Chapter Text
At this point you’ve gotten so used to shit going sideways that it doesn’t much phase you when you wake up who-knows-where, draped over something lumpy with a killer headache and a face full of dirt. You lay there for a moment while your brain tries to reboot, watching a small glossy beetle trundle along just past your nose. Your eyes hurt and your skin feels foreign, and it takes you entirely too long to realize that the thing you’re laying across is a person.
You try to scramble upright, but your limbs don’t want to work, and the best you can manage is a bit of flailing before you get your arms steady enough to lever yourself up. The lucky bastard with a lapful of Strider is a troll you don’t recognize. Except you do, you realize, squinting at the lines of his face with a frown. He’s sprawled on the ground and out like a light, and you’re certain you’ve never seen him before because he’s older than the trolls you know. But you can’t shake the feeling that you know him, and maybe if the world didn’t look too sharp and oversaturated, if you didn’t feel like the sixteen worst hangovers you’ve never had you’d be able to figure out why.
He snorts and shifts, coming around. You try to shove yourself off him, but holding yourself up is hard enough, and you give up for the moment when he blinks up at you with brown eyes. “Dave?” he rasps, sounding as disoriented as you feel. “Why are you an alien?”
The moment you hear his voice impossible recognition slots into place. “Bro?” you choke. Your brain fritzes and shorts at the revelation, and for a moment you think you’re wrong; it’s not Bro, it’s Dirk, except Dirk is the same age you are and neither of them are trolls and what the actual fuck.
He paws at your chest with a gruff, “G’roff,” and you manage to get your ass underneath you, sitting in the dirt and staring blankly as Bro --holyshitholyshit Bro-- manages to drag himself upright. His hat and his shades are nowhere to be seen, and you think that’s maybe why you didn’t peg him instantly, the whole supposed to be dead and also not a troll thing aside.
Then you remember what he said. Why are you an alien? You stare at your hands, splayed in the dirt between your legs, covered in unfamiliar gray skin. You reach up apprehensively, and oh god, there they are. You trace a finger along the horn, texture smooth and rough in turns as it curls just behind your ear. “I have no fucking clue,” you say, dumbstruck. No one knew for sure what would happen at the end of the game, but you’re pretty sure ‘waking up in the backwoods of nowhere with everything coming up trolls’ hadn’t been on the list.
Bro snorts a laugh and you just stare at each other for a minute. His horns aren’t like yours; they jut from dark hair in a zigzag ripple, and you think a little stupidly that he’s going to have to give up hats for good. Otherwise he’s mostly the same, the line of his jaw and the crook of his nose, and it’s really just his eyes that surprise you. They’re perplexed and pleased and other emotions harder to name, and you always knew the shades were armor, but you can’t remember if he used to be this easy to read without them. You’re not sure how you feel about your eternally inscrutable Bro being less so, but then he smiles at you just a little, his eyes crinkling a bit at the corners, and you decide it’s actually pretty great.
“You’re older,” he says, and you realize the last time he saw you, you were still a scrawny, thirteen year-old little shit without a clue. It feels like a lifetime ago.
“Sixteen,” you say, and the conversation feels completely inane. There are a hundred thousand things you want to say to this man, I couldn’t fix it I tried I tried I love you I’m sorry, but none of them come out. They knot in your throat, make it hard to breathe and Bro is staring at you in growing alarm.
“Dave? Whoa, shit, are you crying?”
Shit, shit, you are crying, and you swipe roughly at your eyes and try to will it away. You haven’t cried in front of Bro since you were little because you never wanted him to see you weak. “Fuck, sorry. I don’t know what my malfunction is.” Your voice is watery and tight, and your eyes won’t stop leaking, god this is humiliating.
You half expect him to poke fun or abscond, but he doesn’t. “Hey, hey,” he says, gruff in that way he gets when he’s uncomfortable. “Can the waterworks, alright?” He grabs the front of your shirt and hauls you into a hug that you’re too startled to resist, and you honestly can’t remember the last time he hugged you. An arm slung over your shoulder, noogies and manly backslaps, sure. But hugs? Not for ages, not since you were what? Nine? You bury your face in his shoulder and do your best to get your ragged breathing under control. It’s nice to be held even if you feel like a wuss, and you figure you can blame it on the stress later.
It doesn’t take you long to man up. You’re a Strider dammit, and you don’t sit around snivelling like a baby all day just because your Bro came back from the dead. You pull away and park your ass back in the dirt, swiping at your cheeks to wipe away the evidence. Bro doesn’t look at you, giving you the illusion of privacy for a moment while he examines his hands, prodding unfamiliar gray flesh. Eventually he says, “So, you wanna fill me in?”
