Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s a dreary, cloudy day without a shine of sunlight to be seen. Neither does it rain, the heavy fog that settled over London refusing to dissipate. It’s impossible to see an inch in front of oneself, and there’s the sound of horns blaring outside for buses and cars to navigate one another. It’s chaotic. It’s a mess.

It’s an appropriate day for the world to come to an end, Klimt supposes, while he pops another champagne bottle to fill his empty chalice.

“Shouldn’t you eat something more time-appropriate? It’s only noon, far early for heavy drinking,” His detective friend greets concerningly, his family sword tied to his waist even on his day off. But then Genshin’s sword is like fifty percent of his personality—Klimt can’t possibly tell him to leave it behind. Okay, he was lying. It's more like seventy.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking about, but I know it’s about me and want you to stop,” his friend presses firmly as he settles onto the white chair on the other side of the table. A waiter scuttles over to take his order, and Genshin requests a cucumber sandwich in fluent English.

God, a cucumber sandwich. One thing Klimt isn’t able to change with all his repeated attempts is this man’s horrible tastes in nearly everything. He could have at least ordered a scone.

“I said stop,” Genshin iterates, then snatches the bottle from his hands. “What is wrong with you lately? I know something's up with you, and for a week you haven’t even bothered to come to work.”

“There’s no point because I failed,” Klimt argues, tossing the bottle aside carelessly. It shatters with a loud clang, attracting concerned glances from people around them. “There’s no point to anything. There’s no point in life. I take out one criminal off the streets, two more take the place. My mentor is alive but he’s hounding me to fill a position I don’t even want. My brother isn’t a killer this time around thank god but he’s ‘married’ to that—a friend from college—Harebrayne? And he’s going to get him killed. I don’t even need to be creative with this one. He’ll probably do one of those dissolution traps with my brother and he’ll fuck it up and my brother’ll be atomized and I’ll be twenty-seven again—”

“Is this a mid-life crisis or something of the sort? I have heard about it, but never have I seen it in action,” Genshin comments, equally amused and concerned. “I know Barok suddenly declaring his love and moving out within a month must have been a lot for you, but it’s a course of life. You’ll move on.”

“No, that’s the point!” He slams his hand down and shouts, attracting profound glances from the tables around them. “That’s the fucking point, Genshin. I can’t move on. Because my brother keeps dying.”

He can see the scale in Genshin’s head now tilting more towards concerned rather than amused. “But your brother is alive. We had dinner together, you and I and him, just yesterday. He’s been his usual chipper self.”

“For now,” Klimt spits with vitriol. “He’s ended up dead with far less. Hell, one time he’s died when he was on a honeymoon with you. You! I don’t know what even happened there.”

“What are you talking about?” It is only because it’s Genshin Asougi that the sentence involves no profanities. His noble, loyal partner.

“Have I never told you how this goes this time ‘round? Listen up, because we don’t have much time.”

Genshin carefully receives a plate of his disgusting mayonnaise sandwich from the approaching maid, taking a bite and turning his attention to Klimt. He nods, apprehension heavy in his eyes.

“This isn’t my first life.”

“Let me guess,” Genshin cuts in, “You’re a vampire.”

“Worse. I don’t know what the hell this is. What I do know is that whenever Barok dies, I wake up to be twenty-seven.”

“That’s when we met,” his friend points out. Klimt glares at him, because he’s interrupting his story, and only when Genshin settles onto the seat and focuses his mouth on his sandwich instead does he continues.

“This is bad because my brother is the prolific serial killer, the Professor.”

Genshin chokes on a morsel and hits his chest repeatedly, gagging. “Barok is what? A killer? We are talking about the same Barok van Zieks here? Your brother who thinks executions should be more merciful?”

Klimt wishes he’d choke harder so he can’t interrupt. “Yeah, yeah, I know my brother is a sweet, innocent angel but I swear it happened at least eight times. He was a vigilante murderer if that makes you feel better? It made me feel better. It did not get him away from the death row.”

Wordlessly his friend taps the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief, wordless permission to continue. His sandwich lies on the plate half-eaten.

“So I try to stop my brother from murder, and in the worlds where I do succeed he keeps getting murdered. If he’s in a position where he can’t be murdered, he gets involved in accidents of complete chance. Every single time, around this time. When I am thirty-four.”

God, he needs a drink. He licks around the bottle and chugs it down, enjoying the alcohol slide down his throat and slowing his thundering heart. Eyeing the sight with disdain, Genshin asks, “So you’re afraid that…?”

