two-leaf clover
If there is one thing that Emilia has learned about her brother over the past three years, it's that Gulcasa hates to sit still.
For a while she had thought that he just hated to sit still for her to fit his clothes specifically, and that because the grandeur of the designs she likes best make him uncomfortable. He would shake his head over the "wasted fabric" in the full ruffled sleeves that were all the rage in Fantasinia and Verlaine, he complained that delicate embroidery and beading itched, and he balked at the loose and wide-necked chemises that might gape down over his chest and expose the scars there. No matter how much the others have come to embrace court life and the slightly finer clothing that comes packaged up with it, Gulcasa will simply tilt his head in wonder and shy away from state livery to throw on any old thing—and then walk innocently through the castle with commoner's clothes on his back.
In his heart, Emilia knows, her brother is still a simple citizen of Nether—and always has been, and always will be. He likes things to be practical and serviceable even when it doesn't do him any favors, even when it won't impress or endear any of the people who he ought to be impressing and endearing.
But after six months of frustration, they hit on a compromise—perfectly form-fitting, high-collared black shirt; full heavy black breeches with their outermost layer heavy twill; velvet-lined long red tunic with sweeping scalloped sleeve lines and hem and a dipped-in collar; high boots and a light voluminous wine-colored mantle for the sheer drama of it—and yet ever since he's continued to squirm and fidget through fittings.
They're not even all that often—it's just that he's still growing bit by bit, and Emilia is his designer and she wants her hand-tailored clothes to keep fitting perfectly. And so, every three months, she tries to ignore his distractedness and measures and pins and makes notes methodically.
Gulcasa hates to sit still. He isn't satisfied unless he has something to fuss over, and there are an endless number of things to fuss over throughout Bronquia. There's training to organize with Sir Baldus, and there's castle security to discuss with Luciana and Aegina; there's going over the news reports that Zilva and Emilia herself bring to him from all corners of the country; there's Eudy to talk magic and ballistics with and Leon to keep under control; there's citizens to talk with and castle life to reorganize. There's battle plans for the future to go over together with Nessiah. There's paperwork to do, and Emilia is pretty sure that that's the only time her brother ever sits down voluntarily for any length of time at all.
He's got a lot of pent-up frenetic energy. Some of it's from worrying, and some of it's probably from his own battle instincts. Emilia's memories of her mother are fading, more distant by the year, but she still remembers the most important things. The lessons that she was taught about her blood, just in case.
And even though the seal might never be broken on Brongaa's blood in her veins, she still sets aside time to fight and time to rest. Not having both would be an awful thing. Not having both in plenty in times of stress could debilitate their constitution.
She's tried to tell Gulcasa this. And to his credit, he does try to listen. He doesn't really care what happens to him except that it might wind up causing setbacks, but he does his best to listen. It's just that he's such a worrier that he forgets almost immediately. He can't stand to sit still when there's something he ought to be doing, and Gulcasa is nothing if not brilliant at making long long lists of stuff that he needs to do right away.
Emilia has watched him long enough to understand this. She knows that her brother is so gentle, so earnest, and so stupid that he's beyond the help of reason.
But she loves him, she loves him and she's tired of seeing him work himself into a state of collapse, tired of watching Brongaa's fever steal up on him and catch him unawares when he could've prevented his illness ifonly he was willing to give himself five minutes to sit down and breathe.
He won't. Not unless someone forces him to. After three years, she knows this as well as she knows her own name.
So when he gets up from the long padded bench she's got him and her notes on, she tightens both hands on her length of measuring tape and holds on with all her strength. He's not willing to tug it out from between her fists, so he just stands there with a battered length of cloth tape around his waist in a sort of shoddy half bridle, caught, and gives her the most pathetic face.
"Oh no you don't," she tells him archly in her most cross tone of voice (she practices alone in her room sometimes; when she uses this tone she wants results). "You have got thirty pins in each of your sleeves and if you go running around you're going to stick yourself full of holes and then you're gonna bleed all over my nice cloth and get it all burnt and stained. I am not letting you out of this room when you've still got needles in. Sit your butt back down."
And the hell of it is that he does.