Chapter Text
Sumeru is big.
Very, very big.
Even now, having lived here for years, Layla still can't comprehend it.
It's a warm land, however you choose to interpret the term. A far cry from the snow and ice of the Court she'd grown up in.
If you asked her which she'd prefer, though, Layla would give a surprisingly sentimental response:
"Wherever my brother is," she'd say, her smile soft with homesickness.
This reply is usually met with the following: Wide eyes, a slack jaw, and a moment of fumbling before the respondent would sputter out:
"You have a brother?!"
Indeed, Layla does.
Only a few people have heard her mention him; even fewer know anything about him. This is in part due to Layla's hesitance to speak of him, given his proclivity for privacy.
Of what is known, only four facts have been confirmed. They are as such:
Fact One: Layla's brother is older than her—by a significant margin. Their age difference is such that Layla sometimes views him as closer to a father than a sibling, partially due to their parents' estrangement.
Fact Two: Layla's brother lives somewhere in Nod-Krai. Though she neglected to mention his job, his is apparently a combat-based career; an honourable one, at that. While Layla is proud of him, her concern is constant, and she regularly sends letters home to ensure his well-being.
Fact Three: Layla's brother is her only relative. That is, the only one she maintains contact with. As mentioned, the two of them are estranged from their parents, and for personal reasons, do not seek to reconnect.
And finally, Fact Four: Layla's brother is loaded.
The final point carries with it a certain legend, which goes as follows:
Early into her academic journey, Layla's brother had sent her money—lots and lots of money.
It'd been enough to cover at least two years, residence and meal plan included, at the Akademiya, along with a hefty budget for textbooks, star chart materials, astrolabes, and every other tool Layla would need over the course of her education.
As if that wasn't enough, her mysterious sibling had also granted her funds for leisure and, if she so chose, extracurriculars.
Layla, mortified, had sent back most of the money, taking only enough to sustain herself for a single academic year…
…until she learned of her scholarship.
After collecting the money, she'd sent all of her brother's funds back, along with the assurance that he wouldn't have to pay for her—she'd received a full ride, and would continue working hard in order to maintain it.
Her brother, of course, congratulated her, sending a heartfelt letter about how proud he was. Lulled into a false sense of security, Layla completely missed the double entendre behind one of his declarations:
"Regardless of how far you go," her wily older sibling had written. "I will always support you. After all, what is family for?"
When winter break rolled around, Layla was horrified to find that, once more, her brother had sent her money. The amount, which varies according from telling to telling, was again too much by her humble standards, but relatively less exorbitant than her initial allowance.
Layla, again, had sent most of it back, penning a flustered letter home over how he was "trusting her with too much!!"
(Absent from these retellings is Flins' response, wherein he'd simply replied, "Who else should I trust, if not my sister?"
Layla still has the letter. Said letter is slightly stained, dusted in make-up from when she'd shoved her face in it, groaning with embarrassment (and deep down, gratitude.)
These too-rich remittances would continue until finally, at the end of Layla's first year, she'd taken a trip home, eager—for various reasons—to visit her brother.
No one knows what happened during that trip.
Only that, once she came back, Layla looked like someone had taken a puppy, a kitten, and kicked both of them right in front of her.
When asked if she was alright, she claimed that she was, but her bag was heavy, and she really, really wanted to unpack.
The story ends there.
Layla, of course, knows the full tale. As does Flins, who thinks upon it with a sweet, slightly smug smile.
He continues to deliver on his promise. Even though Layla protests, he still sends her money—too little, in his opinion, but any more, and Layla would scold him again.
That was exactly what he'd done that first trip home, lovingly bullying his baby sister into accepting his "last-minute gift" of nearly 30,000 Mora.
"You did this on purpose," the younger fae had grumbled, packing the pouches into her luggage.
"Whatever do you mean?" Flins gasped, feigning offence.
"You waited," Layla complained. "Until the very last moment, knowing I wouldn't have the time to try and give anything back."
"My, such accusations." He shook his head. "I did no such thing. Now, come along. Breakfast is ready, and your boat departs in an hour. Even with our ability to access Waypoints, it would be unbecoming to begin a habit of lateness—"
Such is the dynamic of these two siblings.
