((if you catch what book/film I'm referencing in this, then you win plenty of cookies. hope you enjoy!!)
It’s freezing. Snow is starting to fall, speckling the dirt with white. You can’t say you’re surprised by the abrupt weather change: your brother’s map indicates that you’re somewhere in New England, and you estimate that you two have been on the road for several months by now. From what you used to hear of your best friend in Upstate New York, it could go from 70 degrees to 40 at the turn on a dime. You absently wonder where she is, and if she and her sister are still alive.
You consider asking your bro what he thinks happened to them, but you’re scared that it’ll hurt to use your voice. You haven’t had anything to drink, aside from cheaply filtered piss, for days. It’s all you came across and it’s all you could afford.
You shiver and your teeth chatter as the temperature continues to drop. You hate this. You fucking hate it. Sixteen years in Houston, Texas prepared you for intensive heat, but never the cold, bitter snow. You notice Bro stops to wrap his wolf pelt around you, since your torn button-down, ripped jeans and own wolfskin aren’t enough to keep your body from flipping a shit. You gaze at him through your dark circular lenses, contemplating taking them off in order to see clearer. But, Bro still has his own shades on, so you don't want to look weaker than you already do.
“Fuck this cold,” he chatters out, pulling his cap tighter over his ears. You nod, concurring silently.
“You don’t have to give me this,” you say, voice raspy.
“Nah. You’re healthier than I am.”
You can’t help but laugh, “You kiddin’? Both of us are equally shit outta luck.”
“You sayin’ you wanna resort to the revolver?”
You fall silent. One of the few things that Bro keeps in his knapsack full of supplies is a gun with only two rounds, just in case you two want to put yourselves out of your misery. You hate the idea of using it, because one of you would die first, leaving your brother to suffer a brief amount of time alone. Neither of you wants to subject the other to that.
You’re not ready to give up just yet, so you shake your head.
“Good. I don’t want you to, but I wouldn’t blame you.”
The air is even stiffer, more tense, than you thought possible. For a while, neither of you says anything as you traverse what seems like endless terrain, silently praying for shelter, food, clean water, or all of the above. Eventually, Bro breaks the silence again.
“You know, we could always use my knife and off ourselves at the same time,” he jokes, in poor taste.
“It’d be messy,” you respond, trying to be deadpan.
“True enough. Can’t guarantee that death will be equally swift, either.”
You wonder how the fuck he can be so fucking stoic and monotone all the time. He never shows any emotion, never voices it, even if he’s obviously being kind to you. All you want to do is cry, but you fake stoicism in an attempt to look strong for him.
He speaks, as if reading your mind and sad disposition.
“You know, it takes time to get this steely. But what helps this steely façade is the fact that I love you dearly, and want you to live much more than for myself. I’m just trying to protect you and not waste any unnecessary emotions in the process.”
All you can manage to think is, “Fuck, I wasn’t stoic enough to fool you.” You voice this, and for the first time in a while, Dirk laughs. You chuckle, too, because it’s his laughter is surprisingly contagious.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Nothing’s okay, I know that. And I know you’re hurting.”
Before you can respond, you pause at the sound of a rickety, screeching wagon. It’s still some ways away down the road, but both of you hear it. It’s unmistakably the sound of a group of humans that have resorted to cannibalism. They raid homes, steal what few supplies are left, and take the weak as prisoners, hoarding them like food. That’s all these prisoners are in the eyes of the cannibals: living flesh, waiting to be slaughtered and devoured.
You gaze at Dirk, searching his posture and face for any sort of answer as to what to do. He makes eye contact with you.
“We have two options. We get the fuck out of here and pray we lose ‘em,” he whispers, his breath freezing as it leaves his mouth. “Or we stand our ground and raid the fuckers.” He doesn’t say “try”, or “attempt”. When he says shit like this, he aims for success. When he’s this determined, he usually wins, no matter how weak.
It’s hard to say how scared you are out loud. They outnumber you, and you know it. A couple of shitty swords probably won’t do much damage, they’ll overwhelm you quickly, and then you’ll have your few supplies stolen, your ankles and throats chained to their demon-wagon, as you call it, and you’ll be fucked. Those are the odds, you think, but you don't have the heart to tell Bro that.
He seems to sense your fear, though, and his face breaks out into a crazy grin. “Hey, if we go down, at least we gave it our all.” He pulls the revolver from his bag, tossing it to you. You catch it, and then sneak it into your denim’s deep front pocket without a word. You look at your brother questioningly.
“Stick it in your mouth and pull the trigger if shit hits the fan and we’re not gonna make it. I would prefer that you not have to live through your limbs being torn off and roasted right before your living eyes.”
“B-Bro…Dirk…” you say, unable to properly process his kindness. “I don’t want you to have to live through that…”
“O ye of little faith, you doubt my prowess with a shitty sword. I’ll figure something out.”
There’s no changing his mind. As the wagon grows ever closer, you flash-step towards him, hugging him tightly. It may or may not be your last embrace. He reciprocates with equivalent vigor.
“I love you,” you murmur, voice cracking.
“I love you,” he whispers back, squeezing you for just a second longer before he pulls away.
You watch him draw his sword from its cheap scabbard, which is tied around his waist, and you automatically mimic the movement, just like you’re about to spar with him. You know shit’s real this time, though. You turn and face the silhouette of the wagon, pulled by slaves that are pretty much only skin and bones.
Dirk holds your free hand in his as long as you can afford before they spot you.
“Full speed ahead,” he says, releasing your hand. He charges just as they do.
