Owner	Pose
Piotr Rasputin	Piotr has been a little busy recently, a few of his portraits are sitting on easels, waiting to be finished or framed. The rest of the room is in a bit of disarray as the paints have been haphazardly set up on a portable desk, not yet organized, but the brushes are already in their correct storage jars. The room's resident; however, is a little busy at the moment tangling with something at the foot of the bed, as a small pile of canvas is moving and occasionally small "Brrs" are heard coming from it. <<Calm down, I will help you,>> the Russian says as he tangles with it, but it is clear the canvas is tangling back a bit.
Illyana Rasputina	Where does Magik go when it rains? Or howls or blusters, when it seethes with sunshine or dwindles with clouds? Hard to know. But she knows where her brother is, most of the time. Call it an innate sibling sense, but more than likely a factor for checking in now and then. The resident isn't the hardest to locate being the second largest person in the school, or the first, depending on how one measures. Still. A knock raps lightly at his door, an announcement of another in the hallway. She who laughs rarely leans there with a box. The box contains its contents that he might pick out: the scent of borscht, of course, piping hot. Spiced appropriately. Probably from Little Odessa... or actual Odessa, given this -is- Illyana.
Piotr Rasputin	"Door is open," Piotr says, smelling the food, "Illyana." He finally wrangles the canvas-dwelling critter and is now holding the striped kitten with massive ears and paws. The large man moves to the door, now able to actually move, and realizing his sister's arms are probably full. With his free hand as the kitten begins nuzzling him, Piotr opens the door and gestures for his sister to come in, "You can set the food on the table," he gestures and as the kitten smells the food it begins wriggling a little, "Oh, and this is Boris." He nods down at the kitten he is trying to contain for the moment as the door is open.
Illyana Rasputina	The door has to open with a bit of force, a nudge of the hip. Rarely is having her prehensile tail advantageous, and Illyana isn't the type to fall into her demonic form just to make things a little easier on herself. They never are. Nonetheless, digging at the knob and giving a demanding hip-check doesn't quite achieve the appropriate effect wanted, and so she has to lift the borscht box one-handed to work it open. Next time she might just bloody well portal and make UberEats or Door Dash or Starkbites seem like a thing of dull necessity. As it is, the blonde sorceress pokes her head in. She still wears a coat, light as it is, a t-shirt underneath speaking of her affiliation to the Foo Fighters with black leggings made from the soul of a dead cow in place. Russian, of course; why speak English even though she's perfectly fluent. "Me," she agrees. "I should bring you blood sausage and that stomach people eat. British food is so strange. Not a proper meal like..." She lifts it. There are two huge round loaves of rye bread in there, adding their distinct scent, and a bit of millet steamed and softened with mushrooms and onions. It all ends up plunked down on the table. It is a big box; he's a large man. "Boris. Yeltsin?" She tries to summon up the obvious contender. "Or Imperial?"
Piotr Rasputin	"It is good to see you, sister," Piotr says with a smile and trying to get out of her way. "Da," he says regarding British food, "It is efficient, but... egh," he shrugs, "But at least it is never spicy." He points and helps close the door once his sister is in and sets the cat on the ground, which begins investigating the newcomer. Piotr continues and begins grabbing a couple of plates and silverware he keeps for eating in his room, "Neither, just picked a name I thought fit him, also it would be easier to say in short bursts." He is also speaking in their native tongue, far more comfortable. "He has been a bit troublesome. He enjoys attacking my spare canvas, despite the toys and cat tree I got him. He also seems to enjoy the boxes for those things far more, like a child."
