The elder brother stood by the window, the morning light catching the dust in the air like powdered gold. On the table lay the evidence of the crime: a small ceramic bowl, empty now, which only moments earlier had held an indecent heap of capsules, tablets, and pills—reds, yellows, greens—like a fallen cathedral of colour.

He turned, one eyebrow lifted in tragic disbelief, and spoke with the gravity of a man delivering a sermon to a nation already doomed.

“My dear brother—oh, you magnificent arse—you cannot possibly expect the poor stomach to behave like a well-drilled troupe when you fling the bursting brass section at it at once. Vitamins, taken together in one heroic gulp, do not line up suppliantly and dissolve into virtue; they huddle, they quarrel, they jostle for space like musicians all tuning at the same time. Each insists upon its own moment, its own potency, and instead you give them chaos—a noisy muddle where none can properly be heard. Take them as they are meant to be taken, singly and with sense, lest all that promised strength be lost in the ridiculous brawl you yourself have conducted.”

He finished with a flourish, as though laying down a baton after a symphony of common sense, his voice still humming with concern disguised as irritation. Somewhere, a kettle hissed like polite applause.

The younger brother, meanwhile, leaned against the counter, arms folded, eyes bright with mischief. He chewed thoughtfully on an apple—crunch, slow and theatrical—then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, considering the speech as one might consider a particularly dramatic opuscule aria.

“My beloved maestro,” he said at last, his tone light as a skipped note, “forgive me, but you mistake enthusiasm for barbarism.”

The elder brother opened his mouth. The younger raised a finger.

“Ah—do let me finish, or the trio will riot,” he stepped closer, lowering his voice into mock reverence, “you speak of my stomach as though it were some fragile harpsichord, terrified of passion. But I assure you, it is a seasoned opera house. It has hosted tragedies, comedies, midnight kebabs, and one unforgettable incident involving street coffee and regret. Do you truly believe a few earnest vitamins will reduce it to tears?”

The elder brother frowned. The kettle clicked off.

The younger continued, warming to his performance.

“These capsules did not quarrel,” he said, “they leapt. They sang. They met one another and said, Ah! So you too have been summoned. And in that glorious confusion—yes, confusion, if you must—they formed a choir. Not your prim, punctual orchestra, but something far more human. A chorus. Loud, slightly drunk, and full of hope.”

He smiled, eyes glinting.

“And if a little of their promised strength is lost in the brawl, as you so poetically fear—well—perhaps strength was never meant to be hoarded so carefully. Perhaps it prefers to arrive in excess, all at once, kicking the door in, just to remind the body that it is alive.”

Silence settled between them, thick and surprised.

The elder brother stared. His prepared retorts—neatly stacked like sheet music—fluttered and fell apart. He closed his mouth. Opened it again. Closed it.

The younger took another bite of his apple. Crunch.

“At any rate,” he added solicitously, almost kindly, “if I am to perish by vitamin overdose, I should like it to be said that I died bravely, in bloody colour, and with excellent intentions.”

The elder brother exhaled. A reluctant smile betrayed him, small but undeniable, like a rogue note sneaking into a solemn hymn.

He said nothing.

This, in itself, was alarming.

The elder brother—who could normally subpoena an opinion at the fall of a spoon—stood frozen, as though some invisible conductor had raised a hand and suspended the entire ensemble mid-note. His fingers twitched. His jaw worked once, soundlessly, like a fish reconsidering philosophy.

The younger brother watched him with open delight, rocking gently on his heels.

“Well,” he said softly, “that silence has either killed you or improved you enormously.”

Still nothing.

The elder brother turned away, marched two paces, then spun back again with tragic urgency, as though about to pronounce a final curse upon the household. He inhaled. He lifted a finger. He dropped it.

Defeated, he reached for the abandoned vitamin bottle, stared into its rattling depths, and shook it once—twice—listening to the hollow clatter like bones in a maraca.

“You are impossible,” he said at last, weakly, which was worse than shouting.

The younger brother bowed—an extravagant, waist-bending bow—nearly knocking over the chair.

“Impossible,” he replied, “is merely misunderstood genius with good digestion.”

The elder brother groaned, sank into a chair, and covered his face with both hands, as though shielding himself from divine light.

“Go,” he muttered, “before you begin composing.”

The younger brother paused at the doorway, turned, and with angelic innocence tossed the final blow into the air: 

“Tomorrow,” he said brightly, “I’m thinking of adding probiotics.”

The door closed.

Somewhere deep within the elder brother’s chest, a laugh escaped—brief, traitorous, and utterly against his will.

The philharmonic, at last, applauded.