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Nahyuta doesn’t consider themself a vain person.
They won’t deny that they’ve gotten an aesthetically lucky hand in life. Puberty, while uncomfortable and wrong, was at least kind. People have tripped over their own feet while they walk down the street. Regularly, they’ve been the recipient of phone numbers scrawled into napkins and scribbled on the backs of receipts. They do take pride in how they present themself, but their apparent beauty to the masses has never gone to their head, nor have they ever thought too much of it.
Except…
They pass the mirror, one Saturday, preparing for an outing, and pause.
Nahyuta is not vain.
But they can’t help the twinge in their chest as their eyes catch on their body.
They pause.
Nahyuta’s face may be pleasant, but their body is a scarred wasteland. Some have fond memories- there’s still the raised scar on their collarbone when Apollo had decided the pair needed sword training. Their younger brother had picked up a branch Dhurke had freshly cut from a tree nearby and promptly brought it down towards Nahyuta. A sharp edge had torn their shirt and laid into them. Datz turned the corner to see one child panicked and the other sobbing- although, Apollo was the upset one, Nahyuta attempting to comfort him with blood staining their shirt.
A thin slice cuts their eyebrow, although it’s practically invisible unless one were to closely investigate. Their first brawl with guards- the men had grabbed their uncle, and a fifteen year old Nahyuta had moved on instinct, grabbing a baton from the man’s belt and slamming it down repeatedly on his shoulder. They caught the edge of another guard’s knife, Datz swung his leg out to trip the man, and the two escaped narrowly.
Others…
Nahyuta grimaces as they catch sight of the inside of their upper arm. Angry, marred circles litter the area on their right- cigar burns. When Inga was still developing his preferred method of punishment, before he realized that it was much more satisfying to leave their stomach and ribs littered in angry red welts and bruises with his brass knuckles, before he tested the strength their rib bones had on a consistent basis? Well, his preferred method of chat alongside Ga’ran had demanded he pause his smoking long enough to talk, and the cigars always burnt so fast when they weren’t attached to the man’s lips. Poor Nahyuta, ever the punished puppet, made a much more interesting ash tray to snub out the remainder of the cigars.
Four indents above their wrist, evenly spaced apart. Cuts from sharp nails grabbing on too tight. They learned quickly to use longer sleeves when Ga’ran was not swayed to loosen her grip as she drew blood.
One particularly rough scar, still dark. An assasination attempt by an angry woman with a knife, who thought that revenge for a brother killed because of Ga’ran’s puppeteering deserved to be carried out with Nahyuta’s life. They were lucky to be near allies and friends- the wound was robbed from being a fatal one only by Datz’s quick actions in pushing them onto their back, bandanna pressed firmly into the wound as he demanded a medic, offending knife gleaming red on the ground nearby as the woman hissed curses underneath a guard. It aches, on occasion, if they move too much.
Each scar on their body tells a story, and the story is that Nahyuta has lead such a long life in such a short amount of time. Their face says they’re full of energy, but that’s a lie. Another layer to an infinite spire of masks.
Vanity isn’t something they feel, but in the mirror, like this, their scars make their stomach churn. The too-even scars of surgery on their torso, old injuries from scraps in the rebellion. Thin scars that crisscross across their back from a whip, somehow neat despite how torn and bloody their back was when they were inflicted. They've thrown out many tank tops over their life, the poor shirts' only purpose being to stop their jacket from having nearly as many blood stains. The one time Apollo forced them into getting a massage, the horrified gasp from the woman assigned to them had their face hot with shame, stomach churning as they pulled their jacket back on, thanked the people there, and absconded back to busy streets where nobody knew the secrets beneath their clothes.
Doctors have shown concern, on routine check ups. Much to Nahyuta’s dismay, their fractures and broken bones are not invisible to x-rays. More than one they’ve been offered pamphlets for how to escape abuse. To the doctors who haven’t seen the scans, there’s always pity. Too many aches and pains from injuries that should have been healed under the care of a doctor but weren’t. Soreness and the ghosts of injuries dealt in the past linger just below their skin. A body that should belong to someone 50 years their elder, not someone so young. Lasting pain that on some days, if they were not stubborn and pushed past every part of their being screaming for rest, would leave them bedbound.
The angry patch of marred flesh on their arm, just above their wrist- Ga’ran’s final (and most favorite) punishment before being pulled from the throne, is a large point of their distress in the mirror. The shape is large and ugly, the scar all kinds of distorted and discolored. It’s a branding. Two of them. The bottom of it is recognizable, at the least, the curl of a dragon’s tail. The top is too marred for detail, less-intense lines jutting out from the mass of it all. In the center, the discoloration is at its worst; a dragon’s head can be made out just barely, and upon its head a diamond and the beginning of spindly legs curl underneath its neck. The spider came upon their final return from LA. The dragon mere days later when they were ordered to give their life and confess to a murder they did not commit, and only a few hours before learning of Ga’ran’s true crimes.
