Reflective // Rune Factory; Rusk/Collette

title: reflective
fandom: rune factory
characters: rusk, collette; rusk/collette
notes: tw for unwholesome familial relations

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The first thing you want to know is — Rusk isn’t stupid, or anything.

Well, yeah, sure, it’s an unstated thing, something that people just automatically assume, probably because he’s short and doesn’t eat his greens and is siblings with the biggest klutz in the whole village — really, just what kind of deity did he offend in his previous life to warrant a punishment like this, anyway.

He doesn’t think about the last part as much as the first two, and that’s if he even thinks about any of them at all, because people expect him to be too preoccupied with sweets and confectionaries to really care much about the bigger picture, things that really matter in life, like exercising and going out and eating healthier food. He delivers well on it, for the most part, and he’s a good boy, too, so it’s not like he doesn’t try.

Having other people expect you to be someone you’re not necessarily is off-putting, kind of, but he’s used to it. It’s simple, and makes things easier for everyone. He can’t see what’s so wrong with it; he’s a flexible enough person.

Take his family, for example: His sister is the clumsy, well-meaning girl with a big appetite and a big heart, figuratively speaking (hopefully). His father is serious, hardworking and does weird things when he gets drunk. And him — Rusk — he’s the kid who hates vegetables and likes sweets and not much else. That’s it. It’s not like he can be bothered to be anything else, anyway, even if he could — no, precisely because of it.

So Rusk isn’t stupid, or anything — that’s the first thing you want to know, and probably the only one you really need to, because he’s a simple boy at heart, really, for what reason would you possibly try to understand him?

Now, the second thing you want to know is — and listen carefully here — he thinks he’d rather be.

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He talks about his sister a lot, mostly to Micah, who seems to listen just to laugh about it discreetly behind his back, but what he doesn’t tell people is that she’s the sole exception to the rule.

What rule? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to. All he understands is that no matter how many ground rules he sets up, no matter how many walls he builds, she manages to break every single one of them without even trying, faster than she can swallow down a bowl full of rice — faster than he can make a snide quip about it on the sidelines. It’s a worryingly impressive feat.

He doesn’t tell a lot of things, come to think of it. Maybe it’s his lack of motivation, or maybe it’s because he feels this sick emotion choking at him every time he feels inclined to open his mouth and spill it out. It’s unpleasant. He half-expects his sister to be spying from a corner, in the middle of his blind spot, as if waiting for him to say something totally personal and totally embarrassing, face perplexed and eyes unfocused like the oblivious fool she is.

She’s not, but he still turns his head to check, just to make sure.

And that’s what’s wrong with it. See, this is why he’d much rather be stupid: he notices things like these, little things, tiny details he’d rather not see. Like that one time, when he’s tasting a cake fresh out of the oven and it’s half-decent and all is well, except then he realizes that he forgot to put this dash of one ingredient and that mistake totally ruins everything the second time he takes a bite. If he hadn’t noticed the cake would’ve stayed good — not perfect, maybe, but good enough; not like he’s all that skilled, anyway — and he’s willing to settle for mediocrity if that’s the best option he’s got.

Except that there is no option B. She won’t let him.

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She will always be “his sister” in his head, because he won’t let her be anything else, because the word is simple and clean and so much easier to denote than first names and crafted epithets. She is his sister when their father is away and the kitchen is quiet and she’s lounging upstairs in her room, fresh out of the shower, her hair undone; when they’re sitting on the pier and he’s looking into her water and her cheeks are rosy from the sun; when she’s laughing with Marian and he’s watching distractedly at something and Karina is looking at him, sleepy eyes too narrowed and too precise for his comfort.

She is his sister now.

“You think I’m getting taller?” she asks him, voice fluttery, sizing herself up expectantly. The light shines through the pale curtains and finds the shade of her hair, the color of her skin, tinting her figure with warm colors that make him think of autumn’s cool air, even when it’s the middle of summer and he would kill for a parfait right now.

He realizes that he’s lost yet again a moment too late, and quietly concedes defeat, watching as she destroys his barries into debris. He’s looking at her, really looking, not even futilely deluding himself into believing otherwise.

He blinks.

“You’re getting fatter, that’s for sure,” he remarks out of impulse, a hand on his chin, his throat drying out. He tries to slip back into his assumed stance, defiant and steely and indifferent, his favorite one of all, but the twitch of his mouth betrays him and the knot in his chest even more so. The fact that this is a routine he’s known for ages doesn’t escape him; he imagines that feeling of normalcy being taken away, and the thought cuts at him. Smoothly, like a hot knife through butter, but that does nothing to console him.

His train of thought stops when she screeches indignantly at him, her mouth taut, playing her part well. He considers doing his share of the routine for a moment, before deciding that the self-infliction isn’t worth half the relief he’ll be getting out of it.

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So, Rusk isn’t stupid — honestly, he’d much rather be — and the third thing you want to know is that he can be stupid sometimes, if he tries enough.

“Huh,” he says, a low mumble, and moves further away, head still light from the aftermath. The feeling isn’t pleasant, but it’s not horrible either, and it’s better than whatever it is that catches in his throat whenever he tries to stop running away from his emotions.

Collette just — stares at him, wide-eyed and a little flushed. She looks like a monster caught at the wrong end of a blade (…as Micah would undoubtedly put it), and the expression makes him feel like he’s won something, maybe, a prize for a phyrric victory, because that’s the only victory he deserves to get in this game.

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She doesn’t talk to him for five days.

It doesn’t bother him as much as he thinks it should; this is an expected reaction, after all. He locks himself up in his room before bedtime, flipping through the pages of his father’s cookbook, reading every line again and again until his eyes are too heavy with sleep to continue, until he’s too tired to remind himself of the ambiguous way she keeps looking at him every time they run into one another.

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On the sixth day, her sister knocks on the door of his bedroom. She’s calling him for breakfast, in this sorry tone of voice that sounds a little contrived (but he’ll take it; that’s what he’s all about, after all). She asks him if he’s okay, and knocks again, calling his name softly, pronouncing the syllable like an apology.

“I’m fine,” he replies, as he’s getting up. His voice is just loud enough for her to hear through the door.

He presses his hand on the copper knob for a while with his eyes on the floor, his breath steady and recollecting. Trying not to let his relief shine through. Not to her; he knows his sister well, more than well enough to understand the way she solves her problems through sheer cold denial, the way that trait runs in the family (bad genes, probably). He’s not going to give her the other half of the resolve if she’s not willing to give away hers. And she won’t.

He opens the door, and she’s smack dab in front of him, giving him a look. Not in that way — this is a face he’s used to seeing, one that he hasn’t seen for the past five days, and he can’t help but feel a little disappointed despite the fact that he’s come out fully prepared for it. He wonders what his face looks like, but he doesn’t see the same emotions mirrored in her eyes, so he just figures he’s either dense or she’s just that much of a better actress than he is.

“I’m going downstairs,” he yawns, walking past her, ignoring the brush of her warm hand against her cool one. Her footsteps don’t follow until a beat later, and he takes a breath during the vacant second, relishing in the last moment before normalcy is granted back to them.