Warning for graphic violence at the end of the chapter.


Ye Merry Gentlemen

The car stopped outside the house just as Kristoph was struggling to remember the second verse of In dulci jubilo, but although he could recall a few of the Latin phrases that were littered throughout the song, he could not for the life of him remember how it went in German. He soon fell silent, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he adjusted his glasses with one hand. It had been a long time since he had last been forced to speak his second language, and he could clearly hear how he had let his grasp on it wither without use. So many of the words were mispronounced, twisted into garish caricatures and mutilated beyond any kind of feasible comprehension, that Kristoph honestly wondered how it was possible for anyone to enjoy such abominable noise. He was utterly perplexed by Klavier's soft smile, which had been present ever since they left the dark and dirty grey backdrop of the Detention Center. It was almost as though his darling younger brother was enjoying the beauty of his failures, was lapping it up like a fine wine to be swirled around his tongue, relishing the rare and decadent flavor.

His brother shifted the car into park, turned the ignition off and pulled the key out. For a moment, neither spoke. Kristoph had not thought that he would ever find their quiet interludes to be oppressive, but he noted now that that was exactly how it felt. He was once again forced to play some game on another man's terms, was being shunted around the playing field without any understanding of the outcome's meaning.

Klavier was planning something, of this he was certain, but the details eluded him. Perhaps there would be some clue in the next task he would be ordered to fulfill. Maybe his brother would let something slip, something other than those strange, dark glances over at him.

They exited the vehicle and walked slowly to the front door of Kristoph's old house. The older Gavin noted small changes to the property with a frown. His roses were gone from the garden. In the two years that Klavier had been living there, he had had the shutters repainted so that they were a dull brown instead of pale blue. The vine covered veranda was missing from the scene. It was like walking up to a stranger's home, except that the stranger was his brother.

He followed Klavier inside slowly, his heart sinking. That wasn't his furniture in the living room. His things – all classy bright colors and soft textures expressed in gently curving edges – had been replaced with that awful dark fashion, new-age steel and modern spartan shapes. There was leather on the armchair and chains hanging from the ceiling. It made him think of some powerful master's dungeon.

It bothered him more to know that Klavier had moved this furniture in from his old apartment, most likely shortly after the elder Gavin had been incarcerated. He might have even done it the same day.

"Are you hungry?" Klavier asked, dropping his keys on the black end table in the hallway just inside the entryway. Kristoph shook his head, watching his younger brother toss his purple blazer onto the couch as he continued towards the kitchen.

"No, thank you, I'm fine," he murmured, trying to adjust to the strangeness of the evening. He ached for the familiarity that his home should have offered. His feet carried him through the living room, pausing at the beginning of the hallway to gaze down towards his old study. Vognole used to love to lay just outside that closed door, waiting for Kristoph to come home. His heart leapt to his throat. He missed his dog. It occurred to him that he had never asked if Klavier had given her away, or left her to Humane Society, or even had her euthanized. He supposed that he was afraid of the answer to that question; it was probably better that he did not know.

He approached his study cautiously. His hand shook as he reached for the doorknob, begging for it to be the one room that Klavier hadn't destroyed. Kristoph needed only one sanctuary. He turned the knob.

The door didn't open.

"Klaus. . .?" the former attorney called out in confusion, trying the door again. Was it jammed? No. No, it was certainly locked, though he wasn't quite sure why. He didn't remember locking his study before leaving the house under his brother's care. Or ever locking it, for that matter. He wasn't even sure that he owned a key for this room. "Klaus, my study is – "

"You still play the violin, right?"

Kristoph jumped at the closeness of his brother's voice, looking up sharply to see the younger man standing beside him, arms crossed over his chest and watching him intently. He swallowed hard, pushing his glasses up with one hand.

"Of course I do. Why?"

"Play for me." It sounded like another order, said in that childishly demanding tone that made Kristoph want to sneer at his little brother's arrogance. He didn't like being bossed around by the diva.

"I'd rather not."

"I don't care," Klavier met his gaze, something that looked like anger or maybe even hatred broiling just beneath the surface. He was aware of his position, of just how reliant he was going to be on his brother for the next five years. Would this be the way they would always interact now? Would it really be worth it to fight back, to struggle and drag out this tension from the shadows of their conversations? Kristoph hesitated. "I really don't, Kristoph. I couldn't care less what you want. We've been doing what you want for a long time, and look where that got us. It's my turn now."

"Klaus?"

"We're going to do what I want from now on. And right now, I want you to play the violin for me while I make dinner. And then, you're going to read to me all my favorite Christmas stories while I enjoy some hot cider, and wait for midnight," Klavier straightened, pushing himself away from the wall. "Your violin is in the master bedroom. Go get it."

