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She nudges her shoe against his, smiling that smile that turns her blue eyes to crescent moons, and Piotr can’t help but nudge back. Even after everything, it is instinct, even after everything, it is so deeply ingrained in him that he can’t push it aside, that he can’t not do it. That everything would feel incomplete without it; something so visceral he can taste it.The cell is small; they’re sandwiched together almost too tightly, with her knees against his, their legs almost crossing, even as she’s sitting across from him. Most of it is because of his size, Piotr is aware of that, and he faintly thinks about how they’re breathing the same air so closely as Illyana brushes her hair over her shoulder.He wants to ask something. Like, if they are too close together here, if it is too warm, if it makes her uncomfortable. Like, if she’s scared of him, sometimes. Like, why she’s looking at him like this. Like, if she… if they…“You are scared,” Illyana says, and it is not a question. Piotr laughs dryly; he’s scared all the time these days. There’s the rage inside of him always, which is why he’s here, alongside his sister and her soul. He’s always scared, so scared of being angry.He grunts in response, leaning his chin into his hands to stare at the floor, but even now, there’s her legs in the way. There’s just this small white cell and them in the world, and really, he thinks it might be making him uncomfortable, in the end. Thinks he’s perhaps always been the weaker one out of the two of them, despite everything.“Illyenka,” he starts, and then he doesn’t know what to say next. I’m always scared, maybe, but he doesn’t want to blame her, doesn’t want her to blame herself. It’s not her fault he is like this now; it was his decision. His very duty as the older brother, his very duty he’s neglected.When he finally looks up at her again, she’s still smiling, at least a little bit. There’s her reflection in his arms, so he thinks he’d see her anyway, so it wouldn’t do anything to look away again — and really, despite the tightness in his chest, her presence feels… grounding. She’s right here. With her right here…She’s the devil, sort of, to him. He loves her so.“Snowflake,” he tries again, holds his hand out slowly, turns it so his palm faces up. “I —”Piotr has never been too good with his words — or rather, prefers to keep them inside of his head — but Illyana seems to understand. At least with this, she understands, and she puts her hand in his.It is soft against the steel of his skin; fragile in a way that makes something knot up in his throat, but he brushes his hand over hers until he can wrap it around her wrist, tiny in his grasp, until he can press his thumb into her pulse. It is almost as thick as her entire wrist, but he still feels her heartbeat. She’s right here.Cyttorak is behind him, but Illyana, his Illyana, his snowflake, his princess, his little sister, is right in front of him. At least like this, things are okay for now.(He doesn’t know if she knows what this means to him. If she’ll ever know. And Piotr has never been too good with his words, but there’s something about this feeling he doesn’t even want to talk about. Some impulse inside of him that feels dirty, that feels rotten, that he locks away in his chest. Illyana’s skin is so soft against his. He wonders what she’d think about him if she knew. What she’d say; if she’d still touch him like this, let him touch her.)“I’m here,” she says, still with that almost mischievous look on her face. Sometimes, Piotr wonders how much of it is honest. Not that it matters; he’s certainly not always been honest. “Promise.”Maybe there’s nothing else to say. He stays hunched over, brushes his thumb over his sister’s pulse, and wonders what’s going on in her head these days, what’s always been going on inside of there. She’s a mystery to him as much as he knows her, she’s always been. Two sides of the same coin, perhaps — knowing and unknowing. The sparkle in his sister’s eyes and his skin.And maybe he should say something, but there’s no words that make it past his lips, nothing that manages to bypass this hollow feeling in his rib cage. It’s either this hollowness or the rage, and Piotr knows what he prefers, especially with her right here.“Brother,” she says, nudging his shoe again, and he nudges back before he can think about it. Something about it makes him furrow his brows, and he reaches out to tuck a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Illyana leans into his touch. He wants to scream. “Do you remember the snow?”He knows what she means — real snow, the one from home. The kind that covers everything, the kind that buries, the kind that smothers. The kind that is merciless, that is ruthless, that has a sharp edge and a smile.