to be so soft, it hurts

You can tell it’s Sunday immediately by the sound of his footsteps, a pristine, polished grace to every click before it was closely followed by that same wrap of two knuckles on your bedroom door. He never waited for a response before entering, he never did— he’d always insisted that as your older brother, it was his right to be able to see his family whenever he so required it and now that you both were indeed that— family, there should be no secrets between you both either.

You’re face down in your silk pillows by the time the door quietly pushes open, followed by another silky, careful step before it clicks closed behind him and you hear the knick of the lock despite your own rattling breaths.

You’re a mess really. Having taken the time to slip into your night dress, you’re now barely covered in your hunched over position and your face is no doubt splotchy and tear stained. But when you turn to offer Sunday a pitiful look he’s sure to meet it with nothing short of adoration, perhaps even a little bit of underlying distaste to find you in such a way.

But you think Sunday’s usual put-together and perfect appearance only further emphasises your current sad and sorry one.

He was known for being handsome after all, and that he was; from the favourable colours that he usually chose to wear, sleek shades of navy blues and blacks to the glimmer of gold in his gaze that would match every embellishment. Every line was intentional, every silver hair in place as it rests over his shoulders and every feather from the wings at his neck would be preened to perfection.

He’s outwith his usual service cassock today, opting instead for something sleek and black alongside the usual clerical collar.

Sunday was perfect. Is perfect, many of the things you are not and maybe that’s why you can’t help but find yourself enjoying the attention that he gives you.

As expected from the first son of Gopher Wood, Cardinal Sunday was a distinguishable and respected title amongst the church and kingdoms and he made sure to wear it as such. Even despite his sometimes more….. frowned upon qualities, he loved you, spoiled you even. Perhaps more than any other brother should love their sister, but then again, you were not siblings by blood, simply by obligation.

Even then are you really in any position to argue the expectations of an older brother figure when they’re showing you such unwavering charity?

You sniffle to yourself before stuffing your face back into the silken pillow beneath you, returning to your previous teary state after seeing your older brother only brings back those same feelings of having disappointed him.

But almost instantly, Sunday seems to take more offence to the fact you’ve pulled your gaze away from him than anything else. So he allows himself a few more graceful, quick steps into your quarters until he’s standing at the edge of your bed.

You don’t see the sorry look he gives you, nor do you wish for it, even the thought makes you sob even harder and if Sunday didn’t speak to you with such authority you probably wouldn’t have even have heard his voice at all over your own cries.

“Now, now, my dear sister.” Sunday says with a quick pet of his gloved hands over your hair, the tone of his voice akin to a lullaby as he strokes his hand across your head. “Dry your tears. You know I truly detest seeing you like this, and I’m sure you do not wish to upset me should you be able to help it.”

It’s true, you never wish to upset Sunday and as much as the soft, affectionate tone of his voice soothes you, there’s still an ache in your chest that you can’t quite rid yourself off. You don’t respond to him like you know he’d like, but you manage to quiet yourself down to a hiccup.

A reaction that he doesn’t seem pleased with either when you hear your older brother click his teeth.

“That’s enough now.” Sunday says again, sterner this time despite the still gentle stroke of his hand. “Your reaction could lead one to believe you’re displeased with your failed proposal. Perhaps I was even mistaken to believe you would be grateful to return to the church, does our family mean so little to you?”

“No, No it’s not that at all.” You suddenly find the strength to speak with his accusation, but when your bleary gaze manages to snap to Sunday’s more golden one, you don’t find the look of disgust or betrayal that you expect. Instead he almost looks… gentle, forgiving even. Enough to make your lower lip jut out into a pout when his palm comes to rest at your cheek.

“You’re not mad at me?” You sob a bit, leaning into his hand. “I just don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Not at all, is that was has gotten you in such a sorry state?”

“I…. I don’t know.” You say, because you really don’t.

And Sunday hums before taking a seat on the mattress, his weight causing it to dip at your side before he’s motioning for you to come closer. You know what he’s asking for, without him having to say it and as much as you know it would be considered inappropriate for anyone else, you answer his wordless command without question.

You’re a little clumsy climbing into your older brother’s lap, balancing yourself on his thigh with your back against his chest. And Sunday allows his arms to take their place around you with one fluid motion, clasping at your stomach with his lips just short of the skin on the back of your shoulder.

You fidget a bit, and Sunday offers you the space to get comfortable, waiting until you’re settled before blowing a deliberate breath across the back of your neck.

“Did he touch you?” He asks after a beat, words suddenly tight compared to how soft they were just moments ago. You shake your head in response, not trusting your voice to conceal any hint of disappointment that you know Sunday’s sure to pick up on.

“As I thought.” Sunday hums, and his fingers squeeze around your waist. “That was part of our agreement after all.”

It feels like there’s a momentary lapse in time when Sunday says it and despite the way your tears have seemingly dried, your eyes feel like they go much wider than normal. Suddenly you’re turning in his lap to look at him, unsure of what to say, and Sunday’s looking at you with a look that’s much colder than what you’re used to. His features rest in such a way where he looks almost indifferent, unfamiliar.

