Carefully, carefully, Klaus reaches out for him. Long fingers reaching for his shoulder with a hesitation like he expects to be burned. Because he does. Klaus- who had never known the grief of separation, who had never learned to mourn- feels like he's ripped open a still healing wound and dumped salt in it.

And so his fingers tremble, and he hesitates, and he pulls back to place them on his dogtags instead.

The silence is awkward, and awful, and he doesn't know what to say. Only to fiddle with the chain around his neck, clear his throat, look to the side, and maybe open up with a secret. Pry open the scar tissue around his vulnerabilities, rip it open so it goes past the humor, past the anger, past the grief and the exhaustion and every other bone-aching emotion that seeps into his blood.

"Alright." He says, his voice quiet. "We won't talk about it."