* * *
For all her complaints, Layla truly loves her brother.
Flins, of course, shares the sentiment.
For many, many years, the two of them have been each other's sole companions, a dynamic duo standing in the face of whatever the world would dare to throw.
Time, though, can only move forward.
Before long, Layla grew up. She moved out, and began to build her own life.
As proud as he was, Flins could not deny the void she'd left. Though his own life grew bigger, nothing could—nor would—ever refill the space he'd carved for his sister.
That was fine.
They kept in touch, and reading Layla's letters became a welcome part of his routine; doubly so when she announced a visit.
Still, a small part of him would mourn. It just wasn't the same.
It was strange, at first, living alone. No bickering over who ate whose food, no scolding his sister to sleep at a reasonable hour. (As if he's a shining example of a decent sleep schedule.)
There was no one to walk with. No one to explore the archipelago they now called home.
He had one less person to run errands with, to get sidetracked with on said errands, to watch with curious, still-bright eyes as the humans went about their day.
Though Flins would not call those days lonely—he still had, after all, many friends, especially amongst his fellow Lightkeepers—something about them felt…odd.
He was happy, of course, and grateful for the peace he had, especially in the face of the Hunt, and later, the Fatui's occupation.
Still, something was strange.
That strangeness, as he would come to find, had been complacency, a vice he never thought he'd allow himself to fall to.
His realization of this would come months later, long after said complacency had expired, burned away by the light that had come to share his home.
The name of this light was Aino.
Aino Kyryllovna Flins.
Of these names, she shares two with her father and aunt, an aunt who (according to her last letter) is very, very excited to meet her.
Her birthday is September 21, a reminder of the day Flins had found her.
According to her father, she's about six months old.
This information, of course, has yet to be of relevance to such a small child.
Currently, Aino's biggest concerns are what she's going to eat later, when her next nap is, and, on a more immediate level, why they're just standing here, staring out at what Papa had called "the ocean."
There's something out there. It starts off small, barely a speck on the horizon. While she wants to watch, her father seems to think otherwise, covering her eyes against the sun's reflection.
The infant makes a noise, kicking her legs a little as she grabs at his hand.
Flins hushes her, stroking a gentle thumb down the side of her forehead.
"Patience, little one," the Ratnik croons. "She'll be here soon."
She?
Aino figured that was important, but she couldn't remember why. She'd also, in line with her age, quickly forgotten about the thing on the water.
Right now, she was happy to hold her father's hand, small, mitten-clad fingers wrapping around his own, her babbles being entertained by a patient voice.
Flins waits, a rare dose of restlessness bringing him to pace. His gaze alternates between Aino (not that she could go anywhere) and the ship on the horizon, growing closer and closer with each passing moment.
He's not sure why he's nervous. Such a feeling is foreign to him, especially in the face of a family reunion.
On an objective level, he understands perfectly well that he has nothing to fear. Layla will not be upset with him, and she has already had time to process the revelation of her new niece.
Aino, meanwhile, is happy to go along with whatever the world asks of her. Granted, the things it currently asks are very, very low stakes—play with toys, pester her parent, look cute—but still.
Flins supposes it is the novelty of it all. This is, after all, the first time since Layla's creation that their family has gained a new member. That, and he supposes the premise of his parenthood is still relatively fresh.
Layla, sweetheart that she was, had spared no expense in teasing him when he first broke the news. He has a feeling she still won't. Not when she finally witnesses firsthand how her brother goes about his fathering.
Speaking of …
"Pah," Aino babbles. Though it's far too early in her life for her syllables to be considered words, Flins has heard this specific soundbite enough to conclude that it's a call for him.
"Yes, my light?"
"Mmhm…" the baby hums. She mumbles another noise. Flins nods solemnly.
"I see," he replies. "And then what?"
Aino babbles something else, stronger this time, her legs flailing for emphasis.
Flins gasps. "Oh my," he says. "Whatever did you do?"
Another babble, this time followed by a squeal. Aino then giggles, proud of herself.
"Well now," the Lightkeeper smiles. He pats her tummy, earning another laugh. "That is very, very impressive. Do share this tale with your aunt, hm? I'm sure she'd love to hear it."
