Dysphoria- An Umbrella Academy Fanfiction

†Drowning

Her brother, who wasn't really older than her but liked to pretend he was, had always reminded Octavia of confetti.

Bright, colourful, everywhere all the time, but fragile, easily breakable and a fucking mess to clean up after.

She found him chain-smoking in his old room, which remained as vibrant as he was, multicoloured nail varnish was spilt on his bedside table, cigarette ash left on his windowsill, and draped across a vintage dressing table was a bright pink feather boa she's pretty sure he stole from Allison years ago.

Octavia sat down on the bed next to him, the bed creaking rudely under her weight.

'Guten tag Bruder.' She grinned at him.

'Guten tag, Frau Emcee.' Klaus replied with a smirk, knowing it would annoy her.

She hit him, not truly meaning in, making him cough up the smoke he was currently inhaling, he went to hit her back for laughing at his sputtering but stopped when he noticed the bruises already.

'Client.' She said simply in response to his concern.

His face relaxed ever so slightly, but the worried look remained on his face.

'It's fine,' She continued, 'It's really not as bad as it looks, promise.'

He still look concerned, but it was replaced more with disappointment he unsuccessfully to hide.

'You know, I only do that when I'm very, very desperate.'

'Yeah, yeah leave the morality stuff to Diego, okay?'

Their shared laughter rang throughout the mostly empty hallways, and Pogo, who could just about hear them due to his animalistic features, smiled to himself. He had long awaited to hear that sound again.

'How's the novel?' Octavia continued, lighting up her own cigarette, 'Any changes?'

Klaus produced a tiny wrinkled and slightly damp notebook from his coat pocket. He had begun writing a sort of biographical, with some parts so exaggerated it really could be called fiction, book after Vanya's was released, inspired by her writing about the family.

'Oh much the same, Octo, but perhaps I'll be inspired by our fathers funeral to write more about what a shitty man he was.'  He smiled and stubbed out his cigarette on the bedside table.

'There was an old house, and there was a girl who could speak to demons ... And there was a city called New York, in a country called America, and it was the end of the world.' Octavia quoted the very dramatic beginning that had prolonged every one of Klaus' drafts since he began writing.

'And yet you barely refer to me after that first line,' She continued, 'Why is that?'

'Oh, I tried. But you're far too strange and wonderful to pin down on paper. I couldn't write anything that did you justice.'

Klaus places her head on his shoulder gently.

'Liar.' She replies casually.

His face shows fake outrage.

'It's not a lie!' And mostly, it isn't. 'I can show you the attempts.'

She nods, and Klaus runs his fingers through her dark hair

'I should like that. But it isn't why you don't write me.'

'You never tell me about your life!' That however, is mostly a lie. 'Do you have any idea how difficult it is to write a character with no storyline?'

'Liar!' She says again, swinging her legs over the side of his bed and standing up, stretching her arms out.. 'You could make up anything you wanted. An actress. An astronaut. Dead. It's all the same, what happens in my life means nothing.'