Before he died and Ben can't even think about that right now, not without some sort of breakdown, Klaus and Ben were tactile. Ben was a bit more withdrawn by nature, because of the Horror and the ever present warnings that he, They, both were dangerous, that if he let them go without control, he would slaughter people.
Klaus has always been the exception to this (and isn't that just a blanket statement about Klaus really? Klaus is the exception to life) and even now, Ben's processing the fact that They came out and hugged Klaus, stroked him, were gentle with him in a way that Sir had said they couldn't be. That he's lying here, on Klaus, wrapped together in a way they never did in life but that just feels like an extension of that, like death hasn't interrupted their cuddling for over twelve years and this was just where that mission would have ended, Klaus washing Ben of the mess and shock.
He presses closer, harder, as if he could climb into Klaus and never let go from the inside, except he's moved through Klaus too often to want to actually not feel the resistance of skin and muscle and bone. The pull on his hair is briefly uncomfortable, a spike of sensation, of something almost pain after so long of nothing, but he bites back the urge to hiss and the shock passes. He doesn't want to give Klaus any suggestion that this isn't perfectly fine. It is. Discomforts and all.
He can't say he missed Klaus. Being dead, there's not a lot of... anything. Missing something is hard, because loss is just an abstract. But now he's not empty and hollow, he's painfully aware of not having had this.
There's a tentacle sliding around Klaus' waist, wriggling between the small of his back and the bath to encircle him and press Ben's body firmly against Klaus. The spade covers the point of Ben's shoulder.
"I don't want to ever let go," Ben whispers back, his acknowledgement of what Klaus said. "If I stop, I'm scared I won't be able to do it again."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2019-05-06 07:54 am (UTC)Klaus has always been the exception to this (and isn't that just a blanket statement about Klaus really? Klaus is the exception to life) and even now, Ben's processing the fact that They came out and hugged Klaus, stroked him, were gentle with him in a way that Sir had said they couldn't be. That he's lying here, on Klaus, wrapped together in a way they never did in life but that just feels like an extension of that, like death hasn't interrupted their cuddling for over twelve years and this was just where that mission would have ended, Klaus washing Ben of the mess and shock.
He presses closer, harder, as if he could climb into Klaus and never let go from the inside, except he's moved through Klaus too often to want to actually not feel the resistance of skin and muscle and bone. The pull on his hair is briefly uncomfortable, a spike of sensation, of something almost pain after so long of nothing, but he bites back the urge to hiss and the shock passes. He doesn't want to give Klaus any suggestion that this isn't perfectly fine. It is. Discomforts and all.
He can't say he missed Klaus. Being dead, there's not a lot of... anything. Missing something is hard, because loss is just an abstract. But now he's not empty and hollow, he's painfully aware of not having had this.
There's a tentacle sliding around Klaus' waist, wriggling between the small of his back and the bath to encircle him and press Ben's body firmly against Klaus. The spade covers the point of Ben's shoulder.
"I don't want to ever let go," Ben whispers back, his acknowledgement of what Klaus said. "If I stop, I'm scared I won't be able to do it again."