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Lynette is convinced that she must be broken.
It’s a strange conclusion—a little overdramatic, potentially—but what other conclusion can an eleven-year-old girl draw? Not even a week ago, she had been performing magic tricks beside her twin brother. She had been able to laugh, able to hug, able to talk nonsensically about whatever novel she was reading.
Now, she finds herself unable to even smile.
So, really, she must be broken. There’s got to be something wrong with her, and some way that it can be fixed. When she’s broken things in the past, somebody (usually Lyney, but once upon a time there had been their parents) has always been near to put everything back together. Lynette’s not necessarily sure how to go about fixing a broken girl, but perhaps she hasn’t stumbled across the right tools just yet.
But, until then, she tries her hardest to hold together all of her pieces.
Clothing becomes layered. She wears an undershirt atop her training bra, and a button-up over that. Two sets of tights go over her undergarments, and a pair of shorts with one of Lyney’s belts are worn over that. She covers it all up with her dress, the skirt long enough to brush against her shins as she walks.
Lynette has enough trouble getting it all off to go to the bathroom. Nobody else will be able to. (And this is what she promises herself, even though she’s sourly aware somebody probably could if they desperately wanted to. And, what she has learned in this cruel world: is that they do, in fact, desperately want to. Enough to pay a stomach-lurching sum of mora for it.)
Touch becomes avoided. Lyney is the only one allowed to lay a hand on her, and it is only due to the bond they hold as twins. Even without looking, Lynette knows when Lyney is near. Sometimes, his hugs feel like needles over her skin, but it is ultimately only her brother. She knows this, and ignores the choking discomfort she feels. Lyney would never hurt her. He’s her balance.
Speech becomes selective. Lynette can’t stand the sound of the orphanage at most times, let alone the sound of her own voice. It’s too much, too overwhelming. On top of that, she doesn't want to draw attention to herself. Eyes on her feel equivalent to weights placed upon her chest. Uncomfortable. Stifling. Her ears and tail don’t help very much, but at least she is capable of controlling the noise she makes.
Lyney can speak enough for the both of them, anyway. He answers all of the questions posed by the other kids at the orphanage easily.
You’re really twins? The age-old question that Lynette can’t even properly count the amount of times has been asked to the two of them is met by a swift and emphatic: Why, yes, of course we are!
Why does she have cat ears, and you don’t? Makes her cheeks burn in embarrassment, but Lyney quickly cracks a joke to combat the aching shame and isolation of the query. I must have lost them!
Is she okay?
Lyney had hesitated when that one was asked. He had opened his mouth, paused, darted his gaze toward her—his eyes perfect mirrors of her own—and
hesitated.
Lynette had furrowed her brow, tucked her lips into a faint frown. Lyney turned back towards the kid, one perhaps slightly younger than them. Naive enough to ask stupid questions.
She’s fine. Just shy!
Is she fine? Lynette doesn’t think so. A broken girl surely isn’t fine. But… if Lyney says so, it ought to be true. That’s how their world works. Lynette isn’t ready for their world to shift any more.
So much has changed in such a short amount of time. A lot of it is a blur. Lynette recalls her head getting fuzzy after she had accepted a drink from the nobleman that had been supposed to be taking care of them. She barely has any memory of the interior of the carriage as she was carted off to her doom. Yet, cruelly, she remembers everything that took place from entering that accursed bedroom until she found herself deposited into a cold basement, not alone. She remembers the blood that dripped from the Knave’s fingertips. She remembers being told to use her ears. She remembers sobbing into the woman’s side until she felt nothing at all.
She remembers Lyney finding her. She remembers telling him nothing happened. Even if it hadn’t been as bad as it could’ve been, nothing was still a bitter lie.
A bitter lie that failed to sweeten anything at all. Lyney’s worry is palpable in everything he does. From the crease of his eyebrow, the glint behind his eye, the twist of his fingers as he reaches an uncertain hand toward her.
Lynette tries her best to quell some of it; really, she does. She forces a small laugh whenever he makes an attempt to lighten the mood, she leans into his embrace—even when it makes her skin crawl—and she stays right by his side; being as much in his peripheral vision as he is in hers. She’s not the only one who feels sick at the mere thought of separation. Though, she makes more of an effort to be subtle about it.
The other kids have started taking note of their apparent codependency, and a voice in the back of Lynette’s mind worries that someone could take advantage of it. It’s a nonsensical fear, but Lynette would much rather sort through that at a later time as opposed to now.
Moonlight seeps through the sheer curtains, basking the marble tile in an eerie glow that simultaneously chases away and feeds the shadows in the room. Lyney sleeps at her side, hand curled loosely around Lynette’s fingers. He’s perfected the art of silence; not a snore or even an exhale is audible in the stagnant quiet of the bedroom. Lynette’s assurance comes from the dull throb of his heartbeat, even and familiar and only audible to her.
