How's your head? [even before he gets an answer, klaus is withdrawing partially, reaching his idle hand up to ghost his fingertips across quentin's temple, smooth and light as he works back through his hair, over his scalp. while his friend's fixated on his wounds, the taller man's drawing attention away from them, hoping it won't be such a big deal that he'd hurt and bled and felt something he shouldn't.

fuck, and then quentin's apologizing again, making him shake his head-- a little too vigorously, considering it causes a brief moment of dizziness.]

No, you don't have to apologize, just— [don't blame yourself? don't let go? what?] It must've been something with the ingredients. One of my people fucked us...

[for reasons unknown right now, but hand to god, he'll find out why or die trying. his attention lowers to where quentin's still holding his arm, eyebrows knitting, lips pressing into a thin line, then he lifts his gaze back up.] I'll fix it, okay? I don't know how yet, but I will.