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It’s been a slow day, all things considered.
The twins have performed their matinée show, and, as always, there is a window of free time before the next show begins. Things had gone well— the performance had run smoothly and the audience had been properly enamored— and to take advantage of the downtime they had, the two had decided to go home to rest for the time being.
Freminet had come home early, so they had given him a brief greeting (one less so than the other) and settled in the sitting room. They don’t talk much, resting in a comfortable quiet— Lynette nestles into a corner with her tea and reads one of the latest articles from The Steambird, something about that card game tournament in Mondstadt, while Lyney opts to amuse himself with card tricks, constant hand movements, a bouncing leg, and the cat that flashes a wide, sharp-toothed grin at him from the recesses of his hat.
Freminet is busy sitting cross-legged on the floor, hunched over Pers with various screws and nuts and bolts and other bits of machinery and hardware neither of the twins can name scattered around him. The wing of it has broken— a screw on the wing’s hinges had fallen loose, leaving the hinge nearly falling off. His face is sour, his demeanor a little more closed off than usual, as he holds the little penguin close.
He’s been working on it for some time now— Lynette steals glances at him over her tea and worries that he’ll hurt his back with such dreadful posture. She’s seen the painters in the street, how their necks crane forward as they look at their work. Their pieces may be beautiful, she thinks, but their outward carriages certainly are not.
He’s growing tenser by each passing tick of the clock, eyebrows furrowed, and Lyney, peering around his cat, half-considers poking Freminet’s nose to lessen the scowl that’s cemented itself in his expression.
Then there’s a small rattle as Freminet loses his grip on his screwdriver and it drops to the floor.
Freminet hisses through his teeth. “Fuck.”
Everything stops.
The cat stills, Lyney’s hand frozen just over its head as he stares, eyes as wide as saucers, mouth hanging open.
Lynette has the grace to be much subtler, her eyes flicking up from her article and her ears angled forward, but her expression conveys just as much shock.
Freminet has never been an outspoken child. Lynette has always seen him as their little brother, of course, but the memory of that quiet, withdrawn child they had met years ago in the House of Hearth remains most dominant in her mind, no matter how much he’s grown. Lyney shares the sentiment, though in a much louder fashion, much preferring to coo and fuss over him and annoy him by pressing just how much of a “baby” he is, or how innocent he is.
And so it comes as a rude awakening to hear their little brother use such… bold profanity.
Lyney nearly trips over himself as he leaps to his feet. Lynette shoots him a warning glare, but he pays it no heed as he jabs an accusing finger at their brother, sounding absolutely scandalized. “What was that?”
Freminet cringes at his volume and raises a singular unimpressed eyebrow. “What?”
“Close your mouth before you catch flies,” Lynette interjects, and Lyney snaps his jaw shut with a click, dumbfounded. She turns to Freminet, whose posture has straightened to look up at them from his spot on the floor. “Where did you learn that?”
“What? Cursing?” Freminet is looking at them like they’ve merged together, and maybe a little bit like he wants to pitch them over the edge of a waterfall. “I learnt it a while ago. Is it that surprising?”
“Yes,” Lyney butts in. “You’re a baby!”
“I’m not,” Freminet mutters.
Lyney ignores him in favor of wagging a finger from side to side. “Children aren’t allowed to swear. So we need to do something about it.”
“I’m not a little kid anymore.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Freminet,” Lynette says in order to stop the rapidly approaching argument, “As… graceless as Lyney’s manners may be…” She ignores the offended gasp that comes from her peripheral. It’s true. As much as she knows he cares, sometimes Lyney is about as subtle as a fish on land. “He does have a point. You’re too young to be using vulgar language.”
“See!”
“What?”
“You’re going to time-out,” she says flatly.
Lyney gives a loud whoop at the sentence, grinning from ear to ear. Freminet scowls at him, covering his ears.
“That’s riiiight,” Lyney says in singsong, stretching the “right” for a solid three seconds. He pats their little brother on the head playfully with a smug grin. Freminet, on his part, looks like he’s swallowed three lemons. “You have to stay here, pipsqueak.”
“Shut up.”
“No, you.”
“We have to leave,” Lynette has to interrupt yet again. “Freminet, stay here. You’re still grounded. We’ll be back soon.”
She starts gathering her things, Lyney following suit. He throws a “Be good!” out the door before they leave, which is met with an annoyed “I hate you” from inside.
Lynette shakes her head and sighs as she bids him well and they close the door.
Sometimes it feels like she’s dealing with two toddlers, with how much Freminet and Lyney bicker. And it’s mostly Lyney’s fault, since he starts the teasing almost every time, despite his claims to be the “mature” and “amazing older brother”. She exasperates in silence as they walk, side by side, their footsteps brisk and the quiet broken by the occasional skip-step her brother does when he’s impatient, which he often is.
Lyney, it seems, has still not recovered from the cursing incident as the twins hurry back to the Opera Epiclese.
“Where could Freminet have learned such things?” Lyney mutters under his breath. Quiet, but still audible for her ears. She hums to acknowledge him— a small, blasé noise that fills the silence— and continues walking.
A clocktower chimes in the distance, its bells tolling through the streets, and both of the twins freeze.
Their show.
“Fuck,” Lyney hisses, breaking into a frantic sprint. Lynette, with a twirl of her cape, follows, the wind carrying her feet. When they finally get to the Opera Epiclese, gasping for breath and Lyney letting loose another round of curses, Lynette makes a mental note.
She wonders if there’s an age limit for time-out.