AN: Hey guys! *waves* Sorry for the wait, here's Chapter Two. This is also crossposted in AO3.
TW: Gory stuff bc ghosts, Reginald's usual abusive behavior, all canon things.
Those still marked by claws and cloudburst,
that boy who cries because he doesn't know bridges exist,
or that corpse that has nothing more than its head and one shoe—
they all must be led to the wall where iguanas and serpents wait,
where the bear's teeth wait,
where the mummified hand of a child waits
and the camel's fur bristles with a violent blue chill.
Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one.
No one sleeps.
- by Federico García Lorca, Ciudad sin sueño
The night of their tenth birthday, the dark-eyed grandmother from across the street comes back.
Klaus doesn't notice her at first. Their tenth birthday had been their most exciting yet. First was Mom's gift: names and Dad's: a highly dangerous stealth mission. Top secret, as usual. Dad called it 'high tension training' and 'preparing for what's to come'. For most of his siblings, it was simply another exercise, before their great debut; for Klaus, it was just a little better than the usual torture.
If Dad's gift had been nothing short of awful, Mom's outshone it by miles.
After so much time wondering why they were the only ones with numbers or why did Dad, Mom and Pogo didn't have them either, the time finally had come.
Following their successful mission,— busting a kidnapper ring or as Diego called it: kicking ass, —they returned home. Dad wasn't anywhere nearby. He usually locked himself in his study all day on that particular date. The only contact they'd had was the debriefing that morning. They'd never celebrated a birthday with him and it was unlikely they ever would. Klaus didn't really mind.
After all, the reason their birthday was Klaus' favorite day of the year, was because it was meant to be a Dad Free Day. No Dad staring them down through his monocle, grey eyebrows furrowed in displeasure; no shouting or thinly veiled threats, his never-changing face shrouded in disappointment. Of course, not everyone saw it that way. Luther sulked, which gave Diego plenty of fun opportunities to rile him up, even though his own smile would sometimes waver, and that those such nights he'd stay awake perfecting his training exercises.
Klaus figured it was a lost cause. There was no impressing Dad if he didn't want you to.
Mom gathered them all after lunch, took them to the drawing-room and announced cheerily they were getting names.
They had stood in line. Mom would take them aside, leaning down to whisper a suggestion: the name she'd picked and why. If they liked it, they would say yes, if no she'd chosen plenty of other names, all with special reasons.
Klaus,—then Four,—had stood in line, bumping shoulders with an irritated Five, who was trying to talk to Six. At his right, Three had watched One eagerly, mimicking the silly smile that had sprung on his face once Mom had given him his name. Seven stared at the floor.
Four watched Two and Mom, their heads bowed and talking quietly. He fiddled with the hem of his sweater, wondering what on Earth was taking them so long. One's turn had been brief and quick. He'd been named Luther and sent to wait at the other side of the room, from where he shot them a wide grin.
Four huffed, trying to ignore the whispers from a little dead girl, who sat curled up on the sofa.
What would Dad say if he saw her, dirty shoes and bloody dress on the fine leather? If it were anyone else, he might be scolding and furious, but Four wagered his eyes would go cold, as they often did, and he'd ask with a flat tone for answers. Or he'd be so impressed Four had managed to show him a ghost he'd give him that smile he rarely wore. It was an odd sort of smile, not unlike the one Three practiced in the mirror in her room, too white and perfect. But it would be a smile, and it would be just for Four.
Four tried to suppress a shudder when the little girl fussed over her dress, her pout stained red, and turned towards his siblings.
"No way," Three was whispering urgently. Five, beside her, snorted.
Four talked through a practiced smile, wary of Pogo who stood at the foot of the door. "'No', what?"
Three rolled her eyes. "Five thinks Two is going to reject he— his name. I don't think so, Two loves Mom—"
"And that's exactly the reason why—"
"There's no way he'll— You just don't wanna admit you are wrong."
"Excuse me?"
Four left Five and Three to their bickering. Six and Seven had their heads bent close, speaking in hushed whispers, so he turned towards Mom and Two once more, tapping his feet impatiently. What was taking so long?
"What's taking them so long?" Six echoed, wrapping his arms around his belly. He shuffled one of his feet around the floor, squirming with the all familiar expression of dread Four knew well enough. Shooting Six a goofy smile that made him crack a grin, Four nudged him towards the conversation. "Look."
Two's eyes glinted in the low light of the drawing-room. Four saw him shake his head, and surprisingly hesitant, beckon Mom closer and whisper in her ear. Whatever he must have said, made her blink once, twice and a crease appear between her smooth brows. Her face smoothed quickly enough, the painted smile coming back to her face.
Seven raised her head. "What's going on?"
Five hushed her, staring at the pair intently. He'd once claimed he could read lips, but Four really couldn't figure out how he'd do it with Mom and Two's heads bent so closely together that their hair almost merged with each other.
"Did he say no to the name?" Six's voice was incredulous. He tightened his arms around himself. "Can we do that?"
Four slipped an arm around one of Six's.
"Well," he shrugged. "I guess. I mean, I know I'm not letting her name me something like John or Fred. Hey Five, maybe you'll get named Freddy or something."
