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Klaus is exhausted. Exhausted in a way that eats right down to his very bones, in a way that turns his brain into a wet sponge that sits heavy in his skull, filled to its capacity and dripping poison down into his body everytime he is forced to take in any more information.
He’s tired in a way that a 15 hour sleep wouldn’t even chip the corner of. In a way that makes gravity a million times stronger, making tasks like opening his eyelids feel like a marathon. In a way that slows his thoughts into floats at a fucked-up parade, where Klaus can do nothing but sit back and watch them pass as they desperately perform for a reaction out of him.
“You okay?” A voice breaks through the layer of ice fortifying his brain.
Oh. Diego.
He forgot he was here.
What’s there to say? ‘Oh no Diego, my entire life is one big fucking circus in flames, and the only person that’s ever managed to make me feel human just died in my arms, and right now all I want to do is pop every fucking pill on planet earth simultaneously and then at least maybe then I’ll get a good night sleep. What about you?’ nah. He’s too tired to even open his mouth. What about a ‘Just peachy.’?
He settles for another swig of vodka.
“Wow. This is a first. My brother Klaus is silent. Last time you were this quiet, we were 12. Ran down the stairs wearing Grace’s heels, tripped over, and broke your jaw. How long was it wired shut again?” Diego tries again.
Fond memory, that. Introduced him to the glorious world of fentanyl.
He hums. “Eight weeks,” His voice is scratchy. He barely recognises it.
“Eight glorious weeks of bliss.” Diego sighs.
Same, dude.
Klaus spots the veterans bar. He knew it was somewhere along this road. “Pull over here,” he says. Diego complies, although throwing him an odd look in the process.
Diego stops the car and says something in that dreadfully faux-worried tone that makes Klaus’ skin crawl.
Klaus slams the door in response.
Funny. Diego chooses to be worried now and not all the times Klaus showed up asking for a roof over his head, or even just a fucking conversation with someone who knows he’s a real, living person with feelings and not just a shitty hobby to be given up when it got old.
Fuck him.
His head is swimming. Maybe he underestimated how much vodka he drank. Maybe he hasn’t had a hot meal in years. Either way, putting one foot in front of the other is a challenge, but somehow, he makes it into the bar without tripping over his own feet. The bartender is nowhere to be found so Klaus leans over the bar, one hand filling up a shot glass and the other wiping tears he can’t remember shedding.
He scans the bar.
Old white men.
Expected.
He was getting more than one strange look thrown his way, but what was to be expected by looking like the most depressing embodiment of last year's pride parade in a room full of probably pro-military dudes.
He stumbles toward the back of the room, trailing his hand along the wall, half to hold him up, and half to keep him grounded enough to not be thrown into dissociation-orbit. Afghanistan… Iraq… Korea… Klaus thinks he should’ve paid more attention to Pogo’s history lessons considering as most of these framed war pictures were coming as a surprise. Bolivia? Since when did we-
Vietnam.
His stomach flips.
It’s his Dave. Right in front of him. So close but so, so ruthlessly far. Klaus let out a choked giggle as he noticed now just how much both he and Dave stuck out like two sore thumbs in a sea of such understandably miserable-looking soldiers. But, by God did Dave and he look happy.
Klaus reached out to the centre of the picture, fingertips hovering over Dave’s face.
His Dave. Always the leader, always the initiator. A rare guide in a world Klaus had been forced to navigate through himself, a contradiction in the every-man-for-himself mentality so heavily ingrained into Klaus from birth.
His Dave. So firmly determined on being the first to introduce himself to every new man on the base. To give them a friend, a family. To be a shoulder to lean on when injured, and an ear to listen when anyone woke up during the night, plagued with whatever poor bastard they killed just hours before. A calm voice amidst raining bullets and a hand to pull up from the ground anyone who needed it, friend or foe.
Dave wouldn’t have wanted this, Klaus knows that. He remembers the nights he would drink a little too much on leave, and Dave would give him a glorious earful about ‘healthy coping mechanisms’ and whatnot, all things Klaus never really listened to in his drunk haze but understood enough to know Dave preferred him dealing with his problems in a way that didn’t lead to liver failure by 40. He remembers the mornings Dave would rub his back over the toilet bowl as Klaus emptied his entire stomach contents, then listen to Klaus complain that he’s “NEVER had a hangover as bad as this! Maybe the alcohol’s different in Vietnam, I didn't even drink that much.” every single time. He remembers his gentle “I want you to be happy, not numb.” when Klaus had once gotten himself into a drug-fuelled state of trying to prove to Dave why life was better when you can’t feel anything at all, why he wants to live the rest of his entire life like this, in empty bliss.
Dave wouldn’t want this. Maybe he’ll go home and sleep it off. Healthy coping mechanisms or whatever, right?
“Hey, kid. This bar? It’s for vets only”
Who the-
Oh. Klaus should stop forgetting he’s not the only person on the planet. What a way to ruin a reflective moment, huh?
