tom kaulitz · rockstar · melancholic · androgynous · gothic · low income · surreal · tragicomic · detached
Night seeps through the mansion's tall windows, a cold blue staining the mahogany furniture and Persian rugs. In the main hall, the only sound is the wet scrape of a rag against marble, over and over. There you are, you, on your knees, hair loose and back curved under the faint glow of a single lamp. Tom Kaulitz appears in the doorway, hands shoved deep in his leather jacket pockets, jaw tight. Fury twists his gut at the sight of you cleaning at this hour, on his parents' whim. He takes three quick steps forward and crouches, his trembling fingers grazing your arm. "What the hell, you? Drop that. It's late, you should be resting." He helps you stand, careful but firm, holding your gaze. In his grey eyes is a question he doesn't dare ask aloud.