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“You are so fuckin’ dirty, kid,” Rosaria says flatly.
Razor doesn’t really care about her comment, so he lets the words of his so-called “sister” float aimlessly like the bubbles around him. It’s a bit early in the morning, and the sun hasn’t fully warmed the air around them.
Yes, the rumors are true.
Razor, the elusive wolf-boy of Mondstadt, is finally in a bath.
He cups his hands, lifts some bubbles from their watery resting place, and blows on it. The suds scatter in clumps and plop right back into the expanse they came from.
Dressed in unusually plain clothes, Rosaria’s black cotton shirt is hiked up below her elbows to get her arm soaked to the forearms in soapy water.
“Why?” he asks her. Rosaria stares at him for a minute before going back to work, scrubbing the skin on his back.
“Why are you dirty? I dunno, maybe it’s the fact that you only swim in Cider Lake to "bathe"… Or perhaps, it’s because I can smell before I see you. You said you were going to spend time with your friends today, right? Since I’m basically your older sister, I can’t let you run around with dirt on you all the time.”
Okay, well. Not really the answer he's looking for. He was actually asking why she was… well… bathing him in the first place. In Lisa’s voice, something about “context” and “complex sentences” ring in his head and slowly fade away. He really tries to speak under Lisa’s teachings, he promises.
“Rosa… Rosa likes being big sister?” He asks after a minute. Rosaria hesitates. Without any answer to go off of, he continues, trying to explain.
“Rosa says all the time. I am brother, but little. I am Lupical… because we have same Lupical. Makes sense, but… Rosa wants to see me?” He struggles with his words, furrowing his brow, as he doesn’t know the right things to tell her. Even still, Rosaria understands completely.
Shit. He’s right. She thinks.
She’d rather die than admit it, but she… might like being an older sister. As much as she nonchalantly brushes it off her shoulders, as much as she will change the subject around her drinking buddies, Rosaria can’t help but dote on the kid. Who can’t, with his big red eyes full of energy, his fluffy gray hair that she has every urge to brush, his stupid, boyish grin? Even the disgusting way he eats his food is endearing. Rosaria is a woman who is known for her frigidity, her cold demeanor, her freezing glare, and the icy slash of her spear. How embarrassing is it that one dirty, 13-year-old kid could melt that away?
At first, she rationalized it as anyone would; Razor is a boy that you can’t help but want to look out for. Hell, she’s even seen the ever-stoic Diluc Raginvndr ruffle his hair once or twice. Not only that, they essentially have the same adoptive father. So what if she scouts out Wolvendom more frequently? So what if she’s left a couple of slaughtered boars for him and his pack to eat? Normal. Expected, even. It’s basically her duty!
Rosaria says nothing as she works shampoo into Razor’s hair. Her fingers are scarred and rough from the familiar shape of her polearm, knuckles blemished from her work, day in and day out. Quite the juxtaposition of the domestic, sickly-sweet way she’s lathering wolfhook soap into her “little brother’s” head. She pours warm water over his head, shielding it from his eyes.
“Yeah. I guess I do like being your big sister,” she surrenders. Razor hums contentedly.
“I like having big sister, too.”