Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Lester's molars came together again and again in a smooth, practiced rhythm, chips smashing between them until they were soft enough to swallow. His hand would then sneak into the open bag perched against his ankle, scoop up another handful, stuff them in his mouth, and repeat the process. His dark eyes did not move from the screen of his second-hand HP computer -a three year old contraption that was a slower than a snail. But it worked, and it had to do, and at the moment Lester was a bit more worried about the blaring, insulting and threatening post on his Facebook wall.

Swish, swish, swish.

Occasionally, he would interrupt the chip eating process to take a long sip from the bottle of coke that was nestled between his hip and the wall, getting warmer by the second. His fingers, when unoccupied, would fiddle nervously -and his body craved nicotine awfully, but his cigarettes were too far away and he couldn't quite be arsed to get up from his comfortable position and go get them.

There were more preoccupying matters, anyway.

Lester's head still hurt as testimony to having a shoe thrown at it. He was also still slightly queezy and had a strange pain right bellow his left butt cheek. But this was all he actually remembered from Sunday night. Which meant he didn't entirely understand why some -admittedly hot- girl was telling him she was going to cut off an essential piece of his anatomy if he didn't answer her calls. The problem was, he wasn't getting any calls from the girl, so he wasn't entirely certain how to take care of his favorite organ.

With a worried sigh, the 19 year old pressed up from his spot, laying his computer down, before turning to glance around the flat in search for his jacket -where he knew his fags would be. Spotting it on the ground, Lester walked over, sneaked out his pack of cigarettes, and had just enough time to put one between his lips when the door crashed open -and he fell back, covering his groin and yelling out something about not wanting to be butchered.

Sander didn't know when his life had gotten so impossible. He was used to working hard, long hours, but somehow his work at Alohomocha seemed more tiring than that job in construction he has just after graduation, and that was with the two other job he was working at the time. But between the female demon known as CeeCee Donovan and the loud, hyper-enthusiastic bustle of clients they had, Sander was just emotionally drained of any sort of patience three hours into opening.

Add the odd surveillance or delivery jobs he occasionally had after hours and during weekens and a girlfriend, an actual girlfriend, plus all these people he had no interest in socializing with suddenly wanting his company and opinions and his ear and... Really, all he wanted was to come home and throw himself on the bed and just lay there for weeks. Which was altogether an impossible feat because of his younger brother. And speak of the devil, as soon as he opened the door to their apartment, door connecting with something hard, he was graced with the view of Les on his back, covering his privates and bemoaning about... No, he didn't want to know.

"The hell, Les?" he said tiredly, head tilted to the side, quizzical look on his face and hand still on the door handle as he watched his brother flailing. After the interest in his brother's antics faded, he closed the door behind him with a shove of his hand and lifted his eyes to scan the cubicle they called an apartment. Of course. Pigsty. Their apartment constantly looked like a pigsty and he was just so done with Les and his lack of any sort of responsibility and not to mention morals and after the scare he had yesterday, what with Lala's morbidly awakening voice message and Les's idiot drunken antics...

"By all means, please, leave everything you've touched today laying around the flat" he said in a deadpan voice, crossing his arms over his chest.  "I absolutely love spending every one of my waking moments picking up your shit" he added in a faux-emphatic tone, eyes falling down to glare unimpressed at his brother. "Have you done this all day?" he gestured at the small table with the computer in the corner, complete with junk food - which was a personal offense to him - and carcinogenic beverages. His eyebrows furrowed and the corners of his mouth turned violently downwards.

"Shit, Les..." Sander suddenly cracked and raised his arms up in defeat, horror, something. "You're 19 for fuck's sake. Just, cut it out and grow the fuck up already. I'm done with everyone finding you excuses" he shook his head in defeat, his voice going softer, disappointment in his tone. "I get it, okay, life isn't fair, you're the odd one out. But I'd much rather have it like you did and still do, than having to work three jobs at 17 to help mom and dad, and help raise your ungrateful ass and Bran and the girls, while you were off rebelling and running off and singing to that tiny violin because, boohoo, you're a squib" he said calmly, but with resentment in his voice, while he took a seat on the raggedy coach he salvaged a few years back.

"Don't you get it?" he asked after a few moments, worrying at his lip. "I'm it. Mom and dad have completely given up on you, Bran thinks you're a disgrace to the family and the girls... They're at the age when they're very impressionable, and is this what you want them to learn from you?" he pointed  at nothing in particular and shook his head again. "You're in my home, living on my money, studying on my hard-worked earnings and the least you could is fuckin' clean after yourself" he got up and gave him one last glare, before moving towards the kitchenette to fix something to eat.

"Clean up and set the fuckin' table" he muttered, opening the fridge door violently, to retrieve four eggs and some vegetables.