Five glared. He hadn't taken Four's joke about being named Wart well, and not even his "But you'll get the name of a king, like yours truly!" had made him less mad.
"Maybe you'll have the once in a lifetime option of being Reginald Junior? Whadda ya think, Five? Or shall I start calling you Reggie?"
Five's glare deepened. Well, it seemed the name jokes were making him nervous.
"Gross," muttered Six.
Three wrinkled her nose. Four wondered if she was imagining a future where she was Reginal-da? Reginalda? Regina? It would surely mess with her starry-eyed dream of being a model. Or was it being a princess now? Princess Reginalda sounded awful.
Six was right: Gross.
His siblings' expressions hardly changed, but he could see a newfound apprehension that wasn't there before, so he said: "Don't worry lads, if I have to sacrifice myself I'll take being the Junior over all of you. Though One —Luther might try to fight me for the honor."
"I'm taking any name I can get," said Seven, rubbing her arm. Out of the corner of his eye, Four saw Five watching her with a frown. Deciding it wasn't any of his business, he turned toward Mom and Two.
Mom's smooth lips shifted into a smile, and she bent down once more to whisper in Two's ear. She must've suggested another name because Two perked up instantly. He hugged Mom, who ran a hand thought his chopped hair.
"It's your turn," Seven said in a hushed whisper. Three, too nervous to respond, bounced over to stand at Two's side, as Mom rested her hands on his shoulders and said: "Luther, welcome your brother Diego."
Four's face split into a grin.
Luther stood up from the couch, his mouth hanging open. Mom nudged Two— now Diego— forward. Three shot Luther a look and he clamped his mouth shut.
They shared an awkward glance, before hugging. Diego's arms stiff around Luther, who hugged him back gingerly as if afraid he might hurt him, and also afraid he might offend Diego's pride by worrying about that. Four laughed quietly and at his side, Five rolled his eyes and Six smiled. Seven tugged on her hair, her mouth resembling a smile.
From where he was hugging Luther, Diego shot Four a look, raising his eyebrows.
"Seriously?" he mouthed.
Four shook his head beaming. Diego and Luther sprung apart, but Four could see Diego's little pleased smile when he turned away.
Despite the way, Dad often pitted them against each other, and the way they could bicker and fight almost every day, for almost every reason, they had each other's backs no matter what. And though their fights were fierce and sometimes almost scared poor Seven to death, they were always silly and pointless.
Still, even if the next morning before breakfast, they'd be made up and acting all friendly with jokes and grins, after lunch, without fail, they'd be fighting again.
Three called it a rivalry. Four knew better.
No matter what Diego did, even if it meant working harder than anyone, Dad never said anything. Five said that was because Dad was a "narcissistic old sot," Four just thought he could just be too unkind sometimes. If he surely didn't mean it, maybe things would be better in time. And in time, that dream he'd have about Dad's smile along with all the rest would come true. If not, well he couldn't even dare think that.
He eyed Diego, flipping his knife over and over. Training harder and harder, he thought. It certainly was something.
"Well," came Mom's voice. Four glanced her way to see Three standing impatiently. "Let's go ahead. Three, dear, if you'd just. . ."
Three got named Allison. She flounced towards their two brothers and obnoxiously pecked them both on the cheek, leaving two pink marks from her— or rather Mom's— lipstick. Her normally tidy hair was uncharacteristically ruffled, but she didn't seem to care. Four saw her stand on her tiptoes whisper something in Luther's ear, who cracked a smile. Diego rolled his eyes, fiddling with one of his many knives and standing a little to the side.
Shooting Diego a look, Four strode forward.
Mom bent down and whispered: "Klaus. That's the name I choose for you. Do you like it, dear?"
Four nodded enthusiastically, his throat tight. He couldn't speak, too busy turning the name around his head. Klaus, Klaus, Klaus. It was. . . pretty. What did it mean? Why had Mom chosen it?
But well, he thought as he pressed his teary eyes against Mom's soft sweater, did it even matter?
He knew it could matter. After all, Diego's name mattered something to Diego, but it didn't have to mean anything to anyone else. But maybe, that it could matter didn't mean it should. Considering Dad hadn't given them any names. He'd given them numbers, which mattered to him, but not to Four. Except Diego cared way too much about the number thing. Oh contradictions, contradictions.
Dad wore his name with pride,— all his trophies and medals in plain view around the mansion, — maybe Mom wanted them to wear theirs proudly too. Four untangled himself from Mom and beamed at her. He would make her proud.
"Well," she said clapping her hands. "That's settled then. Children, welcome your brother Klaus."
The newly named Klaus turned towards Mom. "Do our names have to do anything from where we come from?" Mom's face remained as smooth and impassive as ever, but Klaus couldn't ignore Pogo shifting on his feet from where he was standing at the door.
The all too bright smile was back. "Perhaps, dear. Now go on, it's your brother's turn."
He stood aside to let Five stride ahead, an odd glint in his eye.
Klaus was soon accosted by his siblings. Diego slung an arm over his shoulder with a grin and ruffled his hair. Luther's pat on his back almost sent him reeling to the floor, and Allison left a lipstick mark to match the others.
