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Summary
How could he ever explain this? He didn’t even understand why it happened himself, all he knew was that the sting made the voices quiet.
He was thankful that the stupid uniforms his father forced them to wear had long sleeves. He hid the marks on his arm, embarrassed and confused and maybe even a little bit scared of himself. Nobody thought to question him when he seemed to constantly rub the inside of his arm over his jacket. Nobody noticed when he started to absentmindedly scratch away the skin on his wrist when he got especially anxious. Nobody realized that the bruises covering his legs weren’t from training but were caused by his own fist. Nobody batted an eye when Luther grabbed his wrist, causing him to gasp in pain when his brother's grip aggravated the scraped up skin. Everyone figured Klaus was just being Klaus, always easily spooked and sensitive. It felt like he was haunted by the ghosts in the mausoleum, he felt like they had corrupted him when he got a sort of sick fascination with the damage he inflicted upon himself. He used jokes and distractions to cover up the shame he felt, and his family was none the wiser to the war he was waging on his body.