Chapter Text
Blue has a headache.
Which normally wouldn't be a big fucking whoop. He always has a headache. He lives with three headaches. Hell, his entire existence could be characterized as one headache after another.
Not enough sleep? Headache. Too much sleep? Headache. Not enough sugar? Headache. Too much sugar? Headache. One of Green’s Puns™? Headache. Vio being a smartass? Headache. Red being Red? Headache.
Day after day after day after day like clockwork, like the tide, Blue is tormented by headaches, both metaphorical and literal in nature.
Right now, however, Blue has a literal headache. A very, very literal headache which is quickly becoming a very, very literal migraine .
He can practically feel it coming, too. Can practically feel as the low grade pounding turns from manageable– a four out of ten at most– into the actual goddess Hylia descending from on high to telepathically scream Fuck You, Blue!!!! directly into his skull; the pain all too familiar and all too fucking annoying.
Blue can feel it coming in the way the dim light of their shop begins to strain his eyes, each flicker of their too few lanterns sending clouds of fuzz and crackling stars dancing in his peripheries. Can feel it in the way the skin of his face and neck begin to prickle with needles of feverish heat. Can feel it in the way his ears begin to clog, sound dulled as cotton stuffs itself too tightly against his eardrums, tickling uncomfortably at his brain.
Blue can absolutely feel as pressure continues to build up within his skull. Can feel as what was once a light pounding behind his eyes grows. Growing, growing, growing, ramping up in both speed and power until the blue wearing smithy feels wave after wave of pain slamming against his sinuses, rattling his senses.
He can feel how it makes his jaw clench, his teeth grind, his hands itch to reach up and tear at the roots of his hair to just get some fucking relief.
Normally, Blue would be able to deal with this type of pain in a slightly less destructive way.
Normally, he would just go upstairs, slam the door to their shared room shut so the others knew not to bug him, throw the curtains across the window so the room is cast in goddess blessed darkness, and then climb into the cool sheets of his bed, pulling the blankets over his head so he could sit and wait and wallow in his own woe is me bullshit until the world stopped trying to fucking kill him.
But alas, the world is apparently going to get a shot at his head today.
Because unfortunately, Blue can’t do any of those things right now.
Because in addition to a literal headache, Blue also has a metaphorical headache on his hands.
A metaphorical headache in the form of a man who appears to be the biggest idiot this side of Mt. Crenel.
And Blue knows Green, so that's saying something.
The absolute buffoon has been in the shop for about three hours now, just meandering from wall to wall to wall to wall, goggling blankly at the array of weapons like he can’t tell a longsword from a claymore or that the stabby bit goes in the other person.
Normally, if Blue had one of his headaches while he was manning the shop, he would just grab one of the other morons he shares a house with to cover for him. They were accommodating enough, knowing by now that a Blue with a migraine was a Blue who was one step closer to actually following through on all the threats he made.
But apparently, today the stars had aligned to make Blue's day truly terrible, really, Hylia, you've outdone yourself.
Because Green was at the castle, hanging out with Zelda. Because Vio was out in the Minish Woods, doing whatever bullshit research he was currently obsessed with. Because Red was in town, grabbing groceries.
Meaning, Blue had no escape from his headache or the increasing pain and frustration this idiot was inflicting upon him with his very existence.
Every circuit of the room, the guy brings something up to the counter, asks a question about it, and upon receiving his increasingly clipped answer, just– just fucking leaves it!!! At the counter!!! Apparently none the wiser that he’s only supplying more weapons for Blue to skewer him with.
Around and around and around the shop the guy goes, getting his grubby fingerprints all over the polished Zora spears– Hylia, was the guy eating peanut butter with his bare hands before coming in???– messing up the shelving order of the Goron digging tools, and dropping several of the Gerudo style daggers.
Blue had tried to cut this whole escapade short hours ago, had plastered a smile he had hoped looked as bright and cheerful as Red’s–all the while knowing that it had probably looked as emotionally constipated as one of Vio’s attempts at friendly– and had asked the man if there was anything I can help you find today?
But the man had just waved him off, smiling in that ditzy way that Blue swore he was going to see in his nightmares, saying Oh, no need! I’m just window shopping!