Aino squeaks. Flins takes it as an agreement, chuckling to himself.
* * *
The time passes quickly, filled with many a story from Aino's repertoire.
Flins is more than happy to listen, encouraging her babbling with remarks and questions. Though the specifics of Aino's narrations are beyond him, he nonetheless remains fascinated, impressed by the energy of his tiny companion.
"No, no," he says, once more checking for Layla's ship (it's here, finally, finally—), his hand still held to Aino's eyes to protect her from the glaring sun.
"I understand your point. However, there is another perspective you must consider. Namely—"
…huh?
There's a loud noise, like the sound of wood hitting metal. An array of voices sounds, underlined by the thump of boots, the newly landed crowd moving around them at varying speeds.
Papa trails off. Which is weird, because he loves to talk. And he's really good at it. If babies could have hopes, one of Aino's would be to speak as well as him.
Alas, she is exactly that—a baby.
A baby who can feel her father moving, who wonders where they're going, who hears him calling for someone and who, soon, finds herself pressed, ever so light, against the chill of another, the sound of a stranger's voice thrumming in her ear.
Papa's hand is gone now. Aino blinks. She hears more movement, then the light floods in, causing her to squint.
Someone laughs. There's a shape in her vision, all blue and gold. It soon sharpens, and a brand new face falls into view.
At least…Aino thinks it's new. There's something familiar about this person; the gold of her eyes, the point of her ears. She's smiling at her, a very soft, very pretty smile. She looks strangely emotional, her lip bitten to hold back its tremble.
"Hello," the pretty person whispers.
Aino glances upward, as if asking her father what to do.
"Do you know who that is?" Flins asks. Though his coat hides his smile, Aino can hear it, a matching one coming to adorn her little face.
She looks back. A gloved finger hovers within her reach, trembling ever so slightly. With a blink, Aino raises her hand, grabbing on.
She's small.
So, so small.
Layla feels a tear slip from the corner of her eye, burning a path down her cheek. Another is quick to follow.
Then another.
And another.
The faerie sniffles, though her smile stays in place, growing along with her sobs. She hears her brother laugh, a soft, sweet, and slightly teasing note reserved only for her. His hands come up, thumbing away her tears.
"Hello," she repeats, her voice shaky. Her niece, her niece, just keeps staring, eyes wide with curiosity.
She makes a noise. Layla cries harder, the note ending in an ecstatic laugh.
"Aino."
Aino smiles again, squeezing the finger still in her hold. That's her!
"Hi, Aino," Layla chokes out. "I'm Layla, your—" Sniffle.
"Your—" She tries again, only to cough. Layla, desperate, looks to Flins, her gaze pleading.
Flins huffs out a laugh, fond. Gently, he waves his finger before Aino, pointing a slow line between her and Layla.
"Aino." He points at the baby. Aino giggles. Yep, that's her, alright!
"This…" She follows along, gaze resting on his hand. "…is your aunt."
He stops, pointing at the pretty, somewhat familiar lady. Layla gives a little wave, her thumb stroking over Aino's small fingers.
"Aunt Layla," Flins finishes. The way he says it, he sounds so…sure. Proud. As if everything has gone right for him, and this moment is proof.
"Hello," Layla says, one more time. She rubs at her eye, drawing a deep breath. Her smile is stronger now, her tears beginning to fade.
"Your Papa has told me a lot about you. Maybe…" Layla sighs. She squeezes Aino's hand, just a bit. "Maybe it's still too early to tell you this. But…I love you, Aino."
Flins blinks rapidly. There's a sting in his eyes, one that grows as his sister adds:
"I'm glad you're here." Layla beams. "That you're part of our family."
Aino squeals, shutting her eyes as cool lips press a kiss to her head. The pretty lady squeezes her hand again. Aino, thinking this might be a game, squeezes back, her own smile growing along with Layla's.
"It's really, really nice to meet you."
Aino laughs. She laughs, and so does Layla, and Papa does too.
Layla comes closer, mindful of the baby, burrowing into Flins' embrace. A chin hooks itself over her head, strong arms gathering her close, tight as they always are when she finally, finally comes back.
Back here.