Jesus. Where the fuck do you even start? “Can it wait?” You clamber to your feet, brushing the dirt from your pants and taking stock of your surroundings. There’s not much to see, but the foliage is pretty dense, and if Bro is here there’s no telling who else got ejected into trollville along with you. “It’s kind of a long story, and we should probably find the others first.”
Bro shrugs. “Yeah, sure. A little more waiting isn’t going to make much of a difference.” He stands, and for a startled moment you think he got shorter until it occurs to you that no, you’ve just grown. He’s still taller than you by nearly a head, but you’re starting to catch up. Weird.
“Hey, Bro?”
He raises a brow at you, and for some reason the part of his appearance that throws you the most isn’t the horns or the skin, but the fact that his hair is the wrong color. “Sup?”
It’s stupid and sappy and you two already had your girl moment, but. “I’m glad you’re okay.” His expression goes soft for the space of a heartbeat, and then he grabs you and plants a loud, sloppy kiss right on your forehead. “Ugh Bro, gross!” You shove him off and wipe his spit off your face, wrinkling your nose. You almost forgot what a giant dork he could be sometimes.
He just winks at you, slinging an arm around your shoulders and saying, “Ditto, li’l man. Course, I always knew you had it in you.”
You grumble and shrug his arm off, pretending not to be pleased by the praise. “Whatever, let’s just find everyone else so we can figure out what the hell is going on.”
In the end, John’s the one who finds you. There isn’t much warning, just the rustling of leaves before he drops through the canopy like a stone, and you can see Bro twitch for a weapon he doesn’t have. You put a quelling hand on his arm because you don’t want anyone getting thrashed, but that’s all you manage before John practically clotheslines you. “Dave! Oh man, we were so worried, we couldn’t find you anywhere and everyone’s trolls or something now and it’s just really weird, and—”
John is babbling, and he’s also kind of strangling you. “Whoa, settle down, Egbert.” You pry him from around your neck, pushing him back a little so you can get a good look at him, and yep. John is also a troll. His horns sweep back over his head in a low wave, but unlike Bro the change isn’t quite as jarring. He still looks just like John.
Except with pointier teeth, because he’s grinning at you like the unholy lovechild of the Cheshire Cat and a shark. “Sorry! I’m just glad I found you. Everyone else seems to be okay, but we’re still picking up some stragglers and uh.” He stops abruptly, noticing Bro for the first time. “I don’t know you?”
Shit. You hadn’t stopped to think about how there would have to be introductions. Or how everyone knows Bro is supposed to be dead.“This is Bro. Bro, this is John Egbert,” you wave a hand vaguely between them and hope that John doesn’t make a big deal out of it, because you’re still quietly freaking out and you kind of need everyone else not to be.
“Hello Dave’s alien friend with an unexpectedly normal name.” Bro thrusts out a hand and John just stares at it for a second before remembering that handshakes are a thing.
“Uh. Right, hi.” He takes the offered hand before tacking on an indignant, “I’m not an alien! Er.” He pauses, face twisting up a little. “At least I wasn’t.” Bro drops his hand with a snort, and you can practically see the gears in John’s head turning.
He looks at you with cautious hope. “Do you suppose my dad...?”
Oh hell. You really, really hope so, and maybe it’s even likely, because why Bro and not everyone else? “I dunno,” is what you say, because it’s the truth and you don’t want to get John’s hopes up.
“Yeah,” he says, gnawing his lip and you think maybe his hopes are up anyway. “I should get back to looking, last time I checked in we were still missing a few trolls.” He points off into the trees. “If you guys keep heading that way, you should run into everyone pretty soon. It’s not that far.” John hops into the air and hovers for a second, glancing at Bro. “You should probably tell him about Dirk,” he advises, before shooting back into the air calling, “Bye Dave!”
Bro watches him go with his eyebrows crawling up to his hairline, and you think it’s probably a testament to his perpetual chill that he hasn’t flipped the fuck out yet. You’re pretty sure you would have if your positions were reversed. Once John’s gone, Bro glances at you and asks, “Who the fuck is Dirk?”
Right, shit. Bro’s first name is actually Dirk, a fact you only know because you’d gone through his wallet once when you were nine because one of your classmates had insisted that Bro couldn’t be his actual name. Turned out the little shit was right, and needless to say it had rocked your third grade worldview. You’d confronted Bro with all the indignant fury of a kid finding out Santa wasn’t real, and he’d laughed himself sick before ordering a conciliatory pizza and offering to lie to the kid straight up just to screw with him.
