Your aspect is time, and still it unnerves you, for time gives way to thought and there you are, stuck. It feels like waiting out the storm, except that the storm doesn't stop, and it's all a matter of sliding suave back into it without acknowledging its presence. If the trouble's forever, the most you can do is take a break and break it down. Your shenanigans, your raps, your misadventures through each dark, clanky corridor and each annal of dreambubbledom have long left you distracted. And now you're going to go and do a stupid thing like distract yourself with feelings. Feelings aren't your strong point. You go for winding metaphors and esoteric hilarity. But you want to give simple truths a shot, for a change. It is time to get your shit together.
You wouldn't be able to live without Rose Lalonde.
That's how you know it's not just jumped up teen god hormones leading you into something as questionable as feeling something for your sister. It's something... more. Pure is not the befitting word, but you don't think you'll ever come close to something like purity. You think on the way she slides down alongside you, rests her head on your shoulder, or in your lap, or settles her legs over yours without so much as a stalled moment. You think on the way she smells, the way she speaks, the look of her all-seeing thick-lashed eyes- and the way they catch you looking in those moments of closeness, and the way her lips part slyly only to remind you that she's your sister, your dear sister, as if that should ward off anything you both say or do or feel. It doesn't. So no, pure is not the word you would use.
But this isn't exactly hardcore debauchery. Rose Lalonde is not your sister, and you both know this. If she was your sister, she would be a different kind of fucked up, subject to bouts of trying too hard and emotional immaturity, not to say the girl who lays in your lap and tussles your hair and winks and winks and winks isn't lacking some herself. You're no expert on the theory of nurture-over-nature but she wouldn't have been Rose, you think, if she hadn't been brought up in sardonic shows of affection and exaggerated cat funerals and the like. More time to write wizard porn and think than learn to flash-step and find a way to avoid puppet dong and brawling.
She's not your sister, but she's a constant. You remember, vaguely, a time when you did not like her- or, you did, but her slyness stumped and frustrated you, and your conversations were all immature snark-fests. And you repress the memory of facing a fiery demise together, but still, it remains a simple truth. You don't know how you couldn't feel something for her after seeing her at her worst and best, and finding yourself invested in both. She must see a valuable deal of intrigue in your worst and best, too, and so it goes on. But lately, you think, it's more than seeking intrigue or making you uncomfortable, because you're not uncomfortable. Shit's an enigma, and you've found yourself one puzzled chump.
But Lalonde... Lalonde doesn't know what she's doing either, snuggling up to you, enjoying your body warmth, pressing her mouth softly against your skin, tucking her head neatly under your chin, all under a guise she's daring you to break. The contact means something to her, it's a creature comfort, and you're finding the coziness oddly mutual. You've long respected each other from a standpoint of action and words, but now you're in precarious territory: sincerity. How supposed siblinghood bleeds into sarcasm and overplayed irony and comes out as none of the above is a goddamn mystery to you and she, but you're starting to think it's worth looking into.