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“I want you to hurt me. Can you do that?” She tilts her head, soft. Impish. Her face is still. Brunette hair falls forward, like water, a river running over her shoulders.
Diego looks at her, mouth open just so. He holds a knife in either hand, a third—by the handle—in his teeth.
Vanya stares her doey stare, river hair dripping dark. She holds onto her skirt, the only emotion dared to be shown through her quiet placidity. “Will you?” She asks him again.
The knife falls from his mouth. He grips onto the other two with sweating, trembling fingers.
“How?” He doesn’t stutter. Vanya smiles uncannily.
“A knife, please.”
She stands in the door of the training room like a shadow. Small, floating. Grinning and grim. Diego fears if he blinks, she’ll be gone, so he agrees. He nods. Vanya tilts her head back and her hair moves along with her, drifting over her shoulders. She smiles like the cat that got the cream.
Diego walks over to his sister, she doesn’t move. He drops another, until only the one on his left remains in hand, and he touches her. Lightly, just above the elbow. She stares up at him unblinkingly. His lips part once more. He leans forward to smell her.
Clean, a generic scent. Little miss ordinary doesn’t get treats like they occasionally do, but Diego doesn’t think she’d choose scented shampoo like Allison does.
Her bangs lay straight cut and unmussed, but he can see her long lashes peak through the fringe. She blinks like she’s confused. He smells again, for undertones.
Skin, sweat, pencil lead, the wood of her violin. He can see her close up now. The crease in her uniform jacket, the shoulder, where her instrument always sits.
He holds his blade up to her nose. The tip touching freckled milkskin. Then it goes up, lightly over the flesh. Sharp enough to scratch, but not enough to cut. A white line with no blood bubbling. He parts through the middle of her bangs with it. Up, it runs through her hair. Tries it kindly, she’s just a girl, after all. Like he’s just a boy. But Vanya stopped growing a year prior, five foot, little mess of a thing, ghostly.
Diego’s all boy. Teenaged, hormonal, gross. It's only now he attempts to be nice. (His usual meanness towards her is performative half the time, anyway.)
“You smell good, sis.” He smirks, showing off just a hint of teeth.
He reaches his unused hand up to her head, runs it through the back strands. Then down it goes, and he stops close to her nape. Diego grabs her hair, a little too hard, but he tries to keep it gentle. The knife untangles itself from her. He glides it down the apple of her cheek. Another line, red following.
With that hand holding her hair, he forces her head back. A loud slam! echoes through the empty room. All five feet of little-girl slam into the metal doorway, and Vanya moans in surprise. A quick yip, she clenches her eyes shut in agony.
He gives her no time to recover, lets go of her locks to grab a hold of her sleeve. Diego tugs lightly, “Pull it up.” He demands.
With shaking fingers, she does. His hands are still, yet sweaty, but his stutter is nowhere to be found.
The knife digs in, cuts diagonally. It opens and the pearl shines. Her skin splits, red runs fast down her wrist, blue veins bright. He cuts again. More of that warm crimson falls to the floor. Vanya shakes against the cold metal, turns her face, hides from his gaze with messy hair.
He’s dripping with sweat, smells like youth. His personal training had always been rigorous.
Diego cuts her again. And then he drops the knife. His face is blank, but Vanya can feel the heat of his flush. He’s fallen into her. He’s looking down, has been, got closer with each slash. So very close, until she can taste his breath. Teenage whiskers of stubble scratch her cheek.
Her brows are furrowed, sweat sticks strands of a dark brown mane against her face. Blood drips down her hand, down to the dark flooring.
That was his training, this is hers.