romeo and cinderella

DISCLAIMER: Yggdra Union © Sting. This story is mine.

(what if the storm ends – magic, please stop time)

Nessiah woke warm under soft sheets, his body aching. The latter wasn't particularly unusual, but the former definitely was. He knew better than to jump up and try to investigate his situation, though—he'd make whatever injuries he'd sustained much worse.

And as he lay there, gingerly flexing and moving his limbs to test how mobile they actually were, the memories of the past night began to return.

…He'd run away. At long last. He'd found an opening and escaped through it, but… he'd had nowhere to go, so he'd wound up at the bridge. Waiting for something—anything—to happen. And just when he'd given up and was steeling himself to jump…

A kind face appeared in his mind, out of his memories. He'd called himself Gulcasa, and had been wearing a tuxedo that just didn't fit with his long, wild hair or his blunt words. Nessiah hadn't known what to do, had decided that no matter what, he was so exhausted and hopeless already that he wouldn't care even if something bad happened, and had let Gulcasa take him home like a stray cat. Gotten into the car of a complete stranger and offered himself up to fate, broken the cardinal rule ingrained in every person since toddlerhood.

Desperately.

Stupidly.

Nessiah tried to lever himself up on his right elbow, winced, and rolled onto his left side. He would have tried his left arm, but he found that it was hard to fold his arm into a right angle—it was constricted with soft, flossy bandages wrapped and pinned together.

"…"

He remembered now, but the memories were indistinct and incredibly hazy: Once he was in the car, the exhaustion had probably taken over, because he remembered the steady purr of the engine and the rattle of rain on the roof, but no stop for coffee (as Gulcasa had promised him, should he stay awake). He did remember stumbling through a half-lit house, being brought to the bathroom, and now that his wounds had been dressed.

…Nessiah felt blood rise to his cheeks as he remembered the worried look on Gulcasa's face when he'd asked that Nessiah take his clothes off, as if the other man was afraid of what he would see or how Nessiah himself would react. He'd been so tired, he'd barely cared, and had stripped to the waist, sitting on the counter next to the bathroom's sink while his wounds had been cleaned of clotted blood, daubed with disinfectant cream, and covered in gauze and bandages. He didn't really remember whether or not he'd gotten fully naked. As he shifted again, Nessiah supposed that he must have at one point—he felt sheets and cotton against his hips, but no chiffon. Obviously he'd changed out of his party clothes.

Which was good; surely no one wanted blood and dirt staining their sheets, and the sheets of the bed he was in were soft and well-made. Warm, comforting bedclothes were the best kind; Nessiah could almost have stayed cradled in their dark and fragrant womb forever. Even their smell was comforting—a combination of the mixed pine and bonfire scent of late nights in autumn and basic fabric softener. Spartan and masculine, but cared-for. It suited the impression Nessiah had received of his benefactor last night.

Now that he'd been awake this long, though, he couldn't go back to sleep. His face was starting to ache with a sharp, throbbing kind of pain that was all too familiar; he needed to splash some water onto it to ease it for a while. And he should investigate his situation more, anyhow.

Carefully, carefully, Nessiah inched himself up against the pillows and the wall behind the bed's head, trying not to put too much weight on his right arm—his shoulder would start to hurt even worse if he did. Eventually, after about a minute or so, he was able to lever himself into a sitting position and glance around the room.

There wasn't much in the way of decoration, but the furnishings were of high quality from what Nessiah could tell. There were clothes half-hanging off the edge of the wicker hamper in the corner, but the rest of the room lacked that stereotypical male messiness.

He would have tried to appraise what kind of wood the dark, polished chest of drawers was, but a sound to his bad right side distracted him. Nervously, he turned—and saw one of those modern-art chairs that mimicked a nest, he could never remember what they were called. Its cushion was deep burgundy in color, the framework that supported it nearly black; Gulcasa was curled up in it with a blanket thrown over him, asleep. He didn't look very comfortable, and no wonder; it was rather ill-sized for his frame.