Re: FILL: TEAM DIRK<3ROXY
It’s freezing. Snow is starting to fall, speckling the dirt with white. You can’t say you’re surprised by the abrupt weather change: your brother’s map indicates that you’re somewhere in New England, and you estimate that you two have been on the road for several months by now. From what you used to hear of your best friend in Upstate New York, it could go from 70 degrees to 40 at the turn on a dime. You absently wonder where she is, and if she and her sister are still alive.
You consider asking your bro what he thinks happened to them, but you’re scared that it’ll hurt to use your voice. You haven’t had anything to drink, aside from cheaply filtered piss, for days. It’s all you came across and it’s all you could afford.
You shiver and your teeth chatter as the temperature continues to drop. You hate this. You fucking hate it. Sixteen years in Houston, Texas prepared you for intensive heat, but never the cold, bitter snow. You notice Bro stops to wrap his wolf pelt around you, since your torn button-down, ripped jeans and own wolfskin aren’t enough to keep your body from flipping a shit. You gaze at him through your dark circular lenses, contemplating taking them off in order to see clearer. But, Bro still has his own shades on, so you don't want to look weaker than you already do.
“Fuck this cold,” he chatters out, pulling his cap tighter over his ears. You nod, concurring silently.
“You don’t have to give me this,” you say, voice raspy.
“Nah. You’re healthier than I am.”
You can’t help but laugh, “You kiddin’? Both of us are equally shit outta luck.”
“You sayin’ you wanna resort to the revolver?”
You fall silent. One of the few things that Bro keeps in his knapsack full of supplies is a gun with only two rounds, just in case you two want to put yourselves out of your misery. You hate the idea of using it, because one of you would die first, leaving your brother to suffer a brief amount of time alone. Neither of you wants to subject the other to that.
You’re not ready to give up just yet, so you shake your head.
“Good. I don’t want you to, but I wouldn’t blame you.”
The air is even stiffer, more tense, than you thought possible. For a while, neither of you says anything as you traverse what seems like endless terrain, silently praying for shelter, food, clean water, or all of the above. Eventually, Bro breaks the silence again.
“You know, we could always use my knife and off ourselves at the same time,” he jokes, in poor taste.
“It’d be messy,” you respond, trying to be deadpan.
“True enough. Can’t guarantee that death will be equally swift, either.”
You wonder how the fuck he can be so fucking stoic and monotone all the time. He never shows any emotion, never voices it, even if he’s obviously being kind to you. All you want to do is cry, but you fake stoicism in an attempt to look strong for him.
He speaks, as if reading your mind and sad disposition.
“You know, it takes time to get this steely. But what helps this steely façade is the fact that I love you dearly, and want you to live much more than for myself. I’m just trying to protect you and not waste any unnecessary emotions in the process.”
All you can manage to think is, “Fuck, I wasn’t stoic enough to fool you.” You voice this, and for the first time in a while, Dirk laughs. You chuckle, too, because it’s his laughter is surprisingly contagious.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Nothing’s okay, I know that. And I know you’re hurting.”
Before you can respond, you pause at the sound of a rickety, screeching wagon. It’s still some ways away down the road, but both of you hear it. It’s unmistakably the sound of a group of humans that have resorted to cannibalism. They raid homes, steal what few supplies are left, and take the weak as prisoners, hoarding them like food. That’s all these prisoners are in the eyes of the cannibals: living flesh, waiting to be slaughtered and devoured.
You gaze at Dirk, searching his posture and face for any sort of answer as to what to do. He makes eye contact with you.
“We have two options. We get the fuck out of here and pray we lose ‘em,” he whispers, his breath freezing as it leaves his mouth. “Or we stand our ground and raid the fuckers.” He doesn’t say “try”, or “attempt”. When he says shit like this, he aims for success. When he’s this determined, he usually wins, no matter how weak.
It’s hard to say how scared you are out loud. They outnumber you, and you know it. A couple of shitty swords probably won’t do much damage, they’ll overwhelm you quickly, and then you’ll have your few supplies stolen, your ankles and throats chained to their demon-wagon, as you call it, and you’ll be fucked. Those are the odds, you think, but you don't have the heart to tell Bro that.
He seems to sense your fear, though, and his face breaks out into a crazy grin. “Hey, if we go down, at least we gave it our all.” He pulls the revolver from his bag, tossing it to you. You catch it, and then sneak it into your denim’s deep front pocket without a word. You look at your brother questioningly.
“Stick it in your mouth and pull the trigger if shit hits the fan and we’re not gonna make it. I would prefer that you not have to live through your limbs being torn off and roasted right before your living eyes.”
“B-Bro…Dirk…” you say, unable to properly process his kindness. “I don’t want you to have to live through that…”
“O ye of little faith, you doubt my prowess with a shitty sword. I’ll figure something out.”
There’s no changing his mind. As the wagon grows ever closer, you flash-step towards him, hugging him tightly. It may or may not be your last embrace. He reciprocates with equivalent vigor.
“I love you,” you murmur, voice cracking.
“I love you,” he whispers back, squeezing you for just a second longer before he pulls away.
You watch him draw his sword from its cheap scabbard, which is tied around his waist, and you automatically mimic the movement, just like you’re about to spar with him. You know shit’s real this time, though. You turn and face the silhouette of the wagon, pulled by slaves that are pretty much only skin and bones.
Dirk holds your free hand in his as long as you can afford before they spot you.
“Full speed ahead,” he says, releasing your hand. He charges just as they do.