MIRAGE OF HEARTSTRINGS

INHIBITION

The elder Pandava had been noticing duryodhana's intention from a while but did not confront.

Instead he adjusted the eldest Kaurava. In a way that the palace itself started changing it's shape into something far worse than trap.

It began the morning after.

Not with summons—those were too obvious—but with coincidence arranged so carefully it felt like fate.

Yudhisthir appeared where Duryodhana already was, as though the palace itself had anticipated the meeting.

"In the corridor again," Yudhisthir said mildly, falling into step beside him. "You walk too much these days."

Of course he does. And Yudhishthir knows why but still.....

Duryodhana glanced at him, faintly amused. "Is that a crime now?" But the slight worry of being noticed can be seen in his posture.

He truly has lost his warrior habits.

"No," Yudhisthira replied. "It is a sign"

Of what, he did not say. Because Duryodhana doesn't need to know.

They walked together. Not shoulder to shoulder—the elder Pandava was never careless—but close enough that the space between them closed naturally, guided by walls, pillars, turns.

Yudhisthira spoke as they walked: of schedules, of arrangements, of Lakshman's tutors. All reasonable. All necessary.

All deciding things for Duryodhana. Without giving him time.

"You need not go to the western court side today," He continued. "The crowd is.....unsettled. Better you remain within the inner halls"

The Former King of Hastinapur frowned. "I've walked there every day."

"Yes," Yudhisthira said gently. "Before but not when you can be seen. So not now"

That word—before—settled between them like a verdict.

They stopped.

The spear warrior turned then, finally facing him fully. Close. Close enough that the eldest Kaurava became acutely aware of how little space he had to step back without appearing rude.

"I am responsible for order," Yudhisthir said. "And you—whether you wish it or not—are part of that order."

"I am not your subject," Duryodhana replied, irritation flickering. Not understanding, why the elder Pandava is doing this.

"No," He agreed easily. "You are something far more than just invisible"

The word landed wrong.

Yudhisthir's hand lifted—not touching yet, just hovering near Duryodhana's elbow, a silent question masquerading as concern.

"You are recovering," The Maharaj of Indraprastha continued. "Physically, politically. Emotionally. These are facts. And facts require structure."

Duryodhana shifted. "I did not ask—"

Yudhisthir's fingers closed.
Not tight. Not restraining.
Guiding.

A hand on the elbow—polite, almost forgettable. Except it decided the direction Duryodhana moved next.

"This way," He said. Ignoring the protest and last grip of barrier between them.

And Duryodhana went.

That was the first boundary.
Later, it became presence.

The Maharaj began to stand closer during the time of the interaction between Duryodhana and servants. Not beside—never beside—but across, angled, his gaze a constant, quiet weight. When Duryodhana spoke, he listened too intently. When others interrupted, the first Pandava stopped them.

"Let him finish."

Not you. Him.

Ownership wrapped in respect.

Then came proximity that lingered.
A hand at Duryodhana's back as they passed through narrow doors. A pause too long when correcting his posture during resume practice—No, like this—fingers adjusting shoulders, spine, stance.

Always instructive.
Always justified.
Always lingering a breath longer than necessary.

Duryodhana felt—but could not name it.

What unsettled him was not the touch.

It was the authority behind it.

The Elder Pandava did not ask permission because he believed none was required—not from arrogance, but from certainty.

This is my duty.
This is protection.
This is order.

And order, once established, did not apologize.

The most dangerous moment came quietly.

They stood in the library, late evening, lamplight pooling between shelves. Yudhisthir reached for a scroll behind Duryodhana—and instead of stepping back, Duryodhana waited.

The spear warrior's chest brushed his shoulder.
Too close.

Yudhisthir did not retreat.

Instead, he adjusted—subtly shifting Duryodhana forward with a palm between his shoulder blades, positioning him without words.

"There," He murmured. "Better"

Better for what?

Duryodhana did not ask.

He only felt it then—that strange, suffocating stillness. That sense of being placed. Arranged. Without remembering that he was supposed to escape the beautiful palace, not trap himself in the forming cage.

As though the room itself had decided where he belonged.

When Yudhisthir withdrew, the absence felt wrong. Too wrong to remain imperturbable about it.

That frightened Duryodhana more than the contact ever could.

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Across the hall, unseen—
Bhima noticed first.

From when did the Elder Pandava and Eldest Kaurava become close? From when did they started interacting? From when did they started spending time together?

But it isn't the only thing he noticed. Something unsettled the second Pandava more than just them.

Not the touch.
The after.

The way Duryodhana stood more still when his elder brother entered.
The way his steps slowed, measured against another's will.

Bhima's jaw tightened—not in anger, but recognition.

This was not service.
This was not care.

This was something else, creeping in like ivy—quiet, patient, impossible to rip away once rooted.

And he doesn't know if it just his mind shaping his own brother as that or has his feelings become sensitive.

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And the elder Pandava.

Yudhisthira went to bed that night calm.

Because for the first time, Duryodhana had moved when he guided him.

And that meant the structure was holding. It means the eldest Kaurava is still not realising the cage building around him slowly.

Not now.

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