sheets of your Dream room. Your hands, uninjured here, curl into them for a moment, as you just lay on the soft mattress, hesitant to sit up and confront the picture on your bedside table.
But your feelings of self-worth have taken a giant nose-dive in the past twelve hours, and you feel like a complete piece of shit for meandering around so much. For being such a coward. So you sit up and reach your hand towards the pictures on your bedside table, gritting your teeth and bracing yourself for the worst.
Your fingers touch the glass, and for a moment, nothing happens.
But then you blink, and everything around you changes.
Your room is no longer orange with bits of green, but plain white, and cluttered with equipment. Your field of vision is surprisingly small, but you can see what look like turntables, speakers, and some swords.
Those are Bro’s.
The thought surprises you, but only for a moment. Yeah, those are Bro’s. Your brother...He’s the coolest! He can mix music and fight with swords and he tells really funny stories and draws really funny pictures and you love it when he reads to you before you go to sleep.
That’s what you’re waiting for now, you remember. You’re holding Lil Cal, the puppet you’ve had since forever, and waiting for your Bro to come read you a story.
Almost on cue, the door creaks open, and the light from the hallway comes streaming in. You feel yourself sit up in bed, and scoot closer to the edge as your Bro enters the room. You can almost see him clearly with the light from the hallway and your window, and you smile a little at the familiar sight.
Blonde hair, a darker shade than yours. A bit of stubble on the chin. Black shades, ducked into the front of his t-shirt, and startlingly red eyes. You’re smiling at him a little, and he smiles back as he walks towards your bed, a book tucked under one arm.
“Hey, Lil’ Man,” he says with a smile, sitting down on the edge of your bed, “Sorry to keep you waiting.” And his voice is warm and rough and familiar and you remember hearing that voice calling you from the kitchen or speaking to you softly while walking down the street or chuckling while looking at something you drew or rambling on about something while you hung onto his leg and giggled.
You remember.
You remember.
The colours melt away, and the room twists and turns into an entirely new scene. You’re sitting at the table in the kitchen, a crayon in your hand and a sheet of paper in front of you. The voice of your brother is speaking quietly in the background, and you remember that he’s on the phone, and he asked you to stay out of his way for a bit while he was talking. Now you’re drawing a picture, of a place covered in water, with seagulls, and monsters in the ocean. You remember that you usually only like drawing robots, or Lil Cal, but that this place always sticks in your mind. You’re colouring in the ocean right now, working hard to not colour over the monsters you’ve already drawn, but you can hear snippets of your bro’s conversation, and it’s distracting you.
“…not even completely sure these people exist-,”
“…I do trust you, but-,”
“…can’t just pack up and leave Jade, for fuck’s sake-,”
The bad word surprises you a little, and you jerk your head up and turn it towards the living room. Bro never swears like that around you. Sometimes he slips up and says some bad stuff, but he always splutters and gets red and rambles at you not to repeat it and that swearing isn’t cool. But he just said a really, really bad word.
It occurs to you that something is wrong.
Your body moves, placing the crayon down and walking towards the sound of your brother’s voice. You can still hear him, though he’s speaking quieter now.
“…solid proof, I’ll take action. But until then, I’m not budging. Kid’s still too little for that kind of-,”
Your head moves around the doorway, and your Bro sees you immediately, pausing midsentence. His shades are on, so you can’t see his eyes, but you can tell he’s upset. He’s been upset a lot, and tired. Really tired. Like he’s not sleeping at all anymore.
“I’ll call you back,” he mutters into the phone, before clicking it off and replacing it on the cradle. You feel bad, because you know you shouldn’t have been listening, shouldn’t have come in here, but you want so bad to find out what’s going on, to discover the truth.
“Bro,” you begin hesitantly, but before you can finish, his hands are under your arms and you’re airborne, your words dying out with a squeak as your brother hoists you around and deposits you onto his shoulders.
“I was just thinking about how now is a perfect time to get some ice cream,” he says, taking you by surprise, “I mean, when was the last time we lost ourselves in the ecstasy of sugary goodness? Way too long ago, that’s when. C’mon Lil Man, we’re parking our butts in the nearest Ben & Jerry’s and not moving until the sun sets.”
He’s moving quickly, in a way that’s not the slow, easy-going gait that you’re used to. You feel yourself frown, and your hand reaches out to tug at his hair.
“Bro,” you repeat, still frowning heavily, “What-,”
He stops suddenly, and you jerk forward against his head. You’re startled into silence, and your grip on his hair loosens as he reaches up with one hand to take on of your in his.
“Dirk,” he says quietly, and your stomach suddenly feels sick because your bro sounds super serious and he never ever sounds serious like this-
“Dirk, I need you to trust me,” he continues, and you feel him take a deep breath, feel his hand tighten around yours, “Just forget about anything you heard today, alright? Forget about it. I’ve got this under control, so don’t worry, and just trust me.”
He squeezes your hand again, and you hesitate for a few moments because some of the stuff you heard was really weird, but he’s your bro. He’s your bro that’s always been there for you, who you love to bits and pieces, who’s the coolest, most awesome guy ever, and of course you trust him.
You wrap yourself around his head in a hug and whisper, “Okay.”