Nessiah sat staring, at a loss, for several minutes, then decided that he might as well explore a little if Gulcasa was asleep anyway. In inching movements, he awkwardly scooted over to the edge of the bed and slid off, testing his legs by putting weight onto his feet slowly. His knees shook a little at first, but they didn't buckle. As he took a step forward, the fabric bunched around his waist dropped to cover his hips, and looking down at himself, Nessiah found that he was wearing a button-down shirt at least three sizes too large for him; the sleeves were folded up past his elbows. It could only belong to Gulcasa.

So people like this really do exist…

Moving carefully, nearly limping, Nessiah made his way to the door, pulled it open, and then brought it closed behind him. It squeaked a bit, but not loudly.

He was on the second level of a house—he could see the top of the stairs down the hall from him. There were several other closed doors, but only one that was open; this was the bathroom he'd been in last night. Nessiah walked over to it and flipped the light switch, then stepped onto the rug in front of the sink and turned the faucet on.

As the water ran, he looked at himself in the mirror; just as Gulcasa had predicted, the bruise over his left cheek and eye was now a colorful mess like something a kindergartener might do with all the crayons in a deluxe box. Nessiah grimaced, dipped his fingertips in the running water—not too cold, but not hot either—and lightly brushed water over the bruise. He had to bite his lip—even that light touch hurt—but as he moved his hand away from his face, the light chill of the water was already starting to give him some relief from the pain.

There was a cup, but Nessiah didn't know if he should use it; instead, he cupped his hands under the water and leaned over to drink from them before it drained away. He didn't think he'd drank much of anything last night, so he was thirsty; it also meant that the sink was all he needed for now. He'd have to ask if he could take a shower after he'd found something to eat, if Gulcasa would let him stay long enough.

…That was a worrying thought, and Nessiah didn't want to pursue it. He might not have any idea what was in store for him beyond each obvious next step, but he didn't want to think about what he would do once Gulcasa decided it was time for him to leave.

Turning off the faucet, he cautiously made his way towards the stairs. It hurt his hips a bit to maneuver down them, but the more he moved the less stiff he felt.

After a brief moment of confusion, Nessiah was able to vaguely recall the way into the kitchen, and followed it. There were other doors to be explored later, but for now what he wanted to investigate most was the pantry. Perhaps there would be something small he could take out, or something simple he could make for himself; he would apologize for using the facilities without permission when Gulcasa came down.

There were two full floor-to-ceiling pantry cabinets, and the refrigerator was also quite nice from what Nessiah could tell; when he peeked into the other cabinets above the kitchen counter, rising up on tiptoe so that he could reach, most of the dishes seemed to be pristine, if not fine porcelain of some type. Easing the cabinets closed, Nessiah rocked back on his heels and bit his lip (he couldn't raise his left hand to bite his nails). He should have figured from the quality of the furniture in the bedroom, but Gulcasa seemed to be rich. Even just for the night and morning, Nessiah's staying here would probably be perceived by anyone else as his taking advantage.

…It couldn't be helped. He'd be leaving soon enough.

Trudging footsteps the way Nessiah had come twisted at his chest, and he turned, trying to prepare entreaties and excuses and apologies for Gulcasa—but the new arrival in the kitchen wasn't him. It was a blond, blue-eyed woman about half a head taller than Nessiah, probably around his age, in plain blue pajamas. She made her sleepy way towards him, then stopped and frowned at him—he could almost see the gears slowly starting to creak into motion as she began to appear more and more awake—and he couldn't help but edge back slightly as her eyes narrowed and she scowled.

"And who the hell would you be?" she asked sharply. Nessiah faltered, cringing back again.

"His name's Nessiah, and he's staying with us for a while," a familiar voice beside him announced; Nessiah gasped and whirled around—how had Gulcasa snuck up behind him and gotten onto his bad side like that, he hadn't heard a thing—only to have Gulcasa's warm hands settle on his shoulders. "That's Luciana, one of my sisters. Seems she's taken a liking to you. Now, turn around and let me see your face, all right?"

Nessiah, not knowing what to do, simply obeyed; Gulcasa softly pushed his hair back and tipped his chin up with his other hand, apparently scrutinizing the bruises on the left side of Nessiah's face while trying not to touch them.