You remember sitting tucked in the shelter of his arms that night, too old to cuddle but young enough to want to anyway. He was still larger than life to you then, some kind of real-life superhero, and you’d known with the absolute surety of childhood that he would always keep you safe. You’d asked him why everyone called him Bro if his name was Dirk. He’d rested his chin on top of your head, and when he spoke you could hear the rumble of his voice in his chest. Bro told you that a name was just a name, but being your big bro? That was what defined him, that was who he was, so why shouldn’t he use it instead of the label someone had given him when he was still pink and squalling.
You’d considered this with a great deal of gravity before announcing that yeah, that made sense. Then you’d worried that Bro might expect you to pick your own name at some point, and you’d informed him that you wanted to keep Dave because he was the one who gave it to you. Bro had laughed and kissed your hair, and that night you’d slept with him for the first time since you were six.
And shit, Bro’s just standing there watching you get all nostalgic. Goddamn, what is your problem today? This isn’t exactly your first miraculous resurrection, although maybe it’s the most unexpected. You clear your throat and start heading in the direction John indicated, because you figure you can walk and talk at the same time. When Bro falls in beside you, you decide to tackle his question head-on. “Dirk’s basically an alternate universe version of you.”
Bro falters for a second, and you can feel him staring at you. “What.” It’s so flat it’s not even a question, and you suppose even with all the crazy Bro’s seen so far, this might be a little much.
So you do your best to explain all the ectobiology nonsense. You tell him about the meteors, the scratch, and how the game had decided to pull a little switcheroo for round two. “So you and Dirk are kinda like long-lost twins, I guess.”
Bro hums thoughtfully, and you can tell by the way the corner of his mouth pulls down that he’s not too happy, but you figure he’ll get over it when he realizes that Dirk isn’t some sort of bizarro Bro photocopy. “So does that mean in another universe you raised me?”
Whoa, wouldn’t that be a mindfuck? You hop on a fallen log, balancing for a second before jumping off. “Nah. I mean, I think I was supposed to, but shit went wrong and we wound up about four hundred years apart or something. But apparently I made myself useful by leading a rebellion against Betty Crocker and decapitating ICP on the roof of the White House, so there’s that.” The things Dirk had told you about your alter-self were pretty incredible, if somewhat hard to believe.
He responds to this in the only reasonable way possible— by offering you a totally righteous high five.
You spend the rest of your trek doing your best to explain everything that happened after he checked out. You hit all the big points and don’t bother much with the details; the whole story would take weeks to tell in its entirety and you can worry about the rest some other time. Bro asks about Davesprite, which forces you to tell him about the doomed timeline where John died and what Davesprite had done to prevent it from happening. Unfortunately that leads into questions about time travel and doomed timelines and it sort of comes out that you racked up an impressive body count.
You try to play it off with a joke, but Bro doesn’t laugh. Instead he stops short, arms crossed and head cocked, looking at you with an expression you can’t place. You just stand there staring at each other like a couple of morons for way too long before he finally says, soft and serious, “You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.”
You know you’re gaping like a slack-jawed idiot, but you don’t think Bro’s ever said that to you before. Not seriously, anyway. He’d do stupid shit like put your report card on the refrigerator and warble about what a proud mama he was because Bro always liked to toe the line between being terminally cool and a complete fucking doofus, but that was just Bro being Bro. Right here and now he meant it, and you’re not sure you know how to deal with that.
Bro’s approval is something you’d been chasing after all your life, and now that you have it the best you can manage is a muttered, “What is with all this touchy-feely bullshit?”
Just like that, the moment’s over. You killed it, Dave. Good job. Way to go. Bro rolls his eyes and shoves your shoulder. “Sorry Princess, I didn’t mean to get yucky feelings all over you. You want a cootie shot just in case? Can’t be taking risks with this sort of thing.”
You punch him in the arm. He punches you back harder. The two of you are still taking potshots at each other when you stumble into Troll Central Station.
* * *
The first thing you have to deal with are the logistics of food and shelter for thirty plus trolls, and you’re kind of glad that everyone is too distracted to worry much about Bro. Except Rose, of course, who had made it a point to come and offer a gracious hand and say stupid shit like, “It’s nice to finally meet you,” and “I’m a fan of your work.” You’re pretty sure Bro had been seconds away from a marriage proposal, and you swear to anything that might be listening that if those two ever team up, you are going to find the nearest body of water and drown yourself.
