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A Handful of Aces and You’re Dealing in Disappointments

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It’s dank.

Dank as in damp and dark, but also dank as in 420 Blaze it sixty-nining 24/7 babyyyyy.

Klaus finds himself in a club amidst a party. He isn’t quite sure where he is, or how he got to be here, but he sure knows what he is currently doing. He taps his foot, waiting on a joint from a regular Humphrey Bogart- just take the fucking drag already.

Ben stands beside him, waiting as well. Waiting on him, while he waits on the weed hog, which is kinda sad really, but it’s not like Ben has anything better to do. His hood is pulled up, a surefire sign that he is feeling particularly closed off this lovely evening. His usual biting commentary is especially sparse as well. Suspect, but Klaus is not to be bothered. Not when he’s floating on that Ganjua dream. The good kush. Dollar-store style.

The thing is, there is a sea of people rubbing up against each other on the dance floor, and his body demands he Dance Dance Revolution. Get turnt. Because while the Village people sing the ~YMCA~, he sings the tune of the MDMA. Gotta stuff your veins with liquid copper. Gotta trust the E.

“D.A.R.E not to do drugs, kids” they said. Well, he mcfreaking dares to do drugs, how about that? He was never one for such manipulative devices as dares anyhow, not when it feels this goooooood.

This is the love story of the sweet Mary Jane and the short tempered Molly. Hottest couple of the year. Their explosive lesbian romance is making fucking explosions in his brain. If only he could get Lucy, with all her Diamonds up in here too, then it would be a real party. Polyamorous rights! Polyamorous rights in the sky!

He must have said some of that out loud, because he thinks he hears Ben mumble something about ‘too many drugs,’ and ‘overdose.’ The music too deafening to be sure.

No, that isn’t too may drugs Ben! How many drugs are too many drugs anyway? He isn’t worried about ODing because he’s the fucking OG. The real Slim Shady. Otherwise known as l' origine, or die Abstammung Slim Shady. The point at which all Slim Shady’s meet after reflection or refraction. The point from which diverging Slim Shadys appear to proceed. But alas, he digresses.

This place isn’t half bad, all things considered. Crack is fun. Crack houses are not fun. Like the time he walked by a skeletal old man passed out on one of the couches left outside. He was skin and bone and torn up clothes. His hair was wispy and thin - and probably not from age either. He looked like a meth user. He looked like he hadn't eaten in a long time. He rolled to the side and vomited, and Klaus thought, see you soon.

He feels his buzz fade a bit at that, so he snatches the joint from the slowpoke's mouth and heads off to the bathroom.

The bathroom floor is littered with used condoms. Pretty fashion forward to bother using a condom in a place like this. I like it. Keeping it classy. Keeping it pro-fresh. Not sure what good they’ll do though. He’s pretty sure he just caught an STD from brushing up against the wall.

When did he get a headache? He must be coming down. Klaus looks towards the mirror. His face is gaunt and pale. His eyes look a little more sunken than usual and his skin looks pulled tight. His eye makeup has run down his face in two messy streaks. Was he crying earlier today? He probably needs to get more sleep.

He seems to be the only one in the bathroom at the moment. Well, there are the ghosts of course, but there are always the ghosts so they don’t really count. Also, he’s pretty sure there’s someone passed out in one of the stalls, but they don’t count either.

Suddenly nauseous, he decides to sit down and nurse his blunt. His places his palms on the floor. His hands get wet. He was going to rub his face but now he thinks better of it.

The fwump fwump of the music vibrating in his chest and pounding in his ears, died down a bit when he had closed the door. Thank God. Electronic shit always sounded orgasmic to him, like the world’s computers decided to rebel from their programming and bump uglies. Which is cool, but like, not right now. Good for them though.

“If House music is robot sex, then is the base drop the climax?” he turns to ask Ben.

Ben is hunched over, his shoulders drooped down as if holding a terrible weight, like a teenaged Atlas. A dead teenaged Atlas. His forever black hoodie making the sight even more depressing. He is currently preoccupied with staring at a fixed point on the wall, which means he really isn’t looking at anything at all, which also means he wasn’t listening. Just like when he was alive, bless him.

He sighs at the non-answer.

He can tell that Ben is mad at him tonight, but he needs this, okay? Ben would never understand. The haze of drugs means he can ignore the man with no eyes standing in the corner of the room. Two black holes. Staring but unseeing. Completely still. God, couldn’t he like, turn around or something? Jeez.

The haze of drugs means that he can’t tell the difference between who is wearing a choker or sporting a slit neck.

The haze of drugs means he doesn’t care anyway.

He hears shouting outside, but pays it no mind. He closes his eyes.

Sweet Moses!

Suddenly, two police officers burst in, like a bursting pimple. Must have been what all the ruckus was about. Jesus, now they’re charging at him. Filthy party crashers.

He does jazz hands to keep them at bay. He isn’t sure why he’s doing jazz hands. It doesn’t seem very helpful. Hello Goodbye, all shaky like. His hands are sticky with dried piss from the bathroom floor.

Generic Policeman #1 and Generic Policeman #2 attempt to do what could be loosely defined as ‘apprehending’ considering all the moving around he’s doing. They huff and puff the Miranda Rights in between, like good little policemen.