Back to him.
(Though, now, she supposes, that'll have to be a them.)
"Welcome home," Flins murmurs.
"I'm back," comes Layla's reply.
That night, the Final Night Cemetery is noisy, filled with the sound of laughter and stories, spoken happily in a tongue known only to two…
…and, perhaps one day, three.
* * *
Step.
Step.
Step.
A familiar figure creeps forward. The rhythm she taps is different; livelier, more sure.
It is one Flins is well-versed in, one that he need not fear—not unless Layla has picked up a penchant for scares.
Thus, he remains where he is, swaying in slow, aimless beats, slippered feet wandering along their usual route as Aino hiccups, a grumpy little wail springing out of her.
"Sister," he greets, voice low, but fond.
"Brother," Layla beams.
"It's good to see you again."
"Likewise."
Layla keeps her distance, allowing him space as he attempts to soothe Aino—and it truly is an attempt.
What is usually an ordeal of a few minutes extends into several, a sign that has Flins heaving a sigh. One of those nights, then.
"Fussy, isn't she?" his sister giggles. Flins pouts at her, lifting his eyes from his squirming bundle.
"Your first meeting," he scolds, jokingly. "And you begin it with an insult?"
"I meant it with love!" Layla raises her hands, placating. "Besides, it's not like I'm wrong. Look at her," she waggles a finger at his daughter, "she's practically turning red. If that's not her fussing, then I'm afraid to find out what is."
Flins rolls his eyes, a habit that always seems to rear its head in the presence of this particular sister.
"Don't listen to her," the Ratnik coos. Shooting Layla a glare, he adds, "Your other aunt has no idea how hard it is, being so little. You have too many bones—"
Aino whines.
"You can't open doors—"
Her face scrunches up.
"And your respiratory abilities leave much to be desired."
Aino lets out another wail, dismayed by the cruelty of it all.
Flins sighs, shaking his head. He presses his cheek to Aino's, patting her softly with an equally soft "Shhhhh…"
Layla watches, bitten cheeks a barrier to her laughter, as her brother continues his swaying, murmuring words of comfort to her very cute, but very grouchy niece.
"It's okay, my dear," Flins croons. "You're okay. I still care for you—" He pecks Aino's head. "—even though you can't play the flute."
Aino sobs. She sobs, and squirms, and sobs some more, because what's a flute? Why can't she play one? Is it because of all her bones?
Her family watches as she flails about, face red with upset.
"Who's insulting her now?" Layla sticks her tongue out.
"If it weren't for your germs," her brother frowns, pointing warningly. "I'd have grabbed your tongue and given it a twist."
"Who says I have germs?!" the younger fae gasps.
"Me," Flins grumbles. "I says."
Layla huffs. Still, she follows along when her brother signals her to, trailing after him as Aino continues to wail and they continue to bicker; quietly, though.
Flins leads her to the front door, before pointing to their boots. They dress easily, a smoothness built through centuries of winter, Aino passed carefully between them until she too is dressed, outfitted in her toque and her poofy little coat.
Where Flins' (questionable) comforts had failed, movement seems to have found success.
Though he still isn't sure of the science behind it, Flins recalls enough from his classes that gentle physical movement is healthy for babies, and can sometimes lend itself to a calming effect.
This apparently includes being passed about.
Indeed, Aino is quieter now, hiccuping around a few lingering sobs as she rests in his arms, her cheeks continuously being dried by her guardian's diligent hand. She blinks, long and slow, the intervals between each growing longer and longer.
The Cemetery is quiet tonight. Its ghosts, usually keen on hovering after their neighbours, give the little family a wide berth—not out of fear, but respect.
It was rare for their Ratnik to look so happy. Excited, even.
Even now, in the somberness of the night, there's a light in his eyes, one that has glowed ever brighter since his kin had returned home.
"Seems like his 'fun facts' failed," Dietrich snorts. He perches atop what was once the tavern's wall, knocking back his phantom of a glass.
Next to him, Jaakob takes a sip, nose scrunching at the Firewater's burn, as well as at the reminder of their colleague's…debatable parenting practices.