The game saw fit to provide you with an alchemiter, and thanks to your frankly ridiculous hoard of collective grist you probably aren’t in danger of dying of starvation or exposure anytime soon. All the same, the girls insisted on sticking to necessities— campfire-friendly food, sleeping bags and tents, mostly. Despite that, Bro had somehow managed to charm another pair of shades off of Jade and her suddenly crucial pictionary modus, and you’re privately a little relieved because now he looks a lot more like Bro.
And now you’re sitting in front of a campfire, eating a pig-in-a-blanket which is somehow both simultaneously raw and burnt to hell, as per time-honored camping tradition. Or so Jane tells you, because you haven’t been camping one single day in your entire urban existence, and frankly you aren’t seeing the appeal. You pick at the doughy crap clinging to your hotdog and sneak a sideways glance at Bro. He’s been on edge ever since you joined the others, thrumming with a strange mix of the familiar sharp tension that was usually a prelude to strife, and a bristling kind of almost-paranoia. The latter is so uncharacteristic that it’s actually kind of worrying you a little, but you keep reminding yourself that as weird as things are for you, they’re doubly so for Bro. Hell, he didn’t even know that trolls existed until he woke up as one. He’s entitled to being a bit off-kilter.
It hasn’t been a bad day though, all things considered. You’re still not sure you’re on board with the troll thing, especially after going to take a piss and discovering that your dick has gone the way of the dodo, but all the people who matter to you are alive, and that counts for a hell of a lot.
Just as you give up on your meal on a stick, Karkat appears out of the dark and slumps into the dirt beside you looking like certified shit. You hand him your dog and he doesn’t even look at the thing before cramming the gooey abomination straight into his maw. “You look like crap.”
Karkat drags a hand over his face and just looks at you. “Thank you for that stunning observation. Any other blindingly obvious statements you’d like to make?”
You suck a bit of sticky dough off your thumb and shrug. “Nope. I’m good.”
Karkat huffs and goes quiet for a minute. You wait, poking at the fire with your stick while he works up to whatever he wants to say. “Listen,” he snaps, gesturing vaguely towards the rest of the camp.
You do, but all you hear is the low hum of conversation from other small groups around their fires, and the rustle of leaves and other nature-y sounds. “Seems quiet,” you say, not sure what he expects.
“I know!” Karkat explodes, then abruptly subsides as a few heads swing your way. “It can’t last. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in my group who hasn’t killed or been killed by a person who was supposed to be on their side, and fuck, I’m glad everyone is okay but it’s only a matter of time before someone decides a score needs settling.” He sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I am so fucking sick of people dying. Vriska’s already vanished and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not, Eridan won’t talk to anyone but me and Gamzee keeps trying to apologize and I just,” he sucks in a breath and holds it. “Need a minute.”
You just nod, because you’ve known Karkat long enough to know he’s not looking for comfort or platitudes. You stretch out your legs and lean back on your hands, saying, “Well, lucky for you the Strider fire is a drama-free zone. Excellent company and all the shitty hotdogs you can eat.”
Karkat snorts softly and goes quiet, fishing another hotdog from the package and eating it cold. The silence lasts for all of a minute before he grumbles, “Where the fuck is Egbert, anyway? He was supposed to be back before dark.”
His irritation is a flimsy mask for concern. “Jade’s got tabs on him. Says he’ll be back soon.” You don’t tell him that you only know that because you were getting a little worried yourself. Instead you say, “Wait, does that mean I was your second choice? That you wanted to bring all your woes to Egbert instead? I am wounded, man. You have shattered my delicate feelings into a billion pieces. Excuse me while I go cry a single manly tear of heartbreak.”
“I think I might actually be developing some kind of immunity to the sewage constantly spewing from your flap,” Karkat mutters, then flops back into the dirt and rubs his eyes. “I’m just trying to figure out who’s going to flip the fuck out first. One of your people, or one of mine.”
You can understand why he’d be worried about his people. You aren’t sure why he’d be worried about yours. You’re pretty sure no one has any vendettas on tap, at any rate. “Dude, I don’t think you have to worry about us.”
Karkat groans and shoves himself upright like it might actually be the most difficult thing he’s ever done. “Do you even use your thinkpan? No, don’t answer that, it was a stupid question. Look, let me explain something that should be obvious even to the most useless of pan-addled fuckwits. Yesterday, you were all still human. Today, you’re trolls.”