Klimt rolls his eyes and shakes the bottle, tossing the remaining liquid in his mouth. “Barok is going to die any second now and I'm going to wake up to be twenty-six. Again.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Genshin counters, then he falls silent. He can hear the gears running in the detective’s head so loudly that Klimt almost scoffs, but any sense of humor leaves him immediately when his friend adds thoughtfully, “I should be going. Maybe you do need that rest. You should take as much time as you need; I’ll tell the Lord Chief Justice and Prosecutor Stronghart.”

His friend’s dismissal is obvious, and it enrages him. Oh, Asougi can’t even give him this when he’ll be a young sprout again in a couple of minutes? The asshole. He won’t even remember this, which only manages to add to Klimt’s illogical fury.

“I’m not insane, Asougi!” He shouts after his friend, who mutters something under his breath. “I’m not drunk either!”

His friend never turns back, and disappears into the thick smoke. It may as well be that he never existed. The thought twists his stomach uncomfortably, worsened by his anxiety.

Unable to do anything else Klimt sits with the alcohol lapping against his feet, feeling not unlike a lamb being lured into the slaughterhouse. But unlike a lamb that can attempt to resist, he cannot bargain and fight against the very course of time that crawls forward one sluggish second at a time.

It is noon, and the distant clock tower rings to declare the time to the rest of London magnanimously, ominously. For one second Klimt feels a spark of hope—perhaps his brother won’t die this time, he’ll live happily ever after this time—yet like all that fancy clockwork Stronghart has scattered around in his office, his mysterious condition never fails him either, the world dematerializing and reconstructing before his very eyes upon his brother’s death.

The only regret Klimt has is that he cannot say to Genshin, told you bitch.

It is a familiar ceiling.

Of course it is a familiar ceiling—it’s his goddamn house, and this is his goddamn room. It only takes a sluggish rise to the lavatory to see that Klimt van Zieks is once again twenty-seven with a lithe body and without dark circles under his eyes. The sight makes him so sick he needs to burrow his face in his hands to suppress the need to scream (because it’s six in the morning and he doesn’t need to get locked into a psych ward.)

God, he is so fucking tired of being twenty-seven.

Chapter Text

What he does first whenever he gets into the young body is almost ritualistic at this point. He gets fully dressed in his regal uniform, methodically tossing on the jacket, the shoulder piece, and even the sword. Wrapped in leather still tough from disuse and the fabric stiff, he marches in front of the mirror to softly touch his younger face.

Readjust to the new body, the new life. The old you no longer have a place to be here, none of the hatred, none of the astringency. Put all the old emotions and memories to bed. The old you is dead and you are a new man, quite literally.

Then he sits down, opens his journal. It’s a fancy one with a leather casing engraved with the van Zieks initial, a gift from his father when he’s won his first case. He hadn’t ever found a need to open it before he was twenty-six god knows how many years ago that may have been.

He dips his fountain pen in crimson ink and starts to scribble.

[People of Interest]

G. A.

Partner. Personally vouched for by me. (Died fighting off whoever masterminded the P charade in 5th attempt.) Do not let B marry (will not work well for both of them; even if he cries goddamnit)

L. B.

Completely uninvolved in the murders & keeps having a different first name. Why??? Current list: Elizabeth, Eleanor, Orphelia, Amelia, Catherine, Beatrice, Cornelia, Theadore

H. S.

Consulting detective. Observe with interest (often causes B’s death when he is not on his side.) Attempt to enlist in case GA is not available. Invested in YM > can be used but not a man you want as an enemy.

Y. M.

Unvouched for, but unlikely to be P since HS would have found out (unless they are both P? But HS is vouched for, thus unlikely)

S. J.

GA’s friend #3. Prosecutor, less involved in all this but will gorge GA's attention if I do not intervene (note to self: intervene)

M. S.

Ends up taking over the Professor trials if I don’t take the chair. DEFINITELY do not fuck. You deserve more than this after attempt #18. DEFINITELY DEFINITELY do not let Barok fuck (has never happened yet but god) 

A. H.

Good friend of B, though a good influence can take B out of London: Do not let B marry.

Scribbling the last name vindictively in scarlet, he wonders if Barok is fated to never marry and live. Barok is a boy who wears his heart on the sleeve and finds attachment easily, and every time he finds his beloved, he loves so intensely and intensively. Klimt has found time and time again that he doesn’t want to dissuade his brother from chasing whatever love he has found because that tended to ease his killer’s instinct (and have him pursue something less dangerous than the path of prosecuting except for Genshin’s case. He loves his brother and his partner, but not them together. God, never again.)

Then there are the seventeen attempts. Remembering each and every one is painful but necessary. The details have faded away in time, but he remembers the core lesson from each one.