Window shopping.
Window shopping! For. Three. Hours. Straight.
“Can I have a word with the smith?” the idiot asks, pulling Blue from his increasingly murderous thoughts, placing yet another weapon on the counter beside the countless others he had already brought forward and subsequently discarded. “I think there might be something wrong with this sword. I mean, it's kinda messed up, isn’t it?”
Blue blinks slowly at the man, trying to stow the pain and frustration for the sake of making a sale, and then glances down at the blade in question.
It’s a beautiful, flame-bladed rapier. One Red had worked on, actually.
Blue remembers the other agonizing over the undulating curves of the blade, his more emotional brother heating and reshaping, heating and reshaping, heating and reshaping, the slightly smaller smithy covered in sweat and ash as he worked, determined to get the wave of metal just right.
Even Blue, one of the harshest critics of his and the others’ works, had to admit that Red had succeeded in that area. The sword is beautifully balanced even in spite of the curves, each metal wave uniform and masterfully shaped, rounded and yet sharpened to deadly perfection.
Blue peels his eyes up from the sword to look into the eyes of the man, hoping this might be some kind of sick joke.
It isn’t. The older looks back at him expectantly, brows raised, eyes wide, waiting for a response.
Right. Blue really shouldn't have underestimated the depths of this guy's stupidity. Not after having had an unwilling front row seat to it for three fucking hours.
He resists the urge to roll his eyes. Not because he’s trying to be polite. But because Blue can feel his headache increasing, the waves of pain becoming stronger as they grate against his skull, making the lantern light in their shop bright and piercing and too much.
He's pretty sure if he rolls his eyes, he might actually collapse due to the strain.
“Sir,” he grits instead, words hissed out from between his teeth, customer service smile too thin lipped, too full of bite to be anything considered remotely nice or polite, “ Like it says on the display case , that is a flame-bladed sword. Also known as a wave-blade. It's supposed to look like that.”
“Are you sure?” the guy asks, grabbing the hilt and waving the sword this way and that for an inspection, forcing Blue to whip his head back lest he risk an untimely hair cut or perhaps being fucking decapitated.
“I mean, a sword like this is pretty useless, right?” The mouth-breather says, suddenly shifting his grip on the pommel, turning to skim an evaluative eye down the face of the blade, obliviously stabbing the air where Blue’s head would have been had he not had the presence of mind to duck behind the counter.
“And no embellishments on the pommel either,” the idiot continues with a furrowed brow, a wrinkled nose, a down turned lip as he shakes his head at the lovingly wrapped grip, completely oblivious of the smithy he almost just killed.
The same crouching smithy who can feel the skin of his face getting hotter and hotter with every word as pain and anger dance and twine in his head, his chest, until the two are indistinguishable from one another, now a single scalding geyser building pressure, about to explode.
“A pretty sad excuse for a decorative sword in my opinion,” the deadman says with a dismissive sniff. “Not only worthless but ugly to boot.”
The man’s words slice through Blue’s head, cutting through the pounding pounding pounding of his migrain, through the searing searing searing frustration, and for the briefest of seconds, Blue feels a stillness fall over him.
For the briefest of seconds, the geyser calms, becoming an untouched pond, crystal clear and unmoving.
And behind his eyes, Blue can see Red’s smile, exhausted and soot streaked but bright and proud as he holds out that very same sword to be inspected by Blue and Green and Vio. Blue can see the relief and joy spread over Red’s face, the other practically glowing as bright as the embers of the forge as he receives compliment after compliment from his brothers; a punch on the shoulder from Blue, a fond side-hug from Green, a warm ruffling of hair from Vio.
Blue can see Red, bright and happy and proud.
And Blue can see Red, downcast and sad and ashamed if he were ever to hear the words the man had just spoken.
And then all he sees is red.
The geyser erupts inside, scalding his face, burning his eyes, Blue’s migraine somehow going from bad to brain melting in the span of a millisecond, but he could care less.
No. The blue-wearing smith is more focused on the boiling in his blood, the steaming tide of anger in his veins that buoys him up despite the stabbing pain in his skull, that causes him to slam his fists down on the counter in front of him, forcing the absolute, good for nothing, Hylia damned, FUCKFACE to cringe away from the sudden noise as he finally notices Blue once more.
