Klavier sits, perched liked a cat along the back rest of the couch, his own back reclined at an angle against the hideous yellow wall in the living room. A picture frame digs into his shoulder blade; his guitar into his thigh; sharp words and heat and anger into his mind. His cheek stings, as the angry welts on his wrists do.

He strums the guitar as a dare, tuneless noise to fill the already potent silence. He is sure he hears him, Kristoph, but damn if he is not good at hiding it. He gives the strings another slap, a sharp twang rising from them in protest. Still, he does not turn around. Klavier begins to hum.

Then humming turns to words, hissed between his teeth as though half-vocalized thought—a pointed jab at that turned head. Lyrics from some popular American band or another, meant to be screamed and snarled with all of the heat he feels boiling in his belly, angst-ridden and miserable. Kristoph does not turn. He does not even know the song.

Sometimes, it was enough to have him there, all gentle smiles and manners and goodness. And sometimes, well.

"Sometimes sorry is not enough… I find myself possessed by your heat; terrible urges and rising tides, craving your stillness at my feet. Let you feel what I do —wanna make you know you, as I do. As I do."

A small scoff, but nothing more.

Sometimes, he wishes he could make him see what terrible thoughts he bred in his head. The bad times between the good that bred thoughts of tantrums and hitting; hitting until something irreplaceable broke. And in those moments, Klavier is afraid of himself and his thoughts.

For it is in those moments, he feels his knows his brother all too well.