One of the best ways Klaus has found yet to keep the cravings at bay (because it's just his mind now, his body is over the drugs, it's just his brain that's still addicted) is hobbies. He'd tried a few things - knitting had been terrible, but he's started to really get into drawing.
The day Ben decides to go and try to do some training, Klaus is in his room, hunched over a sketchbook propped up on his knees, one elbow resting on the lower corner while he works on intricate lines in an abstract pattern that's scrawled all over the page, chin in his hand with the pinky pressed between his lips so he can bite at the nail of it. Keep his mouth occupied. The cravings are all bunched up into a twist of pain in his gut, but he focuses on the intricate pattern, the feeling of his teeth worrying a rough spot on the end of his fingernail.
And then all hell breaks loose, quite literally.
It goes from quiet and pretty peaceful to a wild cacophony of insane blue energy, screaming and squealing and shrieking and wailing ghosts twisting up like some kind of fucked up ethereal cyclone of terror. Klaus jumps up, the sketchbook clattering to the ground, yelping as he clambers up onto the chair, one foot lifted while a horde of spirits float up through the floor of his room and through him (fucking...creepy awful with the cold spiking all through him) and then they're gone all in a rush.
The dark, unearthly energy is still there though, twisting up from the cellar, and once Klaus catches his breath, he crawls down off the chair and cautiously moves out into the hallway, hand on his chest.
It takes him about 5 minutes to get downstairs, his heart still pounding, narrow chest rising and falling heavily as he moves down the stairs, through the hallways, on top alert for danger, anxiety spiking.
It takes him another 5 minutes to convince himself to open the door once he's down in the basement and outside the cellar. Swallowing hard, he reaches out a shaking hand and pulls the door open, green eyes wide.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2019-04-26 05:42 am (UTC)The day Ben decides to go and try to do some training, Klaus is in his room, hunched over a sketchbook propped up on his knees, one elbow resting on the lower corner while he works on intricate lines in an abstract pattern that's scrawled all over the page, chin in his hand with the pinky pressed between his lips so he can bite at the nail of it. Keep his mouth occupied. The cravings are all bunched up into a twist of pain in his gut, but he focuses on the intricate pattern, the feeling of his teeth worrying a rough spot on the end of his fingernail.
And then all hell breaks loose, quite literally.
It goes from quiet and pretty peaceful to a wild cacophony of insane blue energy, screaming and squealing and shrieking and wailing ghosts twisting up like some kind of fucked up ethereal cyclone of terror. Klaus jumps up, the sketchbook clattering to the ground, yelping as he clambers up onto the chair, one foot lifted while a horde of spirits float up through the floor of his room and through him (fucking...creepy awful with the cold spiking all through him) and then they're gone all in a rush.
The dark, unearthly energy is still there though, twisting up from the cellar, and once Klaus catches his breath, he crawls down off the chair and cautiously moves out into the hallway, hand on his chest.
It takes him about 5 minutes to get downstairs, his heart still pounding, narrow chest rising and falling heavily as he moves down the stairs, through the hallways, on top alert for danger, anxiety spiking.
It takes him another 5 minutes to convince himself to open the door once he's down in the basement and outside the cellar. Swallowing hard, he reaches out a shaking hand and pulls the door open, green eyes wide.
"Ben?"