(Warning: I thought of this while I was falling asleep and it made me cry, so Kumy, even if it might be creepy, even a little bit, my brain thought it was cute and sad.)

HEADCANON: Lucina likes Brandon better when he's asleep (Don't fucking judge me, I can feel you judging me)

<-Lucina's POV->

Maybe it was that day I was forced to sleep in the same room with you that I discovered my weird obsession with you.

I hated that I liked the way slept. That sounds creepy, but it's true. I sound like some stupid ass Yandere bitch obsessed with some boy, but when you slept... It made me feel so...

I don't fucking know.

That's why I hate you more when you're awake.

Because you're so perfect when you're sleeping.

I don't have to see your judging, hateful red eyes when you're awake. You sleep so heavily that I can touch you without you flinching away. I don't want to hurt you or flat out punch you when you're asleep, because you don't talk, so you're not so damn annoying. You don't look so tense. Your expression is so relaxed, it makes me relax. I would never want anything bad to happen to you like that. You're too perfect to have that horrible stuff happen to you.

I don't touch you in the gross ways people would think. I touch you to feel what you feel, because you won't let me in lucidity. I know about those scars under your long sleeve shirts, scarves and hoods. You even slept with your sweatshirt on that day, because I was in the room. But I pretended to sleep because I wanted to beat you up because you were such a jerk. I wanted to hurt you before I knew. But when I saw you, so peaceful, so... perfect, I couldn't move. I couldn't hurt you, like I wanted to when you were awake. I was curious then, what was Maxie and Leo talking about when they told me to stop hurting you. Those scars scared me. Under your layers of clothes, you hid a horrific interweaving of layered scars, from burns, knives, blunt objects, and glass. I couldn't understand. Why would your father do this to someone so perfect when they were relaxed? Why would he do this to you?

Your ribs were visible beneath too. They were sharply edged on the sides of your torso, explaining why you were so weak. Why it didn't hurt as bad when I hit you. Why you broke your arm so easily. Your body was draining away, and you were so tired and angry because of it. Your father made you used to not eating, and when you did, you didn't like the feeling. You'd throw it up, and only keep enough down to prevent your hair from falling out. You hated your body, but you didn't want to change it because of what I'd say. I knew this, because I'd make fun of you if you ate a lot of food. I'd call you fat. I'd call you names far worse than that.

When I thought about these things while I saw these horrible signs on your body, I cried. I cried so hard, but so quietly. I didn't want you to wake up and see me crying over your weak body, weak because of your father. Weakened because of me.

But when I looked away from your scarred, thin body, I saw your face. Your face was so relaxed, like I remember. I remember that when you're awake, you're scared of me, and you hate me. I remember that you hate me for calling you these horrible things, but you are now so close to me. You're so close that I could kiss you, but I don't want to wake you up. Instead, I touch your cheek and run my fingers through your hair. Your hair is so messy, because you don't care what you look like. You'll leave it the way it is or just put it into that stupid man-pony to look like you care somewhat. But it's nice to pet, somehow soft, and yous stupid bat ears twitch when I touch them. I chuckle sadly when they twitch, because I know that you would never let me touch you in any way. Your skin is soft and pale, scarless, because your father knew not to touch your face with a blade. I don't want to touch it, in case I hurt you, in case I put a scratch on that beautiful pale, blank canvas. But I don't want to move away, because it's so soft, and I know in whatever dream you're having, you can feel it, and can feel safe.

I slept on the floor that night, once I cried again because of how much pain you were in, and how scared I made you. It hurt me when you were so relaxed when you slept, how your agony only subsided when you were unconscious. And here I am, the one intensifying your pain in the waking world.

I remember when we went to the therapy session. Dr. Geo told me to stay away from you. This was the first contact we made since then, with your Stockholm Syndrome in mind. I know that you loved me, even when I hurt you. And when you were awake, I hated you. But now, when I knew that you were hurting on the inside, and through it all, still loving and caring about me, I hurt more than I could ever recall. More than when my mom left Jasper and I at the homeless shelter. More than that nightmare where my brother died. Right now, I was in so much pain it physically hurt. I had a headache. I couldn't breathe. My chest hurt. All of this information I found just by looking beneath the surface, it was so hard for me to process. It was like part of you died, and I was responsible.

I still go in your room at night, when you're forced to sleep. I am always careful to listen to make sure you're asleep. I've sat outside your door for more than an hour once, because I was so scared that you were even half awake, and you would hear me or see me. You haven't caught me before, and I hope it can stay that way. I hate you in the day, but when you sleep, I just want to cry and comfort you, because I know how much you hurt. I hate that I make it worse, because you're so annoying and so mean, but when I can't see your eyes, and you don't know it's me, it makes me love you and hate myself.

(Word count: 1121)