Glowing behind them are the ghosts of yesterday's offerings, wine and beer and miscellaneous foods, left to them by their living neighbour. These sit in the corner of the tavern, courteously protected by the crates Flins had left.
"I still don't understand where he picks that stuff up," Jaakob huffs. "Or why he thinks it's an acceptable way of comforting his kid."
"He's going to a parenting course, no?" Danuta, temporarily freed from her own parenting, reminds them.
"Yeah," her comrade replies. "Still, it doesn't explain why he does…" He waves his hand. "That."
Indeed, they've all heard the things Flins says in his efforts to soothe Aino. Beyond the typical hushing and soft I love you's (these remain rare; they've chosen not to pry as to why), the Lightkeeper has shared many of what he truly believes are fun facts, most of which centre around the baby's development.
Luckily for him, Aino has yet to comprehend any of what her father is telling her, remaining oblivious to the fact that she has no kneecaps, or that (and this is a new one) she has only recently acquired the ability to taste salt.
"It works, though," Danuta points out. "You can't deny that his methods are effective."
"That's true," Jaakob sighs.
If he could hear the conversation on the shore, he would perhaps find solace in the fact that his grievances are shared.
Kind of.
Sort of.
Well…not really.
Layla, more than anything, thinks her brother's method of comfort is hilarious. Sweet, and nostalgic (he'd once used a similar approach with her), but hilarious.
The ghosts watch as, in the distance, she rocks her arms, pretending to soothe a baby of her own. She continues her charade, her quiet cackles met with grumbled retorts, mouths moving around ancient words as the two of them pass by, trudging back up the path to the lighthouse.
"What a tragedy," Layla giggles. In Common, she mocks her brother's tone, lowering her voice as she says, "You can't play the flute yet, Aino. You have too many bones!"
"Those do not relate," Flins complains. "It is her lung capacity that poses a barrier. A barrier that you have no right to mock, even if she has fallen asleep."
He places a protective hand over Aino's ear, guarding against her aunt's slander (and noise).
The infant is silent now, breathing evenly in Hypnos' hold. She pays no mind to her family's banter, nor to their audience.
The ghosts look on, their expressions varying between glee, endearment and, in Jaakob's case, a healthy degree of concern.
They watch as Aino curls closer, fists held tight. They watch as Flins adjusts his grip, tightening the cradle of his arms, keeping her pressed to the warmth of his chest.
They watch as Layla skips forward, opening the door. The whisper of her laugh is the last thing they hear as the siblings head inside, Flins' complaints underlining her joy.
"He's smiling." Dietrich nods toward the Lightkeeper.
"Now he's not," Danuta notes.
"She's probably teasing him for it," Jaakob agrees.
They figure that Layla has turned away, as soon, Flins' smile is back, exasperatedly fond in the way only family could be.
He pulls the door shut, the glow of the hallway disappearing as the lighthouse is locked once more.
It's going to be loud again, the ghosts know. It always is when Layla comes home. They can already hear their banter, arguing over who ate what, nagging one another over their shared bad habits.
Now, with little Aino in the mix, the noise is certain to grow, babyish cries and giggles underlining the chaos that is House Flins.
What a mess it will be.
What a wonderful, wonderful mess.
* * *
Layla blinks.
Aino blinks back.
Girl and baby stare, sitting across one another on a quilted play mat.
An array of toys is scattered around them: plushes, soft blocks and, of all things, a large, carefully wrapped, blunt bone.
Layla doesn't even question it.
She knows Kyryll's parenting tactics are unconventional, especially by the standards of the humans they have surrounded themselves with. Unconventional, however, does not necessarily mean bad.
Aino, after all, looks happy with her calcium-based buddy, and Kyryll has adequately baby-proofed it with a layer of soft, thick fabric.
So, Layla plays along, watching patiently as Aino grabs at the bone, tugging it toward her in theatrical, clumsy movements.
"What do you have there?" she asks in an attempt to humour her. (Speaking of, that bone looks like a humerus.)
Aino looks up, mouth open in a tiny, vacant 'O'. She pauses in her pulling, once more staring at her aunt.
Layla's smile twitches. Balancing her elbow on her knee, she cushions her cheek against her palm, pressing upward, a manual tactic to keep her expression in place.
