The loud crack of the gun, the instant, sharp pain in his chest, and Klaus knows exactly what's happened. Somewhere between point A and point B, the Ikea motherfucker shot him. He barely registers saying ow, but it does hurt, and he sinks to the ground before he's aware his knees are giving out.
He's been here before, after all, his head swimming as his body tries to wrap itself around the shock of the wound. Ah, right. Shock. He can feel the edges of it beginning, as fog settles over his brain, as his heart rate ratchets up to a dangerously high speed, as sweat stipples his brow.
"It's fine, I'm fine, I'm like a bad cat with nine lives, right?" He murmurs hoarsely, laughing to himself. But the laugh brings with it a sputter of blood, a line of thin red stark against the pale of his chin. "Besides, really adds some drama to the outfit, you know? Red's gotta be— shit, Al," he wheezes when his sister presses a hand over the wound.
Dying. He's dying. He can feel the sick pull in his gut, not unlike the time he slipped under on one of his many overdoses, or the time he cracked his head on the dance floor, and while he hadn't given a shit before, he finds himself panicking. All those times before hadn't been like this, with blood rushing out of his body uncontrolled. Had he just been lucky before? He thinks so, but there's nothing here that can save him at the last minute. No drug or medic or dead dad to whisk him back to the world of the living.
He's dying. "H-hey... it's not your fault," he says softly and he looks dizzily around at his family before he reaches for Allison with a bloodied hand. "Jesus, why... all the long faces?"
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He's been here before, after all, his head swimming as his body tries to wrap itself around the shock of the wound. Ah, right. Shock. He can feel the edges of it beginning, as fog settles over his brain, as his heart rate ratchets up to a dangerously high speed, as sweat stipples his brow.
"It's fine, I'm fine, I'm like a bad cat with nine lives, right?" He murmurs hoarsely, laughing to himself. But the laugh brings with it a sputter of blood, a line of thin red stark against the pale of his chin. "Besides, really adds some drama to the outfit, you know? Red's gotta be— shit, Al," he wheezes when his sister presses a hand over the wound.
Dying. He's dying. He can feel the sick pull in his gut, not unlike the time he slipped under on one of his many overdoses, or the time he cracked his head on the dance floor, and while he hadn't given a shit before, he finds himself panicking. All those times before hadn't been like this, with blood rushing out of his body uncontrolled. Had he just been lucky before? He thinks so, but there's nothing here that can save him at the last minute. No drug or medic or dead dad to whisk him back to the world of the living.
He's dying. "H-hey... it's not your fault," he says softly and he looks dizzily around at his family before he reaches for Allison with a bloodied hand. "Jesus, why... all the long faces?"