Fandom: Code Geass
Characters: Schneizel, Cornelia.
Word Count: 582
Rating: Somewhere around the PG mark?
Warnings: Uh. Might be ever so slightly incesty?
Summary: Brother and Sister spend a few moments together before they debut as Prince and Princess.
Author's Notes: For chibi_plum.
He finds her behind one of the ceiling to floor curtains - purposefully steps a little heavier, so that she hears, so that she doesn’t think she’s been caught unawares - something she’d surely hate. The young prince lingers for a few moments, that she might compose herself as she sees fit, still her wringing hands and soften her set jaw. He greets her with a smile that she returns, and he can see it, see the nervousness that hovers around and behind it, but he closes the distance between them to stand before her. She gives a short bow, to which he takes her gloved hand - it seems daintier than he's used to when clad in silk, rather than her preferred fencing gauntlets, and yet he's always known what she was hiding.
She knows, and colour rises, surely unbidden, to her face, something she quickly seeks to mask with a tilt of her head. This debut is what they’ve been groomed for, for eighteen years. She feels the pressure that Schneizel, somehow, does not.
(He doesn’t question it though, doesn’t seek for the answer as to why that is.)
His eyes flick over her, take in every little change. He’s used to seeing her in leggings and coat - sturdy things. Practical. Formal events mean confectionary, full skirts and petticoats and ounces of feathery lace, but there is no lace now, no wide skirt keeping him at arm’s length. She is in a gown of palest royal purple, classical in cut and fold, that grips and drapes exactly where it should. It’s novel, almost, that he can step so close to her, can easily take her hand in his to press a kiss to the back.
Hems frothed with frills or thick, stiff cloaks have always kept him away, and now he is invited in by the curve of silk on skin. It is right, to have her at his side, as if she is supposed to be there. He cherishes it, the feeling of having her close by him, the rightness of it. He finds himself smiling as she leans in, just a little, knows the feelings are mutual.
(It saddens him to suspect that one day things might change, but he knows he cannot foretell the future, and he will assume nothing.)
They are alone. He allows a hand to rest upon her waist, holding her gently.
And he steps back as she does, releasing her smoothly. Her eyes dart off for a moment and then - as if in defiance of what she sees as silliness - looks at him directly. There’s a fire in her eyes that he admires as much as anything else, fierce and beautiful.
(She is his sister and she is his rock, even if she knows so little, and he adores her as he can.)
She wants to say something, but will not. Something, he surmises, about this being foolish. About wanting to be in a training hall, running over sword forms, target practise, anything but this. Perhaps something about feeling out of place, perhaps, perhaps, but his place is not to speculate. His place is to take action, to make right.
He holds out his hand to her. He holds his head high, proud - proud of her. Proud of them. Proud of what will be.
“You are resplendent, sister,” he tells her, and he means it, every word. “As a goddess.”
He knows it will not be the first time he says those words, as her hand falls into his.