A/N — I wrote this last night. Should probably have at least given it a cursory read-through today, but I did not.

Written for the TV show. Unbeta'd

He's three, and he's screaming, screaming, screaming. Begging for Dad, for Six, Two, Five, anyone.

He's too hot, and he's too cold, tears blurring his vision and snot making it difficult to breathe. But still, he screams, his voice hoarse now and interspersed with the occasional wrenching sob.

There's a woman and, though he can't see her clearly anymore, the image of her is still visible every time he closes his eyes, ever time he blinks. So he keeps his eyes wide open, staring at where her blurry form still stands, even when the desperate need to blink becomes so strong —

"Four! Stop this at once!"

"Daddy," he whimpers, shuffling forward without pulling his hands from where they're clasped over his ears in an attempt to drown out the woman's sobs, her pleading and begging. "Daddy, please —"

"Pull yourself together," he snaps. "This is no way to behave."

He focuses on the shadow of his father, finally allowing himself to blink — a mistake; the woman, blood staining the front of her dress, ribs exposed and organs slipping — trying to see his father. The shadowy forms of his siblings crowd behind Dad, but none of them move to step around him to reach Four.

"Please," he whispers again.

"Learn to control it," Dad says, already stepping away from the door.

"No, no, please!" Four begs, uncurling himself enough to make an attempt at crawling for the door. But Dad's already closing it, shutting out the light from the hallway.

"And the rest of you! Get back to bed," is the last thing Four hears before the quiet click of the door closing echoes through his head. Leaving him alone in the darkness with —

He whimpers, curling back in on himself, short nails digging into the delicate skin behind his ears, and he keeps his eyes wide open, focussing on the tops of his knees.

It's quiet for a moment, and then … the woman's wailing begins.

She's in so much pain, and she's so scared, and angry and Four feels it all.

.oOo.

He's seven, and there's a boy staring at him, head tilted to the side.

"Who's that?" he asks Luther, pointing at the other child.

"Who's who?" Luther turns with mild curiosity, eyes scanning the corridor both ways. "There's no one there, Klaus."

"There is!" he almost shouts, just barely keeping himself in check — Dad doesn't like it when they shout. Or make noise, or mess, or do anything Klaus is pretty sure children should be able to do. "He's right there! He's—"

"Stop messing around," Luther snaps, turning away. "It's not funny anymore."

"I'm not lying," Klaus whispers to his brother's retreating form.

He doesn't know where the rest of his siblings are, but the boy is still staring at him almost expectantly.

Wetting his lips, and double checking the corridor just in case, Klaus calls, "Who are you?"

The boy frowns. Blinks. Stares at Klaus for longer than is comfortable. "Who are you?" he asks finally.

"I'm— No!" Folding his arms across his chest, indignant, Klaus throws back his shoulders and widens his stance in an attempt to look as threatening as possible. "That's not fair!" he says, whines. "I asked first!"

"Where am I?" the boy says. He takes a halting step forward, and there's something … not quite right about him.

For starters, he's soaking wet, dripping pools of water onto the wooden floor. Dad won't be pleased.

He takes another step, one of his feet dragging behind him. He's not wearing any shoes. His bare toes a blue-ish grey. His face is too pale, and his eyes and lips are a bruised purple.

Klaus backs away slowly.

"Please," the boy says. "I want to go home." He takes a laboured step forward, and Klaus stumbles back again. "We were in the car, the door wouldn't open." He coughs wetly. "Please."

Klaus turns and runs.

.oOo.

He's thirteen, and he's supposed to be … doing something, but he can't think past the paralyzing fear.

There are so many of them, all crowding around him, all shouting and begging and screaming for his attention. Covered in blood and tears and god only knows what else, and Klaus is afraid. He doesn't know what to do.

"Why won't you help me?" a man yells, his intestines pooling around his feet.

Why won't anyone help me? Klaus whimpers, sinking to the floor and curling into the fetal position.

He doesn't understand why this is happening. Why is this his power? Why can't he have something easy? He'd even take Ben's power at this point.

The slow, dull creaking of the stone door opening draws his attention like a moth to the flame, and Klaus cracks open an eye, hoping —

Dad.

He blinks his eyes open, squinting up at Dad through the fog of tears clouding his vision. He doesn't have the energy to speak, not anymore. It's enough of a struggle to breath.

Dad, please! He wants to beg, to plead, like the dead crowding around him. He doesn't know where they come from, what draws them to him. He just wants it to stop.

He lets loose a scream with an energy he didn't realise he still had, his body curling further in on itself, nails leaving bloody welts in his skin. And, when the sound finally peters out, everything is mercilessly quiet.

For all of three seconds.