Illyana Rasputina	Illyana gives that slight upnod, her trademark absence of excess or candor both at play there. Russian fatalism gives everything that rough, hard edge. "Curry. They have good curry. Tikka masala, this is how one should eat chicken. From a takeaway. But not currywurst, like they have in Berlin. Ugh, that is awful." Cutlery follows, pulled out of a plastic bag and wrapped in serviettes. None of those cheap plastic forks, this is hard steel and frequently washed, likely purchased along with the meal or handed over when she explains where, how, who. They know their business. Not that she owns a credit card with 'Rasputina' on the end. Never know how those Ukrainian emigres will think of the name, if they remember. She at least can use the butter knife to batter open some of the containers. "Baba Olga says you eat too little and you are not there enough. She will have you know she keeps a big stock pot full of borscht. The white and the regular, in case you want more potatoes, da?" Her expression remains fixed with caution on the cat, for reasons unto herself. Small and fuzzy? For a girl whose last cat was her best friend and she was forced to murder the humanity from, and finally the mongrel Cat became? Maybe. Still, Boris is not Cat, and therefore she slowly kneels in front of it. <<You are a cat.>> Speaking to it in /Ancient Egyptian?/ Yes. Demotic, not Hieratic, but there you go. <<Bast brings fortune to this house. Remember he is your servant, and you are the god, but /I/ am a greater god than you. You exist on my sufferance, Boris. Respect Piotr, he brings the fish and the meat. If you see him on a wheeled cart plowing the fields, stay away from the wheels. He loves it too much.>>
Piotr Rasputin	Boris is confused. Mostly because he is a kitten, but also because the lady in front of him is giving him attention, so he is content and begins focusing on Illy, trying to reach up for attention. Piotr frowns, obviously not knowing Egyptian, but also because the cat is actually behaving for a moment, "For once he behaves, somewhat, though he may try to steal your food." He sets the plates and silverware back, as his sister had the foresight to prepare. The larger Russian nods, "Indeed, so much talk of 'gains' in the gym, I should visit more, and there are /never/ enough potatoes!" Piotr grins. He walks over to a small fridge in the corner, "Pop, tea, or anything else to drink?" He asks
Illyana Rasputina	The cat receives that pointed look from a demonic queen, and one who is not about to be waylaid by a cat in her authority and execution of said duties. She holds out her hand for Boris to assess. Or maybe he rears up and runs at her on his back paws with something new to pounce, this little toebeans of thrilling colours waiting to smack her skin, needle-sharp claws prepared to hook onto anything that might escape his fierce danger. "He needs a bowtie," she announces for no particular reason. Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been? No judgment here. But she scoops him up so he does not try to get into the soup, nor is he allowed any bread. Boris, that is. Picking up Piotr would take much greater talent than generally she braves to possess. "Potatoes? You would buy that Canadian island of potatoes, and still hunger. Tea, please." Rarely if ever does she drink pop. His eyes might fall out if she asked for wine.
Piotr Rasputin	Piotr nods as he pulls out a chilled two-liter of Mt. Dew and a pitcher of tea and sets the latter on the table and fetches a glass to put on the table. Cracking open the two-liter he takes a swig and sets it on the table. "Indeed, both the bowtie, and the potatoes." He is wearing a Xavier's institute t-shirt and jeans and sits down. "Though I am curious what he would think of it." Piotr grins and gets comfortable in his seat, gesturing for his sister to get comfortable, "Thank you again for picking up food." He says, "Also I appreciate you visiting." Boris is also content with his current situation, showing no response at a bowtie.
Illyana Rasputina	The petite smirk follows as she sees the Mountain Dew, but there could be worse options. Rather, the petite blonde glides through the room and prepares the soup, pulling out a deep ladle to help with the portioning of the soup. Though mind you, he could just stuff his face in the bowl and be done with, as much as it pleases him. The curve of a smile doesn't quite dance to her mouth, but it comes close. Almost an arc that can be seen, anyway. "Boris eats... dry food? You cannot feed him potatoes?" This is a matter of /great/ importance, anyway. She follows Piotr to the table and sits across from him. "You are happy, yes? All good things lately?"
Piotr Rasputin	"He likes dry food, but goes crazy over wet food, which he gets each night, but no potatoes, sadly," Piotr smiles and accepts, "He is a growing boy, especially if he is to grow into those ears and paws, the vet says." The elder Rasputin pours himself some soup and nods, "Da, things go well, when I spoke with Kitty she suggested I do a portrait, which inspired me to do a portrait of the entire team for history's sake, to help remind ourselves and the others that come after us. Have things been good for you?"