"Do you think," Klaus began, turning to Diego, who was hiding a smile, watching an embarrassed Luther try to rub out the lipstick from his cheek and just making a bigger mess out of it. "Do you think the names mean anything?"
"'Course," Diego said, raising an eyebrow a little condescendingly.
Klaus rolled his eyes.
"Not like that you—" he sighed. "No, I mean. Like where we come from or- or— I-I don't know—"
"Thought I was the only st-t-tu-ttering mess 'round here, bro."
Klaus felt the nudge of a foot against his, his brother's face turned downwards. The smile he wore was just a little too sharp, like back when he'd been just Two. And when Dad used to take them an isolated forest and leave them there with for a whole week to fend for themselves. Except he'd always be Two, except he really wasn't anymore. Two, four, two, four: The sound of yet another ghost, who was slamming his head against the wall, over and over.
Klaus could feel Pogo's gaze heavy on his back, so he nudged Diego's foot back and nodded.
While the old butler had always been, not exactly kind to them, but loads better than Dad, it didn't mean much if it interfered with Dad's plans. And asking those type questions would sooner turn this day from Dad Free to very Mausoleum Pijama Party.
And he wouldn't— couldn't— go there, not on his birthday. Not again.
Dad considered the knowledge of their birth mothers or where they came from dangerous. And he didn't want them to know it. A small part of Klaus agreed with him. He knew most of his siblings agreed with him. Hell, it'd be hard not to. Who'd want to know the name of the woman who gave them up? Gave them up to this house with their father's cold eyes and even colder fingers clutching his wrist while he dragged him away, screaming—
No, Klaus wasn't interested. At all.
He knew the others had been at one time. He'd caught Allison staring pointedly at the mirror more than once and Ben had told him he sometimes wondered if they looked like them at all.
And then there was Diego.
Not long after Mom had arrived, but before she'd slowly turned from Nanny Grace to simply Mom, Diego had told him he wanted to try to find his birth mother. Allison, overhearing, asked how exactly would he get Dad to take them to every country in the world, seeing as he didn't even know where he'd been born. Diego dropped the topic and the next week he was the first to call Grace Mom.
Watching Five telling Mom something that made her normally composed face flicker, Klaus took the chance and curled his pinky around Diego's, waiting while their remaining siblings got their names.
Pogo's gift had been lame in comparison. Although if anything was as good as Pogo's gifts, then Klaus liked lame.
Well, he'd liked Pogo's gift better than Dad's anyway.
Usually, they opened their presents in one of their rooms. This once, Mom mentions she'd baked cake,— chocolate cake! They'd never had that kind of flavor before,— so while she's finishing up in the kitchen; they gather on the drawing-room to open their gifts.
The gifts sit in the coffee table, wrapped in shiny paper and colorful ribbons. Klaus ignores the card wishing him a happy birthday in a lousy attempt at their father's handwriting and starts tearing the gift open.
Yes, he thinks fiercely as soon as he sees the watercolor kit. Pogo's outdone himself this year.
At his left, Luther and Five, who've already opened theirs, bicker about the merits of swapping books.
Klaus sees Diego frowning down at his gift. From where he is Klaus can't see it properly, so he walks over and plops down. "Hello, brother mine. What'd you get?"
Diego shifts his hand so the red paper wrapping will hide the gift. "Some lame thing. Nothin' important."
He watches him, daring him to say something. His newly cut hair falls over his forehead. Klaus gifts him an airy smile, eyeing the way the rubs a knife against his leg, trying to get out a stain, then turns to Three,— Allison.
"So," he starts.
She's got her own gift laying on her lap, while she writes in her diary. She'd insisted every girl needed to have one to document 'important events' and 'private thoughts'. And who knew where she'd gotten that idea, maybe a magazine.
He glances over her shoulder to see her writing her new name over and over again in thick, curly letters. She'd scratched off the Three on the purple cover and replaced it with Allison.
"Why not Alyson? With a 'y'."
Allison wrinkles her nose. "Tacky. And it's meant to be after Alice in Wonderland, dummy. Mom said so. Because it's the," she pauses and then brightens as if suddenly remembering something. "It is the dopest movie ever!"
"Tha- that weird movie?"
Klaus snickers.
"What's dopest?" asks Six, now Benjamin.
Five, who had kept his name either out of spite or pride, snorts and flicks to the next page of his book. He sure seems angsty for someone who's getting to skip his day of training, then again Five's always been the type to like it.
"The dopest is Hercules," Seven— Vanya says quietly enough that Klaus almost doesn't hear her. She shifts the thick folder of music sheets she'd gotten, her face shy. Luther, who's now sitting next to her as he'd apparently failed to get Five to lend him a book, nods. It's his favorite movie too.
Allison rolls her eyes. "It's a word. It means when something is the best ever. Bet you didn't know that, huh Five?"
"Of course I did. You left your magazine in the living room…"
"Magazine?" Luther exclaims.
Diego huffs and nudges Klaus, who has to smother a disbelieving laugh.
"You know. . . out on the open? I had to put it back in your room, lest the old man finds out." Five gives a little smug smile. "No need to thank me, of course. I did read it, but it was very stupid."
Allison swells up, indignant. "Stupid?"