Despite it being decades prior, he still remembers the first one clearly—overwhelmed by youth and vigor he’d been excited at the Japanese students visiting over and the courting of the fair Lady Baskerville he’d neglected his dear brother who’d interned for a year and left to college to see the world for himself. Back then, he’d been too busy furthering his career and the marriage to notice the first change in his brother’s behavior—the darkness in his eyes, the slumping of his shoulders. He hadn’t known anything until Barok had been found for the murder of his mentor, and then it was too late for him to salvage anything out of his mess. He had prosecuted that case himself, had watched his brother’s hollow body on the stand confess to the crime, watched the moment of his execution. He still remembers thinking at the site of his brother’s death, if I just had noticed—if I had just thought—if I just had one more try—

The second time was a gift, a miracle. Regrettable to watch his brother launch himself down a path of self-destruction again, he’s done everything textbook-correct, still maintaining a fine relationship with his detective partner and his fiancée. His brother had equally a strong sense of justice, a determination to put evil to rest—everything seemed to go perfectly right, which was why finding his brother and Klimt’s hound covered in blood had been even more of a surprise.

Barok did not do well in prison, and Klimt woke on his twenty-seven-year-old body.

He spent the next few times experimenting. Befriending different people, finding those who he cares about. He watched his best friend marry his brother and even found himself marrying Genshin during one of those loops.

The tenth time was, well. He remembered screaming, What is wrong with you!

His ever-sprightly brother replied cheerfully, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Klimt. Are you stressed from your job? Maybe you should take a break.

So he did precisely that. He whipped Barok off his feet, and they traveled the world together wasting the family fortune. Seven long years passed as the brothers explored the corner of the years, and Klimt thought whatever Reaper that had come to claim his brother’s life cannot leave Britain’s soil until his brother was caught in a tragically random accident featuring piranhas and water-skiing.

Waking up once again in youthful form, he locked himself in the psychological hospital for the next five repeats because surely he was going insane. He had caught some sort of illness that forced one to relive their year over and over again.

“Klimt.”

Oddly it had been Genshin who forced him out of ennui, grounding him in this world he thought he no longer inhabited.

Then there is a memory at the periphery of his mind, barely out of reach and not his own. He is looking at himself, utterly defiled and broken, vehemently trying to launch himself at a man out of his sight. His hands, callused and scratched unlike his fine-gloved ones, are smeared with blood. The acrimony that flows out of him—it’s unbelievable.

“You! It was you who did—my brother!—I'll fucking kill you! I swear to god, I will tear your body to pieces!”

“Lord van Zieks!” He feels himself shout, voice grainy in a way he isn’t. “—Klimt! You can’t—what do you think you’re doing—”

He’s not fast enough to stop himself that flies ahead and tackles the third party. He is numb, watching Klimt throttle the other man. “If it’s the last thing I'll do, I’ll kill you, I curse you, S—”

Huh. Klimt rubs his eyes, trying to focus on the paper before him. There are seventeen neat bullet points laid out before him, one still incomplete. A yawn tears itself out of him.

Focus, Klimt. This is the most important time in your goddamn short-lived seven-year de capo life.

Anyways. It was Genshin who grounded him down on the sixteenth time, his brother having been assigned to work in Klimt’s absence. The man who did not know him in the slightest came to visit him in the psych ward, telling him of his brother’s achievements and those stories changed him, slowly but surely.

Klimt stepped out on his thirtieth birthday, but at that point the damage had already been done, and there was nothing he could do. Which led to the seventeenth, and the last—Albert was quirky, and in Klimt’s opinion, always a disaster waiting to happen. Genshin liked him, saying he and his brother made a great match, but Klimt didn’t believe in that. Barok, who kept getting involved in accidents at the age of thirty-three should not be matched with a mad scientist. It's such a shame Barok took Genshin's advice to heart more than his own. 

Seventeen neat paragraphs. Seventeen neat lives. Klimt exhales a breath, closes the book, and ties its cover together. He takes the notebook and places it over his heart, determined never to forget.

Just in time—two knocks on the door indicate that his presence is required. That’s probably his father asking for his attendance.

“Young master van Zieks, your father is asking for you.”

He smiles bitterly, standing up. Sometimes, knowing what comes ahead of you isn’t a blessing.

He can taste the disdain rolling off in his father’s shoulders when he steps into the man’s office. He knows he’s the offspring of disappointment in this family—though his career as a prosecutor has been stellar and commendable, his father has always thought Klimt could have had so much more accepting his seat as a lawmaker, and because of this, has always undervalued Klimt’s superlative achievements. That is why he’s been so insistently trying to marry him off; his father has given up on him long ago and moved on to convincing Barok instead.