Her tail sways, indulging in the rare freedom from the confines of Lynette’s habit of layered skirts. She’s grown very… sick at the idea of people seeing her less-than-human features.
She should feel some ounce of embarrassment. The two of them are eleven, with a bed prepared for each of them, and yet they can’t take the separation. In their near-week at the Hearth, they haven’t made it a single night without Lynette at least curling up at the foot of Lyney’s bed. Granted, on most of those nights, Lynette can’t find it within herself to feel tired.
Her mind races at a near-constant speed. Nightmares lurk on the back of her consciousness. Fear takes the form of bruises and cuts—almost healed, now—along her skin.
The disgust rises too quickly. Lynette doesn’t want to be in this room, doesn’t want the warmth of Lyney against her. With practiced ease, she slips her hand away from her brother’s, resisting the urge to practically throw herself off of the bed. Instead, she rolls off carefully, padding across the room and sneaking out the door.
Much like the bedroom, the corridor is lit well by moonlight. There’s a little bit of artificial lamplight from the street lamps, but Lynette doesn’t mind it very much. She breathes in a bit of fresh air, listening to her surroundings.
It’s too late for anybody else to be up. All Lynette can make out is the light hum of machinery; not a single voice, nor any movement from another soul wandering about.
Lynette, in all honesty, isn’t sure what the goal of this late-night wandering is. She’s not hungry. She’s not in need of another shower. She doesn’t need to speak to Father; or at least, she doesn’t want to speak to Father. The point of the matter, really, is just that… Lynette doesn’t know why she has the urge to walk about. If Lyney wakes up, he’s going to go into a panic.
Admittedly, just the thought of that makes her feel a little guilty. He’s already worrying over her so much. What good sister gets up and wanders off without letting her brother know?
More importantly, what good sister doesn’t feel bad enough to turn around?
She makes it to the end of the corridor, only pausing upon seeing that the bathroom door is cracked open; light pouring out and into the hall. The whir of machinery is louder here, along with the subtle movement of another person. Lynette’s heart gets stuck in her throat for a moment; the urge to run away ringing louder than the blood rushing through her ears. Yet, fear keeps her frozen. Fear makes her clumsy.
Her tail, uncovered, sways; catching a tapestry and managing to send it careening toward the ground. The blood drains from Lynette’s face as she stumbles backward, flinching at the loud noise.
Loud to her, mostly. Loud to whoever is in the bathroom, secondly. She feels like a stray kitten caught by lamplight, eyes wide and posture rigid. Her gaze is locked onto the door, watching with creeping dread as it cracks further open.
Instead of an imposing figure—a filthy, rich, man—there is simply a young boy. A few years younger than her, with blonde hair and a smattering of freckles across his pale skin. His bangs are cut a little unevenly, hiding his eyes away from view. He almost looks more skittish than her, if such a thing were possible. Perhaps it just might be.
They stare at one another in the echoing silence, neither wanting to be the first to speak. By some miracle, though, Lynette doesn’t have to do it herself.
“You’re one of the twins…” the boy murmurs softly, his gaze tracing toward the fallen tapestry. It moves upward, where it had been fixed to the wall just minutes prior. “Um… it’s okay, I’ll fix it… that’s what I’m good at…”
Lynette doesn’t mean to latch onto his phrasing the way that she does. “You fix things?”
He stares at her, with utter horror in his eyes. “I, um… yes..?”
A beat of silence, neither of them are entirely sure as to what to say next.
“Sorry, I thought I was the only one up still…” the boy trails off. “Was I too loud..? I’ll be quieter, then…”
“No,” Lynette shakes her head. She tries to put a little more effort into her words and tone, although there really isn’t much difference. She’d gotten a bit spoiled by Lyney’s ability to read her. “Sleep is hard.”
“Oh…” he says softly. “That’s okay… I had a hard time sleeping, too. Um… when I first got here… but it gets better. I just like to work in the quiet…”
In lieu of asking another question, Lynette tilts her head. Her arms come to wrap protectively around herself, although there isn’t anything about the boy in front of her that screams danger. If anything, he has a sort of… calming energy to him?
“I’m not very good company…” He looks off to the side. “Where, um, is… the other one?”
Lyney. She shrugs. “Sleeping.”
“You two seem close…” the boy hums. “It must be nice… to have a sibling like that. We’re all siblings here, of course, but…”
“Mm…” Lynette offers some semblance of affirmation. In a way, she supposes she is lucky to still have a piece of her real family. To think about a world without him… it terrifies her. Furthermore, to think that such a world almost became her reality…
“Are you, um… okay?”