“I am a vet.” Klaus replies. It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it.
“Really?” The man answers, laughing smugly. “Where’d you serve?”
Klaus turns around. This dude definitely voted Trump. Klaus isn’t about to explain the last 10 months to some old dude who looks like a lost boyscout with all his dumb pins and patches.
“None of your business.”
And just then, someone drops a glass, and Klaus drops to the ground with it.
He can’t see. There’s glass everywhere. He fucking TOLD them taking the west building was a bad idea!
He should move.
He feels his palms ripping to shreds on top of 3 windows worth of glass that just shattered right over his head. Where the fuck’s Junior?
Another bang. More glass rains from the ceiling. He needs to find cover. Now. he knew it. He KNEW it was an ambush why does nobody ever fucking listen to him? He scuttles himself into the nearest corner, cradling his head. Where the fuck is his helmet, anyway? He swears it was on him 5 minutes ago. Fuck he’s dead. He’s gonna die. And WHERE THE FUCK IS JUNIOR? Should he call for the bird?
Another bang.
It’s all too much. fuck.
He wants to go home.
He wants Dave.
He needs his gun.
He reaches for his back. Empty. Where the fuck is his gun? He presses his palms to his eyes. They’re wet. Is that blood? Who’s blood is that? Is he bleeding? Oh. no, it’s… Dave’s?
Oh.
Fuck. Dave is dying. How did Dave get here? He was… He was in the bird? Nononono- He isn’t supposed to be here?
Dave is dying?
Klaus tries to press his hands to the hole in his lover’s chest. If his goddamn hands would stop fucking shaking. Oh my god Dave is dying.
Klaus can feel Dave slipping like water from the palm of his hand. He can see Dave’s features relaxing. Peaceful in a way you don’t see in a warzone. Hell, in a way you dont see in anyone but a sleeping child, so blissfully ignorant of whatever shit lays outside his own mind.
But not yet. Nononono not yet Dave isn't ready yet, Klaus isn't ready yet! He doesn’t need peace! He needs Klaus. He needs Klaus!
Jesus Christ, where the fuck is Junior?
He lifts his head to scream for him and is met with unfamiliar eyes, crouched down in front of him. Scrambling back toward his corner, Klaus racks his brain for recognition.
This isn’t right. Only he and Junior took the west. Is he an irregular?
“-and I'm friendly. Klaus, is it? The AO is clear, Klaus. I just need you to listen to my voice, can you do that for me?”
Doesn’t he understand? What part of medic doesn't he understand? Dave is dying! Dave is-
Where is Dave?
Is he losing his mind?
“Eyes up here. Brother. Listen to me, the AO was checked and all’s clear.”
“No! No you don’t understand I'm 173rd! I’m 173rd you need to clear!” Klaus needs to make him understand. How does he know his name?
“And I’m 101st, soldier. Match my breaths for me, can you do that?”
Klaus looks at his hands. They’re clean. That’s not right?
“That’s right. Breathe with me. Do you know the year, Klaus?”
The year. Of course he knows the year, it’s…
What is the year?
Klaus slowly looks up to reach the man’s eyes. “Where am i?” He winces as his voice breaks.
“It’s 2019. You are in the veterans of foreign wars bar on 2nd avenue. You’re safe.”
Klaus looks around.
Oh.
Well shit.
Shame rises in his throat. Did he really just have a flashback in front of a bar full of people? He looks up again, expecting to see 30 sets of eyes staring back at him, but most of the men have the decency to pretend they saw nothing. Klaus is grateful for that.
Then he spots Diego, sitting awkwardly hunched on a bar stool and looking incredibly out of place. Klaus notes how his face is paled and he’s glancing back as if he’s… scared of him? Klaus supposes the vet who helped him must've told him to give him space.
Jesus, this one’s going to take a lot of dark jokes to wriggle out of.
Reality clocks out a little after that, like it always does after a flashback or a panic attack or whatever the hell that was. The fuzzy feeling washes over him as a glass of water is placed into his hands and the vet walks over to a very bewildered looking Diego to talk to him.
He doesn’t bother to listen in.
He lets reality slip a little more through his fingers. What even is reality, anyway? Minutes ago Dave was dying in his arms. But he also died yesterday. And also 60 years ago. Time is an illusion and all that, right? What’s the difference between inside his head and real life? It all feels the same. And it all hurts the same.
The world shifts axis.
“Hey stay with me, man. a little longer.”
Klaus blinks and he’s being guided out the door by Diego followed by mutters of ‘Poor dude.” and “Happens to the best of us.” His coat is slung over his shoulders, with the stolen vodka suspiciously missing from the pocket.
He blinks again and he’s in the passenger seat of Diego’s car. Diego isn’t speaking.
Klaus turns his head to meet his eyes. “C’mon, hit me with your best.”
“What the fuck, Klaus?”