#OH MY GOD A FELLOW SANSON LOVER

[sezja]

Melody is a patient woman, at least where it matters most. Oh, perhaps that might surprise some people - people who believe her to be pushy, or perhaps nosy, or perhaps even (gods forbid) overbearing, but even at her very worst (which, if she may be so bold, is still better than most people's best), she is patient.

So she watches Guydelot stalk around her parlor, looking comfortably out of place in his Gods' Quiver gear, no doubt deliberately chosen to demonstrate a lack of concern for her station, her career... or indeed her furniture; she'd insisted he remove his boots at the door, at least, else he would have tracked mud in on her nice rugs. What an uncouth man: utterly unpolished, peppering his every sentence with swear words that would have made Melody's poor mother blanch, wandering off in the middle of conversations to explore the room as though he owned the place...

He's fascinating, both in himself and as her fastidious, dutiful brother's choice of lover.

"That's the three of us as children," she calls to him, watching as he pauses before a small framed sketch: there they are, Melody and her siblings, sitting together on a picnic blanket.

"Aye, I'd know Sanson anywhere," Guydelot says, warmth stealing its way into his unguarded voice. "So serious, even as a sprat."

Melody smiles, drifting over to admire the sketch beside him. Sanson sits between the two girls, hands folded politely in his lap, looking unwontedly grave for a child of some eight summers; they'd been told that morning just how important it was that they sit still so the artist could do her work, and Sanson - being Sanson - had taken the advice to heart. Ah, how Melody had tried to provoke him into squirming! Lyrica at his side in the sketch is a grinning, flouncing little creature, looking fit to sprint away the instant the artist sets down her pen... and Melody herself has been captured with a clever little glint in her eye that she's always quite admired.

"So well-behaved," she agrees, smiling fondly at the memories, at the drawing. "I can count on one hand the number of times he got himself into trouble as a child - and more often than not..."

"I'm wagering more often than not it was your fault."

"Mine!" She touches a hand to her heart. "Dear sir, you wound me... but yes, I was a bit of a ringleader, and if he got into trouble, it was often at the cost of trying to keep me out of it." She gives him her most winsome grin, touching his arm. "But come, we were having tea."

"So we were."

She corrals him back to the table once more - the third time in the space of an hour - and once more sets to examining the man out of the corner of her eye. No, not hard at all to see what Sanson finds handsome about the man: though Melody has never been drawn to Elezen fellows herself, there is a certain rough elegance to him. A wildness. Does Sanson hope to tame that, she wonders? ...And then doubts it, knowing Sanson as she does; no, like as not Guydelot is coaxing a little wildness into her straightlaced brother, and not a moment too soon!

And there's a wariness to him, too. She isn't altogether certain Guydelot likes her much - or perhaps he's simply too uncertain of her motives to let his guard down.

Well. That's fair enough, she supposes.

"The tea isn't poisoned," she teases, sipping pointedly at her own. "I assure you, I invited you solely to become better acquainted."

"Aye," Guydelot replies with near-perfect calm, taking a noisy sip of the tea; Melody fights the urge to smile. He sets the cup back down. "So? What do you want to know, then?"

She eyes him. "I begin to think you don't like me much, sir."

"That's new to you, is it?" His eyebrows rise. "Not being liked?"

She laughs; she can't help it. "Not so openly! My goodness, why? Whatever have I done to earn your ire so quickly?"

"Nothing yet. But you strike me as a woman who's got claws."

"Perhaps." She studies the nails of one hand, fancying them as claws, fierce and tearing. Not a bad image. "But none for you, darling, never fear. Sonny loves you, and I love my brother. So long as you make him happy, you've nothing to fear from me."

He eyes her, doubt and curiosity warring on his face.

She smiles. "Yes?"

"That boy you mentioned, the one who only courted Sanson to get to you."

It's an old anger, but it simmers beneath the surface. She remembers the hurt in Sanson's eyes, the confusion, the denial. At thirteen summers, it was the end of the world. Melody breathes in the scent of her tea, breathes out the old memories, lets them settle once more. Still waters. It's old news.

"Yes? What of him?"

Those bright eyes narrow. "Just how much encouragement did you give him?"

The still waters boil over. Melody slams her cup down so hard she's surprised the porcelain doesn't crack.

For weeks she'd comforted her sobbing sibling, who wouldn't even emerge from his bedroom to face the rest of the world; she'd helped him dispose of every love letter, every tacky little gift, every pressed flower. Sanson's broken heart was a brittle thing - her stern, serious sibling, who'd allowed himself for the first time to believe someone might actually fall in love with him; Melody had watched him build a wall around his heart, and-

She breathes in deep through her nose, out through her mouth. Calm. Steady.

"None," she replies. "I'd never spoken to him until Sanson brought him home to meet us." Another deep breath. "At his insistence. He wanted to meet Sanson's family, he said. And then he caught me alone..."

There's less accusation in Guydelot's eyes now, only curiosity. "And then...?"

"I blacked his eye," she replies primly, fingers curling into fists at the memory. "He swore he'd only mistaken me for- for Sanson, but he'd called me by name. I dragged him out by his ear and made him admit to it, all of it, and then..."

And then the look on Sanson's face.

"I made his life a living hell," she says - quiet, icy. "I tormented him, mocked him, made sure he knew what a pathetic little worm he was." She picks up her tea, takes a quiet sip. "And rather than try to approach our parents about it, his family simply moved away, out of Gridania - out of the Twelveswood entirely. Sir," she says, "that boy received no encouragement whatsoever from me."

There's something like admiration on the bard's face. Maybe a touch of fear. "My mistake. Blacked his eye, eh?"

"Whatever else you may think of me, Guydelot, and whatever else I may be, I love my family. I love my brother, prickly though he may be." She smiles once more, thawing. "I don't mean to attempt to drive a wedge between you, if that's what you've feared. If you mean to treat Sanson well, as I said, you have naught to fear from me."

"Good to know," he replies. "Because you just gave me a half-dozen more reasons to be afraid of you otherwise."

She merely laughs. "Oh," she says. "Good!"

#sanson smyth #guydelot thildonnet #melody smyth #my writing #protective 'older' sister