I actually wrote this last year, for Memorial day, after watching S1...but I was disappointed it didn't end up being longer, and wasn't sure I really captured him, so I didn't post it then.
I still am not sure I captured him, to be honest XD But I've been looking through some of my unposted fics and trying to clean them up. I was surprised that this was better than I thought it was, so I decided to post it anyways!

I'd really appreciate it if you could leave a comment to let me know you liked it! Comments really make my week, and motivate me to keep writing!

Lemme know if you have any prompts for Klaus, Ben, and/or Five! I'd love to write for any of them! (You can put them in the comments here, or in my ask box on tumblr!)

The world was ending in a few days.

And Klaus wanted to be eloquent.

And that was a sign the world was ending. If Klaus wanted to be eloquent. If he wanted to speak from the heart, to say what he meant, and mean what he said…something must be about to go kablooey.

He never cared much for the speeches of the master warriors and orators of old his dad once forced him to listen to. They were just a bunch of grody old men as far as he was concerned.

He'd never much cared for eloquence. In fact, he cared so little that usually he was the one who interrupted the most well-crafted and touching of moments with a lewd remark. Gotta cut the treacle every now and again.

Not today. Today, before the world ended, he wanted to be eloquent.

Buuut a heart pumped full of fake feelings, a chemical-struck brain, and a heavy dose of grief doesn't make for a surefooted tongue.

He wanted to speak a fool's soliloquy to the empty ground; to one name in a long list of somebodies that were nobody to him, about love and loss and living still.

But instead, with empty words, and too-full sighs bubbling silently in his throat, he laughed. He laughed until the weight of the sound brought him crouched on the ground, head in his hands, his lungs filled with wry, dry chaos.

And he was choking on tragedy.

There were other grievers and believers here. Veterans sitting in wheelchairs, like worn-out sweaters one only pulls out for Christmas, in front of too-shiny graves, praying their hands numb. Young people with buckets full of flowers and good intentions, the blood of dead men and women coursing through their veins, but no real substance, intention, or heaviness on their hearts. Never knowing about a good-leader's definition of war and a poor-soldier's definition of peace. Without a clue as to who those people behind the gravestones were. Here to pay their respects anyways.

He may have looked like one of those types—all young and restless—but Klaus wasn't here to pay his respects; this wasn't about respect and it wasn't about paying. He didn't stand here with a bouquet of happy thoughts, out of reverence for a man he never knew. He didn't stand here because it was his duty to those who came before him to stand here today and revere a yesterday he had no memory of. This wasn't something he had to do, because it was honorable and right.

There was no honor here. And nothing about it was right.

He stood here with empty hands, and a bundle of fragmented, bleeding thoughts, because standing here was the only thing he could do to keep the memories of yesterday from eating today alive, and him with it. He had never cared for things like duty, virtue (ha!), and eloquence.

But he did care about Dave.

Because, young man, with his reckless spirit, old man, with his time-altered past, he knew what it was like; the dirt, and the sweat, and the blood, and the sound of gunfire, the howling of metal wolves coming closer, ready to eat him alive—(like his memories did now, and all too often he wished, with their silver teeth, and their claws, they would have taken him instead, for there were others who couldn't talk to the dead, who deserved to live)—and the music that plays, when, in the lull between fronts, the soldiers go to bars dancing.

There were old men here, who knew too; who knew what it feels like for a sound to haunt your thoughts until it puppets your actions, and you can't breathe without being addicted to something other than reality. …But they'd had more time to learn to live with the explosives in the back of their brains. They'd learned to live with the ticking…but Klaus just kept waiting for them to detonate. And they may have been the only people he could talk to…but the fact that they would say with sneers and smoke that he didn't deserve to stand on the same ground as them… just might push him over the edge.

And if he wasn't high off his ass right now, the sheer number ghosts in this place would send his sanity crashing to the ground.


But what did he? Was was he? What was there to say? Wishes, hopes, regrets? Record of a young man's secrets? I'm sorry or I miss you or I wish it was me? …That's all that was left. There was too much to say, and not a word left. Too many words bottled, wasting away, waiting to burst forth…and not nearly enough.

The world was ending in a few days.

"Klaus?" One particular ghost asked softly. "Klaus, we don't have to stay…"

"And he didn't have to go," Klaus whispered.

The world was ending in a few days.

But for Klaus, the world had already ended.