Kristoph opened his mouth to protest, but closed it quickly without another word. He set his jaw resolutely and bowed his head, flourishing his arm in a dramatic bow, as if to say, "Of course, Your Majesty. By your leave."

The master bedroom had been his once. He wondered idly what horrors Klavier had unleashed upon it since he'd left. Vaguely, he recognized that his brother had referred to it not as Kristoph's bedroom, but rather, 'the master' bedroom, as if to further rub in the fact that the elder Gavin was no longer in charge. No longer the master of the house. He watched as his brother turned and stalked back to the kitchen, the sound of dishes being moved and clanking against the counter soon following. Kristoph glared after him for a moment, and then resigned himself to his fate.

This was probably just a phase, he told himself as he headed for the bedroom. Klavier had been rebellious before, but he always came back to his senses. He had put him in prison, only to release him shortly after with little more than a slap on the wrist, after all. Soon, Klavier would get over this silly sentimentality, and things would return to the status quo. Kristoph smiled to himself at the thought.

Big brother knew best, and Klavier had never failed to work into his plans.

The bedroom wasn't locked. Kristoph took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and let himself in.

It didn't look like his room anymore. The curtains had been changed, his bookcase removed. The armoire looked like it came out of some kind of fetish film; the vanity desk had been spray painted black and dark purple. The mirror that used to go above it was gone. There were shackles that attached to one of the walls and lying beside them was some kind of collar. Leather bindings, chains. . . silk rope that seemed to come up from somewhere under the bed. The bed. . .

The bed, at least, he recognized, though he wasn't quite sure if that should bother him, the idea that his brother had turned his room into some deviant hideaway but kept the same bed. And the same three hundred count Egyptian cotton sheets, calming earth tones that matched the dark mahogany headboard. He noted that there was a pair of – probably standard police issue – handcuffs hanging off one corner of the baseboard. Kristoph raised a brow dubiously at something that resembled a shiny leather mask protruding from beneath one of the pillows.

He hadn't realized his brother was into those sorts of thing.

Kristoph dragged his attention away from the bed, scanning the room for his violin. It was resting in its stand in the corner. He gently lifted it, smiling at the familiar feel of the wood in his hands, the strings felt against his fingertips when he pressed them down onto the neck of the instrument, the weight and balance of the bow as he hefted that in his opposite hand. At last, something that comforted him, something that retained its beauty. . . Kristoph placed the violin on his shoulder, nestling it between the bone and his cheek as he leaned his face against the black guard. He ran the bow gently over the strings, listening carefully to the tone that was produced. Retuning it was the work of mere moments. He returned to the living room with it tucked safely under one arm.

"What should I play for you, mein bruder?" he asked, watching as Klavier added some kind of spice to the pot on the stove. The younger man was silent, his back to the elder Gavin as he continued cooking. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally answered:

". . .Greensleeves. Play Greensleeves for me."

The house filled with the slow, gentle rise of the violin, the trembling trill at the end of each long note. Kristoph swayed slightly with the music, eyes closed as he pulled the bow lovingly across the strings. There was nothing more beautiful than the sound of a violin in capable hands, nothing quite like the soothing melody of 16th century music. He chose a slow version of the song in C minor, relishing the way the sound reverberated in his chest, so close to his heart. . .he wished they would replace it.

"And I have loved you oh so long, delighting in your company. . ." he heard Klavier murmur the words, humming the chorus when he reached that famous arrangement. Kristoph smiled, the apprehension he had been carrying with him easing out as he played. They used to do things like this many years ago, back before Klavier had gone to Germany to become a prosecutor; he had almost forgotten what it was like to play the violin for Klavier, to listen as his younger brother's voice rose and fell in time with the music.

When he came to the end of the song, Klavier demanded he play another almost before the last echoes of Greensleeves faded from the room.

"O, Tannenbaum," he said, and when that song had finished, too, he requested another. "Herbei, o ihr Gläubigen."

Kristoph complied without a word.

"In the Bleak Midwinter." There was an odd sense of urgency to his brother's voice, a kind of hungry desperation. But he didn't question it. He just kept playing.

"Alle Jahre wieder," Klavier demanded, turning off the stove and pulling a bowl from the cupboard. Kristoph dropped the entire final verse just to see if his brother would notice that it was too short. If he did, he said nothing about the omission. "Weiße Weihnacht."

He started improvising, adding notes that didn't belong, trilling notes that should have been steady. Klavier was watching him, eyes narrowed but not quite glaring. It was getting strange again. Kristoph could feel the atmosphere changing, stifling, choking him. What was it that Klavier really wanted, anyway? What was the point of this game? "Es ist ein Ros' entsprungen."

