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Viktor ends up at Klaus’s door. He’s not really sure who to ask for help. Especially when it’s not an emergency, per se. He supposes what he’s looking for is advice, a helpful hand or even just a watchful eye. Everyone else is busy, and besides, Viktor thinks Klaus is probably the best for this job.
There’s loud music playing inside, and Viktor can’t see any light under the door which means Klaus is smoking with a towel over the threshold. It’s always a gamble, showing up at Klaus’s room. Even after they’ve all been living together for weeks, Viktor still hasn’t been able to pin down Klaus’s routine. Last time he knocked, Klaus was barred out, knitting in his underwear. He's found his brother reading everything from erotic romance novels for middle-aged women to the Communist Manifesto.
But even if he isn’t helpful all of the time, a part of Viktor just wants to see his brother.
The first time he knocks, there’s no answer. Viktor stands awkwardly in the doorway, one hand raised and one hand gripping a paper pharmacy bag. He's terrified to drop the bag, shatter the precious bottle and spill over the floor the hormones that are letting him take control of his life for the first time. He's terrified of a lot.
Maybe Klaus asleep. Maybe Klaus doesn’t care. Maybe this was a stupid idea. Maybe he should just deal with things on his own.
He makes himself knock again. This time, a heartbeat later the door is flung open and Klaus stands in the threshold. He’s draped in a robe that looks like it came from an elderly woman’s estate sale, leather pants laced up his legs. Viktor always feels incredibly normal around Klaus - his brother is exuberant, ostentatious, flashy. Viktor is none of those things.
“Hello MTV and welcome to my crib!” Klaus greets him, gesturing for Viktor to step inside. He does, feet immediately sinking into ratty shag carpet, some sad relic of the 60s likely dragged from a dumpster. Klaus’s entire room is a hodgepodge of things. Band posters plastered on the walls, rehab discharge paperwork scattered on the floor. Tickets to a drag show cast on a desk piled with pleaser heels and topped with a hookah. Bag of pills on the nightstand. An Octavia Butler novel on the bed. Klaus shoves a pile of clothing off of an armchair and gestures for Viktor to sit, then dramatically flings himself onto his bed. Everything Klaus does is a spectacle.
"What brings you to mein zuhause?" He reaches over to grab a lit joint from the ashtray on his end table, tapping it before taking a draw. The window is cracked open, just slightly, not enough to stop the plume of smoke from lingering. Klaus doesn't bother to bat it away.
Viktor stiffly sits down, brown paper bag crinkling in his hands. He isn't quite sure how to sit, usually he picks one of his brothers to mirror but Klaus has never been the best source for hegemonic masculinity. He's got his legs crossed, one hand daintily perched on his knee and curled by his face, joint between his fingers.
"I guess I need your help with something," Viktor says, anxiously tapping out a 4/4 beat.
Klaus raises his eyebrows, "Oh! Let me guess let me guess. Did you...get somebody pregnant? Get somebody arrested? Get somebody killed?"
Honestly, Viktor is just glad he didn't ask if he started the end of the world again. That's why he didn't go to Five - he has a tendency to jump to the worst possible outcome, which is generally the apocalypse. He is right most of the time, unfortunately.
He shakes his head, "No, none of those things - "
Klaus cuts him off, "I'm really only good for the devious stuff so I'm not sure what else I can help you with."
"I just - " He stops himself, takes a breath, wiggles his toes in the carpet, "You know how I'm Viktor now?"
"Well haven't you really always been Viktor, like, deep down inside - "
"That's not the point. The point is," Viktor's palms are sweating, he realizes. He rubs his hands on his jeans. Tries to collect himself. Klaus is getting a worried look in his eyes, joint burning out.
The two of them have been close since they were young. Especially after Klaus was caught in Grace's high-heels. He was silent for eight weeks, jaw wired shut. For eight weeks, Klaus was just another melancholy fly on the wall like Viktor. Quiet in the background. Trodden down. It was a year before their first public appearance, what they all thought everything was building up to. Reginald always had far bigger plans. And he was determined their entry to the public eye would be suitable for his big plans.
Unfortunately for Klaus, Reginald's bigger plans did not involve boys wearing their mother's shoes.
That was when Viktor realized Reginald's plans would never involve daughters who wanted to wear their brother's clothes. It wasn't like he expected to be involved in any grand plans but - Klaus with his bruised face, miserable, tears drying on watercolor-purple cheeks, perched on the infirmary bed. Knobby knees sticking out from a blue skirt. He didn't look like he fell down the stairs. Viktor learned there was more to be afraid of than being ordinary.
It was also the day Viktor found one of his only friends in Klaus. Five was always there, too, but there were some things he never understood. Klaus understood a lot.
