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Diego… never really cared for Klaus.
Klaus would sometimes joke that he was an acquired taste—“Sorta like black coffee, or—nnh, ai, haha, DICK,” and Five had smacked him upside the head—and Diego had to agree.
His brother went to extremes in his emotions and his actions too easily—he felt excessively, helped excessively, yearned excessively. It all got to be too much, too stifling, for Diego.
Diego was the type of guy to explode like particularly potent fireworks. He would gather his emotions, toss them into a suitcase, and throw said suitcase at an enemy, or his siblings. God help whoever was caught in the crossfire.
He wasn’t like them.
Luther, endlessly patient, was his opposite. Or perhaps his opposite was strong-headed and quick-minded Five. Or Vanya, who absorbed their barbs and blows like a sea sponge, soaking it all in and eventually wringing herself out in front of that damned typewriter. Allison, too, was more relaxed than him.
He hated to think he was in any way like Klaus… but to ignore the truth staring him in the face would just be stupid.
As Luther hugged their brother close, quieting his whimpers with the weight of his arms and the shelter of his shoulders, Diego cast his mind back… and back…
———
Diego’s legs moved independently of his mind.
They bounced, jittered, joggled, jiggled, in an odd dance that almost looked spasmodic. Dad gave him a sideways glance, and without words, gestured to the stairs; he was to leave the table.
He did so in silence, the oppressive gaze of his father drilling between a point between the hunching blades of his shoulders.
He was weaker than the others. He couldn’t breathe right on missions, couldn’t keep up, couldn’t wrestle his tongue to stem the stumbling, stuttering words. So he decided to put up and shut up, working on his own, training, always training, until he collapsed.
Mom handed him a little red and white device, told him how to use it, and left to chastise Klaus, who had glued his foot to the table again.
He’d tuck it away in his pocket, taking hits of albuterol with the guilt of an addict away from prying eyes and jeering lips, but he could breathe, and the simple fix took his breath away (metaphorically, of course).
———
Speech therapy.
Could it be considered therapy if the aim was to do more harm than good?
Diego didn’t know yet and didn’t care. If he was to be taken seriously, this stutter had to be stopped, Dad said, and Diego knew it to be true. He could not end up like Klaus, the disappointment of the family and one that would inevitably be placed in a group home (or so Dad threatened. It was only due to his gifts and mom’s intercession that he stayed).
So he would sit across from Dad, the heavy oak between them denoting their roles, splitting and final, and sound out words.
“S-sh-shaky,” Diego read back, and Dad slapped him. It had been a frustrating session for both of them, but where Diego clutched at his anger like a shield against sorrow, Dad acted. It was sickening, the way Diego had admired this lack of hesitation. He longed for immediate correction—if he fucked up, he’d be hit, and there was comfort in that repetition.
“Done for the day,” Hargreeves told him dispassionately. He stood and left the room, strides sounding on the harsh marble floor.
There was no ice offered for his bloody nose.
———
Sometimes Diego moved like Klaus.
A tap of the fingers, a shift to the side, the legs a blur. But Dad did not let him get away with it like he did with Klaus—Klaus was a lost cause. Diego, though, was worth… something. At least, worth more than the twitching, stimming mess of a boy Klaus was.
This worth was measured in more therapy, more correction, until Diego could hold as still as a mouse in a trap. He could feel his spine creaking like a stressed twig, the cracks appearing, the fibers of the wood twisting under the strain.
And sometimes he envied Klaus.
Klaus would move in any way he deemed necessary, caught up in the moment of feeling. It was… fulfilling, to watch him twist and turn on his feet, fingers a-flutter. It never did occur to Diego that always, ticcing was not a choice, but an impulse; that Klaus stimmed to enjoy himself most of the time, but that sometimes it was a matter of stim or melt down.
But when Klaus stimmed for pleasure, those were the moments that Diego craved. The lanky man would stand in a sunbeam, rocking himself back and forth and making the happiest noises Diego had ever heard. He was settled in the present, only moving from his spot to match the sunbeam’s path; the one-mindedness of his movements and the calm on his face filled Diego with want.
In his own room, he would test out the movements, but become ashamed and guilt-ridden almost instantly. A bad taste would pervade his mouth.
It would not be until later that he would reclaim himself. There was only grim freedom, without celebration, when he did.