He sighs, “Had you learned of your fiancé’s sinful use of his free time I fear I may have lost you entirely. I had to see to it with utmost urgency that we retrieved you from that place at once, lest he make a mockery of the church and break your heart in the process. I would not have my dear sister thought of as a harlot.”

“You did this?”

“I thought being with the family was what you most desired, or do I have it all wrong?” Sunday scoffs, gaze hardening with your reaction, as does his grip on you. “Are we that disposable to you? Am I?”

He knows what he’s doing with the emphasis on the end of his sentence, and it cuts you in the very way he intends it to. But even then it’s hard to look past the fact that the very brother who claims to love you so much, was the very reason your marriage broke down in the first place.

All because what? Your husband had previous lovers in the past? Or was it because he wished to sleep with you?

Your mouth opens then closes again, as if you can’t find the words and Sunday’s eye remain on you, glaring and cold. You shake your head, “That’s not…. that’s not what i’m—“

But he cuts you off with a quick, searing click of his tongue.

“I must say, that is disappointing.” Sunday huffs before glancing away from you, seeming dismissive in a way that makes your skin sting. “After all the forgiveness and generosity that has been extended to you by the church, I would assume you to be more grateful.” But then when he looks at you again, his eyes are soft. His voice slow and silken, as it usually is and his thumb brushes against your lower stomach. “Have I spoiled you too much, my dear sister? Is that it?”

It feels like whiplash with the sudden snap of Sunday’s perfect older brother facade clicking back into place. But even then, your shoulders stay taut, tight with tension as you blink solemnly at your brother and you try not to focus on the way his touch creeping lower makes your skin crawl.

Sunday shifts when you leave him with no answer, “You know how I truly detest repeating myself. Do not make me ask again.”

Another beat and you can’t find the words for some reason. Your heart still aches from the sudden rejection and now you’re on your older brother’s lap in your bedroom figuring out that it wasn’t really sudden at all.

But before you can voice any of that, Sunday’s hands unclasp from around your stomach and shift to different places instead. One heavy on the inside of your thigh, and the other pinching tight at your cheeks. He appears to exhale a breath that’s meant to compose himself before speaking, and you think that’s what makes the soft voice that comes out all the more unsettling.

“You do not require my reprimanding, do you?” Sunday asks again, his hand on your inner thigh gently stroking back and forth while the other holds your face tight.

It’s almost hard for you to shake your head, “No.”

“Then answer me, are you pleased to be home with your older brother again?” You can tell by the hardness of Sunday’s gaze that there is only one correct answer to this.

“Yes.”

“Who, might I add, is the sole reason for you to be allowed to even exist beneath the Pope’s unwavering protection. Who is the only one keeping your best interests in mind when arranging such proposals for their dearest sister.” Sunday emphasises the dearest part as if it’s an insult. As if he’s chastising a child for acting out, for being spoiled. For taking his niceties and his love for granted. His fingers continue to travel higher up your inner thigh with every stroke of his fingers, and you feel something begin to shift in your lower abdomen when they begin to creep beneath the hem of your night dress.

You sniffle a bit, then nod against his grip again. “I know, thank you brother.”

“That’s more like it.” Sunday sighs after a moment of staring at you, and he replaces the tight grip around your cheeks with a soft stroke across your jawline, one you don’t even mean to lean into. “Need I remind you that anyone else would look to take advantage of such naivety? But with myself as Cardinal of the church and your sworn, devoted older brother, that will never be the case. Do you remember?”

“I remember.” You say, glassy eyed as your older brother’s fingers draw circles in your inner, upper thigh. Enough to make you fidget on his lap while his free hand rests at the base of your neck.

“I swore myself to you the moment I brought you off of that wretched street, did I not? Had I not come across you then you would still be with the rats. And to earn the favour of Father’s forgiveness, you… blindly trusted me and abided by the rules I set, for your own sake.” Sunday recalls the memories back to you, his words bending into a seemingly regretful chime. But then they harden again, even if only slightly. “You promised me, didn’t you? That you would behave and that you would never leave me. Yes? You do not wish for me to lose faith in your promises now, do you, my dear sister?”

You feel shameful you think. Perhaps because that’s how you’re supposed to feel in these moments, with Sunday’s desperate gaze looking up at you and his hand up your dress. The other still rests on the base of your neck and when you try to turn your head away it moves quickly to push it back, making sure you look at him before he settles himself with another sigh.

Sunday presses a quick kiss to the skin of your shoulder and then he looks at you, features softening in a way that almost distracts you from his fingers at the hem of your underwear.

“Surely you realise what is at stake. What I sacrificed in order to allow you such comfort and luxury? Tell me then, why would I have done such a thing?” Sunday asks, expecting an answer this time. You try not to shake in his hold, but you respond.

“Because you protect me and you love me.”

Sunday hums and moves again beneath you, just enough for him to nose at your jawline, urging you to turn just enough for his lips to ghost yours. He watches you, his wrist bunching up your dress from where it’s moving beneath it, “And what do we say to that, my dear sister? Loud enough so I can hear you, remember.”

“I love you, brother.” You say, and Sunday appears to reward you with another stroke of his fingertips, followed by a small, chaste peck on your lips that you know better than to pull away from.

“Yes, then you shall never leave this family. Remember?”