"Why would I waste my time reading about nail polish and what my zodiac sign says about my future? Anyone with a brain knows they're lies."
"That's not true—"
"Woah, woah. Can we— can we talk about the magazine? Three, where did you g-get it?"
Five ignores Diego. "We all share the same birthday Three! We are all not going to have to embrace the word new! New places, new people, new things —"
"I'd love to meet new people for a change," mutters Benjamin dejectedly.
"But Allison, Dad said—"
"Will you shut up about Dad?"
"—it doesn't lie! It's our birthday, of course, there's going to be new things!"
"Wait a tick. How did you get the magazine? Did you sneak out?"
Allison grins, and Klaus feels delighted. Only Allison would be so brave! "I persuaded Pogo to get me one."
Diego lets out a whistle. "You rumored Pogo for a magazine?" he asks, sounding awfully impressed. Please, as if Klaus hasn't seen him with Allison's health magazines from time to time. At his side, Luther buries his head on his hands.
They all start speaking over each other at once.
"Ally, can you make him get me my own magazine?"
"Do you think we can get more movies?"
"Um, yeah, our tape of Mulan is too old. We need a nuh— a new one."
"Mulan? Really?" Five scoffs. "Our tape for the Sword on the Stone is the oldest. Logically, we should get a replacement for that one first."
Klaus slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle his snickers, over Diego's indignant expression. He'd watched Mulan so many times he'd even told Dad he wanted to learn sword fighting. So that's not his gift then. Pogo certainly wouldn't approve of a sword. Mom might give him one if he just asked.
"You're just saying that because it's your favorite—"
"I think Herc—"
"Hold on. You want the same movies? Three needs to rumor him, so we'll get new ones!"
Mom's voice rings through the drawing-room, the faint thud of Pogo's footsteps following her. They all turn, forgetting their fight. Klaus nudges Diego, who's got a starstruck look in his face, and takes the chance to slip a hand inside his pocket. Mom walks in carrying the cake with exactly seven candles on top lit up and singing a song he's never heard before.
Must be a new feature, Klaus thinks, looking at Pogo's satisfied smile. He shrugs and, pocketing Diego's knife, follows his siblings.
For a few hours, everything seems alright. They spent most of their birthday laughing in between bites of chocolate cake and showing off their gifts. When Diego cracks a joke that makes Luther curse, Klaus could swear Five even seems to smile. All in all, he enjoys their ever-steady company, their bodies close enough that no ghost tries to slip through, though he does see one of their old nannies gliding along the hall.
But that night, when he's alone in his room, the dark-eyed grandmother comes back.
Klaus's so concentrated dipping carefully his new brush in his new watercolors, a hand on top of the wrinkling paper that when he sees her, he knocks the set and it clatters to the floor. He stands up quickly, breathing loudly, trying to avoid her gaze.
Still, unbidden her dark eyes bore into him, the grey hair curled and the clothes prim and proper. The knitting needles sticking out of her throat shine, a gruesome reminder.
She'd been haunting him for three years now, far before anyone even thought to look for her. And when they did? He'd watched from the attic window, how the sheet-covered body was dragged out, the paramedics rushing about and the police lights flashing red and blue. It had been days and the silent ghost at his side was proof enough that there was no hope for rescue.
She'd been fine the first few days, voiceless and still. She'd been fine the next week, talking in hushed whispers and humming songs. She'd been fine.
It begins with the humming. Then she dances around the room, cradling a part of her dress close. He hears the drip of blood pouring down from the hole in her throat; a stray curl is caught in one of the silver needles, sharp as knives, sharp enough to kill.
Right, knives, he thinks. And takes out Diego's knife from where he'd hidden it in his bedside table. He'd meant to for training, for practicing. For impressing Dad maybe? But he reckons it'd do a better job at giving him some sort of safety.
Klaus grips the knife tightly and watches her carefully.
She's not alone this time. One of the kidnappers from that day's mission is with her. Klaus had watched him being brought down, face squashed against the dirty floor with one of Diego's knives right between his eyes. Of course, he deserved it then, he was a criminal! But it doesn't mean Klaus deserves him haunting his room now.
The kidnapper's form is wispy, as he paces from side to side, hands behind his back. Klaus can remember that morning's debriefing, their profile built from a single wanted poster: Military training, three previous arrests of robbery, armed and dangerous. Do not interfere, call the police if you see anything suspicious. He's no match for anyone.
"No match for us," Diego had boasted after landing his hit, readying another knife. A knot on his throat, Klaus let a loud laugh and promptly kneed another of the kidnappers in the stomach.
The kidnapper keeps pacing. At his side, the grandmother folds her arms, one atop of the other, and mimes rocking them, swaying lightly at the pace of an imaginary tune only she can hear. Klaus shuts his eyes and desperately tries to ignore her.
Eerily he can feel the ghosts who haunt the house, as they keep beckoning with a syrupy song that stings like too cold water. His hands tremble, the tips of his fingers shining blue. He thrusts his hands down and breathes once out and in, mimicking Diego's breathing exercises. He doesn't want to join them, he doesn't, will they just leave him alone—
He slams trembling hands to his ears and buries his face between his knees, the cold metal of Diego's knife pressed against his cheek.
