Disclaimer: I no own, you no sue.
Author's Babble: More random sibling-squishyness. XD This one popped off the top of my head as I was rereading Black Domino, and may be considered a complementary piece. I may do another if my plot hamster is willing, from an, err... unknown source as of yet. Ponder, I shall.
Yay, Merry.
White China
Sometimes, I feel like a doll, all swathed in silk and lace, pretty and without life. It can only sit and stare through glass eyes, doing nothing even as the china cracks and the silk rots; after a while the doll's not even all that pretty anymore.
I feel like that once in a while, when I'm not allowed to wait for you. Riff doesn't usually let me, like last night.
I could tell how worried he was, of course—he always worries when you go out alone, like an old widow or something—but all in all I wish he'd been a little more discreet about it. But no, "it's time for bed, Miss Merry," and I'm whisked off to my room without so much else as a "by your leave," thank you kindly. The nerve!
I did manage to stay up, though. I'd just slipped under the down comforter when I heard the door open, and I knew right then that Riff was probably taking your coat, and the two of you were probably exchanging greetings and who-knows-what-else in whispers. You'd gotten rained on, too; I could hear your boots making a squelching sound as you came upstairs. They squelched all the way into your room, but Riff's footfalls were dry alongside yours. He helped you in. You probably fell asleep on your feet, but he dressed you, like a little boy. He was probably really nice about it, too.
I kind of envy him for being able to look after you like he does. He's always around to help you dress, and talk to you when you're lonely, and patch you up when you get hurt after you've gone gallivanting. I can only sit with you by the piano in the parlor in the early morning, to keep you company when you can't sleep, when you've dreamed too much, or not at all. I can only sit with you, leaning my head against your shoulder as if to say I understand when I don't, and sigh.
It hurts me too, big brother, it does!
Your hand strokes my hair, still uncombed from bed.
"Play me something, Merry." You pause for a bit before continuing on. "…Please?"
"Sing me something," I answer, as I always do, even though my fingers are already leaping for the keys, dancing with them. "Then I'll play."
Sometimes, I feel like a doll, all swathed in silk and lace, pretty and without life. It can only sit and stare through glass eyes, doing nothing even as the china cracks and the silk rots; after a while the doll's not even all that pretty. But when you sing to my playing, in your soft baritone, I don't feel so much like just silk and china anymore.
I don't know what to tell you when you're lonely, big brother, and I can't help you dress or patch you up when you get hurt after you've gone gallivanting. But I can play back music on the ebony and ivory keys for only the two of us. Then, maybe, you can let go of yourself enough to sing along, and your heart sings with you. Knowing that makes me happy.
Is it wrong to think that it might make you happy, too?
Fin