a twitch,  a distant feeling of discomfort pulls with the errant tide within his body when russel laughs those words out       it doesnât sound the way he had meant for it to sound,  it sounds tinged with a tickle of hurt,  with a sprinkle of self - deprecation  &  no,  no,  raphael didnât mean it like that.  his eyelids slip close,  the pain in his forehead thuds a bit more  &  to refrain from pressing two fingers to his temple,  he curls them into his palm.  perfect poster child,  golden boy laced with pearls,  silver - toned sea filling your mouth with salt:  he feels imperfect in this moment.
a beat passes,  raphael knows he needs to say something to refute that phrasing because it doesnât sound right to him when russel murmurs it like that.    â  thatâs not-  thatâs not what i meant,  â   he falters,  pain so visible in those heterochromatic hues of his.  why would he say that to russel?  why did he ever-  raphael breathes,  turning so that he fully faces his younger brother,  remorseful smile curving on his gentle visage.    â  itâs good,  â   he starts  &  he wonders,  distantly,  why heâs even fluttering around to explain himself.  a distant ache of discomfort that heâs shoved russel to the side of hurt is the only reason to his question.    â  you should go  &  date casually.  iâll support you no matter what you do,  russ.  â
itâs all heâs been doing as the eldest,  anyway.  gentle hands pushing his brothers forth so they can achieve their dreams,  so they can run  &  enjoy the life heâs never had.  selfless little thing,  arenât you?  for a moment,  his mind runs from him until the younger is speaking again,  explanation on the tongue as a distant ( familiar,  so familiar ) look clouds his eyes.  raphael listens,  closely,  before his heart tugs in every which way for his brother,  for his baby brother.  has it gotten to the point where now raphael is being cared for by his own younger sibling?  oh,  he only wishes for when times were simpler  &  russel would climb into his sheets so he could sing him to sleep.    â  she knows,  russ,  â   he whispers quietly,  hand reaching out to cup oâer the otherâs hand with a little smile,  warm  &  brotherly.    â  but she-  after father died-  it became urgent for me to find a partner.  sheâs only doing what she thinks is best for me.  â
love can come later in a marriage.  you have duties to the sea.  you donât really think those in our positions have the time  &  luxury to fall in love,  do you,  my pearl?
his hand tightens the grip on russelâs hand,  subconsciously,  when he remembers her words.  then it relaxes  &  he lets loose a laugh,  head tilting back as auburn - colored locks fall from his shoulder  &  tickle his back.    â  i wouldnât be surprised if you even charmed them enough to come back for you instead of me.  â   raphael still laughs as that same hand goes from smaller hand to the mop of hair,  ruffling those locks before he uses two fingers to pinch at russelâs nose.    â  thank you.  â   he peers at his brother,  eyes a bit glassy           he knows,  no matter how hard russel may try to hide it.  if he didnât know,  he wouldnât be that good of a brother now,  would he?    â  iâll always be here for you,  you know this.  hm,  reminds me of the time you were crying really hard when i-  â
laughter bounces off the walls as he reminisces,  any lingering feeling of anxiety,  of heavy guilt,  washing away with the waves.
Ah, you did it again. You made him worry over you. You hurt him. The pain is obvious in Raphaelâs eyes, and Russel winces at the sight of it. It stings, the ache he feels distinctly physical, like a strike to the sternum â dull, pounding, spreading. He keeps smiling, though. Russel is reminded, as he often is, that his resentment of his brothers for forgetting him is selfish â after all, heâs the useless one, isnât he? Why shouldnât they pretend him away?
âI know you didnât,â The third prince says, though he doesnât know that at all. Itâs no secret to him that very few in the family approve of his dating habits, despite what Raphael says. But he wonât inflame tempers any further by arguing, nor give his brother any reason to focus on his. The attention â the sight of those mismatched eyes brimming with pain for him, for him, Raphael is thinking of him â makes him feel a sick mixture of relieved and guilty. This isnât right. Raphaelâs hand around his own makes him feel the same. Being cared for. This isnât right.
Heâs the prince that matters. Youâre supposed to support him. Thatâs the only good you can ever do, right? The only worth youâll ever have.
And yet â and yet, the surprising affection has the mask slipping, and heâs angry at their mother ( as if he isnât always ) enough to let it slip a little further. âMaybe she doesnât know whatâs best for you,â the younger murmurs, voice venomous and hard.  âMaybe you know whatâs best for you, and itâs not her place to ââââ He startles suddenly, eyes widening, stiffening; heâd forgotten he has PUBLIC ANGER IN HIM. So good at pretending, so good at dismissing everything. His head shakes, and he laughs uneasily to banish the anger that doesnât match the mask.
At least the distraction is welcome. He groans as Raphael brings up an old memory, shoving his shoulder playfully and trying to fix his own hair. YOU KNOW THIS, he says, and Russel resists the urge to argue. HE DOESNâT KNOW THIS. He doesnât believe in Raphael being there for him at all â but thatâs fine. Itâs fine. Let the golden boy pretend.
âDonât you think itâs unfair for a brother to hold his little brotherâs tears over his head?â he whines, pouting, playful. PLAYING THE EXPECTED PART. Itâs easier than hurting, anyway.