“Get. Out,” Blue breathes, the searing words slipping past his lips like steam.
The man blinks twice, confused by the sudden outburst.
“W-wh–?”
“I said,” Blue repeats, sweeping Red’s sword into his left hand while hoisting himself up onto the counter with his right, drawing himself up to his full height as he levels the flame-bladed rapier with the man’s forehead, “Get the fuck out of my store before I show you just how decorative this sword can be!”
The man takes a few shaky steps back, hands up in surrender. “I-I don't–”
“Get the fuck OUT!” Blue screams with finality, voice shaking with fury and pain.
And if nothing else, at least the guy has some sense of self preservation, because with a little squeak of fear not unlike a mouse’s, he turns tail and flees, escaping out the door before Blue even finishes yelling.
Not a moment too soon either.
Because the anger, the shouting, the change in position; the heat of it all rushes to Blue’s head. The fuzziness that had been clouding at the edge of his vision increases four-fold, the twinkling monochrome stars widening into black holes that eat at Blue’s eyesight as the tidal wave of pain in his skull collides with the magma of his fury, filling his head with rocks and steam, heavy heavy heavy and yet light light light, throwing off his sense of balance.
Distantly, Blue feels his knees buckle.
And idly, as the black consumes his vision, as the sword tumbles from his grasp so he can bring his hands up to support the growing weight of the stones in his skull, as he feels himself tilt forward, Blue wonders if the dive he’s currently taking off the counter will make him as stupid as the man who caused it.
Blue falls forward.
“Blue!”
But he doesn't land.
He doesn't crash headfirst into the floor, braining himself on their hardwood. He doesnt smash his face into the ground, breaking his nose again. He doesn't experience the added pain a fall like this should have on his already agony-addled skull.
No.
Blue falls but he doesn't exactly land because something soft and warm interrupts his dive, shielding his head and shoulders from the impact with the ground even as the rest of him bangs it’s way to the floor.
And for a second, Blue just lays there, taking stock of himself.
His head still throbs with pain, still pounds out a rhythm that sends agony from his forehead all the way to the tips of his ears. He still feels lightheaded, like the world is tilting even though he can tell for a fact that he is no longer falling. His knees ache from where they took the brunt of his fall.
But his face is pleasantly warm from where it’s pressed against fabric. Fabric that shifts gently against his cheek, up down up down up down with someone else’s slightly ragged breaths, as though they had run just before ending up in this position.
Wait, breaths?
Blue peels his eyes open, pained confusion forcing him into action despite the too bright lights still clawing at his vision, the pain digging nails into his brain.
Blue opens his eyes and all he sees is red.
A red tunic against his cheek, soft and warm. A pair of amber, red eyes gazing down at him with a mix of concern and admiration.
Blue sees Red, breathing a little heavily and sprawled out on the floor underneath him but grinning like he just won the swordsmanship contest of the Picori Festival. Blue sees Red and his battered brain puts two and two together to make Four.
Red was the thing that cushioned his fall.
Red… saved him?
“Whew. You almost took a nasty tumble there,” Red says with a relieved sigh and a smile once he sees Blue looking at him. “That could have been bad!”
“Red?” Blue asks a little dumbly because really , give him a break . He just took a fucking nose dive off a counter because his blood pressure was no doubt spiking as high as the Palace of Winds while his brain was busy melting out of his ears. Excuse him if this wasn’t exactly the outcome he was anticipating.
Red, meanwhile, doesn't even skip a beat.
“Nope! It’s Vio.” He relaxes his face, expression falling from sunny relief to ambivalence, his voice becoming smoother, a bit dryer, as he imitates their more taciturn brother. “Could you not tell?”
Blue shoves him away with a scoff and immediately regrets it when his head rebels against him, sending a wave of pain from his forehead to the back of his scalp, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of hurt.
“Careful!” Red chides him with his regular voice, having no doubt seen Blue’s wince of pain.
Hands, gentle but insistent, lock onto Blue’s shoulders and guide him up and back until he sits with his spine against the very counter he had just fallen from, his head hanging limply between his knees.
