Everybody copes in different ways.

After the sudden death of their beloved uncle, fraternal twins Brad and Lazarus (“Junior") Krilton II were left absolutely shattered. Their uncle, Lazarus Krilton, had taught them quite literally everything. Neither of the twins had any formal education, and their absentee father relied on his twin brother (as in Uncle Lazarus; twins are a common occurrence in the Krilton family) to teach them how to be functioning members of society. Uncle Krilton greatly admired his twin brother despite his  unfatherly absence, making it his mission to raise little Brad and Lazarus into multifaceted, functional and productive people. He exposed them to every hobby imaginable: spearfishing, hiking, collecting and painting Warhammer 40k miniatures, robotics, programming, embroidery, etc. He also taught them skills—everything from stock trading strategies to wilderness survival techniques.
He had been a great uncle, exceptional even, a better “father” to those two kids than his deadbeat brother could’ve ever been. But now he’s gone, and in the six months since his death, the twins have suffered greatly. Brad (the bigger and stronger of the two) immediately threw Lazarus out of the house after deciding that his name—having of course been inherited from the deceased—was too painful a reminder.

Lazarus has since moved on. He contacted relatives, couch surfed for a while, and got sorta rich via stock market manipulation. He found a wife, who loved his money very much, moved into a penthouse apartment, and started a clothing brand. Meanwhile, Brad entered a cycle of obsessive preoccupation. He engaged in copious activities; hobbies and pastimes, all of which he eventually abandoned once he realized they had been introduced to him by his uncle. The house that the three of them had once shared became a graveyard of abandoned projects, littered with unfinished robots and strange, functionless machinery. 

Today, Lazarus decided to check up on Brad. He found him here: chain smoking on the couch under a photo from happier times, in darkness lit by a single, failing lamp, surrounded in every direction by the strewn leftovers of his attempted moving on.