Chapter Text
In his defense, there was only so much he could keep track of.
(A lie, and he knows this.)
There was only the faint shuffle of papers from the kitchen, the ceiling light being too damn bright, but perhaps that was only further exaggerated by the state he was in, because.
Because Wright was too damned clever for his own good, was starting to pull the threads. He’d seen it in the raggedy man’s eyes, in the low light of the Borscht Club. Somehow. The thought crosses his mind that he’d underestimated Wright, but he dismisses it.
The kettle boils. He’s not making tea, and he’s been very, very sure to keep all the windows open. If atroquinine is lethal in small doses in liquid form, he hates to think about it as a vapor.
The front door clicks shut, and he moves to put the papers back in their folder. He already has one fool breathing down his neck. He pulls out a case file instead. Something something Gramarye hell no-- “Guten Tag!”
“Abend.”
“....” Klavier hesitates, noticeably, before speaking. He’s not such an idiot that he doesn’t know when to tread lightly. “Ah. So."
“So. Spit it out.”
“..Nevermind. Can I have some tea?”
Kristoph nods, once, curt, as he returns to his files. Whatever would keep Klavier quiet. He could not wait for this visit to be over.
Klavier passes him by, quiet, looking through the cabinet. He, of course, also knew well enough to steer well clear of the cups in the back, taking a simple coffee mug instead. Having gotten his tea, Klavier sits across from him. They both drink very quietly out of habit, of course.
Klavier opens his mouth, closes it. Kristoph glances up at him, once, eyes narrowed.
Frankly, he’d do better just to shoo Klavier out now. Too much risk. What if Klavier found his folder? But then that would be suspicious, wouldn’t it be? Too bad.
Eye for eye, perhaps. He knows they both remember when Klavier was twelve and one of his journals went missing. Regardless.
Klavier sets-- well, no, it’s almost like he drops his cup onto the table, and by the barest stroke of luck, it lands how it’s supposed to.
“Achtsam!” Kristoph snaps. For Klavier’s sake he hopes his dear little brother did not--
Klavier’s eyes are wide, and if Kristoph looks he sees confusion, his hands are shaking--oh. Oh.
“Kris--” Klavier chokes.
Kristoph jumps from his seat. He knows there is not enough time to call an ambulance the same way a deer seems to know about an oncoming car.
“Kris,” Klavier repeats, a whine of pain and fear.
“Shhh. Klavier.” He knows there’s not enough time for an ambulance. If there is not enough time for an ambulance, Klavier will die. If Klavier dies, he will have a dead body in his kitchen, the same room that has a tea kettle with traces of atroquinine.
“Kris. Kris, what--”
“It will be over, soon. Be quiet.”
“Why?”
Kristoph shrugs. “Fate is not kind, always, Klavier. Save your breath.”
Klavier begins to gasp as he hunches over the table. He looks up, and he and Kristoph lock eyes before Kristoph looks away, and then Kristoph leaves the kitchen, exiting through the back door for the garden shed on the property. He already knows what he has to do. There’s a sound from behind him that he refuses to acknowledge.
He is sure to take his time about it, too. It only takes fifteen minutes; compared to many other poisons, that is merciful. It causes shutdown of the nervous system, right? Klavier will likely not feel it anymore in his very final moments. And then they will go to the park, and the problem will be solved. The problem must be solved and it will be solved.
He sits on the back porch, shovel across his lap, and waits until a few minutes after he hears a chair topple in the kitchen.
Kristoph takes a deep breath. He regrets that it came out this way, but. Nothing to be done about it now.
The drive to Gourd Lake Park is quiet. Almost serene. He imagines he’s also going to be disinfecting the backseat of his car, later. It is a Sunday, and the park is always very quiet at noon on Sundays.
That night, he files the missing person’s report.
As he settles into bed, he swears he can hear the door to the guest room shut.
But it must be the product of his wary imagination, and he closes his eyes.