Dex and Fitz, Fitz and Dex. Born to perfection and born to ruin. Born to a whole and born to a hollow. A little sister, and older brother, always who look at him in envy. Three younger siblings with wide eyes, always who laugh at him and laugh with him and exist with him. Goes into the world as golden, as a light, on a pedestal as tall as the sky and the only place to go is down. Goes into the world to snarls, to jeers, to hate and thorns and the only thing to do is snap back. Hears people whisper how perfect he is. Hears people whisper how he shouldn’t exist. Born to secrets and gilded frames and born to discrimination in a world who failed to tame his whole family. There’s no reason to worry, there’s nothing wrong, everything is perfect, says his father. This world is wrong, wrong, you’re right, it’s wrong, and I will stop it, says his mother. A smile plastered on to hide the scratches and bad things. A glare plastered on to hide the soft and vulnerable things. He’s been taught young it’s never enough. He’s been taught young it’s never enough. Love me, he asks to his parents, and only gets a list. Love me, he asks to the world, and only gets another wound. His sister comes home and her smile is subdued because that’s how she keeps it from cracking, because they’re not allowed to crack. His siblings come home and their eyes get more wary because they’ve learned the world hates them. Hands that should be perfect with more scars than makes sense, from secret missions he never understood and battles he doesn’t understand. Hands that were never expected to be perfect, with carefully treated burns from alchemy and battles he understands all too well. They meet in the dark when no one can see and look more similar than they’d expect.
Dex and Fitz, Fitz and Dex. Perfect and wrong and broken and whole and smiling and glaring and laughing along, with hands entwined in dark places where worlds meet and whispers echo: Don’t let go.
