#Doesn’t feel worth the mental hurt of it all 😆

[thepenguisalive7]

i hope a large majority of qBBH enjoyers just move to tumblr and abandon Twitter at this point. It’s a toxic wasteland over there, I don’t know if any of it is salvageable anymore. No need to beef, just leave forever and never look back.

[meowzfordayz]

hi! i would really love to send an emergency request. my brother has been being horrible to me again-- i dont know how comfortable you are with ranting though so ill just say he said something really horrible about my depression diagnosis and i keep thinking about it. if you can, (and i totally understand if you cant!! i know this character isnt written about often, so he might be difficult to write for. u do so much for so many people so dont feel bad at all if you ignore this or put it off for a while <3 ) i would really appreciate anything platonic relating to rui :,) i dont know if its weird, but i find a lot of rui's emotions with family sort of similar to mine. whenever i think about him, it helps me sort through my own stuff. i dont know if that made sense either, but im trying to say i would love if you can write about the reader being a big sibling reader to rui / comforting him, but idm if you do somwthing else too. thank u sm for reading this too, i again understand if you dont want to write this

have a really great day <3

Heyo darling. 💗 I'm as comfortable as you are: in other words, rant as much or as little as you need (feel free to do so in my DMs, if that feels safer for you?). I hope my interpretation of your request fits your vision/helps you sort through your own stuff — even if just the tiniest bit. ☺️

Author’s Note: my neck hurts. That is all. 😆

we’ll be okay!

Rui x Reader

Word Count: ~1,000

CW: familial, traumatic references

~faqs~

“Rui?” you knock tentatively on his door, your ear pressed against its wooden frame, eyebrows furrowed at the faint sound of muffled sniffling.

“I’m f-fine,” a low snarl responds.

“May I come in?”

“No.”

“Please?” you persist, knowing he usually takes a couple nudges.

You’re met with silence, albeit, not uncomfortably so. This routine is as disappointing as it is familiar — as heart aching as it is heart bonding. Disappointment, not in him, but in the circumstances people fracturing, jabbing, dissolving his weary innocence; familiar in its consistency and relentlessness. Heart aching as you acknowledge your own distance, unable to pry the root from its poisoned soil; heart bonding as you still try to dig just a little deeper, just a little closer, just a little harder, every time the routine resets, replays, continues.

“I said no,” he grunts, even as he unlocks his door, footsteps retreating quickly back to—you assume—his bed, letting you decide whether to enter or flee.

You enter, of course. You always enter.

Regardless of how steadily you brace yourself, you’re never fully prepared for the sight of his sickly, dour form haunched and moping; his patchwork, handwoven quilt draped loosely over his thin shoulders. You understand he wishes he could be anywhere but here, motionless beneath the quiet weight of lingering expectation — of all consuming failure. You also understand he doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know how to grapple with his self proclaimed burden; doesn’t know how to break the surface of his distorted perception of self worth and self respect; doesn’t know how to be anywhere else. He amazes you, truly. Your younger, softer, guarded brother. Your Rui. How incredibly cruel and powerful, mesmerizing and devastating, that he has to feel such controlled anger — such rigid turmoil.

“May I sit?” you shuffle toward his bed.

“Whatever.”

His sole method of invitation, really, so — you sit: wordlessly turning on his bedside lamp, tucking his quilt under his cold toes, making a mental note to bring his dirty dishes to the kitchen when you leave. His gaze follows your movements. Judgemental. Grateful.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you finally murmur.

Typically, his answer is another No, but you ask nonetheless. Just in case he ever says Yes.

“They got mad at me.”

You blink away your shock. He’s rarely so forthcoming.

“I just wanted to help.”

Ah.

“I know I’m frail.”

You know better than to explicitly point out his glistening eyes, opting to hold out your arm—your sleeve—to him instead.

“But I- I want to be strong.”

His voice wavers as he accepts your sympathy, patting at his tears, dampening your shirt.

“How can I be strong when I’m forced to do nothing?” he scowls, “If practice makes perfect, then I want to practice. I want to-” he bites at his tongue, barely restraining a strangled sob, “I want them to see me. Not just who they wish I was, but who I am.”

“I see you, Rui,” you whisper.

Because you know that They do see you isn’t what he needs to hear. Perhaps when he’s more lucid. Calm. Unrattled. But certainly not now. Not when you can sense the freshness of his despair, the relapse of his doubt and deprecation. It’s difficult, being his older sibling, because remaining impartial without alienating him is… a fragile, fickle task. You’re conscious of his pain, his frustration, and are loathe to invalidate or dismiss him. And yet, your parents’ approach resonates with you as well. Rui is frail. Undeniably frail. Especially as you observe his trembling, hawkish stare. So frantic to be tough. So impatient. So bright. How do you encourage his resilience without physically overexerting or endangering him? How do you guide his earnest determination without accidentally extinguishing it?

“I know you do,” he grumbles, “That’s why I’m yours. You listen.”

His trust, his claim, in you warms you. Chills you. Reminds you of your responsibility as the eldest. To protect and nurture the youngest — to inspire and relinquish him. You advocate for him. Suggest allowing him to shadow you as you do your chores; run errands; go out with smaller groups of friends. But your parents are reluctant, afraid, of worst-case-scenario consequences.

“So you’re going to coddle him until he dies miserably and alone and safe?” you’d asked them during a particularly heated conversation.

That night, Rui’d been the one to knock on your door, unaware of why you were muttering—loudly—to yourself. Unaware of how pissed off, how terrified, you were for his future. Crawling into bed beside you, wrapping his fatigued hands around your tensed fingers.

“Don’t worry. We’ll be okay!” he’d declared, splintering your heart further.

You were supposed to reassure him. You were supposed to be the older, wiser, grounded, sibling.

“Thank you Rui,” you’d mumbled sheepishly, kissing his forehead.

“I’m sleeping here,” he’d nodded firmly.

And who were you to deny your younger brother? You’d fallen asleep with his cheek on your chest, forgetting to brush your teeth or change into your pajamas, cherishing the brief reprieve from the incessant reality of Rui’s health.

“Are you hungry? How about we wash your dishes, cook something for dinner, and I’ll sleep here tonight?”

Dim excitement stirs in his expression, his tone almost childish—almost normal, because damn it He is a child—as he smiles hesitantly.

“But what if-”

“I’m sure they won’t mind. We’ll be home after all.”

Rui’s smile stretches to a grin, bitterness shoved aside at the prospect of feeling wanted. Of getting to be strong.

“Love you, [y/n].”

“I love you too, Rui,” you ruffle his hair, chuckling at its tangled strands.

His mouth opens, closes, opens again. You’re patient. Unhurried as you stack his dishes. Fond as you wait for his gentle affection.

“Thank you. You’re the best older sibling.”

“I’m the only older sibling,” you retort playfully.

“Whatever.”

Truthfully, you love when he rolls his eyes at you — when he permits himself to just… be your younger brother. To be young. To be Rui.