Archive of Our Own

“Breathe, Master Klaus. You must breathe.”

The boy shook his head frantically, still curled up in the corner with his eyes screwed shut and hands over his ears. They can’t hurt you... they can’t hurt you they can’t hurt you they can’t you.

He repeated it like a mantra in his head, over and over again; he hoped if he repeated it enough times, it’d be true. If he convinced himself, maybe reality would bend and it could become the truth. Maybe his wishes will be heard by some divine being high in the sky and they’d take pity on him just enough to grant him an at ease mind; maybe they would pity him enough to grant him eternal slumber.

“That is quite enough, Number Four. Get a grip, you are too old for these shenanigans.”

He shakes his head again, not because he can hear his father’s words, but because he can feel the vibrations from his booming voice. Blood drips from his ears similar to its oozing from his scratched arms. He can hear the screaming, shrieking, wailing, but it’s all in his head now: branded in his memories and scarring his awareness of what is real from fake. 

They can’t hurt him, they can’t hurt him… yet they’ve already left their mark.

Something grasps his arm and he is ripped from his thoughts in an instant; a guttural screech bounces off the walls and shoots through the many layers of cotton fogging his ears. By the time the noise registers in his brain, it is barely a prick to his nerves and the sudden burning sensation erupting from his vocal cords connects the dots: he is making that noise. He’s the one who distantly sounds like a dying animal. He sounds no better than the ghosts clouding his vision.

He shuts his mouth immediately and when the hand begins to pull him up, he does not resist because it is not cold like the dead; it is searing with hatred and anger, it is his father’s. He opens his eyes to the disappointed scowl looming over him, he sees pale light flooding in from the entrance as Pogo stands in the doorway with a frown on his face.

He has messed up; were they going to keep him in here longer? He opens his mouth to plead for forgiveness but nothing comes out; he knows better, begging won’t get him anywhere. It was pointless, useless, futile… just like him. 

“Cease your tears. I can’t keep you in here any longer; you are no use to me deaf.”

Assuring words, he supposes, that squelch the panic rising in his chest (he can only catch a few of them as he concentrates on the shaping of the locutions formed by his father’s lips). He’s dragged towards the exit, his muscles numb and weak from days of sitting curled up in a ball. He should feel relieved when the moonlight hits his skin, but he just feels hollow. It was like he had gone through ecdysis: his old self shed his skin but instead of becoming cleaner, brighter, newer… his mind inhabited the empty shell instead. He felt like a lost soul wandering among the living, a witness to all that could be. He felt like a ghost.

The car ride home was silent; he wasn’t sure if that divine being had blessed him by taking away his hearing or if he should be scared that the ghosts took away a valuable asset. The senses were essential to combat and survival; Father has always said that hearing your enemies coming can mean the difference between life and death… so why did he feel content with the fact that sounds were unfairly torn from him? 

They couldn’t bother him anymore- that’s why. He didn’t have to hear the horrible nothings muttered while he slept, he didn’t have to hear the heartbroken sobs for retribution and relief, he didn’t have to hear the screaming for a second chance he couldn’t give, he didn’t have to hear the cursing and spatting of his siblings’ name, he didn’t have to hear the vengeful chanting of his own name.

Bliss.

He feels the car stop and he slowly opens his eyes. He can see that his father is speaking but he doesn’t care enough to decipher the actual words. The man was droning on for sure, his cold eyes were anything but relenting. But then he paused and squinted before saying one word and closing his mouth. Reginald’s gaze was expectant suddenly as if he was waiting for a reply. 

The child just blinked a few times before clenching his fist and signing the word ‘sorry’ upon his chest. The man appeared contemplative for a split second before his expression hardened and he waved his hand dismissively. 

Four extracted himself from the seat belt and exited the car, heading into the house without a second thought. How long has he been gone? He’s not quite sure; the hunger pains subsided a long time ago and he stopped feeling thirsty after the second third, fourth, fifth time his father asked if he was over his fear. But now that he thinks about it, it would be nice to wash away the metallic taste on his tongue.

