It hasn't been easy adjusting to the New York City streets, but if there's anything he's learned from living under the tutelage of one Reginald Hargreeves, it's that everything is uncertain and terrible and one must know how to deal with it. He's had the ability to effortless bend to his surroundings for such a long time that once he got over the initial shock, all those survivalist skills kicked in.
And that's exactly what he's done, hopping from stranger to stranger, fingers dipping into wallets and pockets when possible, outstaying his welcome in their beds whenever the opportunity arose. Klaus Hargreeves is nothing more than an unfortunate opportunist at his core.
He makes acquaintances along the way while he bounces in and out of rehabs when he can't find a good spot to snuggle up, but today he feels like he's living like a king. Pills washed down with cheap swill and he's on his way, floating down the street with the euphoria of having an extra thirty bucks in his pocket from lunch after he sidled up to a very drunk, very pretty little thing the night before.
Klaus tips his head into the afternoon sun, humming at its warmth, ignoring the looks of those who pass by. He's a sight, all tight jeans and tighter shirt, eyeliner smudged a la Grace Kelly in a terrible car accident, a beat-up leather backpack purse slung over one shoulder. But he got sleep, he's got the hum and hiss of static in his ears, and there's a Denny's two blocks up calling his name.
He's singing to himself, headphones from his cheap walkman blasting the tune Sweet Caroline and he has no qualms about singing it to himself as he walks down the street. So much so that in one dramatic spin on the infamous ba ba ba of the chorus, he all but crashes into someone on the street, skidding on the pavement and falling back on his ass. "Whoops, sorry, Neil just gets my withers quivering, if you know what I mean."
He laughs at himself, but it chokes up in the back of his throat when he sees exactly who he's run into. That's a face he hasn't seen in, what? Months? Years? Definitely years.
"Diego?" Still in shock, he stays planted on the sidewalk, staring at his brother.
Joining the police academy hadn't necessarily been easy, but the moment Diego set his mind to it, he worked his ass off to earn himself a spot. Leaving the Umbrella Academy may have been easy to do, but making it on his own hadn't been. Still, he never let himself even consider going back to Reginald. Occasionally, yes, he would stop by to check on Mom and Pogo, but beyond that? The old man could rot in hell, for all he cared.
Although, as much as he hates to sometimes even admit it to himself, the training that Reginald had put them through has been helping him in a lot of of the tests he has been taking. He's fast, he's strong, and he knows that he's a hell of an asset to the police force. His trainer may hate his attitude, but Diego knows what he's worth. He knows what he can do, he just needs to pass this little hurdle so that he can actually do something right. He can actually do some good, because he doesn't want to be mopping Al's floor for the rest of his life.
He's going over some notes for a test that he has to take later (those he hates, and he really wishes everything was more of a physical exam than an intellectual one), distracted by the note that Eudora had written on a corner of the page, when he bumps into someone and Diego himself stumbles back. He doesn't fall, his reflexes kicking in immediately, but all that almost goes out the window when he hears that voice. When he sees his brother staring back at him, and for a moment he has to remind himself to speak.
"You alright?" He offers his hand to help him up, taking in how his brother looks. His clothes, the make up. How fucking skinny he is, and Diego has to refrain from frowning even if his brow almost twitches from the effort. Diego has been living a pretty modest life, but between his training at the boxing gym, and now what he has been doing for the police academy, he looks fit, his muscles in his arms toned.
He's so distracted by Klaus, that it doesn't click yet that he's wearing a shirt from the police academy. That it's giving a glimpse of his current life; a life that no one else in his family has been privy to for years now, because Diego cut himself off from that world the second he saw an opportunity to do so.
Despite that, though, his words are sincere as he speaks again. "It's good to see you, Klaus."
Seeing Diego silhouetted against the afternoon sun feels a little bit like a childhood dream. It's wild to think that they used to stand beside one another and fight robbers or bad guys, that they trained together and cried together, that they shared a roof, a house. (He won't call it a home).
And although he recognizes that face for all it has aged and changed, it still feels a little like a stranger. But Diego looks good. Fit, strong, as serious as ever. He's still in shock when he takes his hand and pulls himself back to his feet. He's not unsteady, but there's that sort of fluid wave to his body as he stills.