Illyana Rasputina	"No potatoes," repeats the sorceress. "He will be as big as one soon. Many promises for those paws." She looks down at Boris just in case he isn't trying to crawl into her lap to attain a fresh look at the food, reaching instead for a slice of black bread to dredge through the intense mulberry soup. She is one to eat in volume or much at a time, which is a difference perhaps from the child. It's all mechanical, with little evidence of pleasure taken from it. Rote, efficient, and fully in expectation of people stealing the bowl away. "Portraits for the team are good. They will set up a memory of who has come, who has been." She shrugs her shoulders. "I have decisions to make. What to choose, I do not know."
Piotr Rasputin	Piotr is pleased as he is partaking in one of his favorite activities, eating. He is on cloud nine with the abundance of bread and soup. "Indeed, if you would like one, simply say so." He continues eating and then Illyana makes her statement. Piotr looks up and says, "What sort of decisions, perhaps I could help?" His concern is evident in his tone.
Illyana Rasputina	The girl gives a subtle shake of her head, throwing the splay of blonde hair around her shoulders. "What I want. What to do. Magic is near to me, da? But it is not the only thing. We need... more humanity? I do not know. Things that establish what to do." She is not on cloud nine, she /is/ nine. Though perhaps an aged one at that, her eyes narrowed fractionally as she looks down into the soup rather than at her brother. "Have you ever regretted making a choice, brother? What did you do, when you had?"
Piotr Rasputin	"Choice?" Piotr ponders, "I did not have much choice until I came here," he gestures around the room, "I chose art because I am good at it, and find it soothing in a world where it is filled with hurt." He ponders further, "But I am an X-Man because someone has to do the right thing and I am able to do so, therefore I do it." His tone turns pensive, "But at least you still have plenty of room to choose, what sort of things do you wish to do?"
Illyana Rasputina	"Art makes you happy." Obviously, considering there are all kinds of evidence for that situated on a handsome easel, or the canvases spread around the room. Her pale winter gaze takes it all in. "You create, and this is good. Creation fixes some of our mistakes." The gestures she makes are straightforward and elegant, perhaps not entirely without their grace as she eats. Slow, purposeful. "I do not know. People get degrees. What is the point?"
Piotr Rasputin	Piotr listens and taps on the table, "Well, the earlier part of my degree was to give me a broad understanding and to give me ideas of what I want to pursue further. Perhaps a similar path would work for you? What would you say your ideal career would be?" He thinks and eats a little more, taking a swig from the giant bottle. "Or a short list of things you would like to consider knowing more about?" Small snores are heard from the tiny, now asleep, kitten.
Illyana Rasputina	The 'ideal career' earns a blank stare. "I rule a dimension as a warrior queen. My future is to protect all magic and magic users. How is one... to... study this at school?" She runs her hand over the spoon and leans back a little in the seat, watching the fat-bellied fuzzy kitten asleep. He snores. His tail moves. It is a strange weakness, and it might almost compel her to look about for a risk, a form of danger owed to unknown sources. "I am not a doctor. Not good like that. Mine is a path of... it was never peaceful. Peace I want, but it means to be a sword and not a shield."
Piotr Rasputin	"Management and political science could be of use," Piotr notes, "International relations." He gestures with his spoon, "Think in different angles." He eats a little more, "Then pursue diplomacy, for is not war but diplomacy by other means?" He frowns, "But I am uncertain, though perhaps theology."
Illyana Rasputina	Skidding spoon resting against the rim of the bowl, Illyana shakes her head. "It is strange, da? To think they teach political science. I know I cannot /tell/ someone what to do and make them do it. As bad as..." Her gaze narrows a little and she doesn't finish the statement, shaking her head. "You know who could be that. I am not them. What are you doing, teaching? Still?"
Piotr Rasputin	"It is, but a lot of them become lawyers, or do similar things," Piotr shrugs, "But you could persuade them, or guide them to the answer you want." He note as he eats, "Da, I teach art and Russian, here. Someone has to teach these students a civilized language." He gives a laugh after that. "But I serve, and while uncertain of what the future holds, I do the best I can."