It's never just black and white, and its more than the millions of greys in between, its the reds and the blues and the brighter spectrum too that make the image so sharp. Apollo sees it well, sometimes his vision feels too keen, but he can see how the shades of blue differ when some people may mistake them for the same.

Kristoph's is colder, blunt like the periwinkle of his suit. Klavier's appears warmer and blended from tropical ocean to spring sky. To the media and adoring fans when complimented with a smoldering smile it's simply blue, and probably outshone by his voice and guitar riffs.

When they're alone it sometimes looks lacklustre, even behind a glaze that would make it shimmer in moonlight it still somehow managed to look dull. Apollo could only fret silently, let the thought linger for a moment and vanish in the next.

When he had the time to ponder he did, had the weight of the fans, the media, the masses crippled Klavier's shoulders and made him lag, or was it just like that old saying about the straw on the camel's back? The straw so light but it was just that one needed to sink the strong-willed beast to its knees.

Klavier was sinking. Apollo was powerless to stop it.

Was it his fault? Kristoph was only sentenced when he blurted out the secret, the case itself was a mess, Apollo had never had a fighting chance of winning without breaking the rules, he was no better than the man he had sent to prison. The man who was awaiting a near and inevitable death.

Did that make Apollo a murderer too?

Funny, Kristoph had sunk much like Klavier was sinking now. It had only taken the weight of a flimsy card to crumble his visage, the brother's were alike in eerie ways beyond their looks, but for now Apollo comforted himself with the distinction of warm and cold blues.

Apollo's finger skimmed the top of his glass, despite it being wet from an earlier sip there was no sound ringing though the air at the gesture, he could hardly afford crystal glasses. He skimmed it, spinning and spinning.

'Spinning out of whose control, mine, or yours?'

Apollo humoured the words as he somehow stared beyong the liquor in his glass. Klavier had been cooler than the coolest defence in the west with that little gem. It was painfully ironic that now as it stood no one was in control. Kristoph had played god with people's lives and would soon feel the wrath of his decision tenfold with no ways of stopping it. Klavier was torn between his upbringing of right and wrong and instinctive familial bond, he could not control the law and he could not control his emotions.

Apollo too had lost the reins, he couldn't stop the story unfolding or soften the burden. He could only watch as the scene unraveled and ask the question 'Am I a murderer?' without ever getting an answer.

He knocked back the rest of his drink, he wanted his head to swim in something other than cold and warm blues.