It's so very easy for Klaus to slip into that playful nonchalance, to tuck all the gut-twisting fear and worry away. Better for his family to deal with their own shit than to worry about his own, because Klaus can't even put a name to it. He can't explain to them the sleepless nights, the sound of bombs ringing in his hears, the dead woman who stares at him with bleeding eyes while he sleeps, the smell of cigarette smoke in a Vietnamese bar...
He's so lost in setting out the tray, in creating a sense of normalcy for his sister that Diego's comment catches him off guard. "Hm?" He raises his head, blinking curiously at his brother. What do you mean is poised on his lips but Diego continues and he knows better than to rebut right now. He leans a hip into the counter, folds his arms over his chest, and listens.
"She probably would, you're right," he laughs a little at the thought. He can see the look on her face - he's seen it before, years ago. But he'd been happy recently, and his liveliness, his excitement, his grand gestures of hyperbole had all be genuine then. Something about going home for those two weeks has all but taken the air out of his chest.
"Well I'd be very boring if I didn't," he huffs, shrugging one shoulder. It's not that he doesn't take the man seriously - he does - but he's never been very good at sharing his feelings, at stepping away from the mask he's artfully crafted for himself. Diego had seen it, the walls crumbling, as he stood in the vet bar, as he sat in the car with him, but that doesn't make it easier. He looks aside, back to the tray, nervously arranging the bowl, the spoon, the glass. He's a man always in motion, especially now.
"Let's get Allison better first, yeah? I'm not deflecting or whatever bullshit, alright? I just... we gotta get her back on her feet first. This shit? I've dealt with this shit my whole life, what's a week more, you know?" He grins, all teeth and a trilling sort of laugh. "What's beauty without a little bit of despair, after all."
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He's so lost in setting out the tray, in creating a sense of normalcy for his sister that Diego's comment catches him off guard. "Hm?" He raises his head, blinking curiously at his brother. What do you mean is poised on his lips but Diego continues and he knows better than to rebut right now. He leans a hip into the counter, folds his arms over his chest, and listens.
"She probably would, you're right," he laughs a little at the thought. He can see the look on her face - he's seen it before, years ago. But he'd been happy recently, and his liveliness, his excitement, his grand gestures of hyperbole had all be genuine then. Something about going home for those two weeks has all but taken the air out of his chest.
"Well I'd be very boring if I didn't," he huffs, shrugging one shoulder. It's not that he doesn't take the man seriously - he does - but he's never been very good at sharing his feelings, at stepping away from the mask he's artfully crafted for himself. Diego had seen it, the walls crumbling, as he stood in the vet bar, as he sat in the car with him, but that doesn't make it easier. He looks aside, back to the tray, nervously arranging the bowl, the spoon, the glass. He's a man always in motion, especially now.
"Let's get Allison better first, yeah? I'm not deflecting or whatever bullshit, alright? I just... we gotta get her back on her feet first. This shit? I've dealt with this shit my whole life, what's a week more, you know?" He grins, all teeth and a trilling sort of laugh. "What's beauty without a little bit of despair, after all."