Aino's eyes track the movement, her gaze unreadable. Another blink. Then, she looks away, continuing to bring the bone toward her.
"You're very quiet."
Layla flinches.
Across the room, Kyryll pauses, tapping the end of his pen against the edge of his jaw. Two stacks of reports—some finished, most not—wall him in, flanked by a squad of pens and inkwells.
He rolls his shoulders, following up with a crck! of his neck. His hand moves, returning to its place on the desk, the scratch of a pen starting back up.
"You're not," she tosses back. "That," she waggles her finger at him, "was loud."
Her brother hums. "Deflectiiing~," comes his response, sung on a note only a sibling could hit.
Layla huffs. A glance at Aino tells her the baby is still occupied, staring at her bone with infant intensity. It now sits on her lap, though from the way Aino holds it, it's more like it's sitting on her, the calcic component nearly dwarfing the baby in size.
"…what kind of bone is this?"
"Human." Kyryll doesn't miss a beat.
"It's canine, isn't it?"
"Canine…that was once human."
"Too big to have been a normal dog. You pulled this from a monster, didn't you?"
"A monster that was once a dog, that was once human."
Sigh. "You're so weird," Layla grouses, her words carrying no bite.
Kyryll just chuckles. He leans back, turning to face her. His eyes flicker between her and Aino, an amused brow lifting at their stance.
Layla grumbles, holding up her hand. "Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"Your gaze speaks for itself," his sister grouches. She looks at Aino.
Gold meets lavender as, yet again, the two of them stare, waiting on the other to make a move.
Aino blinks once. Then twice.
With a grunt, she shoves the bone toward Layla, watching as it topples. Its thud is muted, caught by the softness of the play mat. She then lifts her head, eyes wide with expectancy, balancing on her hands as she leans forward.
Kyryll coos. "Are you inviting your aunt to play?"
"Guu," Aino replies, very eloquently. She watches for Layla's reaction, demonstrating a surprising degree of patience.
Layla takes a breath. Her hand shakes as she reaches over, gauging her niece's expression with careful eyes.
Slowly, she adjusts the bone, finding it lighter than she'd expected. Hollow, she notes, turning it to lie horizontally.
Her gaze finds Kyryll's, the older fae tilting his head. Layla nods toward her niece, mouthing her question.
Ah. Wiping away (some) of his smugness, Flins mimes a pass, placing his pen in his opposite hand. He uses it to point to Aino, who's still waiting, blinking in that slow, focused way of hers.
Layla nods, the motion stilted. She moves the bone at a near snail's pace, watching the way Aino follows it. Wide eyes look here, then there, never once averting their gaze.
Layla finds herself smiling, the expression coming more naturally than before. A giggle escapes her as Aino waves her hands, babbling something. Her niece reaches out, squealing with joy when Layla obliges, placing the bone atop her tiny, waiting lap.
The infant beams, scooping it into her arms. She all but cuddles it, cheek pressing against its length as if it were a beloved plush, and not…well. A bone.
"Oh?" Layla's laugh is soft, giddy as Aino shoves the bone back. "My turn, then?"
Aino smiles, excited now that her playmate understands the game. She flaps her arms, bright eyes tracing the path of her toy as her aunt airplanes it about, complete with quiet whooshes and daringly close loops, booping her little nose every few rounds.
Eventually, Layla passes the bone back. After another hug, Aino returns it, and the cycle repeats, their laughter the tune by which Flins continues his work.
Layla doesn't notice when he turns back, focusing on his reports.
She barely notices when, roughly half an hour later, he stands, spine popping with a stretch, long legs carrying him out of the room as he reports that he's "getting something."
She only truly registers that he's gone when Aino does, her calls for her father having gone unanswered.
"Ah?" the baby sounds, her tone questioning. She looks around, shuffling about until she's surveyed the whole room.
Her smile drops. That quiet, wide-eyed gaze of hers returns, the calm before the proverbial storm.
Where's Papa?
He's not at his desk. He's not by the window. And he's not by the door, the three main places where Papas (in Aino's experience) are wont to be; at least, when they're not with her.
She turns back, attention resting on the pretty person from before. Her aunt (Aino, of course, still has no idea what that word means) gives her an awkward grin, the kind that tells her that she isn't completely sure of what to do.
