Chapter Text
Kristoph is seven-and-a-half when his mother sits down on his bed beside him and informs him that he is going to have a baby brother (nobody asked him whether he wanted a baby brother, but he supposes that adults will continue to do exactly what they want). He says nothing, just considers this. It's not an idea that he's considered before, in truth, and he isn't really sure how he feels. He can't quite imagine it: watching another child grow up alongside him.
"Kristoph?" she says, anxious as ever. "Are you not happy?"
Kristoph is used to smiling when he doesn't want to, and he does so now, if only to please his wide-eyed, dainty mother. "Yes, of course."
He is not happy.
He is not unhappy, in fairness. Just a little confused.
Kristoph is not supposed to exist, he knows, so why are two people who weren't meant to be parents to begin with having yet another child? It doesn't make sense; then again, most things that are logical to him seem cold-hearted to others, so he doesn't say them anymore.
The months pass, while the snow that falls thick on the ground melts back to spring and then starts to dry into almost-summer heat. Kristoph listens to everyone around him talk about after-school games and summer holidays and does not say a word. Sometimes he watches them during recesses, hidden behind a book; looks at everyone laughing and running, and makes no effort to join them. They don't invite him – nobody notices quiet, bookish people, he knows – and he's glad. Having just turned eight, Kristoph would rather forget the world in books than roll around in the mud.
His school report comes home on the twenty-fourth of May. Neither of his parents are particularly interested, not when his mother is nine months pregnant (his father wouldn't have cared much, anyway). After they've looked through the grades and comments, earning him no more than a ruffle of the hair from his mother, Kristoph picks up the slip of paper.
He doesn't even bother to look at grades, because they're always the same: impeccable. Instead, he looks at the report from his teacher. He knows that it's stupid; he knows that it's just asking to be hurt, but he does it all the same. He doesn't read for long, though, because it only takes incredible work; he's above others in his class – very quiet, though, maybe you should see a doctor–
Kristoph shoves the little sheet back into the envelope it came in and discards it, but the thoughts stick in his mind. A doctor? There's nothing wrong with him – if anything, everyone else is the problem, the rowdy, uncouth idiots.
So Kristoph isn't talkative and popular. So people don't much like him (and sometimes take the time to shove him around in hallways, or whisper insults behind him in class). So what? He doesn't like them any more than they do him.
The next day, his brother is born, and he's pulled out of class to meet him.
"His name is Klavier," he's told by his mother, in a voice no louder than a whisper.
"Klavier?" Kristoph repeats, incredulous, staring at the wriggling, mottled little being in question.
His mother smiles – weary, but with joy that he's never seen on her face before. "Yes."
"But–" Kristoph shakes his head, confused, "you can't call him piano. He'll never hear the end of it–"
"Kristoph," and there's a warning note in his father's voice, behind him, "you know how your mother feels about music."
He does know: it would be hard not to, considering that there are instruments in the majority of the rooms in the huge, wood-floored house he's grown up in. There are rugs and tapestries wherever he looks, just to improve sound quality, and a whole (albeit small) room devoted to a huge, glossy grand piano.
He understands, too. Although Kristoph is as logical as anyone, as unsentimental as it is possible to be, there is nothing he loves more than drawing out a tune on his violin. He has only been playing for two or three years, but he can't recall missing even a day of practice, and he's good at it. Not incredible, not by any means, but good, all the same, and maybe the varnished wood and sad/pretty sound (when you play it right, of course) just feels like home.
Kristoph says nothing. If Klavier Gavin is a stupid name – which it is – then that can be his problem, not Kristoph's.
Klavier grows alarmingly fast, and he gets all of the attention. Kristoph knows that he's been sidelined for years – he was an accident, after all – but seeing a squidgy little toddler be showered with love you never had and never will have is hard to stomach. It's hard to tell what, exactly, Klavier will look like when he is older, but, even now, he takes after their mother: coffee-brown hair and dimples and caramel skin, a few shades darker than Kristoph's and scattered with freckles. Kristoph wouldn't resent this so much if he himself didn't so closely resemble their father: all height, and honey-toned, knife-sharp features, and ribbon-curled hair in a blond so light it's almost white.
Even the blue of their eyes is different: where Kristoph's are icy, washed-out enough that they look unnatural, Klavier's are so saturated that they practically swim with colour.
What's really, really strange is that Klavier follows Kristoph everywhere. From the minute he gets home from school, Klavier is clinging to his legs and piping out his name (Kris, Kris!). Kristoph almost loves it: for once, he is prioritised; for once, he is loved the most. It's strange, yes, but he doesn't want to question it. Klavier, adored by everyone he meets, adores Kristoph, of all people, and, if it wasn't such a welcome change, he'd discourage it himself. But Kris is the first name that Klavier speaks, and practically the one he speaks most often, funnily enough.
It happens, one afternoon, that Kristoph is running through scales on his violin, about to practice a piece, when he looks up to see that his bedroom door is cracked open a smidge. He smiles, despite himself; he left the door shut, as he always does, and there's only one person who could have opened it.
"Klavier," he calls out, "you can come in, you know. Just shut the door behind you."
Klavier, who is starry-eyed and beaming up at Kristoph, patters in, very carefully shutting the door behind him and leaning against it. He says nothing – for someone so musically inclined, he doesn't speak particularly much, preferring simply to laugh and warble – and simply watches.
At ten, Kristoph is no prodigy: sometimes his fingers slip up and play the wrong note, or mangle the one he's trying to play. From the way Klavier watches him, and claps and giggles at every piece, though, you'd think he was. You'd think it was an award-winning performance, rather than a mediocre practice session.
Kristoph wonders how long it will take before the stars fall from his brother's eyes as he realises that they are nothing but pressure and stress.