And then.
Then she sings.
Klaus uncovers his ears because that's Spanish. Diego's been studying it for a while now. Stumbling over words and phrases, with an awful pronunciation, but improving. Klaus's never heard it spoken by anyone else.
"No duerme nadie por el cielo. Nadie, nadie. No duerme nadie," she sings, dancing away.
What does that mean? Maybe Diego would know, Klaus thinks as he crawls to the edge of his bed to hear her better, trying to ignore the scratching sounds on his door. It'd do him no good being so silly, time to square up and be a little useful for once. "Las criaturas de la luna huelen y rondan sus cabañas."
Klaus follows her to the door of his room, where the loud scraping is impossible to ignore. There's no hearing her like this. He contemplates the shaking door, and cursing his brother, he goes and throws it open, before sprinting to his bed.
There's a flash of blue.
And the little girl from downstairs flops down beside him. One of her arms wades through his leg as if underwater. It's freezing. He gags, pressing down on his mouth to muffle the sound, and scampers to the other side of the bed. Klaus has to get away, to leave them, they can't get him—
We are one, they say. Klaus, come. We are one.
The grandmother's song reaches a new high, the bundle in her arms squirms, red dripping down and she looks down at it blankly. The girl turns, folding her hands over he blood-stained dress. You are us. We are one.
Klaus points Diego's knife threateningly. He tries to channel his brother, putting on a stern expression. "Hey. I'm warning you, alright? Leave me alo—" The glint of the knife seems more attractive than scary because just then the kidnapper's hand goes through his chest. The knife drops to the floor. "Okay, alright, alright. Please? Please, stop it."
The kidnapper swings his fist through Klaus and it's cold, his teeth are shattering, he shivers—
There's too much, too much to handle. So he dives after the knife.
"— un muerto en el cementerio más lejano que se queja tres años, porque tiene un paisaje seco en la rodilla." She spins, her dance nearing him on the floor. "Y el niño que enterraron esta mañana lloraba tanto, tanto—"
She's screaming the song now, she won't stop and he can't find the knife. Klaus shouldn't, he's not going to. But his hands are wet from where he'd spilled his watercolors, they feel so cold and sticky and he huffs, clutching his knees hard. Klaus really shouldn't, but as he thinks of the red watercolor dripping and the blood on Diego's knife that morning he has to suppress the urge to gag.
On his bed, the little girl swings her legs, then she kicks up and one of them fades through his back. He relents.
"Matilde," he screams, face pressed on the floor, his hands patting it desperately in search of Diego's knife. The grandmother halts her song. "Stop it, Matilde."
Give them no names, he'd learned. Or they'll use it again you.
But Matilde had been with him since he was seven, quiet and comforting the first few years; her presence at his shoulder oddly reassuring, even with her raw smile and the decorating of silver needles at her throat. Beyond her, Klaus had never bothered with learning names. Matilde had told him her name when he was eight, called him Cuatro, her cold breath in his ear, her needles too close to his own throat. Then she'd raised her half shredded skirt between bony hands to wipe her tears, leaving a trail of red.
Her face stills, smooth and impassive like never before. An all too-bright smile overtakes her face, and for a long horrible moment she reminds him of Mom's static smile, but then she turns and slams the bundle against the wall with a loud splat and starts bawling the rest of the song: "No es sueño la vida. ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta!"
There's something red dripping from where she'd hit his wall. Klaus snatches up the knife, finally, in time to see the other two crowding around her and for more to appear; pale faces, hushed voices, scrambling to look, to touch.
Klaus runs stumbling, one hand clutching the knife, the other pressed to his mouth.
The rest of the screeched song fades behind him as he runs upstairs, taking two steps at the time. Where to go? He considers going to Benjamin,—he's passed Diego's room, Luther would kick him out without hesitation,— but remembers his miserable face, hands pressed to his stomach earlier and heads for the library instead.
When he enters, one of the lamps is on.
Maybe Benjamin is here, he likes to come to the library for fun.
Klaus sits on a desk, it's hard and he might get splinters, but he's safer with lights, and going to his siblings would be risky. Dad doesn't let them have lights on after curfew. There are fewer ghosts here. Even so the thought sends makes him shudder and he briefly considers taking his chances with Five. Klaus pats his hands on his pants, leaving little fingerprints he tries to ignore.
Nah, he thinks, finally dry hands flipping the knife the air. He'd probably blackmail me or something.
A shadow falls over him.
"What are you doing?"
Klaus almost falls down from the desk. He brags the knife by the blade and with it comes a stinging pain in his hand. He cradles it, whining. He's screwed, it's Dad and he's going to take him there and he's hungry, he didn't mean it. The image of the dark mausoleum crawls over his mind and he starts rambling.
"No, no, wait. I didn't mean to Daddy—" he shrieks and a hand slams on his mouth.
"Shudup, idiot."
His shoulders drop in relief. "Diego?" he tries to say, but it probably comes out as Deroh or something.
". . .S'that my knife?"
Oh damn. Klaus licks Diego's palm, making his brother scramble back and snatch his hand away, exclaiming: "Aw Four, gross." And giving him the chance to jump off the desk.
