I wrote this fanfic-y thing about a four-year-old Dave just livin’ life and being happy and I tried to make it cute but I probably failed lol. I love baby Dave????
Your name is Dave Strider. You're four years old, and you're the raddest thing since sliced bread. You're all that and a bag of chips. And you're pretty fuckin' sure you're the apple of your Bro's eye. You don't exactly know the stories behind all of those phrases, but it's cool, because you know they all mean you're awesome. You also don't know what "fuckin'" /really/ means, you just know it's one of those words that makes Bro snicker or laugh when you say it, so of course you've gotta say it now and then. Bro doesn't smile or laugh for no reason, after all. He keeps it real. You're calm like him most of the time (you've been calm ever since you were a baby, you know this because you heard Bro say it on the phone once), except for when he does something really funny, like destroy a bunch of his puppets or make them talk in silly voices, or when he tickle-attacks you.
You're a damn happy kid. Right now you're sitting beside your Bro on the futon, taking turns playing a Tony Hawk game. You like watching Bro's moves and trying to imitate them with the little electronic puppet on the screen. You don't get frustrated when you can't imitate a particularly rad move perfectly, because your trying usually ends in a particularly spectacular failure. The character clips through objects and walls and cement and flails wildly, and Bro loses his shit and gives you a high-five or a fist-bunp. He says you've made it into an art form and that the physical limitations of the game simply don't apply to you. You absolutely agree.
Bro is nailing this Tony Hawk game right now, but somehow he notices you're out of Cheerios while his character is midair. He replaces them before you even realize what's going on or realize he's not on the futon 100% of the time now, flash-stepping so fast that he's able to do several things at once and he's just sort of... fading and flashing in and out. Your apple slices have been replaced and your orange juice has been refilled, too. He always just does this stuff without you having to ask.
He's like that with everything. Before you even realize something's amiss, it's taken care of. Bro hands you the Xbox controller before you notice you want to play, he teaches you the four-year-old version of his self-defense moves before you've figured out that you want to (pretend) fight the way he does, and he made sure you had your own turntables before you ever thought to ask. You think that Bro is the coolest brother anyone could have, because he knows exactly what you need and you don't even have to say it. He's like a mind-reader. And he's not like the hopeless parents on TV that are embarrassing and ground their kid and have to be begged before they get their kid a puppy. Bro never embarrasses you with hugs and kisses, and he never grounds you or yells at you or punishes you, and if you wanted a puppy, he would have already given you one. 'Cause he knows these things. But apparently you don't want a puppy, since he never gave you one.
You /do/ want dinosaur toys. Lots and lots of dinosaur toys and your own camera to record them on. You know you want them, because you already have them. And you know they're better than a puppy, because puppies make messes and get into trouble, you've seen enough episodes of Wishbone to figure that out. Besides, puppies don't listen. Your dinosaur toys, on the other hand, will do whatever the hell you want them to. In fact, you don't even have to play with them to be entertained. Sometimes you just tell Bro what you want them to do and he goes to work, metaphorically bringing them to life with his flash-puppeteering. You're the god of these hopeless creatures, and you decide if they live or die.
"What?" Bro is looking at you, a T-rex puppet on one hand and bean-bag filled triceratops held in the other, waiting for an answer. You're unsure what his reaction will be when you repeat yourself, because Bro is full of mysteries. But he's also the best, so you're not afraid and you don't hesitate.
"I said, I'm their god," you repeat a little louder, before crushing one made out of Play-Doh.
Bro stares at you for a couple of seconds, and then he's laughing. "You've got that right, bro." You think Bro loves it when you're destructive, but he loves it when you're creative too. Your latest drawing is always snug under a magnet on the fridge, and Bro just keeps giving you more art supplies. He didn't even get mad when you smeared red finger-paint all over the kitchen and a few of his favorite puppets. He asked a lot of questions and picked you up really fast at first, which was scary, because Bro /never/ freaked out, but that was just because he thought you were hurt. Once he realized the deep red was just finger paint, he called your work "impressive" and ruffled your hair. You guess he cleaned it up later, but only after the two of you took all the pictures you wanted of the mess.
He's ruffling your hair now, and your hand is covered in crushed brontosaurus so you can't ruffle his hair back. Instead you flash-leap onto his back and laugh when it catches him by surprise. He grabs you and tosses you to the futon, a smirk on his face. The game is on. You've been playing /this/ game for as long as you can remember. Your feet land on the back of the futon and you push off of it in a second, hanging in the air before appearing at his side in a flash. He's /always/ impressed by this. There's nothing he can do, you appear close and scale him like a mountain no matter what. He couldn't get rid of you even if he wanted to. And obviously he doesn't really want to, because when you /do/ disappear he never stops looking for you. You try not to disappear that often. You don't know what your Bro would do without you.