The scene warps and melts away again, and the setting changes with a violent jolt, and suddenly your standing on the roof of a building, in the middle of a thunderstorm. Rain is pounding down on you, and you can hear the sound of waves crashing loudly in the background. Your stomach is churning, and everything feels…wrong for some reason. Something is terribly wrong. You remember your brother getting more and more worried, with more and more weird phonecalls. You remember he stopped going out, stopped letting you go out, took you out of kindergarten. You remember he started packing up the apartment and talking about maybe going somewhere else for a little bit but you yelled at him and said you didn’t want to and he just stared at you with an expression on his face that you really didn’t like.
You remember him telling you that you couldn’t visit each other in dreams anymore. Because yeah, that’s a thing that you did! You used to visit him in his red, fiery world and sometimes he’d visit you in yours. But then he said you couldn’t do that anymore.
But if he said that, why is he here now?
You’re soaking wet, and you can barely see with the amount of rain pouring down on you. But blinking rapidly, you can just make out the figure standing in front of you, soaked just like you are, and looking at you with a desperate, pained expression on their face.
“I’m so sorry, Dirk,” he chokes out, and he stumbles towards you and pulls you into a hug, his body warming you in the cold of the rain. But this is wrong too, because it sounds like he’s crying, and that’s ridiculous, your bro never cries. He’s your bro! There’s nothing that can scare him, or make him really sad or mad…
Except you remember this morning, when you walked in on him in his bedroom right when he woke up, and that his eyes had been wide and panicked as he sat up in bed. He’d looked…he’d looked..
And right now, he’s clutching at you like he’s afraid. And it’s making you afraid. A bolt of lighting snakes across the sky and a loud crash of thunder has you squealing in fear and burying your face into your bro’s chest.
“I messed up, I asked you to trust me and I messed up,” he babbles, still clutching you tight, “I should have listened to her, I shouldn’t have- I didn’t think- God I’m so sorry, Dirk. I’m so, so sorry.”
He leans away from you a bit, and then you’re looking up into his face, wet with rainwater and looking more in pain than you’ve ever seen it. You don’t know what’s going on, and it’s scaring you. It’s making you want to cry, but you don’t want to be a baby, not now. You don’t want to cry in front of your brother when it looks like he’s trying hard not to cry himself. You want to be strong for him, even though your world is being violent and angry and nothing at all like the calm ocean it usually is. So you bite back your sobs, even if you can’t stop the trickle of tears down your cheeks as you clutch at his shirt.
“I messed up, but I can still protect you, at least for a little while longer,” you hear him say, and he reaches up to cup your face with his hands. You stare up at him in confusion, and your eyes widen in shock as you see actual tears drip from his eyes. And that doesn’t make sense because it’s your bro and he’s strong he’s not supposed to cry no everything is wrong-
The feeling of wrongness only increases when he moves away, because something- something is- what did he-
He did something, just now, when he was holding you, you can feel it, and you try to walk forward, try to ask him what he did, but before you can make a move you freeze as you see something clutched in his hand. And you look closer and are confused, because those are all photos of him. Where did he get those- why is he…?
You watch in confusion as, hands shaking, he takes the photos in both his hands and rips them all in half.
You jerk backwards with a start, and then you’re falling flat on your back onto your smuppet-print sheets, white ceiling above you as you blink rapidly in the bright light of your dreamworld.
You stay in that position, your entire body weighed down by the memories that have suddenly reappeared in your mind. By the new knowledge of your past. Your throat feels clogged, and your chest is constricted. You feel like you’re going to cry.
Because you remember him. You remember your brother. Dave Strider. You’ve spent more than fifteen years thinking that you’ve always been completely alone but for almost six years you had a big brother who took care of you and raised you and was always there…
But then he ‘messed up’. Something went wrong. Something that required him to…to tear apart your memories of him and drop you off at an orphanage.
You roll onto your side, arms folded over your middle. Sickness and naseau are rolling through you. The wrong feeling is still lingering with you, even though it was just a memory, even though it was so long ago. The sting of your brother’s actions is fresh and raw, and your head is aching with the constant pulsing of emotions through you.
Your feelings are a mess. There’s a part of you that’s happy to have your memories back, to remember the life you lived before that shitty orphanage, but the memories make the pain you went through so much worse. Knowing that you had a good, decent life before, only to have it ripped away for some reason…
And that’s the real kicker. You still don’t know anything. You don’t know for sure why your brother thought he had to abandon you, or his connection to this Jade Harley person. The woman who may or may not be Jake’s grandmother. You…you know nothing.
You bury your face into the sheets, listening to the sound of crashing waves outside your window, and feeling more lost than you have in a long time. Your chest aches, and your mind strays towards the green painted on your wall. You’re filled with the desire to contact Jake. To talk to him again. To tell him about all this and see if you can piece together the story of your past together. But you don’t want to bother him. Not so soon. And you definitely don’t want him to see what a mess you are right now.
((Part two has been delayed because of laptop issues. I'm using my iPad but I don't like typing stories on it. Hopefully laptop will be fixed in 5 days. Or I will be able to use my mother's. Sorry. :/ ))
Sweet Dreams, Timaeus @putalockonyourheart - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