"I'm just peachy, but how are you? Dear me, you've turned into a real ladykiller behind my back and I'm just ever so proud," he teases a little, waggling his eyebrows as he dips to pick up his dropped walkman. The plastic's cracked and he pouts for a brief moment. He won't have the money to replace it, so he just stuffs the thing, headphones and all into his bag.
"And what pray tell brings you to my humble abode?" He waves a hand in a flourish, a lilting laugh on his voice. "I mean if I knew I'd be having company, deary me I'd have set the good china out. Dinner part of the fucking century." He adjusts his voice, deepening it like a silly radio announcer: "This just in, estranged Hargreeves boys dine on cold, leftover Denny's and talk about the shitty days gone by. Best reunion of the year!"
He sighs on a sing-song note, a hand coming to rest against his own chin. The Police Academy shirt doesn't go unnoticed, and his lips curl into a toothy grin. "But long time no see, right?" It belies the hint of worry in his gut, the edge of discontent that cuts through the warm, pleasant high that's crept in on him. If Diego's in with the police, well. That could be bad news. For both of them.
But it's good to see him. Good to see a familiar face in the horrific sea of chaos that's become his life. A teeny, tiny part of him longs for the protection of the Academy right now, where Diego and Allison and all the others were nothing more than a closed-door away. Funny, how quickly things change.
The fluid wave to Klaus isn't new - his brother has been getting intoxicated for so damn long that he has grown to almost expect it, but it still doesn't make it any easier to see it. He hates it. God, he fucking hates it, because it means that he's still into that shit. That he's still getting high, or drunk, or all of the above. Diego knows that their powers all come with a price, that Klaus is using not for fun but to escape, but still. It feels like it makes something inside of him flare, hot and angry in his veins.
Despite all that, though, there's also that strong sense of wanting to protect Klaus somehow. Reginald won't come down on him out here, won't lecture him on wasted potential or any other lecture that he could spew. But, still, it doesn't change that sensation of feeling like he needs to hide his brother. Like he should find Allison to find a way to distract their father from whatever punishment he'll dish out for Klaus looking like he does.
They're not kids anymore, he reminds himself. Or tries to, anyway, because it doesn't erase the way his stomach twists inside him.
He doesn't show it, though. He just rolls his eyes at the tease, folding up his notes and stuffing them in his back pocket.
"Yeah, long time no see. Just my lucky day, I guess, to run into you." Mom had told him about Klaus moving out (or, rather, getting kicked out), but by the time he had found out it had been too late. Klaus was nowhere to be found, and between trying to prepare for the police academy, and the gym, he was hardly really around to even look for him.
But, now, here he is. And, as much as some part of him wants to just keep walking, the other part - a much bigger part - just wants to talk to his brother again.
It's pleasantly warm today and Klaus finds his mind wandering, face tilting back into the sun as he lets out an easy sort of giggle. He might be high, might feel liquid energy thrumming in his veins, but he's not an idiot. He knows how Diego feels about his little habit, knows too well how his whole family feels, but they're not here, are they?
Even Diego, he knows, isn't one to hang around too long. Klaus is frankly surprised the man's giving him the time of day now. He sucks in a breath between his teeth and looks back at Diego, to his face, to the papers he tucks away. Something important, no doubt.
"Oh, it's always a lucky day if you run into me. Lady Luck herself, you know." He winks and steps closer to his brother, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. He's acutely aware of the strange, invisible wall between them, where bitterness and anger and years of a fucked up childhood lie in wait. But he misses them. Every phone call with Allison, however sparse, feels like a second of blissful relief, where breathing feels a little easier because he only has to watch three sides instead of four. Now is no different.
"But really, what the hell are you doing in this part of town?" He reaches up then and taps a few fingers against Diego's chest, where the police academy symbol is printed on the shirt. "Fighting crime?" He grins. "Playing superhero still? Though I guess it'd be for real. Make actual money. Wear a cute uniform, the whole nine yards."
