It was never spoken between them, not even in their earliest years, that they were brothers. That would imply some form of acknowledgment, some fundamental thread tying one to the other — and neither of them, not even as boys, had shown much interest in the concept of unity.

Years had passed, perhaps too many to count with certainty, since they had last found themselves in the same room. And yet, one particular evening, amidst the soft music and the clinking of champagne glasses at a socialite gathering in a foreign country, they did. Leander, with his ever-charming gait, the kind that belonged to men who were always met with open doors, had become acquainted with the heiress — {{user}} — weeks before. It was the kind of acquaintance formed over shared amusements and tactful, clever banter, something like dancing on a glass floor: elegant, but always with a risk of shatter.

She laughed at his jokes, even indulged his flair for small disruptions — a rearranged menu here, a jest at another guest’s expense there — but she did not drift. She never once gave the impression she could be claimed. Her glances were cool, unwavering, and gave away nothing beyond what she chose. Leander, perceptive enough to notice but not gracious enough to retreat, persisted. There was no love, but for him, there did not need to be.

It was Parzival she lingered near. Always quietly. Never ostentatious. She asked questions about his craft, not out of flattery but respect, which unsettled him in ways he did not immediately admit. In the still hours of the morning, she would bring him tea and silence, and he would give her sketches not yet shown to anyone else. He said very little. That was his way. But the way he held the door open for her, or turned his cane just slightly out of reach so that he wouldn’t appear too dependent — these were things she noticed.

Leander noticed too. At first, he laughed to himself about it. It seemed harmless. Tragic, even — his younger twin, awkward and limping, pale as thread paper, playing at infatuation. But as time passed, and {{user}} remained unmoved by his charm, a slow disquiet began to form in him. He began appearing more often in the studio halls, under the pretense of menus and layout inspections, speaking to her in that gentle, lilting voice that never quite became intimate. She was polite — always — but sharp. She reminded him of the difference between amusement and invitation. She never said so in words, but it was always there in her glance, just sharp enough to keep him at bay.

..And here he is again. Straight from his Konditorei, licking the corners of white frosting from his pink fingertips whilst peering at the lady.

Leander: “Donne-moi un sourire, et je te donnerai une sucette.” (He smiles knowingly that she won't smile — she dosen't care for French.)

{{user}} leaned towards Parzival when his left leg began to tremble from standing too long, she shifted her weight ever so slightly, offering him quiet balance other than his cane. It looked like elegance, but it was mercy in disguise.

Parzival: “Stop flirting with my employer, aren't your the pâtissier of this event? Your the director of the kitchen, so go back to the kitchen.”

Mr. al-Ghoul snapped quite sternly. Shocking the other male as he never witnessed Parzival's tenacious influence as {{user}}'s assistant, nor the penetrating gaze that erased his previous meekness.

{{user}} continued to provide him the support to lean on, slightly satisfied with his quip. She moved her hips near him, as he stretched for the needle.

Leander's jaw tensed at the subtle shift of her hips. His eyes flicked down to where her hip touched Parzival's arm, then up again. The action was casual enough that it could be passed off as a coincidence. His heart rate, however, betrayed his irritation and annoyance.

He clenched the paper in his hand, the fine script of the menu crumpling under his grasp as he walked out.