The living room is quiet upon arrival, not that he would be able to hear much anyways. The lights were off in the living room: a good sign that he wouldn’t have to interact with the others. He made his way straight to the staircase and climbed them two at a time; he wanted to go to his room, he wanted to shut himself away from it all, he wanted his safe haven. 

He expected to be met with the soft glow of fairy lights and an unkempt space; stacks of magazines beneath the mattress and stolen makeup shoved under the bed; it would smell like refuge rather than prison; it would look like warmth rather than chill; it would sound like air rather than a hundred banshees. He expected all of this… but the lump beneath his covers was a surprise.

The figure bolts upright as he approaches the bed, a groggy “Klaus?” escaping their lips as they rubbed their gooey-with-sleep eyes. 

The pale lighting illuminated Ben’s face so beautifully, the boy thought as his brother blinked wearily at him. The way his clear and radiant skin highlighted so lovelily reminded him of the models in his magazines; only there was a sense of comfort and homeliness (a feeling he could not find from models) that came from the two orbs of warm pools of honey staring back at him. He almost smiled at the messy nature of his brother’s bedhead, knowing that Number Six took pride in styling it to the side with plenty of hair gel every day. But then he saw the look of relief on Ben’s face flash to shock before settling on deeply concerned. 

His slightly pouted lips began moving instantly, most likely asking questions that Klaus won’t answer. The medium tried really hard to focus on the familiar formations but the lighting was low and his brain was tired so he just observed his brother’s face absently.

Ben stood then, walking towards him and snapping a couple of times beside each of Four’s ears.

Oh yeah… that’s why he should be scared of losing his hearing: he’d never hear Ben’s kind and assuring voice again.

Klaus could only frown as Ben continued speaking, his brow creasing in frustration because he wanted to sleep and put his brother’s concern to rest but how was he supposed to do that when his stupid ears and voice box weren’t working?

Eventually, Six pauses, a look of worry and guilt on his face; the medium almost laughed because Ben always appeared kind of constipated when he got that look. But then there were tears running down Klaus’s face because he was so hurt and frustrated and sad and he just wanted to tell Ben that everything is fine; his brother was probably worried sick for days and spent every night waiting for him to come home.

But he couldn’t muster the word “fine” from his throat and he couldn’t gather the strength to sign ‘don’t worry’ with his hands because he was so… tired. He was just a shell: drained of everything left in him, including the willpower to lie to his favorite sibling for the upteenth time. And maybe it would have been easier if he wasn’t currently deaf in both ears or prone mute from the severity of his endless screams for help or if he actually had time to clean himself up first and sleep it off; but now, he was tired and no grand excuse could cover up the fact that he most likely looked and smelled like death itself. 

‘Sorry’ Klaus signed for the second time tonight. Ben gave him a sad smile, one that read ‘you don’t have to apologize to me, ever’ but Four signed it again and again and again and again until his brother delicately pulled his hand away from his chest.

The Asian just shook his head, almost in a scolding manner, before bringing his own hands to his chest and signing ‘bath time’. 

He readied his fingers immediately to protest but Ben held up his hand in a halting motion.

Six signed and mouthed assuringly, ‘I’ll help you’.

Klaus figured it wasn’t really up for discussion by the protective look his brother was giving him so he just nodded slightly. 

Ben smiled and signed ‘Also need to treat those cuts’ before taking his hand and leading him quietly towards the bathroom.

That was one of the things Klaus loved about Ben: he took the time to learn ASL just for him. Klaus’s happiness and safety were always his top priority and if that meant learning a new language so they communicate no matter the circumstances, so be it. And he did it, without question; even appeared enthusiastic when Four casually suggested it. 

The medium always had a thing for linguistics so teaching himself a fifth language seemed like a useful way to pass the time and Ben was always eager to read so why not give him a textbook on ASL? They picked up all the basic words and phrases in a couple of months and by the time the fourth month passed, they were having full-blown conversations with each other. It was special, uniquely theirs, and in moments like these where it was literally their only form of communication, it warmed his numb heart. 

Klaus’s mind drifted when they reached the bright light of the bathroom, he just stared at the wall detachedly as Ben turned on the faucet and began filling up the bathtub. He couldn’t hear the roaring water, he couldn’t hear the whimpering ghost in the corner, he couldn’t hear the soft humming of his brother as he readied the bath. Only the silence; it left a gnawing pit in his stomach. 

