Work Text:
Sweat, and something unidentifiable.
That's what hanzō smells of, as haneen leans over him, nose pressed to his hairline.
This isn't something new, though that doesn't make it any less…. Strange.
Waiting for her brother's eyes to flutter closed, breath evening. The grip he has on her loosening just enough for her to squirm into a different position.
Haneens small hands come to cup hanzō's, gently prying them off her. She's able to slip from the bed with little effort.
This may be her favorite hobby. She doesn't do much, floating behind hanzō always in a ghost like manner and watching over him, doing as he says; it's really her only purpose. But she's accumulated a few past times.
This is one.
Usually, she isn't allowed to leave hanzōs side. He'll panic, breath quickening and eyes blowing wide. She loves her brother so much, she'll stay by his side always to prevent that.
But, when he's asleep, away from this world. That's when she can explore a bit.
Today, her goal is to make it into the locked room down the hall!
No one's allowed in there. Every time she passes it she feels an odd sense of dread, her mind supplying her with the thought “why, why, why?”
As she slips out of hanzōs room, drifting soundlessly down the hall, her make-believe heart hammers.
She stares at the door.
A childish, pink plack that has her name painted on it in a shiny color and loopy font is nailed to it.
The place is old. Dusty.
She has never been allowed in here, even though the door gives the idea that it is hers. It is hers! Why is she kept out?
Haneens nervous hands grip the knob, turning it. She figures it most probably feels cold.
When the door is opened, everything is dark.
By her summoning, her hand begins to glow in a makeshift flashlight.
The door is closed behind her, and her eyes drink in every detail they can.
A made bed, with a red dress laid out on it. A dress for a girl much older than her. There's jewerly next to it. Very pretty, she's sure.
A bedside table, with loose papers and pens and a knife or two. A photo, framed and covered in a thick layer of gray.
Everything in this room is so untouched.
She inches closer, taking the frame into her hands and blowing softly on it. She blinks the specks from her eyes.
As she wipes away the remainder of the dust, she pauses. It's hanzō. And herself. Haneen.
Except, hanzō is so little in this photo. Still an elementary schooler, dressed in a dinosaur shirt with ketchup smeared across his face. Sat in the lap of haneen, still the same age except somehow more alive. Smiling brightly and dressed in a modest yellow nightgown.
It is at rare times like this, that haneen is reminded she is not a real girl and only a shitty replica.
She wonders, and wonders. About that girl, the one who died before she could truly live. The one who died doing her parents bidding. And the one who died doing what she truly hated.
Haneen has never seen more recent photos of that girl. She died at twenty, she surely looked much older than what haneen has been made as.
Haneen touches her own face, setting down the photo weakly. Why, why, why?
She thinks briefly about what could have been the context behind that photo before coming to the conclusion that she does not care.
She was not made to care about trivial things like this, she was made to make hanzō believe his sister was still alive.
Haneen makes things as they were, leaving the room and drifting back down the hall.
She does not stop to observe the small collection of butterfly ornaments on the shelf, or the pages of pressed flowers. She does not wonder any more about that girl.
She does not care.