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Whitley and Winter don’t exactly get along. Mainly because there isn’t much of a real dynamic between them anyway, no conversation that required them to get along at all—the only things Whitley knew about his eldest sister that she was in the military, that Weiss adored her, and that their father was terribly disappointed in her. The last one had been enough for him to steer clear of her for the most part, only ever joining Weiss to greet her the rare times she visited.
She did send him letters sometimes, not often—and not as much as Weiss, but Whitley never minded.
He had Weiss, after all.
But then he didn’t have her, and he was alone—surrounded by the emptiness of the Schnee manor and the cruelty that suffocated him like an ocean of boiling hatred and disgust.
A week after Weiss leaves to Beacon, Winter came for him.
“Greetings.” She nodded, voice soft and shoulders stiff. It’s as though she doesn’t quite know how to talk to him. “How are you, little brother?”
He doesn’t like what she calls him. ‘Little brother’ as though she ever treated him like one in the first place, as though she acknowledged his existence more than a handful of times throughout the year. As though she was Weiss, who would call him ‘brother’ with a ‘dearest’ or even ‘beloved’ as though Winter could make up for the gaping hole in his life that was his comradery with his favorite sister.
(But then again, Weiss had left him, so maybe he didn’t have a favorite sister anymore.)
“Fine.” He uttered just as softly, twitching in his seat. She had approached him in the library, his solace—the place that their father didn’t often frequent, the place that had Weiss reading him medical texts and old Atlesian books for fairytales. “Did you need something, Winter?” He couldn’t call her ‘sister’ something that Winter seemed to understand, if the sudden softening in her eyes was any indication.
“I just wanted to check on you.” Her jaw went stiff, body tensing out once more—any trace of gentleness disappearing with the wave of a hand. “I’ll come again next month.”
Then she was leaving the library in a spin, her white coat flowing out behind her as she strode out of the room—back straight and chest out.
To say Whitley had been bewildered had been something of an understatement.
He didn’t like Winter. There was no getting around that, no sugar coating it, he just Did Not Like his eldest sister. He didn’t hate her, exactly, but he held no fondness for her or her little exploits. In truth, the fact that she’d even willingly talked to him was a monumental surprise.
He wondered why, sometimes. Why Winter—who was so kind to Weiss—never really shot him a second glance. Perhaps it was because he was the youngest, perhaps it was because he barely remembered a time when their mother wasn’t drowning in her red stained glasses—because Weiss still had a handful of memories that included Willow Schnee with a warm smile. Perhaps it was even because he looked too much like their father for Winter to ever be really comfortable enough to talk to him.
Whitley had brushed off her strange behavior, decided that her odd visit be counted as an outlier and never thought of again.
Only… Winter kept visiting. Again. And again. And again and again.
No amount of venom that dripped from his lips would keep her away, no amount of poisoned apples or not-so-subtle warnings of their father would get through to her.
She would come, stomping into the library and commanding his attention—the red of her jewel shining like the sun, too bright and too uncomfortable to look at for more than a second or so—and she would nod at him. She would ask him how his day went despite not expecting an answer, and would smile for a second at him before taking her leave once more.
It was methodical, military. Almost as though she’d slotted one or two visits for him into her very busy month. He started fantasizing about it, about what his sister would say to the General when she requested time off.
Would she say it directly? Would she tell everyone straight out, say “I’m off to visit my brother.” Or would she nod at the General like she had nodded at Whitley, no words except that it was her free time and she could do as she wished? What would she call his monthly appointments with her? He wondered if she put him down onto her planner, wrote his name in her loopy and messy scrawl; wrote Visit Whitley Schnee in all caps or just wrote the simpler Visit My Brother or Go And See Whitley.
It fascinated him endlessly.
(And though his curiosity was a tiny burn in the back of his eyes, he did not need to know exactly why Winter had suddenly taken an interest in him. He wasn’t like Weiss, he didn’t need to know everything about anything, didn’t need to understand what was happening or why it was happening. He was content with the knowledge that Winter was slowly worming her way into a part of his routine, and though he was curious it would always be said that Whitley Schnee knew better than to pry.)