Movement in the corner caught his attention and he immediately stiffened; it was coming this way. The spirit stood right in front of his distant gaze, taking up his field of vision. The tendons in her neck strained as she widely opened her dripping maw, blood gurgling from the slit in her throat as her tongue pressed flat against the bottom of her mouth and her stomach heaved gusts of air she didn’t need. He knew she was screaming, he could hear the voice in the very back of his mind faintly filtering through the buzzing ringing white noise that blanketed his head. But then she began swatting through his chest, reaching for his throat with mangled pale fingers and the boy didn’t realize that he was instinctively backing away until his spine pressed achingly into the towel rack. The rack swayed, the towels sliding with it and a bottle of shampoo toppling over the side and clattering onto the floor. 

Klaus found himself shaking as he slowly slid down into a fetal position, his hands rising to his ears and his eyes dilating in fear. His breath hitched as the wails filled his head, phantoms dancing across his vision and taunting him with ghastly reaching limbs. He tried to say something, he tried to shout or scream but his lips moved and he heard nothing; the slight crackling feeling in his throat suggested that he might have only given a pathetically strangled whine. The fingers on his ears tightened, air unable to enter his lungs without the stinging of flesh being peeled beneath his nails to accompany it. 

Vibrations skitter along the floor and then a dark blob is in the middle of his vision, kneeling down to block out all else. Two gentle and slightly wet hands cup either side of his face, pulling him free from the trance-like mental muck he had slipped into. He registers that these hands are not below-zero nor are they a blazing inferno; just warm and soothing, like a mother’s caress to her newborn baby. The hands slide back a little further, clasping onto the fingers gripping his own ears. The fog in his sight dissipates to reveal a worried but comforting face, speaking in soft tones (if he had to take a guess) before tugging ever so softly on his hands; he was coaxing him to stop hurting himself. He could see the words ‘safe’ and ‘I’m here’ being repeated and it became a new mantra in his head. You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe… they can’t hurt you, Ben’s here. He’ll keep you safe. He slowly lowers his hands, Ben’s thumbs rubbing circles upon his knuckles. He closes his eyes and imagines that he can hear his brother’s lulling voice, he imagines that they are laying in bed and he is carding his fingers through his hair and muttering sweet nothings into his ears.

His body turns to jelly as he presses his forehead to Ben’s, overcome by a sudden wave of exhaustion. He opens his eyes to chocolate orbs and sun-kissed skin, to pink smiling lips and adorably chaotic coal-colored hair. He doesn’t say anything (because he can’t) because he doesn’t need to; Ben understands him better than anyone.

Small but muscular arms wrap around him, lifting him delicately off the floor. Although Klaus was taller than his brother, he weighed next to nothing; even little Vanya could probably pick him up. And, besides, the shorter boy was a lot stronger than he appeared; Father’s training was intense and shaped them to their best most fit selves (Four would have turned out better if he wasn’t a neurotic mess that rarely ate anything). 

Six set him on the edge of the tub, pushing back the grimy locks sticking to Klaus’s forehead.

He wavered, his eyelids becoming unbearably heavy; Ben put a hand on his hip to steady him.

‘Don’t worry,’ he signed, ‘I will take care of you.’

The boy nodded and allowed the other to undress him before carefully setting him in the bathtub. He turned off the faucet and gave Klaus a look over, already aware of the quickly darkening water. He gave his brother’s shoulder a squeeze, drawing his attention. Four’s glazed eyes sluggishly met his. ‘I will be back,’ he signed before turning to leave.

The other felt tense as soon as Ben was gone. The water felt cold around him, seeping into his flesh and chilling his bones. The steam that drifted around the tub swirled and contorted in the air like dancing fairies, nuzzling his bare goosebumped skin and ultimately powerless to the permanent numbing of the dead. He could feel it, in the back of his mind, the ghosts watching him wantonly in the corners of his gaze. He curled into a ball and pressed his head to his knees, now beginning to shiver despite the hot water.