"At least the swelling seems to have gone down—we're going to need to get some ice for this, though. Have you eaten anything yet? We've got a lot of food, and anything I can't cook, my sisters can. Just relax. You're safe in this house, you hear?"

Nessiah didn't know what to say. Gulcasa seemed completely calm and nonchalant—so much so that Nessiah could barely believe that he'd just gotten up.

"Gulcasa, what have I told you about bringing strange people into the house?" the girl—Luciana?—grated; Nessiah imagined she must be seething quite furiously. "You know how we feel about you hauling your, your one-night stands back here to play—"

Gulcasa stood up straight and let Nessiah's hair fall, getting that flatly stubborn look on his face that Nessiah remembered from the past night. "For God's sake, Luciana. Is that what this looks like to you? You're an idiot. Shut up and eat your breakfast, leave us alone."

Luciana did not shut up. "If that's not it, then what? Some clandestine lover? Another friend from work? I told you after you brought Leon here that we wouldn't stand for anything else of that sort, paying for the repairs could have cut into Emilia's college funds if you hadn't—"

"Neither is this me bringing my friend home when he's piss-faced and lost his keys," Gulcasa interjected, raising his voice to cut her off. "And yes, that was stupid and cost a lot, but what the hell was I supposed to do? Leave him in the back of an alley to break prospective muggers' arms? He didn't need the lawsuit, and it was the goddamn anniversary of the day his parents died. Goddammit, if you can't cut the man a break just that one day in the entire year…" This sounded like a familiar argument to Nessiah; Gulcasa confirmed his suspicions by actually shaking his head. "Anyway, this isn't anything like that. Nessiah's staying here because he doesn't have anywhere else to go; he hasn't shown any destructive tendencies thus far. He's wearing my shirt because his clothes are half-ruined. What's the general washing care for silk and chiffon, anyhow?"

"General washing… what does that have to do with anything?" And then: "…Tell me you didn't pick him up as some kind of homeless stray."

"You haven't said what you want to eat yet," Gulcasa said calmly, rolling his shoulders in a shrug and stepping to open the refrigerator as he shifted his attention back to Nessiah. "Don't mind my sister—she thinks me too helpless to defend myself against anything in the world, and too soft to do anything but accept every deception shoved in front of me. She'll come to realize that you're not a robber or a con artist eventually."

From behind him, Nessiah heard an angry huff, then angrier stomps. He turned hesitantly, but all he saw was a whirl of gold hair disappearing around the corner.

"If you're going to go sulk, at least wake Aegina and Emilia up," Gulcasa called after her. "I was going to tell you what was going on anyway, but if you're going to carry on about it, I'd rather get it over with sooner."

"…"

There was no response from Luciana, and Nessiah couldn't fill the awkward silence that remained in her wake. He clasped at his hands, or made an effort at it, as he watched Gulcasa searching through the food, letting all the cold air out of the refrigerator. Nessiah almost wanted to scold that it would make the dairy and the fruit spoil—the instinct surprised him, and he stifled it.

"You still aren't telling me what you want to eat. Are you allergic to anything, at least?"

"…no. I…" Nessiah looked at the floor. It was tile—he hadn't realized because it wasn't cold under his feet. For tile not to be cold in the morning, Gulcasa had to be spending a fortune to heat this house. And yet his demeanor, his behavior, the old jeans and older-looking shirt he was clad in now—it all seemed at odds with the easily apparent wealth the house showcased. Nessiah bit his lip and heaved a very small sigh. "…I'll leave once my clothes are clean, you don't have to worry, I can wash them myself if you'll show me where I can—"

"Leave and go where, exactly?"

Nessiah looked back up. Gulcasa was staring at him now, arms crossed, an impassive expression on his face as he propped the refrigerator door open with his hip. (Nessiah itched to chastise him for it, but he bit back that urge a second time.) Uncomfortable with being stared at so, he fidgeted, and turned partially away so that he could still look at Gulcasa out of the corner of his left eye. He wasn't sure what to expect, but the way Gulcasa was looking at him made him nervous.