In Aino's young mind, it's quite a leap, especially when Aunt Layla had looked so confident before. She finds she doesn't like that look. She wants Layla's old smile back, and she wants her Papa, too. Also, her tummy is rumbling, and now that she's not playing, she's realizing that Hey, aren't I kind of sleepy?
All this to say: Aino frowns.
She frowns, and her face starts to scrunch, tiny, babyish features pinching together in stress.
"Uuu…" the infant starts, lavender eyes welling with tears.
Ffffuck.
Layla has time for a single thought, a thought that has her scooping her niece up, shushes already spilling out of her lips.
"Hey, hey." She tries to fix her smile, injecting it with a confidence she struggles to feel. Aino makes a noise, her cries delayed just that second longer.
"What's wrong?" the faerie asks. She, of course, does not expect an answer. Her goal here is to, if not comfort her niece, at least stall, distracting Aino from crying until the adultier adult of the house can return to adult.
It'll be a cold day in Sumeru before she allows this baby to cry, doubly so should Kyryll find out.
Speaking of which, where is he?
Layla curses her past self for not paying attention, left to wonder where it is her brother had gone.
The kitchen, hopefully. Aino's tummy gives another growl, sending her little face back to the brink.
"Hey, hey, hey," Layla finds herself repeating. She pats Aino's side, putting a little bounce into her hold as she starts to stand.
"Hey," she says again. The infant blinks, her expression softening just the slightest bit. Layla breathes.
"It's okay." Aino whines. She presses on, keeping her voice soft, the rhythm of her arms steady. "You're okay. You're feeling hungry, right? Mm, yeah. I can hear it."
Playfully, she puts her ear over Aino's torso. The baby squeals; not a laugh, but not a cry—a win in Layla's book.
"Hello?" she calls. Aino's stomach gurgles a reply, as if it'd been waiting. Layla giggles. "Why, hello. Who might this be?"
She hums, pretending to have gotten a reply. "I see. This is Aino, then?"
The Aino in question makes another noise, one that is markedly less teary than the one before.
"Hello, Aino. This is your Aunt Layla." Here, Layla begins to pace, stepping lightly, her path traced in a lilting sort of beat.
Briefly, she lifts her head, checking on her niece. Aino's eyes remain wide, her mouth rounded into a miniscule 'O'. It's a step up from her previous expression, enough that Layla begins to relax, her smile brightening with relief.
She continues their "conversation", alternating between resting her ear on Aino's rumbling tummy and giving her niece silly smiles, cooing playful nonsense at her as they await Kyryll's return.
Gradually, Aino's distress fades. Her smile returns, laughter filling the air as Layla spins her about, raising and lowering the infant like a small, squishy weight.
"Wheeeee!" the girl exclaims, giving her niece another spin. Aino cackles, waving her arms with excitement. "Look at you! You're flying! Flying soooo high!"
She thinks, for a moment, that she really would like to take Aino flying. Maybe when she's older, after Layla's worked off the rustiness of her wings…
"Ahem."
She freezes.
It is with much effort that Layla turns, her motions robotic as she holds Aino out.
She refuses to look at Kyryll. Refuses to bear witness to that smarmy little grin of his, because she knows it's there, she can practically hear it—
"Flying, hm?" Instead of taking her niece, he pushes gently on her hands; a sign to take Aino back. Layla obliges, albeit slightly confused.
"We'd have to get you goggles," her brother goes on, giving an affectionate little pinch to his daughter's cheek. "As well as an oxygen tank. I wonder, do they make those in sizes suitable for babies?"
Aino only beams, happy to have her father's attention. Kyryll chuckles. Wordlessly, he begins to adjust Layla's grip, making it so Aino's position is more supine.
A bib is fastened around the baby's neck. Seconds later, a fresh rag lands on Layla's shoulder. She frowns, looking over. A pair of cartoonish, grinning frogs meet her gaze, staring out from their fabric existence.
"What," the fae asks, flat.
"Aaaand there," her brother finally speaks up, passing her the finishing touch.