“Tell me, Winter.” Is how it would start, pausing for a moment to ask the same question over and over again. “Why is that you have come to visit me?”
And Winter would tilt her head a little, a bit of curly hair falling into her face. “I suppose I simply wished to check on you.” And that was that, nothing else—just a quick glance at his person.
She never stayed longer than a few minutes.
And often that small amount of time was filled with bitter words or distrustful glances—a constant swarm of narrowed eyes and petty comments.
Whitley and Winter didn’t get along. They were far too different, on the opposite ends of a spectrum that he didn’t know the name of. But it was not for a lack of trying, it seemed, and though they were never quite comfortable in each other’s presence the visits continued without fail.
One day, six months since Weiss had fled to Beacon, things changed.
“Do you miss her, I wonder?” Winter asked him, a strange look in her eyes. “Did you even ever really know her?”
He realized it then, that she wasn’t coming for him. She was waiting for Weiss, and thought that Whitley would like to wait for her too. It burned, the thought, it burned and burned and burned—searing the back of his throat and inflaming his veins—branding his anger so deeply into his skin that it sunk roughly into his muscle and bone.
He took a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose, barely managing the ruthless wrath that begged to wrought upon her.
“You’re going to have to clarify.” He barely managed to keep from physically seething.
“Our mother.”
Oh, Whitley thought—some of his anger diminishing, so she didn’t mean Weiss after all.
Which was strange, because if he had jumped to the conclusion that Winter must have been talking about their sister, how long had she been on his mind? Far too long then he was comfortable with, he decided, and tried to force the thoughts down down down.
“Mother?” He asked, leaning into the back of his chair—positioning his check onto his palm, looking out the window to watch the brittle Atlesian sunset. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s grandfather’s birthday.” Winter’s voice was hushed, as though speaking of the man was taboo in the manor, which it might as well have been. “She used to take us to visit him, you know, even after he died—though the mood was more ominous when he was no longer alive to see us."
“She will not speak to me much, she doesn’t like to.”
“She doesn’t like to speak to any of us.” Winter agreed.
Whitley hummed. “Perhaps that is how it is for you, but tell me, Winter—does she flee the room the very second you enter it?”
When he thought of his parents, nothing good ever followed.
They made him feel like he was starving, like he was too skinny, too weak—deprived of something that was supposed to be fundamental for him. They made him feel like he was nothing better than a mindless animal, who was thrown a slab of rotten meat and told it was more than he needed. They made him feel like a heart eater, desperate for something he’d never felt before. They made him feel like his face was covered in blood—the gurgling warmth of the organ he tore into constantly, his mind turned hazy with only the feral desperation for something more to keep him sustained.
That was how his parents made him feel. Both of them, not just his father.
“Ah.” Winter said. “I see.”
It was quiet for a moment, the only sounds the light tap tap tap of Whitley’s fingers slowly drumming against the spine of a long unread book. “Do you?” He whispered, so softly the words almost tasted like silk on his tongue. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, for some reason.
“Yes.”
Tap tap tap.
“Well, I suppose I am glad that your eyes are working, it would be rather hard for you—being a part of the military forces without vision.” Whitley sniped back, though the bite in his tone was weak, and he knew it.
Tap tap—
“You remind Mother of Father.”
His fingers faltered. That was perhaps the cruelest thing that Winter had ever said to him, and he didn’t even have the pleasure of knowing it was wrong. He glanced down to where his hand laid lovingly upon the spine of his unread book, seeing how long and spindly they were—like he was. (Like his father was.)
“Do I remind you of our father?” He asked softly, turning back to face the window—to hide the expression on his face from her.
“Sometimes.” Winter admitted. “Sometimes when he’s around… it’s as though you become him.”
“And why do you think that is?” Whitley barely fought off the urge to scoff. If he was anything like his father he didn’t think he’d be able to survive as much as he had.
