He is angry. She knows the moment he walks through the door, face drawn and eyes hard. She knows because she can read him—has always been able to. She doesn't know why or what, but she doesn't care, only moves to soothe him. He collapses onto the couch and drops his head into his hands as she disappears through the kitchen door. A few minutes later, the kettle whistles and she is by his side again, laying the porcelain cup on the small table before him.
There is a silence as she stands by, and he makes no movement for the cup, but she is patient, and she waits. "Vodka..." he finally croaks—does not look up at her—but she shakes her head.
"You need something warm," is her reply. He needs something to soothe him, not something to make him lose his mind.
"Vodka," he says again, and this time, there is warning in his voice. His anger is simmering like the remnants of a fire not correctly put out and needs only a little wind to make it flare again into a monstrous flame. Yet, she holds firm—calm, unrelenting.
"No, brother," she tells him. She has pushed him too far, and now, she can see the changes in his body. His shoulders tense and even though she cannot see his face, she knows his mouth is twisted into a snarl, his eyes have narrowed into furious slits. The flames had sprung to life.
He raises a hand and she knows he is going to slap her—to hurt her because she's there, and he's angry and frustrated and he can't think straight and it seems like the entire world is against him, and she is there—his sister, his baby sister who adores him more than the world, more than herself and she doesn't even try to block the hit and she doesn't flinch or look away and she stands, waiting for the blow to connect.
His hand freezes in mid-air, and whatever energy he had coursing through him seems to evaporate and the hand goes limp and drops back onto his lap. "Nataliya..." he whispers, and she hears the apology behind her name.
She thinks he looks defeated. Exhausted and defeated and oh so lost, and she hurts because she hates the way he looks, she hates it so much, and so she drops to her knees and takes his hand. She kisses his palm, his fingers, and she feels him watching her, but his mind is still elsewhere, and brother, oh brother, please come back I don't want to see you like this, she brings her own hand to his face, tracing his cheeks, grazing past his eyes, and brushing his lips before she leans in and claims them with her own.
For awhile, for a long while, he doesn't react and she doesn't pull away, but finally, finally, his eyes close and he sighs, opens his being to her. She dives in, running her fingers through his hair, caressing his arms, kissing his cheeks, erasing his rage, comforting, comforting, making him relax and he does. He welcomes her because she is his escape.
He follows her lead—doesn't care enough to make his own—and he stands when she tugs, and he walks when she pulls. They make their way to her room—her, kissing and touching, he, watching her with his hands loose on her waist. She opens the door, and pushes him into the mattress, and he doesn't resist—lies there and follows her movements with those unusually-colored eyes. She doesn't mind his idleness, because her only thoughts are to please him, and it doesn't matter what she gains from it.
She slides down his body, her fingers are working deftly at the fastenings on his clothing, unbuttoning and unzipping. She places kisses where ever she can reach, and she is happy that his breath is turning harsh and his skin is heating under her touch. She is happy that those little whines he makes are for no one but her to hear tonight, even though she knows that his mind is not on her.
As for him, he would never know how she had become good at this, all hard teeth and warm tongue, harsh and soft as she bites his skin and kisses what she leaves. He had thought that she saved herself for him, would give herself to no one but him, but she proves him wrong when she takes him deep in her throat, and he has to moan and arch and clutch at the sheets because when did she become so good? Perhaps she has learned for him, but he doesn't care enough to ask from whom, and she will not tell him because those people are nothing to her. She is his, his only, and she tells him so when she straddles his hips and lets herself down forcefully.
He moans loudly underneath her, eyes shut tight and fingers gripping the blankets hard, toes curling and spine curving as she rides him fast and rough. Her own breath is coming out harsh, and as she watches him writhe beneath her, she tries to imagine that she is the only one to have seen him so exposed, in so much ecstasy even though she knows it isn't true. As long as he comes to her on nights like these, anger spiking and hate burning, she feels like one day he may come to her because he loves her as she loves him.
At least, that is what she can imagine when he finally screams and his back curves harder than before, and she can feel a burst of warmth from between her legs. That is what she can believe when she concentrates a little more and grinds down firmly, and arches herself with a gasp escaping her lips, and his name is all that she can think of as she reaches her high. That is what she can hope for when she falls beside him, and he doesn't pull away, and finally takes a step of his own when he kisses her forehead.
"I love you, brother" she tells him.
"Go to sleep," he says and pulls the blankets around himself and turns his back to her. She doesn't try to draw him close, and she knows that he will be long gone before she awakes, and that the next time they see each other, he will try to avoid her again. But that is okay, as long as he comes back on nights like these.
Because for those nights, he is hers, hers.
But that's unfair, isn't it?
If she had been a lesser person, she would have cried, because—because—
Oh, brother. I have been yours for ever.