Then the din starts up again, their voices melding into one, their incorporeal hands reaching for him, reaching through him.

He knows they're hurting, that they're scared and confused. But so is he.

And he doesn't know how to help either of them.

.oOo.

He's fifteen, and he's reaching into Dad's liquor cabinet on a dare, heart racing.

He freezes at the sound of light footsteps, excuses already forming on his lips — it's all Diego's fault! — but it's just the old woman. Klaus likes her. She doesn't talk much, and never to him.

She might be a little bit crazy, talking to herself even in death, but Klaus supposes there aren't many people to listen to her anymore. Either way, she leaves him alone. And she has no visible injuries, which is always a plus. Probably died of old age. He supposes he should hope she had a happy life, but he doesn't really care. Death doesn't mean much to him anymore.

Grabbing the first bottle his fingers find — he doesn't know what it is, doesn't check the label, but the dare hadn't been overly specific — he shuts the cabinet with a quiet click and hurries back to his room.

Is he supposed to return the bottle to Diego? But then, what would Diego want with it?

He unscrews the cap, taking a cautious sniff. And nearly drops the glass bottle. Screwing the cap back on tightly, he decides maybe he should take it to Diego.

The old woman shuffles through the wall beside Klaus, still muttering to herself. He pulls a face behind her back before hurrying off to Diego's room.

Diego is unimpressed, but Klaus hadn't really expected otherwise.

"Are you not going to drink it?" he asks, lacing his tone with sickly sweet innocence. Diego doesn't buy it for a second, he's sure, but Diego is also always up for a challenge. Determined to prove himself.

He takes a deep swallow. Chokes. Sputters. The dark liquid spewing from his lips and coating Klaus.

Klaus shrieks, leaping back, but he's laughing too — Diego's face is hilarious — and Diego's still coughing and gagging.

"Y-you," he gasps, bending over double, "y-you t-t-try it."

Klaus pulls a face. "Okay then," he says, raising his voice a few octaves. And really, he shouldn't — he's already seen what it's like — but he's always believed in making mistakes for himself rather than trusting other peoples'. Because, hey, why not?

And now Klaus is choking too, but it's also the most fun he's had in a while.

Later, he'll realise that the ghosts had gone, that it was just him and Diego. No one else.

But that revelation would come later, his head resting on the rim of the toilet seat, strings of bile still connecting to his lips.

.oOo.

He's nineteen when he realises that the alcohol doesn't cut it anymore. It still helps, but it's not enough to numb him entirely.

He's maybe built up his tolerance too much, or the ghosts are getting stronger. Maybe he's getting stronger, but he doesn't feel strong. Not curled on his side in the gutter, waiting for the tremmors to pass so he can stand up and find his next drink.

But it's becoming so much effort to stay drunk all the time. Especially when he knows there are other ways.

He's tried drugs before, though nothing too serious. He knows weed takes the edge off; not quite the same way liquor does, but it helps. Maybe something stronger?

People have offered before, so it's not like finding pills is too much of a challenge. And they're willing to show him what to do — willing to laugh at him while he's too stoned to care, more like, but Klaus doesn't mind.

Everything is happening in sudden bursts, flashes. He's one place one minute, and somewhere completely different the next. But that's okay. The ghosts are gone.

.oOo.

Twenty-one, and Ben is gone.

But he's still here? Sitting opposite Klaus with his head tipped to the side and a look of disappointment on his face.

Klaus throws back his head and laughs, picking up a needle.

Ben doesn't stay for long after that.

.oOo.

Twenty-three, and his palms ache.

He flexes his fingers, watching as the movement pulls on his swollen flesh.

There's dark stains in the middle of the red — writing, he knows, but he can't remember what.

It was funny, he knows that much — at the time it had seemed hilarious — but remembering requires too much focus.

.oOo.

Twenty-five, and he's perched atop a dumpster.

Why is he crouching on the lid of a dumpster?

He slips on the rain-slick surface and lands in a heap on the floor.

Someone is staring down at him — he thinks he should know them, but he doesn't. They're just a blur of dark clothing.

He's hauled to his feet and wakes in a hotel room someone else has paid for.

.oOo.

Twenty-seven, and Ben is more frequent in his appearances now. There almost all the time, no matter how high Klaus is.

He finds he really doesn't mind. He'd never been trying to escape Ben, just everyone else. Blocking Ben had been an accident.

And it's nice, really. Having someone with you.

.oOo.

Twenty-nine, and he thinks he's made a nice life for himself.

Well, nice isn't quite the right word. But this fragmented life works for him.

.oOo.

Thirty, and it all shatters around him.

Everything he's worked so hard to achieve, so hard to numb and forget. It all falls apart in a single moment.

Because Dad is dead.