After the wires were put in, Viktor found Klaus in his room. Silent. He'd looked up at Viktor with shattered eyes, fingers fiddling with a bracelet on his wrist. Klaus was never quiet. The room had felt alien, uneasy, some weird facsimile of reality. Viktor hadn't said anything either, not at first, too used to being the shadow in the corner of the room. He had brought his discman, rooted around Klaus's room for a stack of CDs. The two of them listened to David Bowie in the silence. Rebel Rebel and She's Got Medals.
It was the start of their alliance. After Five vanished and Ben died, they didn't have anyone else. Their rooms were right next door to each-other, Viktor watched Klaus spiral away, pipe by line by pill; Klaus watched Viktor's slow retreat into himself.
There is a reason Viktor is coming to Klaus for this.
Viktor takes another deep breath.
"The point is," he continues, afraid to meet his brother's eyes, "I went to a doctor, and I'm going on a medication - I'm starting hormones."
Klaus's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and he makes jazz hands, "Ooh! I love hormones! Love a kick of dopamine, however I can get it. But," he calms down, just a fraction, "you're talking about testosterone, aren't you?"
Viktor nods, "I do the first injection today."
His brother's face erupts into a bright smile, "That's amazing! But - why do you need my help?"
"I don't want to do it alone," he says, feeling vulnerable. Like he's laying himself bare. He holds out the bag from the pharmacy. Klaus leans down to snatch it with his free hand, a curious look in his eyes as he opens the bag. He holds the little vial up to the light, chipped black nail polish on the sterile clear container. It’s so much smaller than Viktor thought it would be.
“I am a wonderful trip-sitter,” Klaus says, peering at the bottle with one eye shut. It’s printed with Viktor’s name, his legal name: SEVEN HARGREEVES. TESTO 100MG. There is a set of syringes in the bag, “Do you have spares of these?” Klaus asks of the sterile, individually wrapped needles.
“Not for you,” Viktor replies. Just because Klaus can’t die doesn’t mean he’s going to throw syringes at him to get doped-up with.
“Fine, fine, fine,” he says, “You know clean needle exchanges are a thing, right?”
“Whatever - Klaus, I just - ” Viktor sighs, runs his hand through is hair. He's not really sure how to express what he needs. He needs someone to be here, with him, when he does this. It feels like a momentous moment, taking back control of his life.
Viktor hasn't ever had control of his body - he was brought into this world violently, never meant to be born. Taken by a cruel billionaire, subjected to grueling training from a young age. No one ever asked him what he wanted to do. Puberty came against his will, this awful change crawling through his body. Everything went wrong and he slipped away from himself, bit by bit.
He's taking himself back, and he doesn't want to do it alone. Everything he has done in his life has been alone. If he's taking control for the first time, he feels like he shouldn't be alone, for the first time.
But he doesn't know how to tell Klaus that. His brother cocks his head as Viktor thinks, struggling to come up with words. Then Klaus says, "Do you want company?" Viktor has never felt more grateful in his life - there's an understanding look in Klaus's eyes and he nods. Klaus nods back, "This'll be fun! So how does it work?"
Viktor exhales and releases tension he didn't know he was holding, posture going slack. He pulls his supplies from the paper bag. The small vial of testosterone goes first, delicately placed on top of a book on the floor in front of them. An eighteen gauge needle, a twenty-three gauge needle, and a syringe. All individually packaged. Sanitary. There's also alcohol wipes, a band-aid, and a pamphlet with instructions.
"The doctor showed me how," Viktor says, passes the pamphlet to Klaus. His brother reads over it - put the eighteen gauge needle on the syringe, draw up the liquid, swap to the other needle. Aspirate the syringe. Sanitize the site. Inject.
"Wouldn't boofing this be easier?" Klaus asks, tossing the pamphlet to the side, "I mean, in my experience, it's just as effective."
Viktor frowns.
"You know," Klaus makes an obscene gesture, "Up the ass?"
"No. That is not what we are doing."
Klaus groans, "You're no fun. Fine! Injecting is just hard!"
"And taking drugs up your ass isn't?"
"Not in my experience, no! It's actually very enjoyable!"
"Whatever," Viktor says, making a disgusted face, "Can you just help me with this?"
Klaus nods enthusiastically. He looks like he's about to speak until he stands up. Viktor is afraid he's about to bolt from the room - maybe this is too much for him to ask of his brother - but instead he opens an antique minifridge in the corner of his room. It clatters loudly as he flings the door open, rifling through.
"What are you doing?"
His brother turns around, holding up two shotglasses and a bottle of Amsterdam, "Celebratory shots!"