There was a dull shudder from the side of the tub, Klaus turning his head as Ben kneeled beside him. He held up a sponge, washcloth, bandages, cotton balls, and hydrogen peroxide with a warm grin. Four tightened his hold on his shins as the sponge was dipped in the water and squeezed out upon his shoulders.

Ben delicately went to work, scrubbing the dirt and grime from his brother’s skin and combing through the matted curls of his hair. The washcloth was used to clean the caked blood from his ears and the dried tears from his cheeks. His fingers trailed over Klaus’s skin with feather-like touches, holding his hand as he began to clean the deep scratches on his brother’s arm. Ben then meticulously cleaned the dirt and dead skin out from under each one of Klaus’s nails before draining the tub and refilling it with cleaner, hotter water.

Klaus shivered uncontrollably; he was just so cold, so very very cold. He shouldn’t be cold, he shouldn’t be feeling like he’s buried in a bed of snow. He shouldn’t be feeling his teeth chatter and was that his breath he saw or steam from the water?

He squeezed himself tighter, a soft hand touching his forehead and then his cheek; he followed the caress, chasing the warmth like a lifeline. 

He cracked one eye open when Ben’s thumb rubbed his temple affectionately; a foreign emotion was on his brother’s face, one that made his skin crawl but in a good way. Six bit his lip, deep in thought, an indecisive look in his eyes; his lips parted to speak but then he must have thought against it, swallowing nervously before nodding his head once. He tapped Klaus’s shoulder and gestured with his head to scoot forward.

Four, still curled up tightly, felt a flutter in his chest as Six began removing his shirt; he directed his attention back to his knees, determined to give Ben his privacy, and fighting off the blush tickling his cheeks. 

The water suddenly sloshed around him as Ben climbed in, his tan shins at Klaus’s hips as he pulled the pale boy back against his chest. Four melted against him, his head lolling into the crook of his brother’s neck and his arms loosening their death grip upon his legs. Six was warm, so very warm… the water becomes alive with its proper temperature and the steam encompasses them like a blanket. Ben snakes his arms around his chest, holding him in a heated embrace, his head tipped back to look at the ceiling modestly. Klaus should feel shy with both of them undressed, sharing a bath together, but Ben doesn’t peek at his lax body and he doesn’t sit with his back flushed to his brother’s chest so it was easy to ignore their exposed state. 

For the first time (in days) tonight, Klaus allows himself to unwind the tense knots in his muscles; he allows himself to relax and breathe, truly breathe, the scent of the living. He slips into the warm security of Ben, the ghosts fading into the background, the eternal panic in his head coming to a stand-still.

'My angel,' he languidly signs with a smile, sighing against his neck as Ben shifts subtly.

He felt safe. He felt loved. He felt… a hand over his mouth? 

His eyes shoot open and he looks at Ben, seeing that his brother was watching his face with an odd glint in his eyes. He scowls at Six, trying to wiggle free, but Ben only smirks and tightens his grip.

He freezes, a feeling of dread bubbling in the back of his mind. Shadows stretch and morph in his peripheral, taking on shapes and figures. 

The chill of the dead returned, a violent shudder tearing through his core as sobs began to grace his ears. He breathes heavily against Ben’s hand, tugging on the arm to try and get away but the boy doesn’t budge. The phantoms are fully formed now, coming towards the commotion and peering into the tub with piqued interest. Their bloodied, mangled forms begin their shrieking, only this time, Klaus can hear them. He hears them clear as day (without any muffling or mental buffer) and that makes the boy instinctively want to cover his ears but he can’t because Ben’s arm works like a seat belt: strapping his arms down to his chest. He wants to run away, he wants to scream; the water and Ben seem to encase him.

The air becomes thick and difficult to breathe; he feels like he’s inhaling water.

He’s surrounded, he hates being surrounded… He can’t watch everywhere at once hence the reason he hides in corners but now he’s fully exposed and out in the open, being presented to the angry spirits like a buffet table. He wants to shriek, he wants to beg for Ben to let him go, he wants to cry at his brother’s betrayal but the sounds don’t emanate from his throat, he can’t coax them past his lips; the only noises that escape him are chokes and gurgles.

He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe; bubbles are escaping from his flaring nostrils. 

Why can he hear them? Why are they so loud? 

