Bro extends his fist, thumb pointing down. Your blood is boiling. That’s why you’re shaking.
You rush forwards, faster than you ever were at thirteen, sword more comfortable in your hands than any of his shitty katanas. You raise your sword, and your eyes are burning and you know he’s going to flash away any second now, you’ll just need to be faster. You’ll show him that you got better, and you got better without his fucked up training. There’s a metallic clang, but your eyes are drilling into his stupid pointed shades.
Before you can land a blow, you’re wrenched backwards by your hood. You flail for second and twist around, furious and half-expecting to find he somehow got behind you.
You’re met with yourself, who doesn’t even have the sense to look apologetic.
“What the fuck?” You give the future-Dave a shove.
“Attacking an unarmed guy isn’t a good look for us, even if it’s him,” Dave says, then manifests his turntables and is gone just as quickly as he appeared. You turn back to face Bro, confused at first by what Future Dave said, and then realizing that Bro’s katana is halfway across the roof from him.
You scream.
There is no sense to your scream, just head tilted back and screaming at the sky, tearing your throat open until your lungs run out of air. Then you point your sword at Bro.
“What the fuck are you doing? Pick your sword back up!”
He doesn’t move. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was confused. But Bro is never confused. He’s never wrong. He’s never on the wrong foot about anything.
You go to his sword, pick it up, and throw it over to him. Bro catches it easily, and then it’s gone, likely back in his sylladex. You scream again and you rush forward, and Bro is staying still, and he’ll flash away at any second, you know it, you’re sure he will, and-
Your blade sings right next to his head, resting the barest fraction of an inch from his shoulder. He hasn’t moved.
“Do something!” you demand. Bro slips his hands into his pockets, but continues to make no attempt to defend or retaliate. “You wanted to strife, then strife!”
“I never said we’d strife,” he says, voice so fucking low and even.
“That’s what ‘roof’ means,” you argue. You twist caldescratch so that the blade is facing his neck. You could cut off his head so easy. You’d barely have to think about it - well, other than having to think about the fact that you beheaded your own brother.
