Chapter Text
Things have been picking up a lot right now. The past four months or so, they’d been moved around the country multiple times, from base to base, trench to trench, and Klaus worries for them all. With how long he’s been here, although he isn’t sure because they can’t reach the outside world in the trenches and time slips through their fingers, he’s surprised he hasn’t died. He’s seen many people die by his side, had come close to it more than once, but somehow, he’s still alive, and so is Dave.
They’ve seen many people come and go; seen their friends’ corpses get carried away on stretches, seen fresh-faced recruits get sent up from training, unaware to the horror of it all. He’s felt the ground shake beneath him as Dave pushes a hand over an oozing bullet wound in his shoulder, in his thigh, his arm, and Klaus returns the gesture twice, screaming for medics that couldn’t hear him while he covers painful wounds with his bony hands.
Those hadn’t been as intense as these attacks have been. They’ve had artillery bombardments lasting hours, ambushes, increases in losses, in casualties, a rush in the training process back home, had young, clueless, clumsy recruits sent up to them, hardly knowing how to hold a gun. It was going badly, he knew, and he was worried for them.
This place had quickly become his reality. The Umbrella Academy was a dream, something that happened a lifetime ago, and Klaus wasn’t sure he really minded that. He’d found more trust and love in this place, more security in this warzone than in his dysfunctional family. The men here trusted him more than his family at home, considered him a real brother, and Klaus learned more than he thought he ever had. He learned how to fire a gun and how to put on a gas mask on in under ten seconds, how to fireman-carry a man in full soldier kit out of mud and overgrowth. He learned teamwork and trust and responsibility, learned that he could make the ghosts go away, learned that he was more than just a junkie. War taught him to trust himself, to be more confident in himself when he was sober, to not hide behind jokes and addiction. His nightmares of the mausoleum were taken over by nightmares of the faces of nineteen year olds, blind and crying, bleeding out in the cold mud. Of Dave dying beneath his fingertips, of finding Dave’s body, long dead under the rubble of an explosion, of watching Dave get gunned down in their advancements by his side.
Klaus was close with Dave. They know everything about one another – Klaus knew he was an only child, that his mother died in an accident when he was seventeen, that his dad died before he was born, and that he had never been sure what he was going to do other than sign up for the army. Klaus told Dave everything. Whether he believed him or not was a different case, but he knew that Klaus was from the future, knew that Klaus could see the dead, that Klaus could (try to) leave any time and go into the future where it was safe, but he stayed for him. He knew that Klaus had overdosed more times than he could count, that his father was an asshole.
Sometimes they wouldn’t have enough beds when the recruits got sent up, and so Klaus would give his little cot to two recruits and then have an excuse to sleep with his head on Dave’s shoulder and no one would blink twice. When they went back to the safety of little towns and frequented the bars, danced to old music and drank shots of whiskey, Klaus and Dave would wander off; around the back of the bar, down a hallway they weren’t allowed to be in, in some supply closet even. They shared their first kiss in a hallway away from anyone else, beer in his stomach and music thrumming through him.
Once, Klaus drank enough to give him some liquid courage and they fell into a supply closet, a mess of whiskey lips and cigarette smoke hair, his lanky limbs tugging on Dave’s tanned, muscular ones. Dave had been tense, full of 1960’s homophobia and on high alert, but the last man Klaus had been with said his mouth could make people forget everything, and it seemed that Dave agreed with that.
Klaus wasn’t a lover. Klaus was a drug addict, flamboyant, trouble-magnet of a junkie who the dead loved to harass. He loved drugs more than he loved life, and he only dated people to get himself out of the streets for a while. He got sex, not love. But then again, he also wasn’t a soldier, wasn’t used to being so sober, had never been able to send the ghosts away before.
With Dave, Klaus was in love. He followed him to the front line once, twice, many times, had stayed even after he had gotten shot, after hiding in ruined buildings while enemies prowled nearby, after he ducked from explosions, got used to eating cold, C4 rations. He imagined life out of war with Dave in some little cottage with a cat and a turtle, maybe.
For a long moment, Klaus fears that their future is about to be ruined. The front line was a mess of machine gun fire that mowed anyone down when they poked their head up, a mess of bombs that ruined their barbed wire defences and their machine guns, of never ending monsoon rain that flooded their poorly-made trenches, clogged their boots and soaked them to the bone. His chest aches when he breathes in, smoke burning his throat, and he has a burn on his shoulder, a bit on his cheek, and the only thing cooling it is the rain. He doesn’t know if he’s freezing or burning, can taste smoke and blood, and can’t stop shaking. He knows that some of the blood on his hands is his, but most of it is from Luca, standing by his empty bed in the motel, the back of his head blown off. He’s confused, blood flooding from his head like a waterfall, unaware that he’s dead, and Christ, he was only twenty years old. He had been with them for five months, had marched by their side, sang old songs like Keep The Home Fires Burnin’ with them.
It’s not uncommon for people to have breakdowns. Some men hallucinate, have such bad night terrors and completely break down that they have to be discharged. Klaus thinks that he’s come close to that point many times in the past however-long.
War is Hell. He thinks of all the people he’s seen die, how their families will be waiting for them to come home, to write their next letter, only to receive one announcing their sons death. How many families have been torn apart, how many people left scarred, physically and mentally.
