He can feel the tension in the other man when the serve approaches them again and maybe it's instinct, maybe it's something else, but Klaus puts a hand on his shoulder. Like maybe he could ground whatever nerves made the waitress suddenly appearing so unnerving. Once she's gone, he moves a little back into the space by the wall and slides his plate closer before popping a bite of egg in his mouth.

What he has to say is kind of bleak, which is hardly a surprise, but it's still kind of disheartening to hear. "Doesn't sound like we're even a family-- more like strangers in a house with the same last name..." He feels like it must have gotten infinitely worse, somehow, after Ben. Because everything he hears, everything he's witnessed in just watching the older versions of himself, and the rest of his siblings, seems so different than even what he just left not all that long ago.

"Oh..." He supposed it's kind of anti-climatic response to everything he'd just said, but Klaus isn't sure what else to say; it's kind of a lot to take in and consider. He can't even picture it, even in his wildest, furthest off in Wonderland kind of fantasy anything ever being bigger than the hurt, big enough that it mattered so much it mattered even after it was gone. It's too much, too big of a concept for him to really grasp in the right way. But it is big. And it's a lot. And he's pretty sure 'The love is bigger than the hurt' is a phrase that's going to stick to him forever.