“Wow, thanks for the lesson, professor.”
“Shut the fuck up, I’m not done. My species is a fucking mess of violent instincts and impulses, none of which you are used to. Let that sink into your sponge for a minute, okay? Trolls have sweeps to get used to not indulging every murderous impulse before they lock us in a spacefaring tin can with a bunch of potentially dangerous strangers. None of you have had that luxury. If we get through this without any spontaneous bloodshed it will be a fucking miracle.”
Bro finally takes an interest in the conversation, leaning over you so he can get a look at Karkat. “Seems a little melodramatic. You make it sound like everyone is a slave to their baser instincts.”
Karkat’s default setting is melodramatic, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a point. Before you have a chance to interject, Karkat throws his hands up in frustration and growls, “That’s because we are. I’ll give you a pass on being insufferably fucking stupid this once, and point out that it takes time and experience to keep a lid on this festering pustule of imminent mayhem. Even that only counts for so much, as evidenced by the impressive body count wracked up by my own fucking people the instant they didn’t have any other outlet. Case in point,” he says, and then reaches out and smacks Bro right upside the head.
Bro goes rigid and you feel a thrill of alarm. Your brain knows that Bro will probably just swat him back and that’ll be that, but something in your gut disagrees, twisting around your spine in dread, chanting ohfuckohfuck. The moment hangs for such an impossibly still instant that you wonder if you stopped time by accident, but then Bro snarls a furious sound that could never come from a human throat and you know your gut won.
He vaults over you and tackles Karkat, pinning him to the dirt by his throat. There’s violence in every line of his body, and Karkat’s never been big, but next to Bro he suddenly looks very small and very fragile. Thank fucking god he isn’t fighting back, because you pretty sure that’s the only thing keeping him alive. You scramble to your feet, not sure what to do, but Bro is growling like a feral dog and you can’t let him kill Karkat, you won’t. “Bro, hey. Hey, c’mon.” Some instinct keeps your voice low and soothing, and after a moment of indecision you kneel down and take his face in both hands because it seems like the right thing to do.
You can feel Bro’s attention shifting from Karkat to you, and the growling stutters to a stop. You take a chance and say, “I’m going to need you not to kill my friends, Bro.” You aren’t sure if it’s the words or the tone, but it does the trick, and as Bro eases off Karkat you relax a little. Karkat doesn’t move, staying splayed on the ground and sucking in harsh, panting breaths.
You don’t take your hands off Bro’s face because it doesn’t seem like a good idea just yet. He’s still tense but he’s leaning into your hands, and you stroke his face a little. He leans into you harder, eyes fluttering closed in a way that seems almost involuntary. Bro’s relaxing by inches, and you reach up and smooth the little pinch of skin between his brows with a thumb. Bro pitches into you like someone cut his strings, making this strange, soft little chirrup against your shoulder that hits you like a fucking freight train. You feel a little dizzy, almost giddy, and it takes you a minute to realize that rusty, stuttering purr is coming from you. Suddenly you want nothing more than to curl around Bro and never stop touching him, and you’re not even sure what that means, but the intensity of the urge scares the fuck out of you and you jerk away.
The sudden loss of contact seems to snap Bro out of it, and you’re still close enough that you can see him blink several times behind the shades. “What the fuck just happened?” He sounds thick and dazed, like he’s not quite awake. You stamp down viciously on the urge to touch him again.
Karkat wheezes. “I made the mistake of trying to prove a point because I’m a spectacular fuckup who does not think things through.”
Bro doesn’t reply, bracing his arms on his knees and taking a few perfectly measured, artificial breaths. It takes you a second to realize you’re watching Bro quietly flip the fuck out, and you’re not sure what to do with any of this. You’re struggling with the need to help, to soothe, and that stupid purr keeps trying to sputter back to life despite your best efforts. You’ve never seen Bro lose his cool like this. You’ve seen him mad before, dude’s not a robot, but it’s always been cold anger— silent stares and clipped words. You’ve never seen anything like the kneejerk violence you just witnessed, and you think Bro might have actually scared himself with that fucking swan dive right off the handle.
Karkat sits up slowly, watching Bro warily as he does, and you put yourself back between them without any clear idea who exactly you’re trying to protect. "You okay?" you ask. Vivid bruises are already visible on his throat, and he frowns, rubbing at his neck gingerly.
"I'll live, which is probably more than I deserve after that rotbrained stunt. Past Me continues to demonstrate that he's nothing more than a festering pustule on the multiverse’s collective ass." He sighs. "I should probably get back to Gamzee."
