[The two aren't mutually exclusive; he can ask his brother's motivations, seriously, and tear it apart. He chooses instead to save his breath. For a moment, at least.]

I'm not writing a story. I'm not planning the ending. The story will sound like it means something. Because it will. More than paperwork, more than bread, and parchment, and horseshit diplomacy--and more than excuses, than talking about shit that has not yet happened, what has not come to pass. Because the moment it becomes real, it will be more than a story. It will be alive.

But at least now I know what stories you tell yourself.