Right or Left Handed?
Featuring all 5 LI's
Contains: fluff, smug Sylus, Sylus loves when you spend his money, cute Rafayel, cute Xavier, angsty Caleb, disabled Caleb, cute(?) Zayne, [listen being left handed is hot to me I do not care] [I swear I'm a snowcrow main, why is my writing always better for the other three??]
Wordcount: 1500 total
Inspired by this post and my man complaining about being left handed lmao
READ ON AO3
XAVIER ⭐️💜
Xavier always seemed to favor his right hand. The way he reaches for his cup, the way he writes, the way his grip settles naturally. He was almost certainly right-handed.
It doesn’t make sense, then, why he always seemed to fight left-handed.
When you spar as partners or when you fight wanderers together, he positions himself to your left wordlessly and without hesitation.
His sword in his left hand is not clumsy, not weak. But something in it is still… unnatural.
You mentioned it once, breathless in between paired drills. “You’re right handed, right? You don’t usually…”
He cuts at the air between you, the bold light humming as it connects with your opponent’s sword, inches from your shoulder.
“Focus,” he says calmly. His right hand reaches blindly, fingers finding yours without looking to give you a gentle squeeze.
No one takes notice of the exchange. Only you feel the difference — the way his grip tightens when things get more tense, the way his right hand steadies yours instead of his blade. How he moves and adjusts his entire body to effortlessly protect the space where your hands meet, the side you’re more exposed.
Later, when the training room is empty, you catch him switching hands without thinking, and the sword settles into his right palm like it’s always belonged there, the balance of the blade no longer careful in his hand, but casual - natural.
He notices you watching, and for a moment, you think he’s going to explain. But he doesn’t.
He simply switches the sword back to his left, and takes your hand in his right.
RAFAYEL🎨💕
Rafayel never gives you a straight answer.
You notice it first when you’re walking together, his hand sliding into yours without warning. One day it’s his right, the next it’s his left, sometimes switching sides mid-step just to make you stumble.
“Pick one,” you complain, laughing as you catch yourself.
“Whichever one gets to hold you longer,” he says lightly.
Later, you find him sketching with his left hand, wrist loose, lines flowing effortlessly across the page. You pause in the doorway, watching in quiet awe as an entire scene forms in his grip.
“I thought humans believed it’s rude to stare,” he questions without looking up.
“You’re drawing with your left.”
He switches hands without missing a beat. “Am I?”
You sputter. “You were literally just—”
“And now I’m not,” he says, flashing you a grin. “Life is about flexibility.”
You just stare, eyes playfully narrowed.
“I could also draw with the pencil in my mouth, if that’s better?”
In combat, it’s worse.
He twirls his blade effortlessly from one hand to the other like it’s a magic trick, eyes never leaving you. When a Wanderer lunges too close, he dispatches it easily, then reaches back with the opposite hand to steady you, thumb brushing your wrist in a way that makes your heart flutter.
“Focus, Cutie,” he murmurs, entirely too pleased with himself.
Afterward, when the adrenaline fades, you finally corner him.
“Rafi,” you say, arms crossed, lip playfully pouting. “Are you right or left handed?”
He leans in close, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“Which side you’re on,” he says, slipping his hand into yours - warm, familiar, perfectly placed. “I like to keep my options open.”
ZAYNE❄️🩵
Zayne was acutely aware of how uncommon being left handed was.
In his residency, it was a struggle to mirror things as he learned a new technique or procedure. It was a learning curve that slowed him down unnecessarily, and he tried for a while to adjust, to try to operate (both in the medical sense and just in his daily life) right handed, but no amount of practice could replace his brain’s natural tendency and preference.
It took him much longer to learn these techniques than it otherwise would have (despite him already typically picking it up faster than his peers), and that ate at him. In the end, he learned how to do most things with both hands, even if it was quicker to learn right handed, but more natural for him to do so left handed. So now, when he gets new residents that follow him around like lost puppies, desperately taking notes on everything he says… he always asks if they are right or left handed. That way, he can demonstrate in the easiest way for them to be able to learn.
