"Sisters and brothers just happen, we don't get to choose them, but they become one of our most cherished relationships."
—Wes Adamson
. . .
Sometimes, William wakes up to his sister appearing noiselessly inside his room. Sometimes, he wakes up to see her fast asleep or sitting by his side with a book or with Thanatos still clutched in a tight grip.
It's almost like instinct.
Like a sixth sense, knowing that she's near.
Covering up a yawn with his fist, William blearily opens his eyes just as Winters soundlessly hangs her coat on the back of his swivel chair, brushing her bangs back aside as she sits down next to him. Alastor must have been knocked out still in her room since she's clearly planning to get some rest here. Not like she really needed to sleep.
"Win..."
"Go back to sleep, William."
"What time is it?" he slurs.
She paused, glancing at him before holding his cellphone up from the bedside table, right where he had left it a few hours earlier once he's done charging. His cellphone's sudden light casts an eerie glow against her face when she opened it, her brows furrowed slightly as she squints at the illuminated screen.
"It's 4:18 am."
He groaned, rubbing at his eyes.
Then, he saw it.
Now that he's much more awake than a second ago and is paying much more attention now, he immediately spotted the newest addition by his desk from the corner of his eyes (because he sure as hell didn't put it there earlier), its burnished mahogany gleaming gently under the rays of soft, morning light.
"Is that a guitar?!" he blurts out.
Winters sighs, placing back his phone.
"A guitar," he breathes out, almost dumbly, abruptly sitting up to get a better look. The very sight of the brown, acoustic guitar brings back memories. Good ones, "...you got a guitar."
"Is it that so surprising?"
"Yes because it's a guitar!"
She shrugs, although there was definitely something soft in her eyes when she looks upon the guitar as well, "I figured it would be a better hobby than binge-watching on your laptop for hours straight instead of resting your eyes and... well, I couldn't find anything nice to give you this year. Do you like it?"
He tries not to grin at that. Winters has always been particular with giving gifts to him, "Well, someone's sure excited for my birthday."
"You're turning 22," she smirks, "Someone has to be."
"But my birthday's still a few days away–"
Winters suddenly wrapped an arm around him, her hand ruffling at his already messy hair, gently knocking their temples together as she did so, "Advance happy birthday gift, then."
"Yeah... sure, thanks, Win."
She hums, "You're welcome."
William leans against her for a quiet moment, relishing in the way her cool fingers combed through his hair, the same way she'd always do whenever he couldn't sleep or is having a fever, sighing happily as he stares at his new guitar.
It's new, even he can tell.
Unbidden, memories of their dad playing while he and Winters take naps while Warren watches over them fondly with the same guitar in hand as he strums a melody or two...
"Looks like I have to learn how to play, huh?"
"He would have loved to teach you," Winters suddenly blurts out, almost a confession with how quiet her voice has come to. And William immediately knows who she was talking about, even before she followed that up with a much quieter: "He would have wanted me to teach you."
"...I thought you only knew how to play the violin," William comments, glancing at her in surprise when she suddenly stood up, her hand resting on his head.
"The piano, too."
"Okay, know it all," he huffs.
"You would too if you weren't so impatient."
"Since when did you learned how to play?"
Winters was quiet for a moment, her other hand reaching out to gently run along the thin, silver chain on his neck until her fingers found their father's ring resting right against his heart... as though it was something so fragile.
"...I learned from watching him."
William startles, knows that Winters felt it, at how still he had become, the way her other hand lightly presses against the top of his head, an action done many times for so many years, one reserved for giving comfort. He swallows, doesn't know what to say, for a moment.
"That was... a long time ago," he settles for instead.
"Strange, is it not?" Winters was saying, her gaze not quite meeting his, as she idly toys with the ring, "...what the body remembers even after so many years. What it chooses to hold onto, despite everything that has happened to it." What survives, despite everything.
Like her. Like him.
The both of them.
They were both quiet after that... until Winters began to hum a familiar tune under her breath, one William thought he would only ever get to hear from dreams or fever-induced hallucinations.
He instantly squeezes his eyes shut, a strangled sounding groan half-stuck in his throat, instinctively pushing away the sudden onslaught of memories, the ones that led to that fateful night. The sound of roaring thunder and their father's voice somewhere in the distance, fire dancing behind his eyelids, his arm broken, burning in phantom pain where his sister's ice-cold hand was clamped tight around it like a vice, her nails digging as she drags him out of their burning house on a snow day.
No.
He would not return there, not today.
William forced long, deep breaths in until the imaginary smoke dispersed, then slowly returned his attention to his sister's worried stare. He kept his mouth deliberately shut, doesn't know what to say for a moment. Couldn't even find his voice.
Some thoughts were just never meant to see the light of day.
"Do you... still remember how to play that song?" he asks her instead, his voice almost coming out as a meek whisper.
And Winters remains still, though somehow, she must have understood the weight of such a seemingly innocent request. She remains still for so long that it almost comes as a surprise when she properly reaches for the guitar, half-sitting by his desk with the guitar nestled within her arms before her gloveless fingers' dances amongst the strings, every single movement still imprinted with the dangerous grace she so naturally displayed in battle.
And his sister's hands, her hands marked and scarred with the flower of hell draws out a melody so light and delicate and soft that it should have been impossible to have ever come from someone like her.
The familiar tune of 'You are my sunshine' plays in his room once more, an echo from a time long since passed. Meanwhile, William soon falls asleep to the same song as easily as it had lulled him to happier dreams many times before.