“Da,” Piotr says, and he does. She’s his snowflake, after all.Illyana is still leaned against his touch, and something inside of him is rigid, frozen, his fingers brushing her cheek, her pulse beating against him. He wants to drop his hand. Maybe both of them. Maybe he could pretend this is Cyttorak — that it’s not him, never him, never his fault.(But maybe they both know better.)“Why?” he adds, and he thinks his voice almost breaks. Finally, when Illyana breathes, he breathes, too, managing to drop his hand from her cheekbone, from the warmth on her skin, blooming like that feeling he buries. He keeps his finger on her wrist; like a trigger that he doesn’t manage to let go of. Watches her chest as it rises with her breath, as it falls again, rise and fall, rise and fall. Wonders what she looks like inside.She’s sharp, his Illyana. Sharp eyes, sharp nose, sharp cheekbones, a sharp jaw. A sculpted cupid’s bow, and he rubs his thumb over her wrist again, unsure of what to do with this feeling. With any of these feelings. With the hollow and the burning inside of him.Who knows, maybe this was a bad idea. It is certainly safer than anything else, than him roaming free; but this idling is going to drive him mad. This idling and the things that swell his chest, that swirl around in his head, the things he thinks when he’s looking at her.(She’s always been the prettiest girl. Maybe it should have stayed there. Maybe that wasn’t as dangerous.)Illyana puts her other hand on his in what almost feels like a warning. Perhaps it is gentle; perhaps they have both forgotten what that feels like; perhaps he is projecting. Her touch is soft, and she’s right here. She’s real.“I miss it, sometimes,” she says, and Piotr is unsure how much she’d remember it. Really remember it, like something lived, like a home, maybe. A home they used to share, so long ago, even longer for her. It’s heavy.“Da,” he repeats. Flips their hands and lifts them to press a kiss to her knuckles, and Illyana scrunches her nose in a gesture so familiar he wants to lean in and kiss her mouth, too. He doesn’t; but he doesn’t let go of her hand, either. “I miss it, too.”Illyana’s voice is quieter now, her grin wider, sharper, like there’s some secret bubbling in her chest. Her teeth flash in the bright light. “You’re so talkative,” she says, and Piotr rolls his eyes as she laughs under her breath, as she leans her head back against the wall with an audible thunk. She shifts where she’s sitting, her knees brushing his, criss-crossing until they are one and the same in this limited space.White. Like snow.“I’m here,” she repeats, in a whisper, like a promise, like a promise he couldn’t keep. It’s lodged like a shard into his chest, her presence, it always is. He could never pull away again — never let himself, or anything else, pull him away.(Has the world ever been that nice to him? Is it really beyond his control?)Piotr wants to make promises too — wants to tell her not to worry. That he’s older, that she’s his little girl, that he’s got everything under control. That he’s here, that he won’t leave, that he’ll never leave again. He wants to make so many promises, so desperately that it almost pushes aside the burning inside of him. Almost.(He wants to bite her, and be bitten. He wants to consume.)“Snowflake,” he says, and Illyana has closed her eyes, answers with a grunt, then grins like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever done. “I love you.”His sister smiles. It will have to be enough.“I know that,” she whispers, and something about it prickles down his spine. Maybe it’s relief; relief that she does know it. That he hasn’t failed that much as the older brother. That she’s here with him — even with the thing inside him — with her eyes closed, relaxed. It’s enough. It is actually enough.“Come here,” Piotr says, and Illyana opens one of her eyes, lifts her brows. “Please,” he adds, patting his thigh. “It is too tight here to begin with. Da?”She’s smiling again when she gets up, and it takes a little bit of maneuvering, but she sits down on his thigh, knees pressed into his other inner thigh, twists her body to be able to hug him, to be able to nuzzle her cheek into his chest. Her hands don’t touch at his back; his hand looks absurdly huge on hers. Maybe that’s just the way things are.He can be good. He can be good, he promises himself, pressing a kiss to Illyana’s hair, swallowing at her giggle. He can be good. She’s here, he can breathe, there’s her arms around him, squeezing tight like she’s trying to show him she’s the stronger one, and he’s here, too. At least now, he’s here.(She nips at his shoulder playfully. Piotr is always burning.)