SYLUS 🐦⬛♥️
You stood beside Sylus at one of the several shooting ranges under Onychinus’ reign. He insisted that you wear the bulky headphones to protect your hearing, while he of course wore none.
Sylus stands sideways, head cocked, left hand on his hip casually, right hand holding up the gun at arm’s length. His shots were fairly scattered, but all within or on the line of the central circle in the target.
You stood with proper form — hips and shoulders squared, both hands holding steady, eye over the sight just right. You took a deep breath and unloaded the clip, bullets all landing tightly knit together in the center.
Sylus gives a hum of approval.
“Well done, kitten. I told you you’d do much better with something more suited to you. Those old association weapons are clunky and unbalanced. Definitely not suited for someone as… graceful as yourself.”
“You’re looking awful smug for someone who did worse than me,” you sneer, sticking your tongue out.
He tilts his head, a slow grin creeping over his face. “Hm… maybe we should make it interesting. First to land five shots dead center wins… and the winner gets to buy dinner tonight.”
“Oh you’re on.”
He smirks. “I hope you’re hungry, sweetie. We’re going to be ordering something from each of your favorite places.”
“You’re in rare form today,” you tease. “Even more cocky than usual.”
“Well… that’s because I know something you don’t,” he purrs.
“What?”
“I’m not right handed, sweetie.”
CALEB 🍎🧡
Well… he was right handed. He’s getting better with his left and what’s left of his right but it’s an ongoing struggle.
Of course, he never lets it show, needing to be big strong Caleb for you. Occasionally, his shoulder aches where the hyper-realistic prosthetic attaches, and it holds him back, and he lashes out when he thinks you aren’t around.
One afternoon, when you come home earlier than expected, he’s working on dinner. He’s chopping vegetables in that quick, precise way like you see done by professional chefs on the cooking programs. But something slips, and he lets out a sharp hiss, pulling his left hand back, bringing the quickly bleeding finger to his mouth.
He lets out a roar of frustration, throwing the knife down beside him in anger, but it still lands wedged perfectly in the hardwood floor… right at your feet.
You can’t help the startled gasp that escapes you, despite your effort to sneak up and surprise him.
He turns to see you, enraged face quickly softening and melting into a forced “care-free” smile.
“Pips!” he says quickly. “You’re home early, I didn’t hear you come in—“
He’s cut off by you stepping forward to grasp his hand, checking the cut.
“Ah, it’s nothing, pipsqueak,” he says, yanking his hand away.
“Your hands were shaking again?” You ask, more of a statement than a question. You grab a towel and move to hold it to his hand, but he avoids you.
“It’s nothing, pips,” he says again, moving to wrap his arms around you. You don’t let him.
“Caleb.”
“I just… lost focus for a second.”
He’s not looking at you, his left hand is clenched so tight the knuckles are white, save for the red dripping down them. His right arm hangs at his side, unnaturally still.
“You’re bleeding,” you say, holding up the towel. “Let me help.”
He scoffs, laughing humorlessly. “I’ve had worse.”
“I know,” you say simply. Emphatically.
As if either of you would ever be able to forget that fact.
“I don’t need help,” he suddenly seethes. His chest is heaving now, words coming too fast through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to need help.”
“I know that too,” you say softly as you turn off the stove.
“Get out of the kitchen so I can finish this,” he snaps. “I don’t need you here—“ he stops short.
You just look at him, face calm and neutral. He looks stricken immediately by his own words, face recoiling in regret.
“I didn’t mean that, I don’t mean to—“ he sighs. Swallows. Tries again, unable to look at you. “I don’t like you seeing me like this.”
“I know,” you reiterate. “But it’s okay, Caleb. It’s okay to need help from time to time. I don’t mind if you need me as much as I need you.”
He hesitates, eyeing you, and a war of emotions crosses his face. Finally, he sighs and holds his hand up for you. You apply the towel with pressure, and turn back on the stove.
