He knows Luther is trying, he does. But it isn't helping, not really. That kind of practicality might be a comfort to Luther, but it's cold logic that leaves Klaus just as terrified as he already was to start. Nothing really ever helps on nights like this. Except the closeness, and the touch. Warm, and solid against him in a way that lets him know they're real. That he's real. And here. Alive. Not becoming one of the specters that chases him.

He doesn't mean to cry. He knows he shouldn't. Isn't supposed to. "Crying is weakness, Number Four. Weakness is unacceptable." But everything is so terrifying after nights like this, and Luther's attempts at giving him something solid and real to hold onto, as a comfort, are falling so flat, and he can't help it. One sob breaks through the cracks and it opens the whole dam. He lets out a soft whine and curls tighter against his brother, pressing his face against his chest.