"It's getting colder outside, and it's going to rain all this week," Gulcasa said calmly, plainly, worried lines appearing on his forehead. At least, what parts of his forehead Nessiah could see through his hair. "If I put you outside in that flimsy little dress you'd get hypothermia and die. And you don't have anywhere to go aside from back where you came from, right? The streets would be hard on a prickly little thing like you—I can't see you making a good beggar, and even if you didn't decide to sell yourself, there are a lot of sick people out there that go for the scared-kitten look."

Nessiah shivered at the picture Gulcasa was painting for him. It was as much a nightmare as where he'd come from.

"You still won't let me take you to the hospital or call the police?" Gulcasa asked gently. "This country has laws against domestic violence, and it's pretty clear that there's some kind of abuse involved here. I may not know what's going on, but…"

"No." The word came out more as a plea than as an order.

"…No good, huh? It's true that if the hospital sees the state you're in, they'll call the cops—and you really don't seem to want the law in on this. Are you underage? Will they just try to put you back where you came from? Or is there some other reason they won't help you?"

…Nessiah couldn't speak; his throat had closed over.

"Whatever the case—if the law won't protect you, I will." There was determination in Gulcasa's voice, but the way he smiled at Nessiah made him think inexplicably of a parent. "I have the money, and the influence, to keep you safe as long as you're with me. I'll take care of you. You don't have to be afraid anymore."

And he held out his arms; Nessiah wondered if they had some kind of gravitational pull to them, because he found himself held carefully to Gulcasa's chest in the next moment—and he'd certainly been the one to move. Gulcasa supported him very softly, another gesture at odds with his appearance, probably knowing that if he held Nessiah tightly he'd only cause pain by doing so.

"You're an idiot," Nessiah said into Gulcasa's shirtfront, and then he could hold it back no longer: "…close the door. The food will spoil."

Gulcasa laughed. "…Well, I suppose you're right." He let go, easing Nessiah back as gently and carefully as anything, and turned to pull a plastic milk jug and an egg carton out, placing them on the counter. "How about this? I'll make you scrambled eggs—that should hold you for a while—and then we'll see about a warm shower, and we after that some hot milk to help you settle down and sleep. I'm going to have a big, annoying argument with my sisters about keeping you here after that, and while I'll be able to make Aegina and Emilia see sense quickly enough, Luciana will carry on for a long time. It'll bore you silly, and it'd be better if you slept through it. You probably need your rest, anyway.

"How does that sound?"

"…okay."


Because there had been a great deal of protesting when Gulcasa had announced his intention to have Nessiah sleep in his room again, he was now curled up on the plush sofa, warm and covered in blankets. The dressings for his wounds had been changed, his hair was washed and dry, he'd been fed, and his body's various aches were dying down.

Although he'd scoffed at Gulcasa's fervent belief in the power of warm milk as a sleep aid, Nessiah had to admit how wrong he'd been. He could barely keep his eyes open, and doubted he'd be able to stay awake for much longer. It overwhelmed him—and scared him a little—how very safe he felt here; it was as if he would wake up tomorrow and this would be a dream, and he would be in the dark again.

All he could do was pray that this was real.

As he closed his eyes, snatches of conversation drifted in from the kitchen, where Gulcasa and his sisters were holding their debate.

"—beaten half to death, jumping at shadows, and if he isn't completely blind in his right eye he's pretty close. I had to spend a long time trying to get him to not jump off that bridge. No one with half a working sense of justice could kick him out now, and I'm sure he's not trying to play me. He half-expected me to kill him or rape him when we got back here. And he wasn't even afraid—he told me to get it over with. God. Whatever he's been through, I'm not sending him back where he came from to get more of it."

"He's not a stray animal, Gulcasa, he's a person. You can't just pick people up off the streets—"

Nessiah settled himself deeper into the cushions, curling up a little more tightly. The last thing he heard before his consciousness left him entirely was Gulcasa's voice.

"I know you're just worried about me, but I can take care of myself. I have before, and I'm still providing for you lot. I'm going to protect him. I don't care if it's dangerous or if it's difficult, or that most people wouldn't—it's not right to see somebody in that state and pass them by.

"…I'm going to take care of him."