Choking on Stars
DISCLAIMER: Blaze Union © Sting. I seek to gain no monetary profit from this writing.
(say not soft things – thorn twist in your side)
Emilia has got a checklist in her head, he is sure, of all the things they have never done together, should have been able to do together, would have done together had they been born under the same roof. It's in the way that she smiles over the simplest of things, even the ones that are unremarkable to him—the first time he actually cooks for all of them, after everything is settled in the capital and they don't have to subsist on travel rations or the castle's stores. The first time he has to chase her down to make her take a bath, because everyone else is just too busy to bring a wild eleven-year-old to heel. There's a glimmer in her eyes as they count down the firsts, and she doesn't bother to hide it.
So when she sits down on the edge of his bed and holds out her hairbrush and ribbons and tells him to fix her hair for her please, he can tell that it's just another missing childhood moment on her to-do list and not a deliberate attempt to give him a heart attack.
She sits very patiently for him and he picks up the brush and tries not to panic. He has seen girls do this. Siskier did this for him on a regular basis once. It should really just be a matter of figuring out how much strength to use.
He has broken a sweat before the bristles even touch her hair, and as he puts his free hand on her shoulder to steady himself, he gnaws at his lower lip where she cannot see him do it. This is a thing that brothers do for their little sisters. This is something even Leon knows how to do. This shouldn't be any big deal.
He makes himself breathe and moves the brush with a little bit more confidence, and Emilia squirms immediately with a whined oww,and he lurches back immediately with his heart slamming against his ribs so powerfully it sends black spots across his vision.
Legitimately the next thing he is aware of, his face is being cupped between a pair of fine-fingered hands he would know anywhere, and Nessiah is kneeling in front of him not fully arm's length away.
"Gulcasa," Nessiah says to him, and he takes a deep shuddering breath and buries his face in both hands. His head aches powerfully. His ribcage is strangling his lungs. His whole right side is bursting with pins and needles.
Cool fingers pry his hands away from his face and into his lap. Nessiah is staring up at him. They are on their knees on the bedroom floor and he has no idea at all how it is they have got there.
"Gulcasa," Nessiah says again, more loudly this time—he's seeking a response.
Gulcasa can guess at what happened during the lapse, then. It's blessedly infrequent nowadays, but the panic still sneaks up on him at inopportune times. He is lucky to have patient loved ones who know how to handle it when the world skips out on him.
"I—yeah." He stares at the space between their knees, and Nessiah laces their fingers together. The knot that they make is incongruent. Nessiah's hands are very fine and delicate, all perfect crescent nails and tapered fingertips, perfect for working out little snarls and details, dexterous. Gulcasa's are almost monstrous in comparison, twice the size of Nessiah's, four times that of his sister's. They're a perfect copy in shape to the ones that still trail shadowy fear in the back of his head, from the heavy knuckles to the thick blunt-ended fingers. The only difference is the webbing of scars and the work calluses.
They are clumsy hands; they are hands that are only good for hurting others. He wants to pull away from Nessiah and at least bury his face in them again, but he is fearful of moving. It feels as though the world itself will break if he touches it in just the wrong way.
"It's all right," Nessiah says to him.
"It's not."
"It's all right."
"I hurt her." His voice shakes, and then his shoulders, and then his hands. The whole of him follows suit. He is wretched.
"It's not the same." Nessiah's words are soft with understanding. "It was a small hurt that you didn't mean to inflict. It is not the same."
Gulcasa does not reply. He glares instead at his hands. Nessiah squeezes them, briefly.
"Your power—your strength is meant to protect. To build. That is the truth, and you mustn't lose sight of it." And as the words leave them, Nessiah's lips curl. "You are better than you believe yourself to be. You are beloved,and that is not a fact that will change after a small mistake anyone in your position could make."
It's not as though he consciously wants to doubt Nessiah's kind words. It's just that the memory of pain and fear and hate still lurks at his heels, choking everything else out of his heart.
When he raises his head to—he doesn't know—there's a flash of red in the direction of the doorway, and his gaze catches and holds. Emilia is standing there, fidgeting, leaning around the doorframe as if to gauge whether or not it's all right for her to venture inside. When their eyes lock, she edges out of hiding and comes running toward him. Her stockinged feet thud against the floor, and her hair—still untied—flies out behind her. She reaches out for him, and then his vision is eclipsed (and his breathing muffled) against her middle as she hugs him close.
"You are so dumb," she says with a laugh like she's crying, and she does not release him for quite some time.
Once she has, Nessiah is smiling at them both with his face rested upon his hands. His face is bright with mischief.
"Now that we're quite done with all the theatrics," he says, "might His Majesty be amenable to a demonstration of the proper use of a hairbrush? As the both of you are rather disheveled, and it's a life skill that you might find worth acquiring, Gulcasa?"
"You are super dumb too," Emilia retorts archly, and Gulcasa finds it in himself to smile a little.
He reaches out and grasps Nessiah's right hand in his left, curls up his own right hand around Emilia's tiny left fist, and waits until they're both looking at him.
"I would like that."
("Like this," Nessiah murmurs, and guides Gulcasa's hand—firm, smooth, with care. "Gentle. Like using a scale or currying brush."
"Like using charcoal for drawing a map," Emilia supplies, and Nessiah hushes her, making her sit still once again.
"Like running a country," Gulcasa muses in an undertone.)