If Lyney were here, he’d be able to answer the question in a blink. Yet he isn’t; he’s getting the rest he needs after wasting his energy worrying over her for days and days. In his absence, Lynette’s left to think over her answer. Her mind rolls back to some of her older thoughts; a broken girl is not fine.
But, his word is her reality. Lynette offers a nod. “Mhm.”
Her gaze pulls back toward the fallen tapestry, before drifting back toward the boy. He’s shorter than her; and she’s definitely not tall enough to put it back up herself.
“It’s okay, really… I’m usually in charge of fixing the broken things around here…” he says, catching onto her uncertainty. “You won’t be in trouble. I won’t tell anybody, promise…”
“Thanks,” Lynette manages. Without much else to add to the conversation, she turns around and heads back toward her and Lyney’s room. She tries not to think too much of the interaction, considering how god-awfully late it is, and how she most likely won’t be bothered to speak with the boy again. Though…
If he’s good at fixing things, just maybe, he’ll know where to start when it comes to fixing her.
His name is Freminet, Lynette would come to learn the following morning. His name is Freminet, and Father has asked him to go through their assigned chores together. Their week of acclimation has come to a close, and now it’s time to take part in the regular activities around the Hearth.
Lyney tries to be friendly, though Lynette notices the way he places himself between them. Freminet almost looks less threatening than he did—which really, was not threatening at all—in the daylight.
“This week, you two are, um…” Freminet checks his little slip of paper for the umpteenth time. “Sweeping and mopping the hallways. It’s actually pretty easy, it’s not as big as it feels… you can usually finish up pretty quickly…”
“Thank goodness there’s no vacuum cleaner!” Lyney jokes lightheartedly, looking toward Lynette for some sort of validation toward his comment. Freminet, the poor thing, looks between the two twins with a look of confusion; but Lynette forces a small smile.
“Funny,” she says simply, and it’s enough for Lyney.
“We, um, have one…” Freminet trails off, tone quiet. “We usually use it for the lounge and bedrooms… Nanteuil is doing it this week…”
“Ah, noted! Lynette here–” he takes her hand in his, holding it up with a light shake of emphasis. He lets go soon after. “–has a knack for breaking any sort of machinery she touches! Our Maman wouldn’t let her vacuum, or even turn on the lamps. It truly is a mystery…”
“Oh, okay…” Freminet hums. “I’ll, um, help you guys then… if you ever end up having to vacuum. I know how to fix it, but…”
“It’s quite alright, Freminet! We appreciate it,” Lyney smiles warmly. Lynette adds a supplemental nod, which Freminet seems to process more easily than Lyney’s words. It’s strange; by all means, she has no reason to feel comfortable around him, and yet she does. Even more than her desire for his assistance with her little quest, there’s the slightest of urges to
protect.
In any case, it doesn’t matter at the moment. The twins follow Freminet as he shows them the brooms closet, and then they listen intently as he maps out the specific corridors they’re expected to clean. He’d been right; it really isn’t that much. The Lefevere mansion had been far larger, and the nobleman had expected Lynette to sweep almost all of it at times.
Freminet leaves them after a little bit to go do his own chores—something about pipes in the basement that Lynette honestly hadn’t been paying full attention to—and the two of them set to work.
Lyney takes it a bit more seriously than Lynette had expected him to, but then again, he’s been very serious about repaying Father for what she had done for them. Lynette can’t blame him; she also feels an unpayable debt toward her. But, still, it’s still comforting when Lyney talks to her as they work.
And, technically, he still does. Little things every now and then. Lynette, doesn’t this dust bunny look like a kitten? Lynette, this would be a perfect hiding spot for hide and seek! Lynette, we should practice our magic over here! Lynette, why don’t you follow me? Lynette, get into the carriage. Lynette, Lynette, “Lynette?”
Just like that, the world is tilting off-kilter. The broom she’d been holding is on the ground, her skin is crawling, her breathing is ragged, her skin is crawling—
“Stop it,” she hisses, pushing Lyney’s hands off of her shoulders. Lynette can tell it startles him, can tell it hurts him, cracks what little resolve he’s rebuilt over the past week. But she can’t find it within herself to just let him in right now.
Lyney’s eyes brim with tears, and she only feels more like a monster for putting them there in the first place. “Lynette…”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. Lyney hesitates before reaching for her again, not pushing further after Lynette shakes him off for a second time. “Not now. I don’t want to be touched right now.”
“Okay,” Lyney agrees. He worries at his lips—he’s been doing that a lot recently—and Lynette absentmindedly thinks that he’s going to make himself bleed soon. Her mind is too clouded and her tongue is too heavy to properly express that worry, though, so she instead presses the toe of her shoe against his. By some miracle of twin telepathy, Lyney stops. “Did something happen? What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head. “Can’t. Not now.”