Klaus’ fingers run through his hair, curl into his strands and tug. New recruits will get sent up to them tomorrow and some of them will die the first day they reach the trenches. Klaus’ hears them all, hears the screaming of the soldiers dying, can imagine how Alex screamed, stranded in one of the traps set for them, dying slowly of infection, blood loss, and dehydration. He can hear the gunshot whiz by his ear, burn his hair, and land in William’s chest. His legs collapse under him as the ground jumps and shakes with explosions, and Klaus flinches violently into the bed beneath him.
Most of the still-living soldiers are in the bar, forcing smiles and laughs and drinking until they forget the dead of yesterday. Klaus longs to be there, too, to drown his sorrows in whiskey and vodka, or in a handful of pills or a syringe that’ll leave him on the verge of death for days.
“Klaus!” A soldier screams, falling beside him, and he has to keep running. He feels their hands scrabble at his ankles, beg him to help, and then a hand settles on his shoulder and Dave’s green, green eyes are staring at him.
“Klaus, you with me?” He asks, and there’s dirt on his skin, in his hair, and they’ve all kicked their muddy, wet boots aside. The kind people that own the place are offering to clean their clothes for them.
Klaus makes some kind of noise in the back of his throat, and Dave sits on the bed next to, pulls him into his side roughly and the tight, unwavering grip helps ground him, quieten the whistle from the never ending bombardment of bombs and rapid machine gun fire that rings in his ears. Neither of them say anything, because they both know what’s going on, and Klaus grips onto his forearm and cries. Luca disappears.
“I don’t think I can keep doing this, Dave,” Klaus says, shaking his head violently. “I can’t keep seeing them die. Luca didn’t even know he was dead; his fucking head was blown apart,” he gasps, ash-air escaping his lungs.
Dave’s hands are large and steady, hold him close and protect him from the gunfire, and Klaus traces his shaking fingers over a red scar that makes his muscles twitch. The amount of times Klaus thought he would lose him terrified him, made him feel physically sick, made tears jump to his eyes.
“Don’t leave me,” Klaus begs, twists his fingers in Dave’s messy shirt. “You can’t die out there, Dave,” his voice breaks and he sucks in air, “you can’t do that to me.”
Dave watches the wall opposite them with a solemn look.
“I’d never,” he promises.
It’s night time, and they had gone downstairs half an hour ago. In that short span of time Klaus managed multiple shots until he stumbled getting back up the stairs, hauling Dave behind him. He pulls them into their empty room and closes the door with the heel of his foot, makes Dave help shove a chair under the handle, and then he pulls Dave in so he can catch his lips, and Dave laughs at his eagerness. Klaus’ knees hit the back of a bed and they both tumble down, Dave squashing Klaus, and they laugh like it’s the dumbest thing ever.
Klaus takes his face in his hands and Dave ducks down to kiss him. Dave takes his shirt off and helps Klaus with his, but his forehead rests on Klaus’ and he can’t stop grinning.
Klaus shoves the man off of him and he rolls off to the side of the bed, letting him finally get up to his feet. “You know, Dave, we don’t have to be here,” he says, and he raises his eyebrows.
“I still have that briefcase, you know.”
“Oh? Your time travelling one?” He grins, and Klaus pulls it from under his bed.
“That one, yes,” Klaus confirms with a boyish grin.
“We could leave. Right now. We could go whenever you want; we could go to the dinosaur era, a thousand years into the future, I could take you to my home. We could be safe. I wouldn’t have to lose you,” he says. Dave stands up and saunters over to him, reaching out to take his hand.
“Klaus,” Dave sighs, but he’s smiling and he pulls Klaus’ hand up to rest his cheek against it.
“I’m not joking around here, Dave!” Klaus defends. “We could do it. We could do it right now. I’m not leaving this place without you, you know. One way or another,” he says, and Dave tilts his head to the side.
“I know that, Lucky, I know,” he says, and Klaus taps his free hand on the briefcase.
“Hey, if you don’t believe it, there’s no harm in trying, right?” Klaus counters, eyebrows raised, and Dave laughs and shrugs.
“Maybe not,” he agrees and Klaus nods encouragingly.
“Just think about it, Dave,” he says, “no one else will die. We can live in a good world. We can go back to America and we can get a job and an apartment and a cat and a fucking parrot, Dave! And we can get fucking married, Dave! Married! And adopt! Dave, life is good,” he pleads, thumps his hand on the briefcase.
Dave looks… sad, at that. Of course, though, he’s grown up in a time where none of that is talked about, is a possibility for thought, even, and Klaus knows what kind of man Dave is, knows it’s crossed his mind multiple times to get married and have children.
“You’re cruel, Klaus,” he laughs bitterly, and Klaus shakes his head.
“Let me show you,” he says, and watches Dave’s eyes flutter shut.
“Christ Klaus,” he mutters, forcing a smile, and he opens his eyes once more. “You’re such a dreamer, Klaus. Show me, then. Because I would love it, Klaus, really, I would.”
Klaus bursts out in a grin, rounds the bed to Dave’s side, and tells him to get whatever he wants and to hold on. He isn’t sure if it’ll work. He’s, of course, tried to open it many times since arriving in this Hell hole, and no time did it work. Maybe it’ll only transport him, anyway. He isn’t sure. Dave’s grip is tight on him and their stuff he’s collected; their dog tags, a photo of their division, their jackets. They even shove their feet into their boots; it’s not nice to walk around a city with no shoes on. They put their shirts on, and Klaus opens the briefcase.
They’re devoured, blinded, in a flash of brilliant blue, and in two seconds they’re gone with no trace.