If Nahyuta ever has to prosecute in such ungodly pain again, it will be too soon. It still stings. The nerve damage is numb at best, actively sore at worst. Datz knows about that scar, something they regret. Their uncle knows because he helped them treat it when they came to him (reluctantly) for help. That is another injury they should have gone to the hospital for, but they didn’t. They bit down on leather when Datz took the time to clean it properly, didn’t even make noise as pained tears slid down their face. Only spoke when they saw matching tears pooling in Datz’s own eyes. Only sobbed because he sobbed first, apologizing for the pain they’d been subjected to, and they’ve never been able to handle their other father crying.
A map of scars. Nahyuta’s face may be pretty, but what lies beneath is all punishment, all ugly and marred and proving that that they’re not worthy of this. Why they still walk this mortal coil when Dhurke’s life was stolen from him, they don’t know. It isn’t fair- Dhurke was strong, he was loved. So many people needed him, so many mourned him. Datz’s smiles, even years later, still don’t quite reach his eyes anymore, when Dhurke’s mere existence always had said smiles filled with vigor.
Nahyuta, though, they’re broken. No real worth- Rayfa still clings to them, which breaks their heart, but they’d do anything for her in a heartbeat. She doesn’t know the entire truth about her parents, and it’s something they want to spare her from. Ignorance is bliss, and she doesn’t need to know just how terrible her adoptive parents were. Nahyuta can play the role of eldest brother, can play the gentle calm soul with the gentle temperament. She needs someone familiar. Amara is a vastly different person compared to Nayna, even if her attitude towards Rayfa is similar. Nahyuta is unchanging.
And, honestly speaking, who even could call them out on their behavior? Datz? Datz, with his attempts at playing the father role Dhurke never got to have for Rayfa? He’s the only person who knows Nahyuta enough to do it, but the man is juggling a daughter he feels obligated towards and the remainder of a rebellion that’s lost its leader, men who grow antsy with the sudden lack of purpose.
Apollo? Their brother is brilliant, can sniff out lies with ease, but he’s overworked, busy. Nahyuta knows how to dance around their words so as to not tip him off. It comes down to how they use their words. If they aren't technically lying, Apollo can't detect it. If they're stressed and tense? Well, everyone is. This is Khura'in, there's lots to do.
Amara? Nahyuta’s laughed at the thought before. She and they are strangers, truly. Two-ish years of parenting a baby who remembered none of it within a year. A few months of a strained parentship, years ago. Nahyuta has no frame of reference for mothers. Fathers? Uncles who played just that role? Those things, they know. Mothers are for fairytales, are mystical women who are larger than life. She is a bedtime story. She is no parent, and while it breaks her heart that her eldest has such a callous opinion of her, they can’t be blamed for it. Another scar their aunt has left, another way she sank her fangs into their life and tore.
Ga'ran would probably laugh at them if she could see them here. Frozen in the mirror, eyes going over injuries they can still feel. How ridiculous, that they think they’re worth enough to have feelings about these things, when they are just a pawn, the means to an end. These are not trophies of battles they’ve won, they’re reminders that they did not perform adequately. Threats, the angry warning that next time things won’t be so easy to get through.
Some muscle in their body twitches sharply, likely as a result of their awkward standing position mid-walk, and with it Nahyuta is in blinding pain as they crumble to the floor, chest tight as they gasp for breath. Voices echo in their head, furious snarls demanding their obedience. Other voices, more distant, ring out, but Nahyuta’s too lost in their own mind to hear them.
There’s a hand on their shoulder. Nahyuta cries out, curls in on themself as they sputter apologies and pleas- they didn’t mean it, they’re sorry, they can be better, this won’t happen again, please don’t. Anything to lessen the blow that’s surely coming for their break in facade: Nahyuta isn’t supposed to emote like this, they’re a pleasant face and a tool for Ga’ran to use against the dragons and that’s it. Reactions like these are wrong, and are subject to punishment.
The blow never comes.
The hand pulls back, and then they’re being lifted up, pulled into something warm and firm- a person, they note distantly, as two arms wrap around them. It’s all they can do to shake as they try to avoid pain. Whoever’s holding onto them grips tighter, rocks them just barely as they try to… something. Are they soothing Nahyuta? Why?
Their face is too hot and wet with tears, their throat raw. Being held like this… half of them wants to push away from it. Each point of contact feels like lava against their skin, like the harshest of pins and needles, painful electric currents.
The other half wants to hold on and never let go.
Nahyuta listens to the second half. Their hand catches onto fabric- something smooth and firm- and grips for dear life as they sob. If this mysterious figure is going to hold them, then Nahyuta will hold right back. They’re no idiot, and comfort is something to be clung to.
There’s a hand on the back of their head and a second on the back of their shoulder. It’s strategic placement, both hands resting where scars aren’t. Someone who’s familiar with them, then. They’ve never reacted well to people touching their scars on bad days, and this is definitely no exception.
Nahyuta still braces themself for anger, for yelling or shouting or something. They freeze as the hand on their head moves, only settling when they realize it’s moving because it’s repetitive motion.
They’re being comforted, they realize. This isn’t just some happenstance luck- someone is here willingly. Because they care.
