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'Brother'.
That word was beautiful roses with deadly thorns attached, and smelled of death underneath the perfume of jianjian and ziqiu's love.
Part of him hated that word with a passion - wanted to renounce that title that Jianjian placed on him the day they met.
That word was filled with love and it electrocuted him like lightning in a rain storm - it rotted inside of him because that wasn't the love he wanted, wasn't the love he craved from her.
That word was filled with doubt and guilt and anguish. That word made him stern and collected and protective, made him want to protect her from the world but, most importantly, from himself.
That word made him choke on his food when she rolled around in his bed (the bed he went to sleep in and the bed he woke up in, sweaty, guilty, and messy from dreams gone unsaid and unheard) and then said, with an innocence that turned his gut inside out with panic, protectiveness, and low-level arousal, that his scent smelled good to her.
And -
He couldn't -
No brother should have a reaction to that, no brother should want her like this.
And that part hates the word 'brother'.
But the other part, the bigger part?
The bigger part, the one that still flinches at the sound of heavy rain, the one that got left so blatantly by his mother, the one that still shies away from walnuts, loves the word 'brother'.
That part, still bleeding from wounds that can never heal, wounds that smell like candles and happy screams from ling yun (his little spark) whenever he thinks about that night too hard, loves having a second chance at being a (better) brother.
That part thrives in being her older brother, thrives in taking care of her along with ziqiu. That part thrives in helping their little make-shift family continue to love and to grow.
That part loves the word 'brother' because it's something - it's a claim to jianjian that no one else will ever have, a piece of her heart that's exclusive to five people.
'Brother' is a promise, sweet poison dripping from her lips, that he always has a safe haven, a place to belong to that isn't filled with blood and screams and attempted suicides and slammed doors and memories of ghosts living on the skin of his half-sister.
It's a promise that he always has a home, even if it isn't shaped in the way he wants it to.