Tom doesn't really like the time before the concert. A long, monotonous time, usually half an hour, which passes like three years. The minutes drag on like an old gum in the mouth of a twin — he has been chewing it since they entered the dressing room — and, apart from the ticking of the clock, the silence is sometimes interrupted by the click of a burst whitish bubble. Bill shrugs and inflates the strawberry balloon again. Think he didn't care, but Tom knows he's worried too.

"Don't slurp, Bill," Tom mutters tiredly when it gets really on nerves. Every concert is like the first and the last, every time they all painfully want to escape from here, from a brightly lit room with light bulbs by the mirror. But hold on. Only any sound is annoying. Somewhere the indistinct screams of female fans are heard. Tom's hands are shaking a little as he searches the pockets of his wide trousers for a brand-new pick.

Bill turns his face to his brother, and as if out of spite, bursts a new bubble.

“You're pissing me off," Tom says. Today it's even scarier than usual, cold sweat drips down the vertebra — it's so scary, excruciatingly scary to go out to this crowd... what if something goes wrong? But Bill is having fun, on this edge of hysteria before the concert, he always has fun.

Bill always sang when he felt bad. Emotions overwhelmed him from the age of 6, and he always sang, at the rupture of the aorta, spitting out all the trash. That have accumulated on soul. And now, when the lips reflexively pronounce the text "Ready, Set, Go" already hammered into them, Bill thinks that Tom is deprived even of this — to sing for himself.

Brother is listless, apathetic, he doesn't even look at the audience, but he plays flawlessly, as always, and Bill's heart sinks with pity. In the meantime, they need to share a dressing room, when one of them ready to explode at any second. The younger Kaulitz is used to it. The elder is only trying.