This grinning mask is distressingly more-and-more-common with Klaus lately. Maybe similar to the stern, businesslike one that Luther wears, but that doesn't mean he knows for a single second what to do with it. Like seeing hairline fractures spreading across a pane of glass, but not knowing how to piece them back together.

A slight wince, at the singsong. He recognises the lyrics; it's from one of the records that he'd jotted onto what he thought of as The Klaus Shelf, free for his brother to pillage when need be. Luther hadn't listened to it much, but he'd heard the discordant tones through the walls, bleeding down the hall.

When Klaus heaves himself back on the bed, Luther leans against the wall. "Are you at least getting a better grasp on your powers?"

It came out wrong -- came out sounding like it was about the powers themselves, only. (But they were the lynchpin beneath it all, because it was the whole point behind Klaus being put through the wringer like this. Sacrifice for a purpose. If Sir Reginald kept pushing, eventually Number Four would tumble through that block and he'd be able to control the manifestations and it would be better. He wouldn't suffer anymore. Would be okay. That was what Luther told himself, at least.

He had faith; he hoped.)