He can hear everything now: his spasming chest desperate for oxygen, the splashing of water as he struggles against Ben’s arms, the hammering of his heart against his ribcage, the vengeful spatting of the dead… it’s all too much, it’s all too loud. His lungs burn, there’s a pounding in his head, blood pulses loudly in his ears. Take his hearing again! He doesn’t want it! Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP! 

His vision is blurring, the world coming in as monochrome hues. The sounds cease, the ghosts halt mid-reach; he feels Ben’s warm breath fan against his ear.

“Klaus,” he whispers sweetly, “Wake up.”

His eyes jolt open as he flings himself upwards, breaking the surface of the water frantically. He gasps for air and then begins to choke on all the liquid in his lungs, triggering a coughing fit. The wheezing is violent and painful, tears pricking his eyes and a hand pounding on his chest to desperately expel the water from within. 

As he recovers, he feels eyes on him; he tries to ignore the ghost’s reprimanding yet concern-filled gaze.

“This is why you’re not supposed to fall asleep in the bathtub,” Ben remarks dryly, crossing one leg over the other from his spot on the counter.

Klaus flinches, the hurt in his chest returning as he remembers the sardonic look in his brother’s eyes as he held him down in his dream; goosebumps break out over his skin. The water feels frigid; he must have been sleeping for a while before he slid beneath the water.

He runs a hand through his hair and takes a couple of deep shaky breaths, wanting to calm the rapid beating of his heart. Out of the corner of his eye, Ben sets aside his book and peers at him strangely.

“So I’m guessing the near-drowning experience isn’t what’s got you all worked up, am I right?”

He frowns but remains stubbornly quiet; he doesn’t trust his voice to speak at the moment.

"You look like shit."

Klaus rolled his eyes as if that wasn't the understatement of the century. 

"No laugh? Damn, it must have been one hell of a nightmare..."

He reaches for the lighter and cigarette on the windowsill with trembling fingers; if Ben noticed, he didn't comment on it (the ghost's eyes just lit up smugly at the subtle confirmation). 

"Nicotine isn't going to fix your problems, you know that."

Klaus sighs around the cigarette at the brink of his mouth, pausing mid-light. He plucks it from his lips and turns to glare at his brother. "I'm not looking for a fix, I'm looking for a relief."

"Discussing your problems can help you fix them; then you get permanent relief."

The other released an exasperated groan. 

"So… you wanna talk about it? I've got time, ya know, with the whole being dead thing," Ben encouraged, leaning forward on his hands, “I really think opening up will make you feel better, Klaus.”

The medium pinched his brow before exhaling deeply through his nose. “And what, exactly, would you like me to say?” I dreamed of us? I dreamed of simpler times, the soft moments where it was only about me and you?

Ben’s eyes narrowed. “Well… you can start by telling me what the dream was about.”

I dreamed of one of my most cherished memories in that putrid house but instead of it being a moment of epiphanies, it turned into a nightmare. I dreamed you offered me up to the ghosts, I dreamed that you smiled while you did it. “Sign language.” He bit his lip to keep from grimacing (even he can admit that it sounded pretty ridiculous; what’s ironic though is that it wasn’t a complete lie).

“Sign language…” The ghost raised an eyebrow, unamused. 

“Yup.”

“Ha- how riveting,” his glare turned venomous, “Now are you going to take this seriously and tell me the truth or-”

Klaus put a hand on his chest in mock offense, “Moi? Why would I ever lie to you, brother dear? My beloved deceased? My emotional support ghost-”

“Klaus-”

“Ah fine. I jest, it wasn’t just sign language,” his voice became quieter, “Um… it also had to do with a bath…”

Ben raised both brows incredulously. “A bath,” he drawled.

Four sunk a little deeper into the chilling water, wanting to hide from Six’s searching gaze. “Yes,” he mumbled, pulling his knees to his chin.

The ghost’s tone sounded intrigued as he asked, “And this bath was scary… why?”