Too bad his brother already dreams of following in his footsteps, not his father’s.

“What’s so funny?”

Klimt wipes the smile off his face. “Nothing, father.”

“You hadn’t forgotten about seeing the good lady Baskerville today, hadn’t you?”

His marriage with the Baskervilles is the one constant in all of these worlds, unless he intentionally rejects the marriage. He’s done that once, wondering if that would change anything in his brother’s inevitable death, and had learned Genshin is more amenable to kissing men who are not married. Still, Lady Baskerville is a worthy ally as well as a charming to have at his side, and he had felt guilty testing his partnership with Genshin by marrying him, so he had no reason not to go through.

“Of course not, Father. Elizabeth is a charming woman, and I—”

“Catherine, Klimt, Catherine! You’ve seen the good lady a fair three times now, you’d at least do the honors of remembering her name right.”

It’s not his fault. He’s not a playboy or whatever who cheats on his wife on these forced de capos (not that she could ever know) but for a godforsaken reason, her name kept changing in every single loop. He had discreet ways of learning her name at first, but he had found that this was the fastest way with the least amount of repercussions.

He smiles thinly, and threads his gloved fingers together. “Of course.”

His father sighs and settles down the paper. Klimt belatedly adds, “I’ve already picked out jewelry that she’d like. I’m going to see her in the next few days.”

Klimt had not, but he knew her taste by heart at this point; all he had to do is send one of his servants to pick up the fine-cut ruby to be put up for an underground auction in the next few days. Since they say well begun is half done, and Klimt did begin the plotting by having the thought in his head, one could argue that he is halfway finished with the task.

The man doesn’t even look up from the spot, as if Klimt isn’t worth his attention. The exasperation within him snowballs until it must be showing on his face.

“If that's all, may I be excused? I’m afraid I have work to return to.”

He doesn’t dawdle to hear his father’s response. He doesn’t want to be late for his friend’s arrival, after all.

Still, there’s work to be done before a one-sided telegram. He visits the Prosecutor’s office, forgoing the meeting with his mentor knowing it’ll be a long-drawn lesson on how to deal with the eastern guests and instead picking up a case file at his place.

He remembers to send a pointed telegram to Stronghart before calling for a carriage over to Dover, leaving his marks on Genshin’s name before the man can see him. Klimt knew—knows Mael Stronghart; the commanding officer of psychological manipulation and distortion, perhaps against the good of himself. He would have made a politician if he hadn’t fallen on this path for some godforsaken reason. Genshin, like the firm blade that hung off his waist, was a man with a tunnel vision of what he wished for, to an obstinate degree. Their kinds simply did not mix.

Of course, he knows it would only pique Stronghart’s interest if he were only to be threatened, so he remembers to mention Seishirou Jigoku as well, remembering their mutual companionship in the past. Mentor and mentee? He knows Stronghart doesn’t oft do equal relations. It doesn’t matter, in the end, as long as he can have his partner.

The steamship approaches, and he fixes his collar, reminding himself of the importance of first impressions.

“You must be Mister van Zieks,” Genshin bows, carefully eyeing the full-dressed aristocrat. His tone still has a Japanese lilt to it, and an uncharacteristic awkwardness to them due to his unfamiliarity with the language—all that the future Genshin will beat out of himself in time. It’s a chilling reminder that the man in front of him knows nothing of Klimt.

Klimt nods, pretending he is oblivious to all the signs, stoutly ignoring the loneliness that curls in the bottom of his stomach. “Yes, Mister Asougi. You can either address me as Prosecutor van Zieks or just my name—”

“Prosecutor van Zieks, then,” the man cuts in, leaving no room for negotiations. Awkward, he coughs into his fist and looks out the window. “I wasn’t told I would be escorted to Scotland Yard.”

“Oh, we’re not going to Scotland Yard. In fact, I am assuming the police know nothing of my acting out.”

“What? You’re abducting me from my—dear sir, you can’t—”

“Abduction is such a harsh word. How about borrowing? It’s not like I have any intentions of keeping you all to myself.”

The man gives him a flat look, and Klimt chuckles.

“Fine, since you're so insistent. How about you listen to what I have to say and decide? I could turn this carriage around, drop you off at Scotland Yard and you can watch those boring men fuss around just where you fit in their little cliques and social level. Or…”

There are many ways to befriend Genshin Asougi, but Klimt knows the fastest one and he needs his friend with him right now. Eyeing the defensive eastern man, Klimt gives him his greatest predatory smile.

“How about going to solve a case with first?”