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You’re nine, and they’re thirteen.
They let you try puzzles by yourself and only give you hints when you’re taking a long time and they’ve reached the limit of their patience, and they apologize when they get snappish, and they tell you bad jokes to cheer you up when it gets to be too much and you just want to curl up and cry.
They’re gentle—not the way that Toriel is gentle, not motherly, you think—but maybe the kind of gentle like somebody’s just handed you an egg for the first time in your life and all you know is that eggs crack easy. You slip and make a hole in the cracked floor and you feel their phantom fingers on your cheeks, on your skinned knees.
Hey, it’s okay, they say, over and over, like a mantra or a spell. It’s okay, Frisk, it’s okay.
You wonder to yourself a little if this is what having a big sibling is supposed to be like.
And then, when your back is to a corner and monsters are surrounding you, your body moves smoothly and without any input from you, the stick you’ve been hanging onto for comfort drawing a beautiful practiced arc, and—
Blood. Blood spatters your front, and the monsters who were attacking you dissolve into powdery white dust that clings horribly to your hands.
Chara, you think to them, all dull horror. I was still doing fine, you didn’t have to—
They would’ve killed you, they reply. They’re shaking a little but their voice in your head is firm. Harsh. I won’t let that happen. You’re just a kid, you shouldn’t have to kill anyone. So I’ll protect you.
When they cede control back to you, you have to lock your knees to keep from collapsing. You can’t wipe your dirty hands on your pants, they’ll stain, so you kneel at the nearest pile of leaves and use them to clumsily scrub the dust and blood away.
Chara is silent in the back of your head. A sentinel.
You didn’t know it was possible to be afraid of someone and comforted by them at the same time.
This is going to be harder than you expected.
You’re eleven, and they’re seven.
They’re kind of a brat and a know-it-all, but the way they yank on your shirtsleeve when they have wisdom of the utmost importance to share is kind of cute, and so is the way they hide behind you and peep out from around your shoulder whenever you run into anybody.
Then they’re back to calling you names when you don’t solve puzzles quick enough for their lofty taste, and? You really want to smack them? You would if they were corporeal??
They’re just a little kid, though, you remind yourself. When you two ran into the spider bake sale they got up on tiptoe to whisper Spider donuts?? More like spider don’ts! into your ear and then giggled about their terrible joke for like ten minutes. They’re just a little kid, the ghost of a little kid even, and the way they looked at your failure of a cut-up wrist so sadly and cradled your whole arm to their insubstantial chest like—like they know what it’s like, just… You don’t need to be like your parents are to you. They’re just a baby. They deserve better.
You didn’t ask for a little sibling, but you guess you have something like one now, and you just have to do your best.
Do you want one of these, you ask them, pointing at the bowl of monster candy.
I can’t eat like this, they say, sad. Then, hopefully: But I can taste them if you do. Here—
Their transparent form vanishes from beside you, and they settle into your head, a ticklish feeling. You take a candy, undo the wrapper, pop it into your mouth. It’s strawberry. They squeal a little, joyful.
So you take another, and another, and just keep eating them. Maybe you shouldn’t, they say. It only says to take one, I think they’re for everybody.
Well, you deserve more candy if anybody does, you think.
Thanks, Frisk, they reply, and you can’t see their expression when they’re one with you but they sound bashful, and it warms your heart. You’re so nice.
(You end up knocking the bowl over, in the end. Whoops, you think to them, and the two of you share a guilty giggle.)
But when big groups of monsters attack you—
Protect me, Chara whispers, their fists white-knuckled in your shirt.
Your hand shakes as you clutch the toy knife. Your mouth is dry. You don’t know if you can do this.
Frisk, I’m scared, Chara says, and you can hear them starting to sob. Protect me.
And that’s—that’s the thing, you can’t let them down. You swing your plastic play-weapon high.
You’re ten, and so are they.
They look a lot like you, you realize when you can compare your reflection to their see-through projection beside you (Chara doesn’t show up in mirrors—I’m dead, genius, they snap at you when you ask them why).
But it doesn’t really feel like having gained a twin. You think it’s more like having a friend.
Not that you’d know, either way.
Their hand fits into yours, even though your fingers will go right through it if you’re not careful, and they dole out cranky advice and insults when you’re puzzle-solving, and sometimes they get really upset and you don’t know why and you have to try to console them—because whenever you start thinking about just lying down and not getting back up, they lean in as close to you as they can and encourage you to keep going.
You were a little bit worried when you ran into a gang of monsters and they urged you, over and over, to just fight, to just kill them, Frisk, you idiot, they’re going to kill you if you don’t, but the screaming horror in their voice underneath their anger made it hard to hold it against them.
Let me do this my way, you told them, fighting to keep yourself calm. Just—let me try, okay? Nobody has to die. Nobody has to get hurt. Not me, not you, not them.
And you did it, in the end. That shut them up. They haven’t bothered you to kill anything since then. Maybe they’re actually impressed with you, a little.
It’s heartening, not being alone. Even if you don’t always agree—Chara is here with you, and that makes you feel so much stronger.
You can do this.