Bandages

Bro Strider stood frozen in surprise as he watched Dave run back into the building, clutching his bloody side and slamming the door behind him. He looked down at his sword where it had lodged in the cement from the last swing, and noticed a thin strip of red on the edge. Shit. He hadn't meant to do that. He yanked it out and wiped the blood off on his shirt as he ran to the roof exit.

Bro was a master of swordplay and controlling the blade, but that didn't change the fact of the matter: if you swing a sharp object enough at someone, you'd eventually hit them. This wasn't the first time this had happened, of course. Bro gave Dave little cuts and bruises all the time, and Dave even managed to lay some on him. They usually didn't draw this much blood, though, and judging by Dave's reaction this one must've hurt like a bitch. It was enough to generate some serious concern for his little bro.

He ran into the puppet-strewn living room of the apartment and looked around. No sign of Dave, he must be in the bathroom patching it up. He went to the bathroom, but the door was flung wide open and there was no one inside. The first aid kit had apparently been taken though. He finally went to the door of Dave's bedroom and knocked.

He'd never been more relieved to be told to fuck off and die in a fire.

"Well if you're that energetic, it can't be too bad. What's the cut look like?"

There was the sound of shuffling fabric. "Uh, about three inches long. Maybe a sixth of an inch deep at most."

Bro sucked in air through his teeth. "Ooh, that sounds nasty, man. Let me have a look at it."

"No!" Dave practically squeaked, and after a series of frantic thumping the door banged shut from the other side.

Bro hadn't been expecting that. Was there something else that was wrong? Maybe the cut had been just high enough on his side to…

Fuck.

Bro rubbed his eyes under his glasses and leaned a shoulder on the door. "I cut your bandages, didn't I."

There was a silence, and Bro realized he could hear Dave breathing. The kid was probably still pressing the door shut with his back. "No shit," he finally answered; his voice close but muffled. It was back to his usual octave.

"Shit, sorry about that. My concentration must've lapsed."

"Don't apologize."

Bro raised an eyebrow. "I shouldn't have apologized for nearly stabbing your lung?"

"No," Dave said, and the rustle of cloth started again as he began rewrapping. "It's because I fucking ran away like a little pussy."

Bro didn't respond for a second, and Dave continued, his voice halting up.

"See? You think so, don't you? You must hate me. I can barely block your sword when we fight, and run away because I have one little panic attack."

"Dave," Bro said, lifting his shoulder and turning to the door.

"I fucking suck at being a bro," he choked. "And when you get down to it, I'm not even a fucking bro."

"Dave."

The door was silent.

"Dave, have I ever told you how much harder it gets for me to block that shitty katana of yours every day?" Bro asked.

Still silence.

"Because it is. You keep improving, and I feel prouder and every time I fight you. You're only thirteen, but you manage to consistently hold your own against an experienced adult swordfighter," he continued, "You're the best and baddest little bro I could ever ask for, and if you keep at it, you'll grow up into the best and baddest young man anyone has ever seen."

The door slammed open and a Dave stared up him. His face was red and wet, and he was shirtless save for the slightly stained bandages wrapped around his upper chest. He ran into Bro with a thump, wrapping his arms around him and shoving his damp face into Bro's shirt.

Bro put an arm around him and ruffled his pale hair. "Let's make some hot chocolate."

Dave stepped back and wiped his face with his bare arm, nodding. "Yeah."