Kristoph had been twenty-one when they moved to America. Poor Klavier was only fourteen, bright eyes crying for the friends he never got to say goodbye to. He'd cried loudly on the flight over until Papa had scolded him, telling him men don't cry and he'd never make it anywhere. Despite Klavier quieting down, it just made him cry more. Kristoph felt sadder than he ever had before; he'd never be able to see Mama's grave again, he'd be learning a new language, and he'd be on the run.
Papa had narrowly escaped the authorities in Germany, and despite Kristoph and Klavier both being aware of their father's illegal activities, they never thought they'd have to leave behind the people and country they loved for it. Papa had simply said that he had connections in California and business would be good there, so that was where they were going. Kristoph could finish his last year of college and Klavier would finish out public school. Papa could continue business and Kristoph would inherit everything once Papa retired. Papa hadn't gone to college because Opa had died when Papa was 17. Papa always spoke of Opa lovingly, but Kristoph always seemed to notice his muscles tense up when Papa's father was mentioned. Maybe it had something to do with the scars on Papa's back Kristoph had noticed when Papa still had the time to take Kristoph to the lake for a swim on hot summer days. The tan skin covered in thick blond hairs contrasted against the scars, hairless and pale. Kristoph had never imagined a hulking man like Papa, thick mustache and neatly parted hair, could ever have let someone put scars on him. But there they were, peeking out at Kristoph when they would take a day to swim at the lake. Those days were gone when Klavier arrived and Mama died.
As Kristoph laid back in his seat and closed his eyes, listening to Klavier sniffle, he wondered what would become of all of Mama's clothes that Papa had kept. He remembered one Friday night while he was still in high school, when Kristoph had gone out with friends and come home earlier than expected he witnessed Papa crying alone in his bedroom, wearing nothing but his underwear and a long string of Mama's pearls. Papa had spanked Kristoph for the first time since Kristoph had run out into a busy street at nine years old. Kristoph wondered if Papa had really meant it when he said he'd use the metal end of the belt next time if Klavier learned of it (was it because men do not cry?). Kristoph wondered if Mama ever asked about Papa's scars.
Those weren't things Kristoph had wanted to focus on, though. He noticed Klavier was snoring softly now, and Papa was silently staring out of the window. Closing his eyes, Kristoph felt safe now, knowing that by adopting a different name and moving home he could make sure Klavier didn't have to move countries to assure himself his children would be safe and that Papa could retire quietly and peacefully. The rhythm of Klavier's soft breathing led Kristoph into a shallow sleep.
The small house was in a small neighborhood and had small bedrooms with small beds and a small kitchen and a small boy and a large boy and a large man. Papa had some "friends" who were solemn and grumbling in a foreign tongue Kristoph could barely understand while Papa jittered away with a few fleeting words making sense, his deep voice scratching at the bottom of his throat while these Americans seemed to speak from the very tip of their tongue. It made no sense to Kristoph but at the very least he could tell Klavier that the Kühlschrank was called a refrigerator in English, and they would be sleeping in a bedroom, and they called Papa "Mister Gavin" instead of "Herr Goldstein," and someday Klavier would be "Mister Gavin" just like Kristoph would also be "Mister Gavin." Klavier began to cry again, and when Papa gave Kristoph a quick icy glare he'd ushered Klavier upstairs, trying to calm him by saying, "Klavier, wählen Sie ein Schlafzimmer. Klavier, choose a bedroom."
Klavier had simply slid down the wall to sit in the narrow upstairs hallway, crying so hard his mouth gaped open and his gut was sucked in with a need for oxygen. As he began to curl in on himself, Kristoph picked him up by the collar of the band t-shirt Klavier was still wearing and slapped him. Hard. He hissed into Klavier's ear, "Enough of this self pity, Bruder. Your life hasn't begun yet, so you will pick yourself up and move on just like the rest of us will. Papa has to keep a strong face around us but he misses Mama very much. How do you think he feels about having to move? About discarding Opa's name?" Kristoph shook Klavier and Klavier only whimpered softly, the right side of his face red and warm. A few more tears welled up in those bright eyes and Kristoph hissed again, "Enough of this self pity. Now get in a room and compose yourself before showing your face to Papa or myself again." With that, Kristoph let go of Klavier and Klavier scampered off into one of the doors.
They didn't see Klavier until the next morning.
A/N: This came about due to some musing by myself about how exactly Kristoph got his scar, and it's leading into a monster of a story that I'm going to attempt to write. You could also probably consider it a mafia AU but I'm still trying to fit it neatly into canon. Reviews are appreciated, but not necessary. Thanks for reading the prologue!
