A short, vicious knock.

“Again?” Georg sighs deeply, sizing up the figure standing outside the room he shares with Gustav.

“Mhmm.” Bill nods reluctantly, his mouth compressed into a thin, white line on his face.

Georg steps aside, groaning internally when Bill stomps into the room and throws himself on the bed with an indignant grunting sound.

Gustav looks up from the display of his camera, acknowledging Bill's presence with nothing but a curious noise and a slightly raised eyebrow.

“Third time this week?”

“Fourth actually...and it's only Wednesday.” Bill mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose, his pinkie elegantly extended, eyes screwed up with disgust, possibly with a massive, oncoming headache.

“We should just put in revolving doors to his room, maybe lay out a few magazines in the hallway so the girls don't get bored waiting...” Georg jokes, in a painfully obvious attempt to lighten up the mood.

“Sure, Bill can donate a few of his old Vogues,” Gustav chuckles, the camera's flash going off and Bill blinks after the bright light, a slightly owlish look on his face.

“Why do you even read those? It's not like there's ever anything interesting in those mags...”

“My suspicion is Bill just enjoys that scandalized and embarrassed look on Saki's face when he sends him out to get them for him...”

“Since Saki's like so the Vogue type!” Georg quips, slapping his thigh and giggling like a little school girl.

They don't get the first thing about Bill's irritation and outrage. It's not the plural that makes it unbearable. It's the singular, that matters.

The girls are meaningless, all of them. They are meaningless and that's what makes it bearable, knowing that an hour after they're gone, Tom won't be able to remember their names anymore. After a shower even their scent will be erased. The girls didn't return and Tom had nothing but rude comments about these encounters and that was that.

Bill ignores the Vogue tangent his two band mates have taken and happily ploughs back into his tirade about his brother's horizontal conquest.

“The worst thing is the giggling and the laughing!” Bill throws his hands up in frustration.

“What's there to giggle about anyways? You just don't laugh during sex!” This comment earns him a meaningful look from both Georg and Gustav, implying that oh maybe some people did laugh while they had sex. It's not like Bill would know really. The only sex he has is a means to an end, a glorified version of masturbation where he uses a girl instead of his hand if the mood strikes. You don't laugh when you jerk yourself off.

“Maybe she wears funny hats during blowjobs?” Gustav suggests with a conspiratorial look towards Georg, who obviously decides to ignore it and counters with a new question.

“Isn't she a return customer? The brunette one?”

Bill feels something heavy drop in his guts, where it falls into something white hot, boiling and bubbling, sending the flames licking away at his insides even higher.

Outside in the hallway a door falls back into its lock and Bill perks his ears, straining to hear the soft fall of retreating foot steps down the corridor. Elvis has left the building – thank God.

As quickly as he can Bill excuses himself and leaves Gustav and Georg to their meandering discussion of funny hats, blowjobs and other random topics while he slips out of their room.

The brunette is standing in the middle of the corridor, fussing with her bag and her jacket but her back's turned on him and she doesn't see Bill as he hurriedly tiptoes across the hallway and slips into his brother's room.

She makes Tom laugh. They never made his brother laugh. They were brain- and topless little broads, nothing more.

They came to get fucked and they got what they wanted – a little of Tom's time but never his attention.

And Bill was never good with sharing, not if it mattered. Tom did matter, was arguably the most important person in his life. He wouldn't share, he couldn't. Certainly not with that pathetic whore.

Bill leans against the door frame as he watches Tom kick around with his suitcase. He's already clothed again but the bed is a mess and he can see that ripped open box of condoms on the bedside table; the way the air in the room is just that little bit too fresh because Tom opened the big French window.

Tom hums under his breath, that kind of subtle smile playing round his lips that makes Bill's stomach drop a few inches lower. This is far more serious than he thought it was and it's time to do something about it.

“So...how serious is it with that girl really?”

“I like her but yeah...I really like her.”

“I saw her when she walked down the hallway and she was, uh...talking on the phone. About you.” Tom's head snaps up at that one and his eyes narrow. The lies come so easily these days it's almost unsettling.

Heart hammering, palms sweating Bill watches Tom take a long breath. Those few moments, suspended in that vacuum of uncertainty, blood thrumming through his ears with a screeching hysteria, in those long, torturous moments Bill swears to himself he'll stop sabotaging his brother like that. He waits.

And then Tom's shoulders drop and his expression softens into that wounded puppy look that makes Bill want to take back everything he's said. It's only a fleeting moment and the urge subsides quickly enough.

Only Tom has this way of ever making Bill feel so conflicted, that bitter sweet mixture of confusion, self loathing and affection that surges over him so suddenly it almost makes him dizzy.

Maybe they both wear masks. Bill has chosen to play the concerned, selfless brother, intent on keeping Tom from making any serious blunders. Tom likes to pretend he's an island, hell-bent on proving John Donne wrong.

Tom doesn't need others, he is just as good when he's alone. Lucky for Tom he's never alone, not really. He has his twin island and each year they shift and get pushed a little closer together. Tom may not know this but Bill can feel the tectonics between them work.

There's a tiny trace of confusion flitting across his brother's face, hurt and some sadness, too. Tom blinks and then the patented lopsided smirk settles comfortably in the fine lines around his mouth.

“Oh, fuck her…girls are too damn clingy!” Tom waves it off with an aimless flap of his hand, before he slinks onto the mattress, settling into the heap of cushions on the unmade bed.

“Too bad, huh?” Bill comments, following an inviting gesture of his brother, settling down next to Tom.

Bill doesn’t mean it. It is not bad, not even remotely. It is the best thing to have happened in the last couple of weeks. He just wants to hear Tom say it’s okay.

What he really wants is absolution.

Tom sighs softly, letting himself be swallowed by the mass of pillows, pulls Bill under with him till they lie comfortably spooned up.

Just because Tom doesn’t know he’s granting Bill absolution, doesn’t make it any less valid.

Tom exhales, long and low, a moist warmth that gets lost in the tangled mess of Bill’s hair before it creeps down his back as a heated shadow.

“Girls are strange,” Tom concludes, while he flattens some of Bill's more obstinate hair, laying his head on it. Fingers thread with a very similar pair and Bill closes his eyes.

“You’ll find somebody else…someone more deserving,” Bill lies. Truth is, no one will ever be deserving of his brother’s love. No one that is the world minus Bill, of course. Tom chuckles softly, squeezes his hand.

“Grow breasts and you might just be the love of my life…”

Bill smiles to himself and huffs quietly under his breath. It’s meant to sound half offended, half amused. Inside, Bill is dancing with delight and the plates between them shift again.