sandboxmatcha
Mikael was never fond of housework. Being a child, he'd grumble at even the slightest mention of sweeping the floor or fixing his bed. Ever since Pete, however, he'd taken it upon himself to help with whatever he can. Every other day he'd help Lee wash the dishes, and on the days after that, he'd help cook the meals with Wren.
As they peeled wild onions in the kitchen, they'd talk about anything and everything--him and his sister. But as Wren turns her work over and runs the sharpened rock over the surface, Mikael can't help but notice that Wren seems to have too much and too little to say.
He purses his lips, waiting for the silence to burst. He's halfway done through another onion when his mouth finally supplies, "You're awfully quiet today, Wren. Something wrong?"
Mikael looks at her with mother's eyes and father's thick lashes. Wren sighs resolutely, setting a half-peeled vegetable aside to study her makeshift paring knife.
"I've heard news about Ward."
"And...?" Mikael prompts, always eager to hear anything about Ward.
"It's a wasteland now." Wren steels herself, but her brother catches all the ache and quiver. "We have nowhere to go back to now."
Mikael can practically feel the heaviness on Wren's shoulders. They only went with Pete to take temporary refuge from the war--so assured that Ward will still be there once they're old enough to go back. But with Wren's news and her grim expression, Mikael guesses there's more to her troubles than just that.
He scrunches his brows. "What do you mean, wasteland? Sure, the war might have destroyed a few things--like our house--but that doesn't mean we can't go back if we want to."
And then, Mikael's worst fears are confirmed by Wren's next words. "They used chemical bombs on the whole nation. The Fifth Citadel--all the Wards. We'd die of poisoning if we ever came back."
"Oh." And it's all Mikael Warwicke can muster to say at the moment--so overwhelmed with the fact that they're irrevocably 'lost children' now. In name and in nature.
"I'm sorry, Wren," Mikael apologizes: a force of habit. It's all he can offer his sister now--who's clung to home with all her resolve.
Pete was never home to her, Mikael knows. . . But at this point, would anything ever be good enough to pass off as home?
Within the confines of his miniscule world, there is no place for anyone else but him and her. He lives inside this snowglobe mentality, where shards of secrets coat the floorboards and the crystal finery.
The whole house is a sham, he's come to accept this; the celebrations more so. Oh, but what he wouldn't give the vultures just to hold her--even at arms length. And now that she's here, sipping his bootleg trade and resting lithely on his chaise, he finds himself failing to give a damn about all the commotion downstairs, where the revelry is thickest. The flock matters little to him--only his wayward darling and their starcrossed romance exists in his world at the moment.
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