“Because despite the fact that you could be nothing like him at all, you follow in his footsteps anyway.” Winter’s voice was hushed, silent—as though she was telling him some great secret. “Because you’ve decided that manipulation suits you more than anything else.”
No one spoke for a moment.
Whitley was… he didn’t know. All that he could make any sense of was that Winter’s words were tearing into him more than he thought they could. The burning desire to know struck him then, and he realized that maybe he was a little like Weiss after all.
“Do you honestly think me so foolish?” He asked her, not quite able to stamp out the curiosity from his tone.
“No.”
Whitley could not stop himself, then—could not control the indignation and frustration that graced his face like a bruise. His head snapped to her, and he found that she wasn’t looking at him, no. His eldest sister was leaned against the bookshelves, staring out at that parasitic Atlesian sunset.
She watched the sunset with me. He thought, and hated that it meant more than it should.
“Then what do you think of me, Winter?” He asked, his tone somehow steady, dripping with something that wasn’t quite disdain. “What makes me so different in your eyes?” Different than you. Different than Weiss.
“You fawn.”
“I survive.” He explained. “What do you do?”
“Your fawning is all well and good for that, for survival, but is it good for much anything else?” Winter asked him, finally turning to face him. “And me? What do I do, little brother? I have left this life behind, and I will continue leaving it behind.”
He sneered. “It’s a wonder Weiss actually adores you.”
“...Pardon?” And there it was, a flicker of vulnerability. Whitley wanted to laugh, how plain it was that this was her weak point, how easy it was to press press press.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know?” He scoffed. “You left her, abandoned even—and somehow she never faulted you. Sure, some days she may have cursed your name more than praised it, but the fact that cared even after you shirked your responsibilities monumentally enough that she was forced to take your place? It's a marvel, Winter, that Weiss really loves you at all.”
There it was. Whitley thought smugly, watching as Winter struggled to respond. There it was.
Winter stopped visiting after that. Whitley was not as affected as he might have been, had he genuinely wished to see her.
The next time Winter saw her youngest sibling, he was practically curled up into Weiss’ embrace. He slept, or pretended to, as her sister very gently smoothed down his hair—playing with the white strands and staring down with a pensive look on her face. There is some space between them, but one of his hands rested in her sister’s palms, and Weiss seemed perfectly content to play with his hair. It was different, from the last time she’d seen him. He wears no evil grin, no false bravado—he only appears to be resting, his shoulders slumped and eyes closed.
She finds them in Whitley’s room, which had been a very big surprise for her, as not only was she not aware that they were close enough to be content with each other in such a way, but because she’d assumed (much like Weiss’ team) that Whitley had followed her up the staircase to do something to prevent her from moving forward.
Watching him, he only looks like a child—albeit a very tired one, but a child nonetheless. It was hard to believe that he had been so cruel to her before.
Weiss looked up for a moment, a small flicker of surprise entering her eyes when she saw her. It was gone just as quickly as it appeared, and Weiss smiled softly at her.
Winter tried to return the gesture, but she feared it came out as more of a grimace.
“Your teammates are worried.” Winter explained softly, mindful of her sleeping brother. “They saw Whitley chase after you and feared the worst.”
“Did they?” There’s something sarcastic in her tone of voice, and it immediately sets Winter on edge. She’d seen a softer Weiss lately, no real bite in her tone of voice—no bitterness lining her shoulders.
“Yes.” Winter nodded. “I told them that I would retrieve you.”
Weiss raised an eyebrow. “You can tell them that I—”
“You should get going, dearest sister.” Whitley murmured into his pillow.
Winter tried and failed not to twitch at the term that escaped from him. She didn’t think that she’d ever heard such an endearment come out of his mouth.
It struck Winter then, that though she had rationalized that Weiss and Whitley were somewhat close, it hadn’t really settled in until that moment. The realization made her pause, it was such a strange sight to see—Whitley, so at ease, so open.
Had she fallen into an alternate world? One where her brother was kind (well, kinder, she didn’t really believe any incarnation of Whitley could be whole and totally kind, not if he was raised by their father) one where her brother genuinely cared for Weiss? It was such an odd thing, so very different then what she’d become accustomed to that she almost felt her mouth fall open in surprise.