Layla blinks. In her hand is a bottle, filled with a studiously precise amount of milk. Layla stares at it, scrutinizing the liquid as if it were one of her star charts.
"What," her question repeats. She lifts her head.
Kyryll's grin is less smarmy than she'd thought. Though hints of teasing remain, they are far outweighed by sentimentality, softening her brother's gaze to a degree rare even to her.
"What?" He tilts his head. "Aino is hungry, and I'm still busy."
Layla looks at her niece. Wide, lavender eyes blink expectantly at her, darting to gaze at the bottle.
"…are you sure?" Layla's voice comes out small; scared, almost.
"Why wouldn't I be?" Her brother's answer is instant. Confident. It warms her heart, lightening her doubts into something brighter.
Kyryll guides her. He teaches her how to hold the bottle, how to read Aino's signs.
"When she pushes you away," he instructs. "Let her. More often than not, she'll have already finished the bottle."
"What if she hasn't?"
"Give her a moment," her brother assures. "In my experience, Aino always asks for it back. I choose to interpret these occasions as little breaks. Feeding, after all, is an arduous task, especially for one as small as her."
Layla nods. "Alright. Yeah. That makes sense."
"If, for some reason, she still refuses to drink, do not force her." Kyryll squeezes her shoulder. "Simply allow her a longer break. Should that fail, I will take her. And should I fail—"
"I really hope you don't."
"—we will storm the town, making a problem of ourselves until our concerns have been quelled."
Layla huffs, her breath shaking into a laugh. "We're good at that."
Kyryll hums. "Excellent, even. May Nod-Krai never bear witness to our true power."
He lifts his hand, ruffling locks of blue.
"Slow your mind." His hand comes to rest on Layla's neck. He gives one last light squeeze, a gesture of comfort borne from years of experience.
"If you think too hard, Aino will too. Her face will redden, her features will pinch, and she'll begin to wail, for babies, as you know, are extremely poor in their ability to maintain such rapid streams of thought."
As if on cue, Aino squeals, seemingly agreeing with her father's assessment.
"Kyryll," Layla deadpans. Carefully, she takes the plunge, maneuvering the bottle into Aino's waiting hands. "No matter how many words you use to do it, you shouldn't bully your daughter."
"Gasp!" Kyryll gasps. "I did no such thing. Let the record show that those were your words, not mine."
He scoffs. "Goodness, Layla. A few years of independence, and suddenly your accusations come as easily as the wind. Is this truly the conduct taught by the lauded Akademiya? Or has my little sister finally entered a phase of delinquency?"
Her lip twitches, cheeks bitten in a barrier to a smile. "If there's anyone to blame for my attitude, it's you."
"How dare you." Kyryll clutches his heart. "I'm a wonderful role model. Stellar, even. Aino can confirm."
He gazes at her, prompting. Aino, of course, is no wordsmith—a babblesmith, maybe. Unfortunately for Kyryll, his daughter is currently occupied, her stomach taking precedence over her Papa's plight.
"Heh." Layla smirks.
"Hush," her brother grumbles.
"I didn't say anything," his sister mocks, deepening her voice in a mimicry of his own.
Flins, like the mature adult he is, sticks his tongue out, darting back when Layla—after securing Aino's grip on the bottle—tries to pinch it.
"Imp," the older fae huffs, unable to hide his smile.
"Fiend," his sibling shoots back, smug.
When Flins returns to his desk, it is with two more guests. He pulls up a chair for Layla, setting it in the nice, sunny patch granted to them by one of the windows.
"Let me know when she's done," he tells her. Aino, who seems to have a knack for sensing when people are talking about her, gives them a smile, fists tightening from where they now clutch Layla's fingers.
"I'll teach you how to burp her."
"Mm." His sister nods. Her attention returns to her niece, gazing at her with adoring fascination.
Such adoration is mirrored in Flins' own expression, a comfortable quiet settling over them as he returns to his reports.
He keeps writing. Layla and Aino keep giggling, a welcome backdrop to an otherwise monotonous task. Distracting as it may be (Aino keeps trying to include him, waving her tiny hand in an effort to grab his attention), Flins finds that he doesn't mind the noise.
Not if it's them.
Thus, another day goes by, slow and simple, sweet and soft.