Normally, when Nahyuta is in the throes of their breakdowns (and, really, they can’t classify this as anything else, they’re broken and they’re suffering) there’s a disconnect between the sound around them and what they hear. It’s a common response- er, lack of response- that they’ve always had. If their brain is mid-panic, sound ceases to be processed in the moment.
Normally, anyways.
Nahyuta hears noise, as they always do, and then someone is speaking to them. The voice is soothing, something they think they recognize.
They hear noise, and then they hear words, much like a knife piercing a plastic sheet held taut.
If asked what the words were, they couldn’t say, but they know those words.
They’re a bit hesitantly spoken, like a child still perfecting their motor skills, and the words don’t flow as smooth as someone familiar with the language, but it’s unmistakably Khura’inese, and unmistakably soft.
“Easy, you’re alright.”
The voice that melts into their recognition is smooth and gentle. Nahyuta sobs, and they can hear their sob as they clutch the man beneath them.
“I’ve got you, you’re safe.”
All it does is makes them cry harder. Safety? Why do they deserve safety?
“I can feel you trying to make excuses, you know,” Simon chides. “You’re allowed to have this. Why wouldn’t you? You’ve done so much, you can take at least this.”
Nahyuta nods. They have, haven’t they?
Their sense of balance shifts. Instinctively, they bury their head into his neck, fear curling around their spine as they protest.
“You’re okay, I’m moving us out of the bathroom.”
“I-”
“I won’t let you fall, I’ve got you.”
True to his word, Nahyuta doesn’t fall. They’re placed on a bed- their bed- gently. Hair is brushed out of their face. They do their best to look at the face in front of them.
“You’re alright, I’ve got you.”
Simon’s hand is on their cheek. They press into the gesture, shivering.
“I’m going to get you something to wear, and I’ll cancel for us.”
“You wanted-”
“Partners don’t leave partners to suffer through things alone. You’re not staying home by yourself.”
Simon doesn’t let them argue. He leaves, comes back with a sweatshirt that Nahyuta knows is definitely his, and pulls it over their head before pulling them back into a hug.
“It hurt,” they whimper as they bury their head into his chest.
“More aches?”
“No, it- something twitched.”
“It took you back, didn’t it.”
“They were so angry, panda.”
Simon hums gently. Strokes the back of their head as he shifts into the bed properly. Like this, Nahyuta can press into him, get as close as they can without practically laying on the man.
“They can’t get you here,” he murmurs. “I won’t let them.”
“I didn’t mean to screw up.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
Simon pulls away- Nahyuta’s eyes are tearfilled once more, to the point that they can’t make out his expression.
“I screwed up-”
“You didn’t screw up-”
“They were mad because I didn’t do well-”
“They were furious because you did not submit to an ideal that’s unobtainable-”
“If I had just-”
“You’re human, you can only do so much. You can’t change the weather.”
Two hot tears stream down Nahyuta’s cheeks. He’s angry.
“I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.”
“You’ve done nothing wrong, and you’ve nothing to apologize for.” Maybe not angry?
The hug is unpaused. Definitely not angry, Simon doesn’t hug when he’s angry. Nahyuta has a face full of hoodie and chest, an arm wrapped around them comfortingly. Their own chest loosens as they cry, the fear and anxiety soon replaced with post-cry apathy and exhaustion.
“I don’t like mirrors,” they whisper.
For a moment, there’s no response.
“I’m not particularly fond of them either,” Simon admits.
“I’m a canvas of scars.”
“We both are.”
Simon has his own scars. Nahyuta’s become intimately familiar with a few, marred flesh angry from strain on days when Simon pushes too hard.
“My scars aren’t yours, though. Mine are shortcomings.”
“Whoever told you that is an idiot.”
Nahyuta doesn’t say anything to that, curling in on themself slightly. They can feel Simon shift beneath them.
“Nahyuta,” he warns.
“You heard me.”
“Your scars are evidence of your strength.”
“My scars are proof I was weak.”
“You’ve fought harder than most and you’ve got physical proof to back up your claims.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to be strong,” they huff. “Nobody ever asked me. I did not get the choice.”
“No, you didn’t. You were robbed of too much, and you still were strong anyways, and for that you deserve so much.”
“I don’t want to be strong anymore.”
“Then you can have that, and I’ll still be here to support you.”
“Even if I’m bedbound, unable to face my days?”
“Especially if you’re bedbound, unable to face your days. Trauma isn’t a linear recovery, and you’ve sustained so much. The fact that you continue to press on is a badge of stubborn will. No one else could do what you’ve done and with such resilience.”
There’s a kiss placed onto their head. Simon isn’t one for kissing- that’s Nahyuta’s territory, lips-to-temples or on top of heads, on backs of hands and on noses- but he’s not immune to them.
“Give me your hand.”
Nahyuta does such. A too-pale pinky links with their own.
“I pinky swear that I’m here for you.”
“That’s a big swear, Simon, are you sure?”
“Positive.”
The seriousness in his tone makes Nahyuta laugh despite themself.
“You’re so very ridiculous, Simon.”
“Sometimes that’s a good thing. I wouldn’t ever think less of you, though. Nobody would.”
“I’d think less of me… but, thank you.”
Simon huffs. “No need to thank me.”