He shrugs and gives a little twirl. "As for me? I'm dandy. Have the day off for a change so I thought I'd enjoy the sunshine, walk the streets, see what trouble I could get into. And oh shit, right. I was considering suicide by waffles. Or maybe greasy diner sausage. Love a good sausage, if you know what I mean." He waggles his eyebrows only to turn and fish a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his back. He spends more time digging for the lighter next, revealing his bag is a mess of cash, empty plastic baggies, a prescription bottle. A t-shirt and a tank top, maybe a piece of jewelry caught around the mouth of a flask.
He finally lights up, takes a deep drag, and exhales the smoke away from Diego. "You eat yet? Dining with the Queen is a rare treat. Though the gourmet menu is off the table, because she's got a fucking vicious hangover. Gonna need enough pancakes to soak up all of yesterday's alcohol, you get my vibe?"
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backbeat the word is on the street that the fire in your heart is out;
And that's exactly what he's done, hopping from stranger to stranger, fingers dipping into wallets and pockets when possible, outstaying his welcome in their beds whenever the opportunity arose. Klaus Hargreeves is nothing more than an unfortunate opportunist at his core.
He makes acquaintances along the way while he bounces in and out of rehabs when he can't find a good spot to snuggle up, but today he feels like he's living like a king. Pills washed down with cheap swill and he's on his way, floating down the street with the euphoria of having an extra thirty bucks in his pocket from lunch after he sidled up to a very drunk, very pretty little thing the night before.
Klaus tips his head into the afternoon sun, humming at its warmth, ignoring the looks of those who pass by. He's a sight, all tight jeans and tighter shirt, eyeliner smudged a la Grace Kelly in a terrible car accident, a beat-up leather backpack purse slung over one shoulder. But he got sleep, he's got the hum and hiss of static in his ears, and there's a Denny's two blocks up calling his name.
He's singing to himself, headphones from his cheap walkman blasting the tune Sweet Caroline and he has no qualms about singing it to himself as he walks down the street. So much so that in one dramatic spin on the infamous ba ba ba of the chorus, he all but crashes into someone on the street, skidding on the pavement and falling back on his ass. "Whoops, sorry, Neil just gets my withers quivering, if you know what I mean."
He laughs at himself, but it chokes up in the back of his throat when he sees exactly who he's run into. That's a face he hasn't seen in, what? Months? Years? Definitely years.
"Diego?" Still in shock, he stays planted on the sidewalk, staring at his brother.
no subject
Although, as much as he hates to sometimes even admit it to himself, the training that Reginald had put them through has been helping him in a lot of of the tests he has been taking. He's fast, he's strong, and he knows that he's a hell of an asset to the police force. His trainer may hate his attitude, but Diego knows what he's worth. He knows what he can do, he just needs to pass this little hurdle so that he can actually do something right. He can actually do some good, because he doesn't want to be mopping Al's floor for the rest of his life.
He's going over some notes for a test that he has to take later (those he hates, and he really wishes everything was more of a physical exam than an intellectual one), distracted by the note that Eudora had written on a corner of the page, when he bumps into someone and Diego himself stumbles back. He doesn't fall, his reflexes kicking in immediately, but all that almost goes out the window when he hears that voice. When he sees his brother staring back at him, and for a moment he has to remind himself to speak.
"You alright?" He offers his hand to help him up, taking in how his brother looks. His clothes, the make up. How fucking skinny he is, and Diego has to refrain from frowning even if his brow almost twitches from the effort. Diego has been living a pretty modest life, but between his training at the boxing gym, and now what he has been doing for the police academy, he looks fit, his muscles in his arms toned.
He's so distracted by Klaus, that it doesn't click yet that he's wearing a shirt from the police academy. That it's giving a glimpse of his current life; a life that no one else in his family has been privy to for years now, because Diego cut himself off from that world the second he saw an opportunity to do so.
Despite that, though, his words are sincere as he speaks again. "It's good to see you, Klaus."
no subject
And although he recognizes that face for all it has aged and changed, it still feels a little like a stranger. But Diego looks good. Fit, strong, as serious as ever. He's still in shock when he takes his hand and pulls himself back to his feet. He's not unsteady, but there's that sort of fluid wave to his body as he stills.
