"I didn't really kill a baby," Franz mutters after a moment, fussing with his grubby-damp hair and pushing it out of his face. A few of the tears he's been trying so studiously prevent drip down his flush cheeked, feeling cold to the heat of them. "I just wanted to, because I was jealous. I'm horrible." His words are a little slurry, from sleep or fever. He wraps his arms around himself, rubbing his arms.

"I've barely spoken to Kurt for weeks," Franz says. "He got really angry with me awhile ago, and I made him cry. I'm scared to talk to him now, since apparently all I ever do is make him cry. Just like all I ever did was make Albert angry--" Further complaints are cut off by a violent fit of coughing.