"Klaus, I don't remember these – "

"Süßer die Glocken ni – "

"Enough!" Kristoph interrupted, shouting over the title of the song. He lowered the violin. "I said I didn't remember. I'm done playing tonight."

Klavier looked like he was going to argue, like he was going to call Kristoph's bluff and remind him that no matter how petty it seemed, he could end this oppressive new freedom at any moment and send him straight back to prison. Instead, though, he simply retrieved his bowl, filled it with the pasta he'd made, and took a seat at the kitchen table. Kristoph exhaled heavily through his nose, taking a seat on the couch and only just barely resisting the urge to sulk. This was stupid. Klavier was being stupid, and strange, and he just wanted all this nonsense to end. They sat like that, the younger brother eating at the table and the elder brooding on the couch, for almost a half hour until the little diva deposited his dishes in the sink, fixed himself a cup of hot cider, and then walked to the bookcase in the living room. Kristoph watched him warily as he selected a few books before sitting down next to him.

"Read to me."

"Read to yourself," the former defense attorney sneered. He made to stand, but Klavier grabbed his wrist roughly and kept him from moving away. Kristoph frowned. He never remembered his younger brother being so much stronger than him.

"Sit down, Kristoph," he said, his voice low and oddly dangerous. Kristoph swallowed hard, feeling confused and uncomfortable. "Sit down and read to me, the way that you used to."

He had no choice, he told himself, as he sat back down beside his brother and took the books into his lap. Kristoph opened them, reading each one with a deliberate slowness. Klavier curled his legs up onto the couch beneath him, cradling his mug of cider in both hands. It seemed like those blue eyes were boring into him, watching and waiting and never blinking. Just. . .something odd about it, something that Kristoph couldn't quite put his finger on. He wished that he could have been as perceptive as his old assistant had been; maybe then he would have been able to see through all these smoke and mirrors antics.

When he closed the final book, he spared a glance to his watch to check the time. It was almost midnight. Klavier set his cup down on the coffee table and stood up.

"One final song, Kristoph, and then we'll go to bed."

Kristoph sighed. He supposed that he could humor his brother one last time for the evening. "What song is that, Klaus?"

"God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen."

"I hate that song," he said with a deep frown and knitted brow. "You know I hate that song."

"Sing it for me," his brother told him, holding out his hand to help Kristoph off the couch. The elder Gavin took it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. His brother didn't let go, but rather, placed his other hand on the paler man's hip. Kristoph's confusion grew, evident in the odd look he gave his younger brother.

"What are you doing, Klaus?"

"I hate it when you call me that."

"It's your name, or have you forgotten?" he asked, but Klavier seemed to ignore the question.

"I'll even start it for you: God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay," he began the first verse, pausing and waiting for his brother to pick up the next line. Kristoph looked away, but muttered the appropriate words, nonetheless.

"Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas day."

"To save us all from Satan's pow'r, when we have gone astray," Klavier was leading him as he sang, trying to coax his brother into a slow dance. Kristoph put his other hand on the younger man's shoulder, and let himself be guided away from the couch and coffee table. He even joined him in the chorus, singing the harmony in their impromptu duet.

"O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy. . ."

They danced to silent music, picking up the pace as Klavier released his hip, spun his brother away only to pull him back in, this time closer than before. Kristoph chuckled, taking back his proper position. They twirled, turning, each trying to lead the other without stepping on toes or running into furniture. Klavier kept singing, his lips twisting up into a smirk.

"From God our Heavenly Father, a blessed angel came. . ." Verse after verse, the repeating chorus rising and falling, their bodies moving with the accelerating rhythm as the fell into the ease of it, each taking turns on the lines when the other couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. The strangeness of it, its foreign nature: the fact that they were dancing to Kristoph's most disliked Christmas carol.

"Now to the Lord sing praises, all you within this place – "

"And with true love and brotherhood, each other now embrace," Kristoph finished the line from the final verse, spinning his brother slowly. They grasped each other tightly, and he wondered why they were doing it at all. Klavier could be so odd, sometimes. "This holy tide of Christmas all others doth deface. . ."

"O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy. . . O tidings of comfort and joy." He let go. Klavier stepped back.

The last thing Kristoph expected was for his younger brother to hit him.

Klavier's fist connected with his nose with a sharp crack, the force of the blow shattering the cartilage bridge and causing spots to explode like fireworks across his vision. His glasses fell to the carpet as he stumbled back, gasping and pressing a hand to his face. He felt something warm and sticky dripping down his face. It coated his fingers and palm. His hand came away red with blood. Distantly, his mind registered the sound of his lenses crunching under Klavier's boot heel as his brother advanced.