She wondered then, about the last words he had said to her—about the way he’d easily spotted something to exploit—Weiss—and used it against her. She’d been so consumed in her own hurt, her own bundle of emotion that she feared to process, that she had not noticed exactly what he said and why he had said it. Could it be… that Whitley had missed Weiss? That he had blamed Winter for some part of her absence? That he didn’t understand why Winter was so loved by her when she left Weiss behind? Perhaps because he couldn’t love Weiss when she left him?
It made something in her chest ache, an unused portion that had only just recently gotten to working properly.
Weiss frowned at him, turning so she could look him straight in the eye. “I’ll come back for you.” She promised, her tone brokering no argument.
Winter swallowed, she felt as though she was intruding on a private moment, and once again she became lost in thought… had she ever said anything like that to Weiss? When she left, did she ever speak in such a reassuring manner? Ever tell her that she would come back?
No, Winter thought, because she wouldn’t have meant it.
“Yes, I suppose you will, won’t you?” Whitley sighed rolling away from her. “Quickly then, I’m sure your team is very worried about you.”
Weiss actually grimaced. “Not exactly.” She fiddled with her braid, and Winter realized for the first time that it was messy—not how it had been before she’d disappeared from the top of Schnee Manor’s grand staircase.
“Oh?” Whitley raised a brow, “And what do you mean by that?” There was a calculating glint in his eye, and for a moment Winter feared for Weiss—but then realized that it was only protectiveness.
“Nothing, darling brother, I just… haven’t seen much of—” She cut herself off, lips puckering. “Nevermind, it hardly matters.”
“I’m sure that it will… um, get better.” Whitley’s words were choppy, awkward.
“Thank you.” Weiss nodded, a mischievous smirk on her face. “Perhaps your discomfort with softer words will get better as well.”
Whitley huffed, a small blush rising to his cheeks. “Do be quiet, the tone of your voice is harsh and brutish to my ears.”
Weiss laughed, a crinkle in her eye that wasn't there before. She took a moment to breath, and then paused. “Are you sure that you don’t wish to vacate this place?”
An unreadable expression passed over Whitley’s face. “I’m… someone has to hold down the fort, Weiss.”
“I resent that.” She said with a soft breath, and Winter for the first time felt as though she understood what they were talking about.
“As do I.” Admitted Whitley after a moment, his voice nothing more than a quiet rumble.
“Goodbye, beloved brother.” And the teasing smile was back on her sister’s face.
“And you, dearest sister.” Whitley said with a roll of his eyes.
Weiss stood, pausing for a moment to grip his hand tightly once more. “Take care.” She spoke softly, “Promise me?”
“Oh, please.” He scoffed. “I was never the most impulsive, if anything I should be making you promise me that.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I promise if you do.”
Whitley eyed her for a moment, before nodding curtly. “Don’t let father see you near my room.”
“I won’t.” Then Weiss was standing, heading for the door. She paused next to Winter, looking up at her and searching for something that Winter didn’t know of. “I’ll wait for you outside.” And then she was slipping out the door without a second glance.
Winter blinked. Had she just been played? She turned back to look at Whitley, who was eyeing her distrustfully. Regardless, she decided, she would not waste this moment in his presence.
“I don’t understand you.” She admitted softly.
“That has become increasingly apparent.” Whitley scoffed, raising his eyebrows in a mocking manner. He stood, straightening his tie—red.
When had he started wearing that color?
“And you don’t understand me.” She fought back the annoyance, her eyes softening as he fiddled with his clothes.
“I say, your observational skills are truly something to behold, Winter.” Whitley continued sarcastically.
“Would you like to? Understand, I mean? Because I would very much like to understand you.”
“I… what?” That look on his face, so caught off guard—so surprised. It was such a sight to behold, the softening of all his sharp angles. And for a moment he looked nothing like their father at all, for a moment his eyes were lighter and his mouth was round and his—it struck her, then, who he looked like.