"I'm just peachy, but how are you? Dear me, you've turned into a real ladykiller behind my back and I'm just ever so proud," he teases a little, waggling his eyebrows as he dips to pick up his dropped walkman. The plastic's cracked and he pouts for a brief moment. He won't have the money to replace it, so he just stuffs the thing, headphones and all into his bag.
"And what pray tell brings you to my humble abode?" He waves a hand in a flourish, a lilting laugh on his voice. "I mean if I knew I'd be having company, deary me I'd have set the good china out. Dinner part of the fucking century." He adjusts his voice, deepening it like a silly radio announcer: "This just in, estranged Hargreeves boys dine on cold, leftover Denny's and talk about the shitty days gone by. Best reunion of the year!"
He sighs on a sing-song note, a hand coming to rest against his own chin. The Police Academy shirt doesn't go unnoticed, and his lips curl into a toothy grin. "But long time no see, right?" It belies the hint of worry in his gut, the edge of discontent that cuts through the warm, pleasant high that's crept in on him. If Diego's in with the police, well. That could be bad news. For both of them.
But it's good to see him. Good to see a familiar face in the horrific sea of chaos that's become his life. A teeny, tiny part of him longs for the protection of the Academy right now, where Diego and Allison and all the others were nothing more than a closed-door away. Funny, how quickly things change.
no subject
Despite all that, though, there's also that strong sense of wanting to protect Klaus somehow. Reginald won't come down on him out here, won't lecture him on wasted potential or any other lecture that he could spew. But, still, it doesn't change that sensation of feeling like he needs to hide his brother. Like he should find Allison to find a way to distract their father from whatever punishment he'll dish out for Klaus looking like he does.
They're not kids anymore, he reminds himself. Or tries to, anyway, because it doesn't erase the way his stomach twists inside him.
He doesn't show it, though. He just rolls his eyes at the tease, folding up his notes and stuffing them in his back pocket.
"Yeah, long time no see. Just my lucky day, I guess, to run into you." Mom had told him about Klaus moving out (or, rather, getting kicked out), but by the time he had found out it had been too late. Klaus was nowhere to be found, and between trying to prepare for the police academy, and the gym, he was hardly really around to even look for him.
But, now, here he is. And, as much as some part of him wants to just keep walking, the other part - a much bigger part - just wants to talk to his brother again.
"How have you been? You doing alright?"
no subject
Even Diego, he knows, isn't one to hang around too long. Klaus is frankly surprised the man's giving him the time of day now. He sucks in a breath between his teeth and looks back at Diego, to his face, to the papers he tucks away. Something important, no doubt.
"Oh, it's always a lucky day if you run into me. Lady Luck herself, you know." He winks and steps closer to his brother, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. He's acutely aware of the strange, invisible wall between them, where bitterness and anger and years of a fucked up childhood lie in wait. But he misses them. Every phone call with Allison, however sparse, feels like a second of blissful relief, where breathing feels a little easier because he only has to watch three sides instead of four. Now is no different.
"But really, what the hell are you doing in this part of town?" He reaches up then and taps a few fingers against Diego's chest, where the police academy symbol is printed on the shirt. "Fighting crime?" He grins. "Playing superhero still? Though I guess it'd be for real. Make actual money. Wear a cute uniform, the whole nine yards."
He shrugs and gives a little twirl. "As for me? I'm dandy. Have the day off for a change so I thought I'd enjoy the sunshine, walk the streets, see what trouble I could get into. And oh shit, right. I was considering suicide by waffles. Or maybe greasy diner sausage. Love a good sausage, if you know what I mean." He waggles his eyebrows only to turn and fish a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his back. He spends more time digging for the lighter next, revealing his bag is a mess of cash, empty plastic baggies, a prescription bottle. A t-shirt and a tank top, maybe a piece of jewelry caught around the mouth of a flask.
He finally lights up, takes a deep drag, and exhales the smoke away from Diego. "You eat yet? Dining with the Queen is a rare treat. Though the gourmet menu is off the table, because she's got a fucking vicious hangover. Gonna need enough pancakes to soak up all of yesterday's alcohol, you get my vibe?"