In One Ear and Out the Other
It's never exactly happyin the Schnee household – the closest it ever really gets is an atmosphere of stubborn contentment. But it's the worst when Winter and her father fight.
Weiss Schnee sits at the foot of her bed and tries to ignore the shouting. She's doing the best she can, and for a while the voices had faded into muffled incomprehensibility – but a few minutes ago they had moved into the living room, which was connected to her room by an air conditioning vent. So Weiss sits, and listens to her sister and father, their voices tinged with a slightly metallic echo, and does her best to let the words flow in one ear and out the other.
"You would throw away everything I've built-" Weiss used to hate it when her father got angry, but at this point she's used to it. He's not a bad father, but he's…difficult, she thinks to herself on her better days. He's under a lot of stress, she adds on her best ones.
"I'm not throwing away anything, you'd see that if-" One thing she'll never get used to, however, is venom in her sister's voice. Winter's always been distant – she's a Schnee, it comes with the territory – but Weiss had never heard her speak with hatred before the fights started. It hurts every time, fresh, because it means Winter's in more pain than she'd ever let anyone know and there's nothing Weiss can do to help.
She considers drowning out their voices with music. Or turning on the TV. Or hiding her head under a pillow and screaming herself silly into the mattress until they run out of steam and retreat to their rooms. Weiss has done all of these things before, and she's beginning to get really good at the last one – she can scream for fifteen whole seconds before she even has to take a breath. But she doesn't this time. Instead she sits and listens, and does her best to let the words flow in one ear and out the other.
"And what will your sister do?"
"I'm not going to let you use her to-"
They bring her up surprisingly often, usually to try to guilt the other into backing down. Weiss isn't sure whether she should be more offended that they use her as a pawn in their arguments, or that it never works.
Suddenly she's full of nervous energy, and so she pushes herself to her feet and paces back and forth across her room. Back and forth, back and forth, tracing the same steps over and over, a little tin soldier whose key has been wound too far, too fast and now has to walk until it peters out. The pacing helps with the electricity coursing under her skin, but it doesn't drown out the voices. She does her best to let the words flow in one ear and out the other.
"I'm not having this conversation anymore."
"That's right. You're not."
And then the voices stop. For a moment, Weiss continues moving, almost unaware that everything has ended, and then she stands stock-still.
She can't move. She can't speak. She can't breathe. So she stands, silent, and listens, as the distinctive click-clack of Winter's high heels draw ever closer.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
They're coming up the stairs now, and still Weiss hasn't moved, not even an inch, and she feels like her mind should be racing but it isn't, it's as still and as quiet as the rest of her every tiny scrap of her focused exclusively on the sound of her sister's shoes against the staircase click-clack click-clack click-clack each one louder and louder until they're as loud as they can possibly be and then they stop.
She can see Winter's shadow. The chandelier that hangs in their shared hallway (very expensive, imported from Vale, Weiss is ninety-nine percent sure it's custom made) casts the briefest hint of her sister's present under the crack in the doorway. Weiss still hasn't moved, still hasn't dared. She watches the shadow and tries to imagine what Winter looks like beyond the door. Is she reaching for the handle? Is she trying to decide what to say? Is she wearing that expression she wears when she doesn't know what to do, half hesitant and half annoyed at the hesitance?
Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.
The footsteps are getting softer now. She's walking away, down the hall, towards her own room. Weiss feels like collapsing but collapsing is very unbecoming, so instead she walks over to the door and places her fingertips on the cool metal of the knob and twists it very slowly, pushing the door open.
Winter's door is open. Winter's door is never open. She's standing in her room with her back turned to Weiss, fiddling with something, and for a moment Weiss wants to close her door, because Winter hasn't noticed her yet but could turn around at any moment and see her standing and staring. But then she gets a hold of herself and steps puts one foot in front of the other and starts walking towards her sister's room. She's treading carefully, slowly, in socks, and so her approach is about as silent as it's possible to be, but Winter hears it anyway. She turns around and for a very brief moment their eyes meet, blue on blue. Winter is holding a shirt in her hands.
"You're packing."
"I'm leaving."
Of course she is. Weiss isn't stupid. People don't pack because they intend on sticking around.
"But where are you going to go?"
"You sound like him."
She doesn't. She doesn't. Winter's just saying that to get under her skin. It won't work this time.
"I…It's an important question."
"I have a job waiting for me. A life."
She stops, as if giving Weiss a chance to respond, but when no response comes she turns back to her bag. Weiss watches her as she works, quick, efficient. She packs very little – a few clothes, a few pieces of jewelry. A compass. Winter never goes anywhere without a compass. Then she turns to leave, and Weiss finds the response she was looking for.
"You have a life here, too."
Winter doesn't say anything to that. Instead she gets that expression on her face, the one she wears when she doesn't know what to do, half hesitant and half annoyed at the hesitance. And then she places her hand on the top of Weiss' head and smiles, just a little bit, before walking out the door.
Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack. The sound of her footsteps echoes down the hall. Weiss does her best to let them flow in one ear and out the other.