Okay, let me set one thing straight:
When I walked to that record store and saw it was trashed, a pony had been killed, and there was a little baby sitting on the top of a steaming meteor, I could have easily just gone “huh, that’s weird, better find a new record store”, but I didn’t. I took the baby home, washed him, fed him, and took care of him. I took him to the doctor when he was sick, I wiped up his puke, I changed his sheets when he pissed the bed because his nightmares scared him so bad, and I taught him how to fight and fend for himself. I fucking raised him as my little brother. I’m his guardian. I do my goddamn best to make sure that Dave can take care of himself, that he’s happy and he’s healthy.
I would never. Ever. Hurt Dave. Honestly, I can’t think of a whole lot that would hurt a kid more than the one person who looked after them, the one consistent safe person they have their whole life trying to fuck them. It’s called SURVIVING incest for a reason.
So no. No, it’s not true. He’s my baby brother and I look after him. I take care of him. I don’t try to fucking get into a baby’s pants.