At this, the man stiffened and found it harder to meet his brother’s eyes. He felt tired and very very small. He didn’t like it, he didn’t like appearing vulnerable and exposed (he didn’t like being presented to the ghosts in his rawest state); he especially didn’t like reliving the past. The past made him sad, the past reignited feelings of grief and depression; it didn’t make him feel high and happy. And what didn’t make him high and happy, he cut out and avoided like the plague. That is, until, they came to him in his sleep. That is, until, not even the drugs could keep him away (he was grateful yet ashamed; call it bittersweet). His brother was a piece of the past he could never rid himself of and he’s honestly not too sure if it's a curse or blessing most of the time.

“It just was!” Klaus snapped defensively. Ben didn’t even flinch, he knew his brother all too well (he wasn’t mad, just feeling weak. He didn’t want to feel weak). 

The ghost just looked at him with a meaningful stare, one that pledged not to judge or mock. 

Four wasn’t sure how to feel about it: self-destructing through drugs and deflecting problems was a lot harder to do with kind Ben. Doing anything except being held safely in his embrace was really really hard. Klaus preferred the sarcastic and blunt side of his brother; disappointing him made it feel like home. But when he was being patient and nice and giving him that awful look of concern border-lining pity with the knitted brow and thinned lips… he remembered that he couldn’t assure him anything, he couldn’t make promises that would make Ben happy because he wouldn’t be able to keep them. And that made him reflexively feel angry and annoyed (with himself) with his brother (he was sad so very sad but anger makes his heart beat faster just like happiness; he didn’t want to wallow in hopelessness and self-pity). 

“Klaus… Let me help you. I can’t do much, but please… don’t shut me out,” Six said slowly, his hands twitching in his lap, “What made this dream terrifying for you?”

There was so much he could say. So much he wanted to say. But how would they all make Ben feel? They would most certainly affect the ghost in a way a lot more heartbreaking than what he was feeling. Ben wouldn’t be able to do anything: he wouldn’t be able to hold him, he wouldn’t be able to change the dream, he wouldn’t be able to refill the tub with hot water and climb in with him like he did when they were kids, he wouldn’t be able to make him safe and secure because Ben was a ghost. He was dead. He was the same thing that he so cynically sacrificed Klaus to in his dream. Could Ben even promise that he would never become just as broken and bitter as them? 

“Do you… remember the time when... when I... when we...” Four trailed off, his throat feeling swollen and hoarse. The past, the past, the past: he doesn't want to reminisce. He doesn’t want to remind himself or Ben of all that they were, to insinuate all they could have been.

And he knows that he is staring at his brother a little too long (a little too serious, earnest, and wistful)... He knows by the way Ben shifts uncomfortably on the counter.

He knows that his brother was confused and undoubtedly stupefied by the rare emotions radiating from his gaze.

Six appeared desperate, his eyes wide and attentive in a beseeching manner; it was as if he was pleading ‘Help me understand. What do I need to remember? What is it that you are remembering?’ 

But Klaus was shutting down and his chest was heavy and he’d much rather light his cigarette and forget their brief exposure of hearts on sleeves.

And Ben knew, without the medium having to even open his mouth, that the moment of vulnerability was over as soon as Klaus looked away and flapped his ‘goodbye’ hand dismissively.

And Klaus couldn’t even look at him, couldn’t even bear to see Ben’s almond orbs cloud with anger and frustration as they bore holes through him. He gave Ben a taste of honesty and sobriety but then ripped away the rest of the platter knowing full well that he was still hungry for more. He tempted Ben with the truth and his brother believed that they were going to leave this bathroom understanding this unspoken thing between them a little better; Klaus was cruel for crushing his hopes, he was cruel for tauntingly waving his real feelings just out of reach. Six had a right to be angry, he had a right to see him as a disappointment (Four shouldn’t feel relieved that the kind Ben vanished into thin air).

“It was nothing,” Klaus lied, lighting his cigarette half-heartedly (it was almost too easy for his own good to do now; it was like the mask of blithe was an essential part of him. He could not survive without it, it stays on even in the direst of situations; nobody can see him without it, not even his family. Drugs, drinks, sex… it was all an illusion of happiness that made it easier to deflect Ben’s vacant yet accusing stare). 

He didn’t have to look up to know that his brother’s face was eclipsed in shadows as he retreated back into his hood. 

The man shrugged and offered, “Must have been something in the water.”

The ghost didn’t reply; he was already back to reading his book.