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She used to kiss it better.
That was her thing. That was her shtick.
His booboos, which graduated into his scratches, his cuts, his bruises of the body and soul—
“Come here, baby brother. Let Camilla kiss it better.”
And she would, soft lips to bare skin, and a smile to bookend the moment. He always shuddered to be so near her, forgetting whatever pain he had been feeling to take a deep whiff of that scent that gave him such a thrill: rose. Muted rose of some sort.
(He knew all about roses. On his breaks from the library, he used to prune the sole rose bush growing in the Minor Gardens. Only, when Mother had found out about her son’s stupid hobby, you dumb boy, stop wasting your time and start studying—he had stopped going to the Minor Gardens all together.
Last he had checked, the rose bush was dead.)
As Leo got older, and older and older and older, his age 5 turning into 6, 7, and 8, the kisses came less frequently. At 9, he only got one all year, when he’d burned his fingers by the flame of his own birthday candle, silly brother, let Cammy kiss it better.
At 10, another one when he had been thrown from his horse, you poor baby. Can I smooch that pain away?
At 11, no more. The fountain had dried out, and she was 17, then, a fair bit older and far too busy anyway, with her embroidery and hosting social events for visiting diplomats’ wives and daughters. Factor in the intensified training regimen developed for her by Xander and the sudden spate of covert missions their father had pushed onto her plate, as it was her time, now, to prove herself worthy—
She had no time for Leo.
No free time for Leo anyway.
‘Cuz she chose to spend whatever free hours she had in her busy week over in the Northern Fortress, doting and fawning over that spiky-haired, attention-seeking—
Corrin.
Leo loved his brother, and still does, don’t get him wrong, it’s just…well. Jealousy, alright? It was, and is, just jealousy, plain as day.
Dark as night.
And to think that Leo had first considered Corrin a welcome addition to the family, someone he could relate to as another younger brother! Leo and Corrin: they used to have such fun, playing chess and debating the merits of cookies as a teatime snack over biscuits.
But then Corrin had to go and seize Camilla’s heart completely, in a display of absolute power.
Malevolent power.
Showy power, too, as evidenced by all the kisses Corrin got, ones unprompted by pain and suffering. Camilla simply walked up to him and smothered his face with her lips, and watching from the sidelines or behind bookshelves and tables and chairs, Leo felt wronged, so wronged!
‘Cuz it was wrong.
As the youngest, he was supposed to be the baby of the family. Him, Leo, not Corrin.
And as the baby, Leo was supposed to be the one she doted on, the one whose hair she ruffled, the one whose nose she pinched.
The one who got all those sloppy kisses.
And now that they’re all older, he 18, Corrin 19, and Camilla 24, his craving for her kisses—it’s still there.
Possibly even stronger than it had been before.
You are fucked in the head, is, to be honest, the only explanation he has for why he might be feeling such urges still. That and her body. Luscious.
Hair. Like silk.
Eyes. The window into the devil’s own soul. For she doesn’t spare anybody The Hooded Gaze, the one that smolders and is accentuated by a wry, full-lipped smile.
Gods. If only he could neuter himself, yes, get rid of his own sexual organs so that he may never feel sexual thoughts for his own fucking sister again—
All that rubbing and tugging he does in the dark, to the thought of her tits pressed against his chest during a hug (luckily she hasn’t withheld those from him at all)—it’s shameful. All of it shameful.
To be buried away.
Must be buried away, in the depths of stacks of books piled high, rolls of parchment, and ink, so much ink.
He can’t think about her, so he punishes himself and doesn’t let himself think at all. Not about personal things.
Just. How to be better, as a scholar, as a warrior (warrior-scholar, she likes to call him, and agh, Camilla again in his brain, please stop, make it stop).
He even considers injuring himself on purpose to see if she’d care. It’s morbid and highly impractical (and mostly stupid), but…maybe if he rushed into the fray without armor, sometime, in a show of spontaneous heroics: a couple of slashes wouldn’t end him, though a strategically placed arrow very well could, and a frenzied horse trampling all over his mortal body definitely would…
Shrieking and yelling and crying all around him. Loud wailing, too.
His name, shouted over and over.
“Leo! LEO!”
“Leo wake up!”
He opens his eyes. I’m awake, he wants to say, but his mouth doesn’t want to cooperate.
“Leo…”
A blurred mass of lavender comes into view. A whiff of rose (his olfactory bulb still works, thank gods).
“Baby, are you okay?”
Camilla strokes his blood-matted hair, pushes it back from his forehead. “You gave us quite a scare back there.” A single tear rolls down her cheek, cutting a clean trail through the sweat and grime on her face.
How picturesque she is in her grief.
(He couldn’t have planned this any better!)
“I…am okay…”
“Shh, darling. Don’t speak.” She presses a finger over his lips. “Save your voice. Are you thirsty? There’s water.”
He shakes his head, and it’s an effort. Pain shoots through his spine.
“Don’t move either, my dear. You’ve broken quite a few bones, I’m afraid. But Elise has been working on you, so fear not. They should be on the mend.” She blots at her tears with a torn sleeve. “…I told her to take a nap, the poor dear, but she’ll be back.” Weak smile. “I’m watching over you now.”
A savior, then. Guardian angel…the most beautiful of them all.
“Is there anything I can do for you, baby brother? The options are limited, I’m afraid, but I could find a softer pillow—the one you have is soaked.”
She rises from her stool by his cot, and he makes a noise from the back of his throat akin to a squawk. But, no matter how inelegant the sound, it serves its purpose.
She stops in her tracks. “Yes, dear?”
“Ki…ki…”
She bends over him, to listen more carefully, but all he can think about is how one of her breasts is on the verge of escaping her corset. Oh gods, he can even spot nipple, juuuuuust peeking out over her bustier. Pink.
“…Kiss…”
A frown knits her brow. “What’s that, baby?”
“Kiss,” he croaks. “I want…I want—“
A sudden and overwhelming sadness overcomes her face, overtakes her expression. She looks to be on the brink of tears again, though she nods her head furiously, swallowing the emotion back.
“I’ll kiss you, baby, here—“ She presses her lips to his forehead. It’s a surprisingly wet kiss—her lip, on the verge of splitting, just did.
“Let Cammy kiss it better, my poor baby.” She presses more kisses against his face, all over and over and over, until she must sink to her knees, must drape an arm over his broken body and sob quietly against his neck.
“I know…I haven’t been there for you—the way you’ve wanted…” she cries. “But…I love you, Leo. Don’t you know? You—you should know this by now…you’re the—the smartest of all of us, baby…”
A kiss on his ear. A swelling of his heart.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Love you. Too.”
He turns his head to kiss her sodden eyes.
He hurts so much.