You don't blame him for wanting to make a quick exit. You grope for something to say and blurt, "I didn't think you two were still a thing."
Karkat snorts, then winces and swallows. "Shit. Ow. And we're not, but someone has to be responsible for him, and no one else is volunteering." He climbs to his feet slowly, and you're not sure if it's because he's in pain or just wary of setting Bro off again.
Bro doesn't so much as twitch as Karkat leaves, skirting wide around the fire to avoid walking behind him. The two of you sit in silence for a while after that, and you take the time to stare blankly into the flames and try to parse exactly what the hell happened, to Bro and you, because whatever that was it was discomfiting as all hell. It must have been some kind of troll thing, because you were running almost on autopilot. Sort of like you didn't know what to do, but your body did, so it just went ahead and did what needed doing without much input from you.
And hell, it had definitely worked. Bro had gone into some kind of hypnotic daze like you were shooting tranquilizers from your fingertips. It wouldn't even bother you much because you are more than used to rolling with weird shit at this point if it weren't for all the unsettling feelings that had come part and parcel of your impromptu little cuddlefest. You didn't even know what to call them, other than really strong and really alarming. Also not particularly brother-appropriate, but you're not thinking about that last part, because you just fucking aren't.
"Thanks. For whatever the fuck that was," Bro says like he can read your mind.
You shrug, try to make light. "Don't sweat it. Most people want to strangle Karkat sometimes." You’re pretty sure Bro is the only one who’s actually tried, but you wisely keep that to yourself.
Bro snorts a humorless laugh and stands, brushing the dirt from his pants. "I'm gonna crash. It's been a hell of a day."
Talk about an understatement. "Yeah, okay. Night Bro."
He hesitates a second, then swoops down, grabbing one of your horns and planting a kiss right between them, just like he used to do when you were little. He absconds the fuck out before you can do much more than stare. You're used to Bro kissing you; he does it all the time, often loudly and with great fanfare because he knows it annoys you. Except you're pretty sure that one had been entirely sincere and you don't even know what to think.
* * *
John wakes you up sometime in the middle of the night by tripping over you. "The fuck, man?" you grumble, shoving at his ankle.
"Sorry," he says in a stage whisper. Then, "Can I sleep in here with you guys? I was supposed to share with Jade, but she and Roxy and Jane decided to have a slumber party or something, and—"
"Dude, you don't need an excuse to hang with the cool kids." You yawn, scooting back towards Bro, who shifts a bit to accommodate you. The tents aren't really meant for three people, but you’ll deal. John manages to get settled after a little shuffling, and you ask without thinking, "Find everyone?"
John goes still, and it occurs to you that you're a tactless jerk. After a long moment he says, "Jade says there's still someone out there she's having a hard time pinning down."
His voice is getting suspiciously thick, and you can hear the 'but' hanging on the end of his sentence. Damn it. "Yeah?"
"She's pretty sure that it's not my dad." He says it with such sad resignation that it breaks your heart a little.
"I'm sorry," you say, and it's so fucking inadequate.
"Me too." The two of you fall silent, John sniffling in that quiet, stifled way people do when they're trying to pretend they aren't crying.
It's beyond unfair. You're insanely happy to have Bro back, weird-fuck evening aside, and John deserves that for himself. He should be with his dad right now, not squashed in a tent with you and Bro, trying not to cry. "C'mere."
"What?" You try to ignore how watery his voice sounds.
You wriggle half out of your sleeping bag and hold out your arms invitingly. "I think it's time for a tender bro embrace."
John giggles a little, and you count it a victory. "You don't have to."
"This is a limited time offer, Egbert. You know you want some of these prime cuddles." Bro is totally going to hassle you about this tomorrow, but he’s keeping his trap shut for now, and that’s good enough. John hesitates, and you think that shows how upset he actually is, because under normal circumstances John would be on bro cuddles like a fat kid on cake. You waggle your outstretched arms pointedly, and John relents with a sigh, scoot-hopping the short distance between you.
John sort of crumples the instant you’ve got got him tucked in your arms, head burrowed in the hollow of your shoulder and hands fisted in your shirt. You adjust his head a bit so his horns aren’t digging into your collarbone quite so hard, then take off his glasses so he doesn’t have to sleep in them, storing them in your sylladex for safekeeping.
You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything; you just sling your sleeping bag-covered legs over his and stroke the short hairs on the back of his neck until his breathing goes deep and even, wishing all the while that there was something more you could do.