Bharat hadn't smiled in years. 

Well, he had. He'd smiled a lot, actually. 

He just hadn't smiled genuinely. 

He'd smiled so Ma Kaikeyi wouldn't blame herself, so his other mothers and wife wouldn't worry over him, so Urmila and Shrutakirti stayed hopeful, so Shatrughan didn't lose resolve. 

But alone, he would just stare at a wall for hours, his lips as still as a dead man's. 

He smiled fakely so they could smile genuinely. 

***

Bharat hadn't cried in years. 

Well, he had. He'd cried a lot, actually. 

He just hadn't cried in front of anyone. 

He hadn't cried all those nights that Shatrughan would come into Nandigram, hoping for some respite, and become a sobbing mess in his older brother's arms. He hadn't cried all those late-night conversations with Mandavi over a cup of tea, that soon become one, two, then three cups of tea. He hadn't cried all those times his mother had begged his forgiveness, all those times his other mothers had teared up on Ram or Sita or Lakshman's birthdays, hadn't cried when Shrutakirti or Urmila would point out that Sita's favourite flowers were in bloom.

But alone, Bharat had cried until his oil paints became watercolours. 

He hadn't cried so they all could cry. 

***

And then they were home. 

Ram and Lakshman and Sita were home. 

Bharat was home. 

He heard himself laugh as Shatrughan grabbed Lakshman along with him to make rangoli patterns all over the streets, and was surprised at how unfamiliar the sound was. He felt himself smile as Mandavi literally dragged him to the top of a hill to overlook all the lights, and was surprised that his face didn't feel like rubber. 

But then he remembered how their father should have been here. How he should have been laughing with Bharat, laughing at Bharat, how his mothers' clothes should have been colourful and shining, how Shatrughan shouldn't have had to explain to Ram the state of his own kingdom, how Shrutakirti and Urmila and Mandavi and Sita should have all been laughing and teasing one another, not acting like they were treading on glass with every little jape. 

And then he cried. In a heartbeat, Ram was beside him, his arms around Bharat just as Bharat had put his arms around Shatrughan, around his mothers, around his sisters and wife, around everyone all those fourteen years. 

"It's alright, Bharat", Ram whispered, in that comforting voice so like their father's, it was painful. "Just let it out." 

And Bharat listened. 

Because in that moment, he could not have felt safer if it was Hari himself embracing him.