"If we're gone longer than a week you might as well assume we're dead," Klaus laughs, pitchy and sing song as he folds his arms over his chest. It's a joke, but there's something about going back to that place that makes him believe it a little bit. If they're gone longer than it takes to roll up, burn and bury and asshole old man, and turn around to leave after all the family bonding? Something's gone wrong.
Patrick provides a certain level of steadiness, stability that Klaus has come to rely on in uncertain situations. Knowing that when Allison is busy with work or Claire, he can turn to a man who hated him all those years ago, and just breathe? It's a godsend. His walls come down in a different way around him than they might with Allison. Patrick doesn't have the years of history, doesn't have the scars of their shared childhood, doesn't know exactly what everything looked and felt like back there. There's comfort in that.
His head falls and he stares at his bare feet for a second, toes curling against the cool flooring. "You're far, far too intelligent of a man to come up with a stupid question," he huffs softly before looking over at him, a wry smile pulled over his lips. "Frankly, I'm terrified, but what can you do? Dear old daddy's dead and maybe there's some will money in it for us, though I highly doubt it."
There's a strange humming under his skin, a buzzing, itching, nervous feeling that terrifies him more than the journey. He can handle California and its street bums, all the glitz and glam of Hollywood, the stress of paparazzi at inopportune times. He can handle that. He doesn't need anything but Allison, Patrick and Claire to chase that away.
This? This is darker, a need that begs for a little preparation, for the bite of numbness. Going home isn't going to be easy and it isn't going to be fun. "But it's been six years. I mean last time I was home, I was told to find somewhere else to sleep because sleeping on the steps of the Academy made them look bad." He snorts. "A whopping eighteen and ready for the world with nothing but my skivvies and a bottle of laphroaig I stole from the pops."
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Patrick provides a certain level of steadiness, stability that Klaus has come to rely on in uncertain situations. Knowing that when Allison is busy with work or Claire, he can turn to a man who hated him all those years ago, and just breathe? It's a godsend. His walls come down in a different way around him than they might with Allison. Patrick doesn't have the years of history, doesn't have the scars of their shared childhood, doesn't know exactly what everything looked and felt like back there. There's comfort in that.
His head falls and he stares at his bare feet for a second, toes curling against the cool flooring. "You're far, far too intelligent of a man to come up with a stupid question," he huffs softly before looking over at him, a wry smile pulled over his lips. "Frankly, I'm terrified, but what can you do? Dear old daddy's dead and maybe there's some will money in it for us, though I highly doubt it."
There's a strange humming under his skin, a buzzing, itching, nervous feeling that terrifies him more than the journey. He can handle California and its street bums, all the glitz and glam of Hollywood, the stress of paparazzi at inopportune times. He can handle that. He doesn't need anything but Allison, Patrick and Claire to chase that away.
This? This is darker, a need that begs for a little preparation, for the bite of numbness. Going home isn't going to be easy and it isn't going to be fun. "But it's been six years. I mean last time I was home, I was told to find somewhere else to sleep because sleeping on the steps of the Academy made them look bad." He snorts. "A whopping eighteen and ready for the world with nothing but my skivvies and a bottle of laphroaig I stole from the pops."