Sometimes, there in the dark, he plaits her hair with his eyes closed. He likes to have his hands by her face, moving in the warmth around her, and his expression changes as hers does. He does not need to see, to feel the fall of indigo in his long sure fingers, twining left over right over left over--

"Are you an angel?" she asks, perhaps aloud.

"Not an angel, liebchen," he smiles, a flash of teeth in that dim place. If she were looking at him, she would feel the stirrings of unease. But she does not look; she never does. Her head is turned from him, resting trusting in his hands. "Just someone sent to watch you."

Her lips are pursed, thoughtful, and this he knows without looking. "How is that different from an angel?"

And he laughs, a soft fluttering sound like falling angelwings. "Too clever, liebchen. No wonder he thinks so highly of you."

And with the mention of her brother she is content, humming to herself, her hands arranging flowers that are not there. "Will he like the orchid? Or something simpler, like the rose?"

Considering, his hands do not falter. "The orchid for you, liebchen. Rich purple like your hair, and little flecks of gold like the shine in your eyes." Half-smile, tasting the pleased embarrassment. Blushing wine. For now, at least, he drinks slowly. "The rose, for him. Too red by half, flashy--" He doesn't know why he stops himself before saying, "violent."

But she is giggling, nodding. "The rose, then. For my red-topped brother."

She twirls the invisible bud in her fingers, and holds it to her chin. Something occurs to her, and he feels her wondering what color his hair might be. "But what for you, my... angel?"

"No flower for me, liebchen," His fingers are caught up in her hair, else his instinct would have him back away. Something too familiar in her voice. Such nonsense, the language of the flowers. "I will have the thorns."

She gasps and suckles a pricked finger. "Must you?" she murmurs. "So sharp."

And he tilts up her chin until he can see the blood-droplets wavering on her young mouth. Those flowerpetal lips are warm and trembling underneath his, but he is not surprised. "There, liebchen," he whispers smugly to her eyelids as he breaks the kiss. "Fairytale ending, pain eased."

She says nothing. In the wake of his touch, he hears the echoes of festival music in her ears, he can smell the lanterns in the rain. So it begins, and this time he is prepared for it. Sometimes, like now, as he braids, his twisting fingers will remind her of another's, and she will make a little mewling cry, like an injured kitten. It is always the same.

And he knows what she sees and he watches it with her.

Then she is gone again, as she often is, swallowed into her darkness and silent to him. Her trembling hands are still.

He sighs and stretches, and opens his eyes. The details of her memory are like tiny razor-mouthed koi, nibbling at her resolve, and he can feel her weakening. Irritating. She has to last a while yet, until the others are ready. The girl in his arms is motionless, her head upon his shoulder. He hesitates, not yet laying her on her cot. Perhaps the others do not realize why she is yet sleeping, but her thoughts slip fluidly around him like the slosh of carelessly spilled wine, and he knows. He finds her, time and again, where she hides inside herself.

Maybe she will awaken too soon. He shakes his head, that must not happen. He has grown accustomed to the taste of her, the unstainable pallor of her sleep. Even the kisses he has sought to steal, of late, do not besmirch her waiting-- though the ripples of confusion in her mind are delicious. Well-worth the displeasure of the others. Let them stew in their jealousy. He holds the girl close to his heart, for he knows the brother will come-- she is, after all, the one thing he cares for. The only thing he comes for.

He is not alone.

Narrow-eyed smile. There, standing by the doorway, seeking entrance, seeking blood. Game. He lays down the girl-- more gently than he had a week ago, more gently even than yesterday-- and vanishes into the night. They will find each other; it is like a dance. The motions of well-matched partners.

"Evening, Abyssinian," he sends, though perhaps he speaks it aloud, as well. It has grown difficult to tell, these days. Too much of pressure, the stress wearing on everyone's nerves. The end of the world is a difficult thing to orchestrate, after all.

The intruder hears, just the same. "Dammit, where are you?" Set.

As he dances through the shadows, deliberately skirting the corners of his vision, he can feel it in the other's thoughts, feel him scrying his presence in a flashes of

He is recognized. Match.

And he smiles. Predictable, really. The brother has guilt that runs deep, bleeding in his unhealed heart, wound tight with his rage and his uncertainty. So he stands still as the brother advances, opens his arms wide.

Ah, Weiß. "Even if you should die, White Hunter, you would still be beautiful."

Not what he expected to hear, naturally. But it does not phase him long. "I'm not here to die, bastard. I'm here to get my sister."

"Are you?" he drawls. He leans a half-step closer, near enough to realize that they smell alike, brother and sister, white skin hinting of things sweet and green and living, with an undercurrent hot and red and dangerous, throbbing like a pulse. "What if she's not here?"

"She's here," he says, and his arrogant certainty sings along the air between them.

"What if I have taken her--" and he does not say "elsewhere," letting the connotations flicker through the brother's overeager mind. He raises a red eyebrow, waves a careless hand.

The brother clenches his fist, unconsciously drawing his sword, and there will be blood.

There always is, neither ever winning. Can no one see this? he wonders idly, realizing that perhaps he is more sane than all of them, no matter what they should say. When being advanced upon... attack. He runs a hand through the other's hair, snagging him soundly for just a second-- long enough to find those rosepetal lips and find for certain if brother and sister taste alike.

They do.

Though the brother perhaps has more salt on his lips, more of breathless sweat in his silence. The kiss lasts longer than either one expects, and the fire in the air between them smolders. The brother breaks away at last, glaring as words die unspoken on his swollen lips.

And the three of them-- the man, and the brother, and the sister-- for just an instant, are utterly still, waiting for a heartbeat until they tangle round each other once again, none knowing the outcome.

Like a game, he thinks, wry, shaking back his hair and laughing unsteady into the night. He comes here for the girl I must protect.

Like war, her brother thinks, setting his jaw and steeling the blade in his hands. I must fight for the girl he has stolen.

Like flowervines, she thinks, perhaps, lost forever in her fevered dreaming. Plaited, twining roughly around each other, right over left over right over-- and herself helpless in the center, her unmoving hands white and her brother's angry heart beating red and the other's eyes watching, always watching, green.