Work Text:
It’s happening again.
Lynette watches as her brothers argue over Archons know what this time. Whatever sparked the fight, she’s oblivious to it and as she stands at the kitchen island, she chooses to drink her tea rather than get involved right away. They stand at the entrance of the living room, their tones sounding less like an argument but more like loud talking.
Freminet sounds desperate in whatever he’s trying to convey to their brother while Lyney sounds avoidant. She’s sure that whatever Freminet said this time, must’ve struck a nerve. Her tail flicks irritably as their voices begin to rise and when Lyney truly starts to yell at the diver, her ears fold back at the unfamiliar sound.
“Lyney,” she calls out in her usual, measured tone, her attempt to interject as a voice of reason into the storm. Yet, her twin remains engrossed in his turmoil, carelessly tossing his hat onto the couch as he discards his shoes. Lynette observes as the eldest sibling marches toward the sanctuary of his room at the rear of their home. In his wake, Freminet follows, a fragile shadow trailing behind the storm.
“Lyney, just please listen to me…”
Lynette grapples with whether to intervene before someone says something regrettable; she doesn’t know how she’s going to approach them but it seems as if fate doesn’t care to wait.
“I absolutely cannot understand how you’re so stubborn— if I said to drop it, then that’s what I meant.” She hears as Lyney storms out of his room and back into the living room, completely obvious to his twin who still stands with calculated eyes trained on the scene before her.
“I just want to make sure you’re fine—“
Lynette’s ears twitch at the crack of Freminet’s voice and she immediately sets her cup down to intervene. She pads around the island to hopefully calm both of their nerves until Lyney drives his final stake.
“Archons, do you even try!” The words, as sharp as blades, hang in the air, the weight of his irritation palpable in the furrow of his brow and the clench of his fists. He doesn’t even acknowledge his sister as his eyes glare at the youngest with an unreadable expression. Beside her, Freminet tenses, his vulnerability starkly evident as he draws a taut breath. Reacting instinctively, Lynette reaches out, her hand finding its way to his forearm, a gesture of comfort and solidarity.
“Lyney,” she practically hisses, locking eyes with her brother in disapproval. For a brief moment, their eyes connect, a silent exchange conveying more than words ever could before his gaze fixes back on their trembling baby brother with an uncharacteristic anger in them. Freminet watches their silent communication in wordless envy and his gut twists with realization.
“W-what do you mean…” Freminet's voice is a hushed murmur, an almost fragile whisper in the midst of the chaos and—oh, right. A sudden insight dawns, an awareness of his place within their intricate connection; his bond with them isn’t nearly as strong as it is between each other.
“It’s nothing, Frem, Lyney just needs to calm down,” Lynette's glare carries a weight of unspoken authority aimed squarely at him and her twin exhales harshly before looking away with his arms folded. The room remains suspended in a charged silence, each sibling grappling with their emotions in their own way. It's a silence that hangs heavy, pregnant with the promise of understanding or the breeding ground of further separation.
Both Lyney and Lynette freeze as a choked, raw sound suddenly slices through the air.
Freminet simply stares at Lyney with unreadable eyes, his gaze unfocused and unconscious. The young boy clenches at his chest as his lips quiver before he forces them into a thin line. He doesn’t even feel when Lynette squeezes at his arm before he’s looking past Lyney as he begins to disconnect from them and the walls surrounding them. The eldest son watches as Freminet’s eyebrows furrow as if lost in thought before they smooth into a limp line.
“Freminet, I didn’t mean—“
Except Freminet isn’t listening and he’s already slipping out of Lynette’s warm grasp and out of the front door. He doesn’t hear when his sister begins scolding their brother before turning her attention towards him. Freminet doesn’t acknowledge her, can’t listen to her, when he feels the familiar burn of tears stinging the back of his throat and his cheeks heating in embarrassment and silent humiliation.
The streets are annoyingly congested despite the moon sitting high in the sky and he’s suddenly reminded of just how awful being here feels. Static floods his ears and with each bated breath, he feels hundreds of eyes on him. Each step feels like an ordeal, and he struggles to breathe, to think, to hold himself together. Fumbling, he retrieves his helmet, a protective shell against the world, placing it on his shoulders with unstable hands. In the midst of his disoriented stumbling, the distant sound of a voice reaches him, fading before it truly registers yet he doesn’t turn back around. Hot tears are already falling down his cheeks before he can even reach the shore.
Freminet can’t breathe, and with each step he takes, the harder it is to think clearly.
He’s trying to catch his breath yet every single heave of his chest just brings up memories of Father ridiculing him for being so weak. As his boots crunch under the sand, he looks up at the night sky as his hands begin to tremble. His mother would be so disappointed in him and the fact that his brother is upset with him only drives the knife deeper. He wants to wail and apologize to her, and him, but the only thing that leaves his lips is a warbled cry, raw and unfiltered.
Gasping for air, he finds himself choking on his own tears—a cascade of emotions that threatens to engulf him—and it’s only when he’s in the water does he finally feel like he can breathe.
His discordant brain finally quiets and as he sinks lower and lower into the cold ocean, he lets himself cry unabashed. He passes by restless schools of fish and nonjudgmental Tidalga as the hues of blue consume him. Freminet doesn’t allow himself to stop swimming until the moonlight can hardly be seen and the nocturnal fish stop frequenting the waters. It’s even colder in the depths yet he welcomes it and he curls into a fetal position as he cries even more.
He feels the weight seeping into his bones as the look in Lyney’s eyes replay over and over until the only thing he can think of are anger-tinged purple glaring down at him. He thinks of Lynette’s eyes saturated with pity and it only unfurls his stomach even more. This entire situation feels painfully feeble, a testament to his own inadequacy; the reality being he’s pathetic, and he once again proves to himself that he’s missing something that the twins have. Whether it be blood or an art of getting everyone to like them, he’s not sure.
As for that truth, he's uncertain if he's ready to confront it now, if ever.