Diego stands in the low light of the library in his pajamas, a too big bathrobe Klaus is sure must be Luther's, with his knife harness fastened over it all. Tucked under his arm are a few books, one of Allison's magazines and a bundle of red paper.
"Did you—" Diego looks at Klaus' cradled hand nervously. "God, did you cut yourself? Lemme see."
Klaus jumps back. "No need for dramatics, Diego."
"Fine." His brother jerks his chin towards the knife. "What'd you need it for?"
Klaus hesitates. He considers the ghosts, crawling around his room. Matilde, who everyone else remembered as the kindly old lady that lived across the street, now dancing barefoot and singing in Spanish, screeching and bloodying his walls. Diego's own mistake pacing his room, hands tucked behind him. "Just wanted to practice," he lies. "To impre— to improve."
Diego squints, before giving in.
"Here," he says, holding out his hand for the knife. "You just gotta, flick your wrist like this and then you let go." His brother demonstrates the movement two times, before handing Klaus the knife, looking at him expectantly.
Klaus gets five shots and fails every time, but by the time he hands Diego back his knife, he's smiling a little and his hand no longer hurts. If Diego's disappointed that his teaching was for nothing, he doesn't show it. Instead, he gives Klaus an awkward pat on the back.
"You'll, uh." Diego swallows. "You'll get it, bro."
"Thanks," replies Klaus. He flops down beside the desk.
Diego follows, setting his books behind him. Klaus smiles tightly and moves the lit lamp to the ground so he can see his brother better.
"You just gotta follow me. You heard Dad the other day: 'Your shoots have improved, Number Two!' That means that this? It works," he says with the determined air of someone who's never gotten a shot wrong.
Diego's sure got a bad Dad impression, but he's also something he hadn't even begun to consider: "No way he's sticking to our new names is he?"
"No— nope. Even big ol' One seems disappointed. I don't know what he expected. He went to thank Dad, of all people, for his dumb book."
So that was why Luther had asked him his opinion on a stanza he'd scribbled on a spare piece of paper. It was sweet and nice, and Dad would probably toss it in the trash without giving it a second glance.
Klaus sighs and flutters his hands about, giving Diego a tired look. "I'm pretty sure if Dad gave us actual gifts they'd be like, rocks maybe?"
That gets a laugh out of his brother. He sits down across from Klaus, their knees knocking against each other's and gives him a nudge. His dark eyes light up. "'Here. Maybe you'll improve your aim.'"
Puffing out his chest, Klaus says in the most pretentious voice he can manage, "Let's see if you can rumor it into dancing the vals for me, Number Three! Oooh, Numbah Three—'"
Diego gives a loud barking laugh.
"'One, One! Your task is to break it with only just your pinky! Not by sneezing on it.'"
Klaus snorts. "C'mon, sneezing on it? That's dumb." He gives Diego a playful shove, grinning at him.
"Yeah," Diego huffs, his half-smile slips. "Yeah it is, isn't it?"
He's staring off quietly into the hallway, and Klaus has the feeling that those words aren't for him. They aren't for anyone else either, he thinks as he spots a ghost dancing in that direction, leaving blue at their wake. To him, all the ghosts have ever been good at was annoying and scaring him, but he guesses they could be pretty good at being sad too. Klaus can't blame them for it, so he can't blame Diego either.
He sets his brow and hurries to his feet, thrusting a hand down to Diego. "C'mon. Let's go."
"Go? What to get empanadas or something?"
Dad's face, when he found them the month before, sneaking back in by the fire escape, had been terrifying. The empanadas had been too good to pass up though.
"Nope."
"You don't wanna sneak out?"
"No, bro."
That finally does the trick. Diego bats his hand away and pulls himself up, following Klaus as he disappears between the bookshelves.
"What's this for?" Diego grunts, his arms heavy.
The book makes a loud thud as Diego drops it on the desk, Klaus sets down the other one — gently — next to it.
"We're going to look up our names! Mom said she'd explain, but Pogo was being all dramatic. So I figured we'd just do it ourselves."
Diego eyes him, with pursed lips, but says nothing.
He claps his hands. "I'll begin. Let's see... Klaus? It means," he sticks out his tongue in concentration. Trailing a finger over the page, he reads: "It means 'the people's victory'."
"That's cool."
"Right?" Klaus gushes. "My name's German. Do you think I'm from there?"
"Dunno. My name's from like Spanish or something, r-right? Doesn't mean I'm from Spain." Diego's got an uncomfortable expression like he always does whenever they talk about their births.
"Oh, right," Klaus says dejectedly. The idea of having an excuse to learn German had sounded fun. Not that Dad would let him. Maybe if he talked about the ghosts. . . That's an idea.
Diego goes on, rambling a little. "And there are millions of countries that speak Spanish. I could be from, uh, y-you know, P-Peru or something."
Klaus tries to imagine Diego riding a llama, that's Peruvian right? He cracks a grin, and Diego levels him with an unimpressed look. "What're you laughing at, huh?"
It'd be pretty neat to have a llama as they've never been allowed to interact much with animals. Except for the dead ones all over the walls and Pogo, but he always seems iffy at being called an animal, so Klaus supposes it's not polite or something. Who knows with him.
