He did appreciate that his brother didn’t treat him like glass, and it was probably the entirety of the reason why he and Van could live together as adults with only slight maimings, never murder. Van worked in the basement, and Nik claimed the entire top floor to himself for his sorry excuse for a music school.
Nik had big dreams once, of becoming a concert pianist. He was inspired by the greats—ancient and modern. He wasn’t a prodigy, but he had an ear for music in ways most people didn’t, and it got him as far as he could manage. He was accepted to a conservatory just after high school, and he was going to be something. He was going to play across the globe, and composers like Nicolas Michaud and Cedric Blum would know his name. People like Alessio de Rege would show up at his door and ask him to play with them in Rome.
And then his father got sick.
He felt the stages of New York, the streets of London, the applause in Rome ripped from the tips of his fingers as his cane guided him up the familiar walkway to his childhood home. He heard the quiet tones of his brother explaining that his father was sick, that he was probably dying. There was nothing they could do.
“I just need help,” Van whispered quietly, half-broken, and Nik loved his brother enough to give up any and all semblance of big dreams. He traded them for three days a week at the elementary school listening to ten-year-olds make dying cat sounds on their violin strings.
His Conservatori de Rossi education also heralded him spoiled private students from stay-at-home moms who fully believed their children were the next coming of Beethoven or Mozart, and the only reason Nik refrained from discussing a child’s wild mediocrity with the parent was that their hope kept his pockets lined and mortgage paid. He knew, morally, it wasn’t the best thing to do—but Nik also held very little belief in any sort of god or afterlife, so he really only had himself to answer to.
If they weren’t paying him to give them false hope of eventual viral internet fame, they’d be paying someone else, and he wanted to keep the bank from taking the only real place he’d ever called home. He had lost a big part of who he might have been once, if circumstances had been different, but at least he had this. Familiarity, and more importantly, something like contentment.
It wasn’t often he had unencumbered peace in his life, so he hoarded it where he could. Yes, his life was often lonely. Being disabled made dating difficult enough—being gay added yet another twist to that complicated ride—and being an unapologetic concert pianist sort of sealed his fate as the town weirdo who was lucky not to go to his grave a virgin.
Not the worst fate, he supposed. At least he knew all the good spots for a quick bathroom hookup with men just drunk enough not to give a shit he didn’t have eyes.
“Hey, asshole. Are you even listening to me?” Van’s voice rose through the fog of his swirling thoughts and the cascading internal notes of his composition, and he startled a little because he hadn’t realized he wasn’t alone.
He was at his piano with his fingers dancing across the tops of the keys—not pushing them down, but he could hear the music in his head. He was aware now that Van was in the doorway, and he thought maybe he’d said something about cooking.
“Sorry,” he said, not meaning it and not bothering to hide the lie.
Van scoffed and took a couple of steps into the room. “I need help this week, okay? Dad’s nurse has some…family thing. Whatever. I need you to take Wednesday and Thursday afternoon, and I need help putting together his lunches and dinners.”
Nik wasn’t a chef—not even a slightly mediocre one. He could cook, but he took no joy in it, and Van insisted his food had about as much flavor as his attitude about it. But this he could do, because it was for his dad. “Let the staff know I have a concert Friday so I can’t do more than a quick drop-in Thursday evening.”
Van groaned, but Nik heard the resignation in his tone. “Fine.”
“I also have to shop, because you are terrible at picking out shirts. I’m going to go into anaphylactic shock,” he said. He tilted his head to the side and