Viktor can't help but grin. Klaus does understand. He wants to celebrate. Viktor doesn't have to do this alone. This isn't the first time Klaus has been there for him - the two of them had to lean on each-other after Five and Ben died. There was an unspoken understanding that they were alone now. Viktor's heart ached to watch Klaus lose himself, and it still hurts when he talks about it all with such a flippant tone. For a while, Klaus would show up at his door when things got bad. He'd be drenched in rain, sweat, shivering through withdrawals, not enough money left for his next fix. He'd shake and cry on Viktor's ratty couch, vomit into plastic grocery bags Viktor stashed under the sink. There were times when Viktor thought Klaus died, when he'd go still and his skin would turn an awful blueish purple, the color of bruises and lavender. Knowing what he knows now, Klaus probably did die. He probably died countless times, and many times, he came to Viktor to do it. Like how old cats crawl away to chose their place to die, Klaus knocked weakly on Viktor's door. Sometimes he didn't die - sometimes, Viktor would bandage his bloodied knuckles after he fought off another homeless man trying to steal his things from the park bench he slept on. He'd take Klaus to GoodWill, fill a shopping cart with new clothes. Klaus would crash at his apartment to get back on his feet, and find himself in rehab a week later.
But Viktor never turned him away. And Klaus isn't turning him away now. Instead, he's pouring them both shots.
Klaus sits down on the floor across from Viktor and sets the shots to the side, balanced precariously on the shag carpet. He leans back on his bed and reaches for the ashtray, grumbling when he sees that his joint burned out. He dumps the ash into a trashcan and puts the tray on his bookshelf.
"So!" He surveys the lineup of injection supplies and selects the alcohol wipes, "Where're we doing this?" he asks, cleaning his hands. The smell of sanitizing alcohol is almost enough to overpower the heavy scent of weed.
"Oh," Viktor says, "My thigh." He has to stand up and shimmy to the side of the room to tug off his sweatpants. He and Klaus have always been comfortable around each other, secretly playing dress-up as kids in each others clothes. Klaus is wiping clean the top of the vial when he sits back down, cross-legged and knobby-kneed in his boxers. He likes the dark hairs that cover his leg, they're soft and fuzzy and masculine. He wonders if he'll get hair on his face from the testosterone.
He swivels to the side and points to a spot on the side of his thigh, where his doctor told him to do it. Klaus taps the spot to confirm, "Here? Not like, your arm?" His brother slaps the inside of his elbow a few times to demonstrate, pointing at the veins.
"It goes in the muscle," Viktor explains. Klaus nods, waves his hand dismissively, and cleans the spot on Viktor's leg. The wet of the alcohol wipe is cold on his thigh. Excitement bubbles in his chest - this is really happening. He is really doing this. "You swap out the needles next and draw up the liquid," Viktor instructs.
"I read the pamphlet," Klaus says, unpackaging the syringe and needle as Viktor continues -
"Swap the needles again, get rid of the air bubbles, and inject."
It sounds so easy when he lays it out like that, simple steps. Klaus seems to sense his anxiety because he takes over. He unscrews the needle from the syringe and replaces it with deft hands. Since he stopped using as much, his hands aren't shaky anymore. Viktor has seen him take back himself, and he's not sober but he's doing better than anyone ever thought he would.
Viktor is proud of him. He should say that more often, he realizes. Klaus is flipping the vial upside-down and expertly drawing out a dose of the hormone. It's the entire little vial.
"We're all proud of you, you know that, right?" Viktor asks Klaus.
"Isn't that what I'm supposed to be saying to you?"
"No," he shakes his head, "I mean. Sure. But, I mean it."
"You know I'm not sober, right?" Klaus says, giving Viktor a confused look as he swaps the needles again, "I did a line like, three days ago."
"Three days ago, Klaus," Viktor replies, "And you haven't shot up in almost a year."
There's a small, genuine, smile on Klaus's face when he looks up from aspirating the syringe, holding it upside-down and pushing the plunger until just a bit of clear liquid beads at the tip of the needle.
"I'm proud of you too, Viktor," he says, "Ready for shots?"
Klaus holds a shotglass in one hand and a syringe in the other, "To brotherhood," he says before clinking glasses. Viktor echoes his sentiment and taps his glass on the table in time with Klaus. The shot is cold and burns down his throat and Viktor has to stop himself from pulling a face. Klaus seems entirely unbothered.
"You ready" Klaus asks when Viktor sets the shotglass down. Viktor's palms start to sweat when he sees the needle poised over his skin. The sharp tip points down towards a freckle on his leg, he can already imagine the weird sharp pain that will come soon. The adrenaline surge mixed with alcohol and makes him woozy. Not in a bad way necessarily - he's excited. He's excited and scared and he's smiling even though he can feel his eyes getting a little misty.
"Yes."
He takes a deep breath and lets it go as the needle plunges into his skin, through flesh and muscle, and Klaus depresses the syringe. It hurts, liquid slowly pushed into his body, and he winces from the pain. But it's over in an instant and Klaus whoops, discarding the syringe. He's quick with the band-aid and in a moment he's already pouring another round of shots.
Viktor is grinning so hard his cheeks hurt as he takes the second shot of vodka and his brother pulls him into a hug.
"Thank you," he says into Klaus's shoulder.
He's not alone, and he finally, finally, has himself again.