“I was wrong.” Winter said. “That last time I visited you, when I told you that you reminded Mother of Father.”
Whitley frowned, his brows furrowing and his mouth opening to say something—but Winter could not bear to hear him, in that moment, could not bear to see the strangely sharpened gentleness in his features.
“You reminded Mother of herself!” Winter trips over her words, “You look like—” And she can’t finish, can’t finish at all because Whitley looks like Mother, looks like her so much in the way he carries himself and the way his eyes crinkle.
“Mother?” He scoffed, “How could I—?” Whitley shakes his head, and the sight is something familiar.
“Did you know that I was scared, the first night I decided that I was to join the military?” She asked him softly.
“You mean the first night you decided to flee to the military.” He shot back, he had never been shy about what he thought of her decisions, never been as willing as Weiss to not say things like ‘abandon’ or ‘run away.’
Winter ignored him, ignored the strange churning in her stomach, and continued on. “I did not think much beyond the fact that I needed to get out, to escape. I assume Weiss was much the same, wanting to get out from under the burden of our family name—”
“That’s not why Weiss left.” Whitley scoffed.
“...Pardon?” Her shoulders rise slightly, her spine going stiff—what did he mean, by saying that to her? Did he mean to use Weiss against her again? To hurt her just because he could?
“I used to believe that was why she was gone, why she had left me here, the idea that she’d decided to follow you.” He explained, rolling his eyes—he turned to his mirror, brushing a bit of snowy hair back into place. “But if that were true, well... then she wouldn’t have chosen Beacon, don’t you think?”
“What are you saying?” Her hackles were starting to rise. She felt like a cornered animal, and she couldn’t believe that her brother was invoking such a response in her—creating the desire to run. (He had done it once before, pressing pressing pressing until she couldn’t bear to look at him anymore.)
“You see us, Weiss and I, as something other than ourselves.” He explained lazily, shooting her a lethargic glance. “Not that I can blame you, of course—it’s always much easier to accept something at face value. Though considering things I thought you would’ve learned it by now, the fact that nothing is ever as it seems.”
“You are wrong.” Winter stated, and she knew that some part of his words wasn’t correct, that some part just didn’t fit—but she also knew that there was a grain of truth in his beliefs. “Though perhaps so am I.” She admitted quietly, why had Weiss ran from their father? Had Weiss ever truly run from their name at all?
Winter remembered seeing the strange new snowflake on her sister’s shoulder, remembered how her sister had not hid from their father—remembered the way she had stood tall in the face of the man who had cruel interwoven into his very cell structure; and feared she never knew Weiss at all.
“I don’t need to understand.” Whitley continued over her, as though she was not questioning everything about her one good relationship. “I don’t need to understand you, or Weiss, or anything. I am not so naive as to expect answers from everyone, while knowing things is always a delight—it’s not always strictly needed.”
But his words were untrue, even someone as far from him as Winter could see it, how the statement sounded wrong in his mouth—as though he had swallowed something bitter.
“You said you don’t need to understand.” Winter whispered quietly. “But you never said that you didn’t want to.”
Whitley goes still, his hand pausing from where it had been adjusting his collar, and suddenly Winter can comprehend just how her sister was able to grow so close to him; how she was able to make sense of him.
And she feels so very foolish.
“You look like Mother.” Winter told him. “You look like how she did before.”
“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.” Whitley slowly looked up at her, and his face was gaunt, mouth pursed into a serious line, his eyes bruised purple. “And I don’t need to.”
“But you want to.” Winter said, and understood. “You want to.”
“Tell me, Winter.” He began. “Why is it you have come to visit me?”
“I suppose I simply wished to check on you.” Is her gently worded response. “I suppose I simply wished to understand.”
“Tell me, sister.” Whitley looked up at her, jaw set. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
Then Winter turned, moving to the doorway and pausing for a moment before joining Weiss. That had been the first time he called her ‘sister.’ “Goodbye, Whitley.”
And if she had stayed for a moment longer, she would’ve heard him say it back.