A/N — I haven't written anything in a while, so I'm a little rusty :( This is based off the TV show.

Unbeta'd

He wandered, alone, for a time.

He wasn't a part of this world, but he wasn't a part of the next, either. At least, he didn't think he was. He still felt; he had thoughts and emotions, and he was still able to perceive the world as if he were alive. He just couldn't interact with it.

At times, his thoughts drifted to Vanya — did she feel like this, when she had to watch all her siblings go on missions? — and Five — where was he now? Maybe he would run into his brother?

But no, he was sure Five had just run away. That he was still with the living, but had escaped the confines of that mansion. He couldn't bear the thought of Five being stuck here like this. Of Five being like this and never having visited him once he, too, was like this.

There's Klaus, he'd tell himself, but Klaus had never liked his powers. Had been so afraid of them, he'd done anything to suppress them, so how would Klaus react if he just turned up? Like he was now?

He always shakes those thoughts away, pushes them to the back of his mind to fester, unchecked. He'd think about that later, he always promised himself. He'd figure out what to do. Only, later would alway be later.

And he would always keep walking.

.oOo.

Over time, things start to feel … not better, but more distant. Like he's walking through a dream. But his thoughts are getting further and further away from him, and that can't be a good thing.

Sometimes, he even forgets who he is, that he'd ever existed at all. But there's an odd sense of relief in the not knowing — because, after all, if he can't remember it then it never happened. He is just an observer. Distantly aware of the things going on around him, but not quite involved. And he's okay with that. He can make his peace with that.

He doesn't know how long it's been — it's so hard to keep track of the days, weeks, months, years, now, when they don't have any effect on him — when he feels … something.

Like a pull, or maybe someone's calling his name? Like he's been drowning, and someone's shouting, screaming, clutching onto his chest and trying to drag him to the surface.

He resists, at first, not wanting to leave this sense of calm he's somehow managed to find, but that feeling gets more intense. Almost unbearable. It's ruining everything, and he's so angry that it takes him a moment to realise — how long has it been since he's really felt an emotion? Since he came out from under this fog his existence has become?

And so, he stops fighting it. He follows the pull, the anger bleeding away into curiosity, and he finds —

"Klaus?" Does he say the name aloud? He thinks he must, but he gets no response.

Klaus — is it Klaus? it has to be, right? — doesn't move from his position, curled up in a tight ball. Someone's thrown a … blanket? rug? over him, though it's so tattered it's difficult to tell. It could be an oversized coat.

Reaching out to touch him, of course his hand goes straight through. It's a little disconcerting, really, to see his arm cut off at the wrist, his hand gone. But he holds it there for a while. It's a little addictive, this feeling things. He doesn't want it to end quite yet.

Eventually, though, he pulls away, sitting next to his brother on the stained-wood flooring. And waits.

He doesn't know how long he sits there — but time is irrelevant to him, anyway — before Klaus finally lets out a low groan, curling impossibly further in on himself, before blinking his eyes open.

And, suddenly, Klaus is very much awake, on his feet, whirling the oversized trench coat behind him and over his shoulders. His movements manic. But then, Klaus has always been a little … no. This feels different. Though he can't say exactly why.

"Klaus —" he says, rising slowly. But his brother doesn't acknowledge him. Could he even hear him speak? He must be able to, surely?

He hadn't realised before, that hope had been rising in his chest — a hope of finally, finally, feeling like he existed again, of belonging somewhere — but that hope being crushed is so much worse than anything he's felt before now. He wishes for the oblivion again, for the distance he'd gained from the world.

Maybe if he'd come to Klaus sooner? Or if he hadn't returned at all?

He can feel himself fading, in a way he never had before. Not just losing his mind, his sense of self, but everything. And it's terrifying and freeing and maybe, just maybe, it's a bit of a relief.

And he can just stop. He doesn't need to keep existing like this, because he doesn't need to exist at all.

But then Klaus is turning, and he desperately hopes for one last look at his brother — just one look — before he goes, and he's never wanted to be seen so badly. If he can just hold on a little longer …

"Ben?"

And, again, that feeling like everything's crashing around him, like everything's changing so suddenly. It's different, but it's good — he's here, he's staying, he isn't alone.

Things aren't instantly better, he isn't instantly fixed, but it's a start. And he thinks he should maybe be saying something, but really all he wants to do is cling to his brother, sobbing, because he exists. He isn't just a figment of his own imagination, and the world isn't something that's just out of reach. It's here, he's here.

"Ben!" Klaus is saying, yelling, "Where have you been!?"

But he isn't listening, not really. Ben isn't listening. Because Klaus is here, and Ben is here, and things don't seem quite as … inconsequential as they had before. Because Klaus is still babbling, gesticulating wildly, an odd sort of desperation about him, like he needs Ben just as much as Ben needs him.

And maybe, just maybe, things are going to be okay.