Can’t—there are so many “ can’t”s . More than Lynette knows how to deal with. Can’t talk about it, can’t ask for help, can’t figure out how to put together her broken pieces. Can’t find any of the words to describe the weight on her shoulders, can’t even acknowledge the weight at all.
“What can I do, Lynette?” And, Archons, she hates that she’s the reason his tone is so grave; so concerned. Perhaps she truly is the thing that holds him down.
That’s a thought she doesn’t want to dwell on. It’s one more can’t, Lynette can’t hold him back. She won’t. She’ll do anything to ensure she gets to stay by his side, just as she knows he would do for her. The only difference, really, is that he doesn’t need her the way she needs him.
Lyney can handle people. Lyney can handle attention, can handle all the attention that comes with the spotlight. He can handle anything that’s thrown at him. He doesn’t need Lynette to help him navigate the world. In return, Lynette has to be irreplaceable. Indisposable.
“C’mon, ‘Nette. Talk to me, please? You’re scaring me…” Lyney pleads again, setting his hands on top of her shoe. “Did I do something?”
She doesn’t know. Lynette can’t understand why she’s suddenly in a panic; there’s nothing remotely dangerous around them at all, and there’s no reason to be freaking out. She’d been so sure that she’d been doing a good enough job at holding herself together; she can’t fall apart. She’s just got to get better.
Her eyes scrunch shut, and she shakes her head. “No. I don’t want to talk now.”
After a moment of hesitation, Lyney responds. “Okay…”
Lynette suspects that he gets the idea from Freminet and his mech projects. Another week has passed by since what Lyney has begun referring to as the hallway incident. Lynette tries not to talk about it. It’s all Lyney wants to talk about.
Checking in on her, asking if she’s okay, if she needs anything, if he can hug her—treating her like she’s glass on the verge of shattering. It drives Lynette slightly mad; perhaps that’s another reason he’s come up with the idea.
“Act like a robot?” Lynette’s eyebrows crease. Her tail pokes out from beneath her blanket, swaying lazily off of the side of the bed. “I don’t get it.”
“No, no! I’m not saying you should act like a robot, I just mean…” Lyney trails off, hand flapping about uselessly as he searches for the right words. “Like the mode stuff, you know? Like code words!”
“Code words…” Lynette parrots. She sort of understands where he’s coming from, she supposes. But still…
“You could have a quiet mode! For when you don’t want to talk! Or– or, maybe even a, uh… what was it… a standby mode? And you just let me know, so I can handle the rest!”
“Hmm…” Lynette mulls it over for a moment. It makes enough sense, and it would be a lot easier than trying to put words to emotions she can’t even fully explain or understand for herself. If all she has to say is quiet mode to catch a break from the questions… “Sure.”
“Really?” Lyney perks up. “We can come up with some now! I’ll write them all down, and study hard so that I never forget, dearest sister!”
Lynette can’t help but let out a slight huff of a laugh at that. Without much thought, she elects to blurt out something random. “Low battery mode.”
“Hm… a signal for me to find an excuse to get out of wherever we are?” Lyney offers. “Or… bedtime?”
“First one, probably,” Lynette shrugs. “If I’m tired, I’ll just take a nap.”
Lyney holds up a fist dramatically, tone exaggerated. “I’ll be your valiant, loyal knight until you awaken!”
“Yay,” Lynette mumbles in a flat tone, although she means it all the same. Lyney scooches a bit closer to her, laying his journal between the two of them. He starts scribbling out some of the ideas they’ve already discussed, occasionally offering Lynette the pen to write out anything extra that comes to mind.
It’s a smart system. Lynette thinks it’s going to work; and most importantly of all, she thinks it’s going to help.
If she can assign a mode to some of her feelings, then just maybe, she can keep things tidy in her mind. Deal with it when she’s ready to, a little bit at a time.
“Lynette…” Lyney speaks up, pulling her attention toward him. “You know that you can tell me anything, right?”
“Mhm,” she nods. There’s a light pause; a silence full of so many words unspoken. Neither of them makes any move to say them. Lazily, she leans her weight onto Lyney’s side. “Entering cuddle mode. Permissions granted.”
His arm falls over her shoulder without hesitation, tugging her in for an embrace. For the first time in a while, it doesn’t feel stifling. It feels normal, like the last few months of their lives never happened at all. Lynette missed it.
Her tail curls around his ankle, his heart beats against her ear; a steady rhythm to keep her grounded.
“I’m never going to lose you again,” Lyney promises quietly. “I’m going to protect you, no matter what. Nobody will ever hurt you, okay? I promise.”
“I’m going to protect you, too,” Lynette says softly. “I swear it.”