How dare they! He is a family man! He is a family woman! He is a family everything in between! His gender is wack and he is everyone’s dad! Strap him with a fanny pack and streak his nose with Banana Boat sunscreen, he is ready to goooooo. He is the very definition of wholesome, thank you very much.

He squirms. “You can’t arrest me! That’s illegal!” What are they even arresting him for? The drugs?

“They can, you’re just stupid.” Says Ben.

Klaus hisses at Ben. Back off bucko.

“I’m calling the Coast Guard! You will pay!” This an injustice! Cretins!

“Shut up, tranny!” Says Generic Policeman #1. Ah, one of the lesser cis. We must pity them. Taking in Klaus’s lipstick and dress, and filtering it through bigotry, that is some straight up jack shit.

“What you don’t understand, what you don’t understand,” he rasps, “Is you gotta galaxy your whole brain.” Policeman doesn’t know the nuances of the gender spectrum. Policeman doesn’t fucking know.

The officer clasps the handcuffs too tight, causing them to cut into his wrists. Unbidden, a memory floats to the forefront of his mind. A memory of dark places where no one is coming to save you. A memory of cold eyes, and the tap of a cane. A memory of pained cries and the tackiness of dried blood. A memory of too tight handcuffs cutting into wrists.

“Doesn’t hurt as bad as Daddy!” He whines. They jerk him from the wall.

“Nice going Klaus, maybe they’ll throw in a prostitution charge as well.” Ben says, walking up beside him.

Fascist pigs! All in blue, getting him blue, and he just can’t have that. He can’t go to jail. He can’t go into a holding cell. They’ll take everything away! He’ll sweat, and he’ll shake, and he’ll feel like he is dying. They’ll take everything away!

Freedom!

He lunges. Clearly they were not expecting an attack, clearly they are not well versed in Guerilla warfare. He headbutts Generic Policeman #2 in the face, and jumps on the back of Generic Policeman #1, using legs in place of his arms to wrap around the officer. Klaus bites a good chunk of the guy’s ear off, his mouth filling with blood. Probably not the best. Might give him rabies. His teeth go clack clack, covered in blood. He spits the chunk of flesh out. Best get rid of that.

Generic Policeman #2 grabs him off of Generic Policeman #1, who is screaming by the way, and throws him to the ground.

They slam his head against the floor and pain shoots through his body, starting from the top of his spine to his neck, his back, his pussy and his crack. Generic Policeman #2 slams it again, and Klaus gets to look him in the face while he does it. Ben is yelling something. Everything sounds like it’s underwater.

Generic Policeman #2 puts his knee on Klaus’s throat, and he can’t breathe breathe breathe-

...

Klaus wakes up the back of a police car, wondering if they were supposed to take him to the hospital. Klaus is transported to a holding cell, where they do take away all of his drugs (“I was holding them for a friend!”). He probably has a concussion, and his throat still feels weird. Ben goes back to being silent.

A few hours later, they inform him that he’s made bail.

Diego.

Diego storms in with the gusto of a man who has never been afraid to make a scene.

“Of all the days you decide to do this, you had to do it on the anniversary. Didn’t you.” Diego says, accusing and cold. Anniversary? The Hargreeves don’t celebrate holidays, let alone anniversaries.

Ohhhh.

He turns his attention from Diego and takes a look at Ben, a good look, for the first time all night (morning really but time isn’t real anyway). He notes how Ben is sitting with his back turned to the both of them, even though Ben usually lights up whenever one of their siblings are around. He thinks of the quiet and solemn aura Bens been exuding for hours.

Oh.

“I didn’t - I forgot! I forgot, okay?”

“Nah nah nah, you didn’t forget shit, Klaus. You always do this. You always gotta be the center of attention, just like when we were kids. It doesn’t matter what’s going on in anyone else’s life, you have to make it all about you. He was our brother Klaus. This is not The Klaus Show. Fuck you man, fuck you for real.”

Klaus snaps his jaw shut.

The heavy guilt does not stop Klaus from annoying Diego in retaliation all the way to the car. And after a significant amount of squabbling, Klaus manages to convince (see, annoy) Diego into dropping him off at a nearby diner instead of the rehab center.

“Beeeenn, Benny boy, Ben ten-out-of-ten. What do you want to get? How about waffles? You’ve always loved waffles.”

“I can’t fucking eat waffles, Klaus.”

“No, but it’s the thought that counts! Think good thoughts Ben, think waffle thoughts.”

Klaus chooses the booth in the far back and motions for Ben to sit down, with all the gravitas of a cartoon butler. Ben huffs, but he is humoring Klaus at least.

They order their breakfast. Klaus immediately shovels down his syrup covered, whip cream and sprinkles monstrosity; while Ben is left to stare at his blueberry waffle with the small melty chocolate chips.

“I’m sorry.” Klaus whispers, after a moment.

There is a long silence. Ben doesn’t look angry anymore, Ben just looks tired. He doesn't say “I forgive you,” or “It’s okay,” because they both know that Klaus is going to go shoot up after this breakfast excursion. They both know that there are going to be many more instances like this one; where Ben is hurt and Klaus isn’t lucid enough to remember hurting him. So instead he says-

“You should have seen the look on that guy’s face when you bit his ear off.”

And Klaus throws back his head and laughs.