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Dad’s been gone for two weeks when someone knocks on the front door.
Grace has been shut down to save power, Pogo took a trip to some sort of convention, and Luther is alone in a big, empty house with nothing to do but wait.
So when someone knocks on the door, he’s stumped. Because people don’t knock. They don’t ring the bell, they don’t call. They don’t…visit.
He finds himself standing in front of the door, staring at the shadowy movement behind the colored glass, and debates with himself; he isn’t supposed to answer the door, not when someone could be trying to attack the Academy under some innocent ruse, but-
But he hasn’t spoken to anyone in two weeks.
Surely it can’t hurt, and Luther is more than able to take care of himself.
Still, he hesitates when reaching for the handle, fingers frozen inches from it, but when the bell rings, he steels himself and throws the door open before he can second guess himself.
The door slams into the wall, glass shuddering in its frame, and Luther stares, mouth agape, because that’s-
that’s Four.
Luther hasn’t seen him since he first left the Academy- what, Four years ago? Five? No, that’s not right. Ben died when they were seventeen, and Four barely lasted a week before he left; another lost sibling, and it had stung, even if Luther had never particularly liked him.
A little over three years, then, but it feels like a lifetime.
“Four?” He hears himself say, and Four flinches like he’s been slapped, shrinking in on himself, winding his arms around his body like a wounded animal.
“Just a couple of days,” Four says hoarsely, eyes wide and pleading.
He looks terrible, which…isn’t very surprising. His hair is shorter than Luther last saw but messy and tangled, knotted in some places. He’s wearing pants that are too tight and a shirt that’s both too big and too short at the same time. There are dark smudges beneath his eyes, and Luther would think it was that stupid eye makeup he always used to wear, but he’s shaking like a leaf and his eyes are big and red and dry, blinking slowly like he’s struggling to keep them open.
“No,” Luther says immediately; dad doesn’t like it when Four tries to get in, and apparently it’s happened a lot. He wouldn’t know; no one tells him until Four is already gone. “No, you can’t. Dad wouldn't like it.”
“Please,” Four rasps, arms tightening around himself. “Please, I- I’m a week sober, and it’s supposed to freeze tonight and the shelters are full and everyone is screaming and I-” a dry, raspy sob, a hitched breath. “I don’t have anywhere else to go, Luther. Please.”
Luther frowns, something uncomfortable wiggling to life in his chest. It’s tight, constricting around his lungs and making it hard to breathe. He’s tempted to slam the door shut, to ignore the problem until it’s gone and he can breathe again, but-
God, Four just looks so pathetic.
Small and dull and tired, and Luther can’t quite make his body move towards the door.
“Just tonight,” he hears himself say as if from underwater; he doesn’t remember giving his mouth permission to move, doesn’t quite know when his brain made the jump, but Four lets out a ragged cry and throws himself at Luther, wrapping his arms tightly around him.
“Thank you,” Four sobs into his shoulder, but Luther can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t think.
He…doesn’t remember the last time someone touched him.
Eventually, Four wears himself out and releases his tight grasp, letting his feet land back on solid ground, wobbling a bit.
“I was, um, I was just about to go to bed, so. Make yourself at home, I guess,” Luther says awkwardly, abruptly overwhelmed by the need to flee.
Four shares a look with something to his left but nods, rubbing his fists into his eyes like a toddler.
Luther ignores the bubble of irritation he feels burst to life, and rushes to his bedroom, slamming the door closed and leaning against it, taking a moment to breathe.
It’s been a long time since he’s seen any of his siblings, and he certainly didn’t think Four would be the one to show up on the doorstep.
(He had hoped- he had wished- but no. Allison is a movie star, she’s too busy for the deadweight of the Hargreeves siblings to be dragging her down.)
He shakes his head and pushes himself away from the door to get ready, changing into his pajamas and tentatively peering into the hallway.
It’s clear, Four nowhere in sight, and he breathes a sigh of relief before padding down to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
He’s headed back to his bedroom when he hears it; quiet, muffled whimpering coming from Four’s old bedroom.
He fights with himself for a moment; he could go back to his bedroom and go to sleep without a care in the world. This doesn’t need to be his problem- it isn’t his problem.
Dad would tell him to ignore it.
But dad isn’t here right now.
(God, Luther is so lonely.)
So, tentatively, he knocks, and when that doesn’t warrant a response, he cautiously pushes the door open.
Four is curled into a ball on his bed, crying quietly, and something propels Luther forward, something intangible and unnameable, but he thinks it might be something close to worry.
