#equesobumbratio

yo sup

nada

thinking about playing a game but im not sure

needless to say, you can’t remember the last time you’ve been anything but totally rigid and hard on dave. you’ve been a terror of a brother for the past you don’t even know how long, and you’d already accepted that this was just what you were going to have to be for a long time. 

now? not so much. you’re dead, and with you goes any obligation you had to make dave into what you tried to make him, to beat him into a shape strong enough to withstand to game, because you thought it was wholly necessary.

maybe that’s partially the reason all of this makes you feel so… you’re not sure. nervous? guilty, maybe. you’re talking to a dave that hasn’t even met you, and played the game, and lived, and-- what if that just means you weren’t necessary to your own at all? would it have been better if you never existed? every thought unsettles you, so you’ve been trying your best to just not think about it, even if that’s hard, because sburb has shaped everything about you to the point where it’s impossible to fully ignore it.

you did say you’d show up, though. in so many words, perhaps, but the promise was there nonetheless even if unspoken. it’s the first time in a long time that you’ve ever actually felt awkward and apprehensive about talking to somebody, too, but you’d probably have an easier time cutting off your own feet a la saw before admitting that.

you stare absentmindedly at the roof. to travel, you don’t necessarily need a transportalizer-- such is the minor convenience of being dead, you suppose. the only method in which you can make any contact involves sleeping and dreaming, first, but it’s only a minor inconvenience, if anything. for now, you’re waiting, thinking-- running a dozen conversations through your head before you act on anything.

when you finally decide you, you have the foresight to actually bother shrugging on a jacket to cover up the perpetual red spot in your shirt, the thing that makes you look like a humanized version of a bleeding heart pigeon. (why on earth you still bother to wear white is beyond you.)

one moment you’re here. the next, you’re there. it’s as easy as thinking, really-- visualizing a person and then creeping into their very dreams like fucking thou who shall not be named himself. all you can bother doing is hoping that dave doesn’t actually realize it’s a dream, because that’s a lot of explaining you don’t want to do to a little brother who doesn’t even really know you’re a dead man walking.

your fingers curl into your palm, and you lift your fist, rapping it against the plain door of an apartment.

yo

story of my fucking life

— you’re dave, right.

i do