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“Jesus Christ.”Dimitrios opened the door with a look of thunder on his stony features, his grey eyes raking Anastasios from head to toe. “What the hell, Anastasios?”
Dimitrios did not use any diminutives when speaking with his family. He never allowed himself to relax around them, and that was a part of it.
Anastasios shouldered his way into the door and Dimitrios lifted two thick, dark brows at the stench of alcohol that followed. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Of course I do,” Anastasios rumbled, squinting at his watch anyway. “Were you sleeping?”
Dimitrios barely slept. He looked around his Kensington penthouse with a grim look. His office light was on, casting a narrow beam into the living room. A half-full scotch glass was on top of the grand piano. “What do you think?” He nodded to the glass. “I’d ask you to join me, but it smells as though you’ve already emptied a bar.”
Anastasios’ eyes narrowed. “I’m fine,” he muttered. “Just fine.”
“Really?” Dimitrios would have been amused if he were capable of feeling any degree of levity. “You don’t seem fine.”
“I’mfine,” Anastasios said, dropping his head into his hands and standing so completely still that Dimitrios could only stare. Humour was beyond Dimitrios but worry was not, and he felt it in spades now.
“Is this about Konstantinos?” Dimitrios did not refer to their parents as ‘dad’ or ‘mum’. Distance was best kept, at all times.
Anastasios’ eyes locked to Dimitrios’, and there was such torture in their depths that Dimitrios completely understood. He moved to the piano and poured a second glass, handing it to his brother. “Sit down. Tell me what the hell has happened.”
Anastasios drank the scotch as though it were a lifeline, wincing afterwards, as the alcohol burned its way down. “I’ve messed up.”
Dimitrios frowned. “You’re Anastasios Xenakis. You don’t mess up.”
Anastasios swore in response, a sharp, short curse that flooded the room with dark emotion. “I’ve ruined it.”
“What have you ruined?”
“Everything.”
“You’re not making any sense.” Dimitrios had some of his own scotch, then sat down behind the piano. He lifted his fingers to the keys and began to play, the ‘moonlight’ sonata a fitting piece given his brother’s mood.
Anastasios took two long strides, bringing him to the edge of the piano, where he watched, a transfixed expression on his face. “You’re so musical.”
Dimitrios’ expression was one of wry agreement, but then, how could he not be? Given that he’d exiled himself to the attic for much of his childhood, teaching himself to play the old piano up there.
“Do you think that sort of thing runs in families?”
Dimitrios pulled a face. “You’ve heard yourself sing, haven’t you?”
Anastasios didn’t smile. He was lost in thought.
Dimitrios sighed, stilling his hands atop the keys. “You’re not yourself.”
“No.” Anastasios blinked as if to clear his mind. “You’re right. I’m not.” He finished his scotch and placed the glass down heavily. “I don’t know if I ever will be again.”
Dimitrios stayed where he was, watching his brother.
“Dad came to London often, before he died.” The words were slightly slurred, weighted by something Dimitrios didn’t understand. “Did you see him?”
“Sometimes. Why?”
“He came every week.”
Dimitrios regarded his brother. “Does it matter?”
“I’m trying to work it out. To understand him.”