"Wha – ?" he tried to ask what Klavier was doing, what he was thinking, but then his younger brother was grabbing him by the hair and dragging him out of the living room. Kristoph screamed, his perfectly manicured nails digging into the younger Gavin's hand and scratching long welts up his exposed arm. He tried to struggle, but it only made it hurt more, pull harder. Klavier threw him roughly to the floor of the master bedroom. Kristoph scrambled to his hands and knees and tried to crawl away only to have a boot come down heavily between his shoulders, pressing him back down into the carpet. "What are you –?"

The question died on his lips as he twisted his head up, craning his neck to look back over his shoulder at the prosecutor. Klavier's expression was dark, his mouth curling into an animalistic snarl. He stepped off his brother, but a moment later the tip of his boot was rushing towards Kristoph face, nearly knocking his front teeth out. His lips split under the contact, the bitter copper taste filling his mouth. The elder Gavin rolled over with a pained groan, his arms coming up to protect his face from any further injury as he curled in on himself.

He heard the rustling clink of chains being moved and remembered the shackles connected to the wall.

"You never should have lied to me about that case, Kristoph," Klavier was saying, his hands trembling and voice dripping with rage. "I hate liars."

"Klaus – !"

He kicked him into silence, grabbing him by the shoulder and forcing the former attorney onto his back. Kristoph did his best to shield himself from the onslaught of punches that followed, but he was hardly successful. Klavier was stronger, and they both knew that Kristoph couldn't risk hurting him back; if he'd managed to land a hit, Klavier would have called the police claiming domestic violence. No one would have said a word about the broken nose or bleeding mouth and loose teeth that Kristoph was sporting. No one would have cared that he was the one who had been beaten. He was a convicted murderer, after all. A criminal. Wasn't this just what he deserved?

Klavier had a knee on either side of Kristoph's chest, digging into his brother's sides as he pinned him with his weight. When he was finally done hitting him, the younger Gavin grabbed the shackles he had moved earlier, clamping them down on Kristoph's wrists. He screamed in frustrated, and pushed his brother off of him. Klavier fell to the side with a grunt, but quickly lunged forward to recapture the other man before he could get too far away. Not that it would have mattered; the chains wouldn't have let him get too far from the wall, anyway.

The fight dissolved into wrestling, into grunts and pants and breathlessness, tangling each other in the chains. Klavier wrapped one around Kristoph's neck and yanked it tight, choking him. Kristoph gagged, his fingers trying to pry their way beneath the metal, trying to pull it away so that he could breathe. His eyes went wide, nostrils flaring. Their gazes locked, blue on terrified, watering blue. Klavier grinned like a man gone mad and pulled the chain tighter still, eliciting a gurgled plea for help from his brother. Kristoph's vision darkened at the edges, the lack of oxygen causing his mind to go hazy.

They stayed that way until the older man blacked out.


The first thing that Kristoph noted upon regaining consciousness was that it felt like every inch of his body was on fire. He was sore, the pain collecting in hot patches at his nose and throat, arcing down his spine to the places where Klavier had kicked him last night. Had those been steel-toed boots his brother wore? He didn't know. Flexing carefully, Kristoph ran his aching fingers over his body, poking and prodding and checking for broken bones. Miraculously, he seemed intact.

The second thing that he noticed shortly after moving his arms was that he was no longer chained to the wall.

Kristoph opened his eyes with a moan, raising his head from the damp and bloody spot on the carpet that his cheek had been pressed against. He blinked blearily, trying to clear his head. The room was dark, but it was definitely still the master bedroom. He looked towards the bed, but it was empty and Klavier was nowhere to be seem.

With agonizing slowness, Kristoph pulled himself up to his knees, then to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom. He grimaced at the swollen mess that looked back at him from the mirror. Just to be safe, he locked the door before relieving himself and turning on the shower, letting the water heat up as he undressed. Kristoph stepped under the spray, naked except for the monitor around his ankle, trying not to stare at the way the clear liquid turned rust-colored and swirled down the drain. The pale man shivered despite the warmth, and gently washed the dried blood from his long hair. He stayed in the shower until even the red crust beneath his fingernails had been scrubbed clean.

He turned the water off and dried himself with a fluffy white towel from the rack against the wall. After a few moments of searching beneath the sink, he managed to locate the first aid kit he kept, thankful to see that it was still stocked, though some of the items looked new. Kristoph had certainly never needed to keep adrenaline or needles and surgical thread before. Bypassing these oddities, he pulled the antiseptic paste and a few packets of sterile gauze and bandages out. He didn't cry as he patched himself up, glancing up at his reflection every few minutes.

But he wanted to. Kristoph wanted to cry very, very badly. He wanted to smash the mirror and the image of the beaten, broken little boy he saw reflected back at him.