(Which is ridiculous; Luther hasn’t had to worry about his siblings since they were all under the same roof, fighting each other with knives or staffs or paintball guns. He hadn’t needed to protect anyone with his bulk, with his body and his strength, in years. It feels strange, now. Foreign. Not…wrong, no, but different. It is different. They aren’t children anymore, Four shouldn’t need protecting. But Luther feels the urge anyways, and isn’t sure whether or not he should give into it.)
“They’re so loud, Luther,” Four gasps, tearful eyes drifting up and somewhere over his shoulder. “They’re- they’re so loud and I can’t- I can’t sleep, and I’m so tired and I just want it to be o-over!”
Four is rocking back and forth, knees drawn to his chest, arms wound around his head and for the first time in…ever, maybe, Luther wonders what, exactly, he’s hearing. What he’s seeing.
Normally, Luther would chalk up Four’s strange behavior to whatever drug he had taken that time, but he said he was sober, and Luther believes him. Normally he wouldn’t. Normally, Four would be blasé and loud and carefree; eyesearing and vibrant, parading around without care or hesitation. Normally, he wouldn’t be this quiet, wounded, desperate little thing.
Four’s powers have always been this distant, absent thing that Luther hadn’t ever really cared about; they’re intangible, for Four’s eyes and ears alone. Why would he care?
(Dad told him to ignore the screaming from Four’s bedroom- childish nightmares, nothing more. Dad said Four was being weak, that his powers were just as useless as he was and Luther should worry about more important things. Dad said…a lot of things that Luther had never even considered questioning.)
“Four?” Luther tries hesitantly, but Four just flinches, tightening his arms around his head.
Luther inhales deeply, steeling himself, and tries again. (He’d been avoiding this. He hadn’t wanted this, hadn’t wanted to let things get this far. He can’t keep himself distant if he takes this next leap, if he lets himself think of Four as a person, as his brother, and not the distanced stranger he’s become.)
“Klaus?”
Fo- Klaus finally looks up, eyes red rimmed and swollen and swimming with tears. He looks so small, so sad, that Luther’s chest aches.
“You- y-you never use our names,” Klaus whispers, and Luther stares helplessly at him. It’s true. It’s true, and he wishes it wasn’t.
(Dad told him not to use names. They had their numbers, and that was enough. Names were personal, they implied importance. Why would they need them? They were soldiers, nothing more and nothing less.)
(He’s Number One. He’s One, but he still calls himself Luther and sometimes- sometimes he wishes he didn’t. Sometimes, he wishes he could be One again. Sometimes, he wishes he didn’t care enough to keep calling himself by the name his mother gave him, by the name his siblings called him.)
“I think I can help,” Luther offers, and leans over to grab his Walkman off the nightstand. He sits next to Klaus and shuffles through, finds his loudest tape, and settles the headphones on Klaus’s ears before turning it on.
Klaus jumps when the music blares through the speakers, and then turns wide eyes to stare up at Luther.
Luther glances away, cheeks feeling hot, but his eyes fly back over to Klaus when he jumps again, staring at something to his right, grasping the blankets in a white knuckled grip.
Luther frowns and tentatively brings his hands up, pressing them carefully over the headphones covering Klaus’s ears, creating another barrier against whatever it is he’s hearing.
Klaus gasps and then shudders, body going limp as he sinks into Luther’s side, closing his eyes and resting his shaking hands over Luther’s on either side of his head.
“Thank you,” Klaus breathes, relief etched into every feature.
Luther feels something swell in his chest, something a little warm and a little proud, and scoots back to sit against the wall, letting Klaus slump fully into him.
“You’re welcome,” he whispers back, even though he knows Klaus can’t hear it.
Luther sits there with him all night, hands pressed firmly over Klaus’s ears, switching out tape after tape, because he thinks this is the first time he’s ever witnessed Klaus sleep through the whole night, and something in him won’t let him leave. Won’t let him ruin whatever temporary, tremulous peace this is that they’ve made; won’t let him end the quiet truce between two warring brothers.
He knows if dad finds out, the punishment will be severe.
He’ll bear the weight of his defiance for the rest of his life.
He can’t quite bring himself to care.
(Luther falls asleep sometime around six in the morning. When he wakes, Klaus is gone. So is the Walkman, and his favorite sweater. He doesn’t care much about that, either, and that new warmth that’s burst to life in his chest refuses, stubbornly, to dwindle.)