Looking at Diego's impatient expression, Klaus flicks the pages backward. "Okay, geez. No need for impatience, no need, sir! Letter 'd'… Oh, here. Means 'supplanter'."
Well, that's disappointing. Diego seems to think the same because he presses his lips tightly, shoulders slumped. He's rolling the handle of the knife between his palms. That won't do.
It looks like Mom seems determined to make this a difficult as possible.
"But oh la la," Klaus says in the worst French accent he can imagine. "There's more! So this says 'possibly a shortened form…' nah. Here. 'In medieval records, blah blah, oh and it has been suggested that it, in fact, derives from Greek didache that means teaching!'"
Now Diego crouches down to look at the book better, blinking rapidly.
"Ha! See Di? Always knew you'd be a good teacher. With you showing me those moves earlier." He mimics throwing a few punches to the air for good measure.
A flat look. "You failed."
"You said I'll improve. Anyway, I think I'm from Germany." He opens the largest book, an Atlas and points to a picture. "It looks pretty."
Diego hums.
"Do you think Dad will let Mom teach me German too? Latin's boring."
"Last week you sa—said you wanted to learn French!"
"Duh. It's pretty—"
"—puh—pretty lame, you mean."
"Nuh huh. Anyways you are just saying that because you'd rather learn Spanish and Portuguese than Latin."
They'd had the argument before. Diego insisted that of the countries he'd most likely been born in, most spoke Spanish. Five, ever smug, pointed out Brazil on the list and said they spoke Portuguese. Now Diego was determined to learn them both. And he'd had tried. Badly.
Matilde crosses his mind and he quickly shakes the thought away. He might just have to listen carefully. No way he's getting ever talking to her again.
"Allison said French is the language of love. And well," Klaus says, looking at Diego bashful. "It wasn't my idea?"
A raised eyebrow.
"Six wanted to learn it first, but Dad won't let him. He says it's a waste of time. And that it would interfere with his private training. Which I don't get, how is French supposed to mess with Them? That's so stupid. So I figured maybe I could learn it and then teach it to him. And then he'd have to help me with that kick we did in training the other day."
Diego opens his mouth, maybe to say 'You would be a terrible teacher', but then he shuts it. He huffs a breath, running his hands through his hair.
"Ben— Ben—ja—" He sighs, before saying pointedly: "Ben would help you either way."
"I know he'd help, it's just I want to earn it okay?"
Diego's face softens. That's the thing with him, he can be a real pain one moment, and then the little boy who helped Klaus learn how to tie his shoes comes out. The hand on his shoulder is familiar and comforting. "You do not— don't need to earn it."
"Thanks." Klaus shrugs, trying to smile. "And well… I think French is dopest, but German is surely doper."
"Puh-pretty sure that's not how you use tha— that word."
"How would you know? I, unlike you, my dearest brother, have read Allison's magazines," Klaus tells him, grinning inwardly at the health magazine that peeks under the rest of Diego's books.
"Y-yeah? Can't say I've ever read that crap."
Quickly Klaus swoops in, snatching the magazine Diego's hidden underneath the big pile of books. His brother's eyes widen and he fails to reach for it falling face flat on the floor.
"Aha!" Klaus crows, standing up on his tiptoes and holding the magazine up, waving it so that the pages make little smacking sounds.
Diego raises himself up and glares. In between him reaching out to snatch the magazine and jumping because he's far shorter than Klaus, something he's always resented, he protests: "Four— Klaus, hey stop it. You're going to— going to break it!"
"Admit it! Admit it, you read these magazines more than Alli—"
Klaus' voice is cut off when his brother tackles him, sending them both sprawling to the ground. They wrestle for a while. Diego tickles him until he's red in the face. Klaus tries to pull his hair. "Admit— ugh, geroff."
"Give it here—"
"That's your foot, get it off!" Klaus shrieks as Diego's foot veers too close to his mouth. Then he shoves himself up and goes for the shoulder.
"—she'll kill me! Ow, did you just bite—"
"Get it brothe—"
Finally, Diego manages to get the magazine back, and they upright the lamp, which had fallen sideways during the fighting. Klaus sneaks a look at Diego's grinning face, his hair ruffled and looking way too pleased for someone who'd nearly lost a bite of his shoulder for a magazine dumb magazine. Typical, only something as dumb as a fight would cheer him up.
But well. He'd been too sulky, it had been time for some cheering up.
They spend a minute or so in silence. The both of them sitting on the floor, Klaus cradling one of his knees, his brother's head propped against the corner of the table.
"I'll teach you," Diego says suddenly. His face is scrunched up as if he'd just said something embarrassing. He huffs. "I'll teach you," he repeats, setting his jaw.
"What?"
"If Benja— Ben, dammit we're gonna have to call him that— if he doesn't want to teach the move I'll do it. We have to try for Dad, right?"
Klaus reddens. Only Diego would figure him out.
Then his brother reaches behind him to fiddle with something.
"There's something—" He drifts off, clears his throat and starts again. "Just, just take it, alright?" Diego thrusts something forward: "Here."