Once situated, the hands release his shoulders. One goes away entirely while the other reaches over the top of Blue’s hunched shoulders, pulling the fabric of his hood out from behind his neck and over his head, casting some much needed darkness around Blue’s face.
It’s not quite enough to keep him from squinting when he opens his eyes– the dim lantern light still throws sunspots and blackholes in his vision– but it's better than before, giving him a modicum of relief.
They sit in silence for a bit, Blue breathing through the pain in his head, Red sitting near, a hand on Blue’s knee, comforting.
“So your headache is pretty bad, huh?” Red whispers, careful to not send Blue into another throe of pain.
“What tipped you off?” Blue whispers back irritably, pulling the hood down lower with one hand as he massages his temple with the other.
Red doesn't even flinch at the words, which tells Blue that he must look even more like shit than he thought.
They go back to silence, Red rubbing soothing circles into Blue’s knee as the waves of pain slamming forward backward forward backward in his skull slowly begin to dissipate. Not into nothing, oh no, that would be too merciful, but they lessen, like storm aided waves slowly losing steam.
“Didn't think you would be back for a while,” Blue says lowly.
“Shopping went a bit quicker than I thought it would. Not a lot of people out today. Must be the rain.”
Another beat of silence as Blue chooses his words, fishing them from the tide of his mind.
“How much of that did you hear?” Blue asks eventually, finally gaining the strength to peek out from under his hood without his brain punching him in the brain.
Red wilts a little at the question but his soothing circles don't let up for a moment.
“Enough,” the smaller smith says softly. “I was just finishing up putting everything away and thought I would stop in to let you know I was gonna be starting dinner when I, uh, heard.”
And then, with a little laugh. “He really didn’t like my sword, huh?”
“Yeah well, that guy was a moron,” Blue says with as much venom, as much scalding conviction as he can manage, some of that familiar boiling heat from before tingeing his words as he spits them out. “He wouldn't know a well made sword if he was being fucking stabbed with one.”
That startles a little snort of laughter from Red.
Blue won't admit that it makes him feel just a bit better.
“Yeah, I know,” Red says, his words a sigh, wistful yet sort of sad. Like he’s trying to convince himself that they’re true. And then, with a little smile as he leans down a bit in order to peek under Blue’s hood more fully, “Thanks.”
“Whatever,” Blue grumbles flippantly, straightening his spine and slowly, slowly , pushing himself to his feet, his hands braced on the counter for support as his vision swims. “Asshole had it coming.”
A hand sets itself gently on Blue’s elbow, ready to help guide him if need be.
“Think you can make it upstairs?” Red asks.
Blue nods and shrugs off the hand, more from habit than anything else.
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Blue grumbles, shuffling his way behind the counter, hood still firmly in place over his head. “I can walk up a few stairs without braining myself, thanks.”
“Okay, sure you can, Mr. Tough Guy,” Red agrees easily enough with a bright grin, though Blue notes how he still follows behind as they step through the back room toward the stairs. Still notes how he can feel the other’s eyes locked on his back as he slowly makes his way up to their room.
“Have a good nap!” Red calls from the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll grab you when dinner’s ready!”
Blue gives hima wave of acknowledgement, slips into the bedroom, and promptly buries himself under the covers of their bed, allowing the cool sheets, the darkness, and the faint sound of rain lull him to sleep.
…
When Blue wakes hours later to a night-darkened room, a cool compress on his head, an iced peppermint tea with two lemon slices on the bedside table, and three other bodies in the bed with him, he knows Red lied to him about waking him up for dinner.
But as he takes a sip of the tea, as he feels it cool his throat, his stomach, as the sound of rain outside patters softly at their window, and as Red curls up a bit closer to his side, Blue finds that he doesn't really care.
His headache is gone and he really wasn't all that hungry anyway.
Blue settles back into bed, pulling the blanket back over his shoulder from where it had fallen when he sat up, throwing his arm across Red’s side as he does. He closes his eyes, settling into the warmth of his brothers, the waters of his mind stilling into tranquility.
He’ll just demand some cinnamon rolls for breakfast tomorrow.
Yeah. Then they’ll be even.