Klaus looks down. The red paper is wrinkled all over and the place where Pogo glued the card from 'Dad' in is stained white, where Diego had probably ripped it out. He bits his lip, his brother had seemed upset in the afternoon, did he really. . .
He sneaks a glance at Diego. "You sure?"
After a tight nod, he unwraps the paper hiding the gift and sets it aside.
There, gathered neatly, is an apron.
It's cream, a color Diego would never wear, the straps have little white ruffles along the sides and there's a red smudge— no, not a smudge, a whole lot of them. He brings it nearer to his face, the apron unfolding in his lap, and notices that there are no smudges at all, but little knives sewed in with red thread all along the border of the ruffles. And not only there, but they go down and down, until—
A familiar warmth spreads through his chest. He points to the bottom of the cloth.
"It's—" and closes his mouth with a click.
Diego shakes his head, the corners of his mouth turning upwards and scoots to Klaus' side. With wobbly hands, he traces along with the careful stitching of his own name by Mom's steady hand. Diego Gabriel Hargreeves, it reads in red looping letters, a knife embroidered at its side.
Klaus can imagine her, unwrapping the gift in the dead of the night, and sewing all night long. Her fingers raw and oily, the delicate synthetic skin torn, but her smile truly happy and all hers for once. In his mind's eye, he sees her carefully putting out fires and rubbing backs and stitching a name that means something.
He lets out a shuddering breath and notices Diego's gnawing his lip, dark eyes boring into him. The little insecure gesture brings a smile at Klaus faces, who promptly says:
"Wait, how come you get a second name?"
Diego turns red. "Um."
"I knew it, Mama's always loved you more." He strikes a pose, smiling vaguely. It's meant to be a joke, and it is, but there's a pang in Klaus' chest. Mom's flawless face appears in his mind, like a finely crafted puppet. Only for serving, only for loving. Trapped in the house like they were, but never allowed to go out or have opinions.
"Woah, hold—" Diego always been quick to jump at Mom's defense, even from Dad. "Hold on. Mom said we all got one. So don't be going around saying that bout her. Hey, seriou— seriously man."
He gives Diego a reluctant smile. "I know. Just joking around, you know lil old me." He goes for a wave of his hands and winks for good measure, Diego doesn't look very convinced, but he lets it go.
"Well," he says at last. "Just don't you go getting offended or something, alright?"
Klaus sighs gravely, and for dramatic effect presses a hand against his chest, as if offended: "I am offended." He huffs, noise pointed to the air. Then drops the posture. "I'm not mad. Mom will just have to make it up to me."
". . . You do know you can just ask her your second name?" Diego asks slowly, brow furrowed. Klaus ignores him.
"Do you think she'll let me borrow her heels?"
"Maybe."
And that's that.
They set up the gift aside, and curl up together at the side of the table. Diego brings up his magazine to his face and, after a little encouragement from Klaus, begins reading it out loud. It's boring and who knows who thought eating raw food for more benefits was a good idea at all, but Diego seems pretty convinced so who knows.
Suspiring, Klaus drops his head on his brother's shoulder, who takes it in stride and keeps going on.
He's nearly forgotten the mess going on in his room when he hears it. The soft swishing of her skirt and the song accompanying it, he presses himself closer to Diego, burying his face in the comforting softness of the bathrobe.
His brother pauses in the middle of reading something about the nutrients in salmon, which, gross, but Klaus shakes his head and tells him to go on. The low tone is soothing even if occasionally interrupted by stutters and curse words.
Matilde's form appears, shrouded by the blue veil that all ghosts seem to have. Her bare feet make no sound in the hardwood floors of the library as she glides along. Klaus watches her warily, seeing she's dropped the bundle she'd made with her skirt, which left it dripping a trail of blood on the floor.
She's still singing but he can't actually make out the words through the foggy gaze that is Diego's reading. Slowly she becomes a little clearer and he can see her reach out for him, a vacant expression on her face. When Klaus was little she'd trail her fingers above his hair as if tempted to smooth it down, whispering his name over and over. So he tilts his head and lets her pretend.
Her fingers brush against air, it's colder than before and he shudders a little.
The floor seems more inviting than before. Diego's shoulder is warm, his breath ghosting the air white as he reads. He looks like the ghosts in movies, whole and distant, but so near and so That's how Klaus drifts off, curled on the wooden library floors, Matilde's song blending with Diego's soft-spoken reading.
AN: Somethings, I choose one of Federico Garcia Lorca's poems translated from it's original Spanish. The exact translation for the title would be 'City Without Sleep' This also had a part about not sleeping, like the last chapter, which suited the whole theme I've got going on
In one interview before his death, FGL talked about wanting to go to Mexico, which is where Diego is born. Also, he called it and Spain as "being united as brothers in their worship of death." Which is a very Klaus thing.
The ghost's name is Matilde, bc early on I confused FGL with Pablo Neruda, and that was his wife's name, who Diego Rivera (see? Diego?) painted a portrait of. Even later on, I choose to keep it.
The "song" Matilde is singing is actually the poem quoted above, in its original language.
Feel free to comment and tell me what you thought? Did you like Diego and Klaus' interactions? Was something particularly intriguing about the ghosts? Thank you for reading!