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Oh, he had done it, all right. How embarrassing. Here he was, the oldest of his unstable little family, absolutely pissed drunk. Again. And not even the good drunk, too, like when he would dance with Delores with the warmth of her favourite salvaged Bordeaux replacing the need for the body warmth of a breathing person; no, this was the bad drunk, the type that made all that nastiness and hate and pain that he normally funneled towards the people who made his and his family’s lives hell point inwards, as if all of Diego's knives were lodging deep in his soul. This was the drunk that hurt and demanded to hurt more.
Another sip of brandy went past his lips, the taste lost to his already numb tongue. He was propped up on a chair in his room, his elbow taking most of his weight as he leaned forward onto his table to avoid slipping to the floor. Drooping eyes stared at the amber liquid as he swirled it around the glass, and he sighed mournfully.
“God, it really is impossible, isn't it, Delores?” he murmured. “I mean, look at, at this wreck. They don't… they're idiots. They don't know what they're doing. They just keep… trying. It's like watching a bird run into a glass window.” He paused, and turned to glare at the sound of his brothers arguing in a room down the hallway. “I'm talking about them, not me.” His eyes fell on the chair that Delores inhabited, and he faltered, glare leaving his face for broken confusion before he remembered. A hazy memory of returning Delores to her home rose in his hazy mind, and he stared blankly at the empty space, unnerved that he had continued his conversation with her despite… well. Nothing another glass wouldn't fix.
Turning back to his table, he sighed again before raising the glass in a mockery of a toast— salud!— before tilting his head back and all but pouring the rest of the almost empty glass down his throat. The brandy caught in his throat, and he coughed, managing to at least swallow the rest of it before it could spew everywhere. Hacking into his elbow until his throat cleared, he finally groaned, letting his head thunk to the tabletop. What was he even doing?
“God, if you could see me now,” he muttered, almost glad Delores wasn't here to chide him for his state. “You never did like it when I drank, did you?” He raised his head, fully intending to pour himself another glass, but couldn't find the motivation to do anything but let it fall against the wood with a dull thud again. “What's the point, huh? Save these… these assholes, god, how did they turn into this? Christ, I've seen chimps with more, more emotional control than these idiots... Pogo notwithstanding.” The sound of his brothers’ voices rising again— was that Diego? he couldn't tell— rose and fell from another room again, and he scoffed before finally succeeding in lifting his head, pushing the glass aside and instead fumbling for the bottle. His shaking fingers— when had they started doing that?— nearly knocked the glass bottle over, but he managed to grab it and pull it close to him before his arm gave out and he fell from the chair. Yelping, he squeezed his eyes shut and blindly reached for his powers, grabbing that familiar static-bitter-blue by the teeth and yanking. The faint smell of ozone scratching like steel wool wisped through his nose, and moments later, he fell with a loud yet muffled whump into a soft bed, his yell of surprise cutting off as the air was knocked from his lungs. An odd slapping noise rang through the air that, after a moment, he blamed on the remaining liquid in the bottle. Well. At least he had aimed correctly that time, instead of ending up on the dining room table.
Not bothering to open his eyes, he raised the bottle to his lips and took another swig. “Stupid goddamn… fuck.” So much for being the smartest of the circus. Couldn't even string together his thoughts correctly. “What am I even doing, huh?” he asked, gesturing vaguely. “I look like a fucking child getting drunk. I should be getting goddamn senior discounts at restaurants, not this.” He huffed, angry despair seeming to settle over him like a blanket. “I don't… want to do this, Delores,” he murmured, taking another swallow of the alcohol. “Why do I keep trying to do this? Why do I keep trying when there's no fucking way of helping?” His hand balled up into a fist, and he blindly thumped it down on the bed. “No, I keep trying because I'm a goddamn idiot! I'm stupid! I'm—” He coughed as more brandy caught in his throat, and raised the bottle again to try to wash down the offence. Nothing more than a drop trickled into his mouth. “...I'm a dumb drunk bastard.” Memories he could barely grasp bubbled up, and he huffed out a small laugh, bitter and pained even to his own ears. “I drank the whole bottle, didn't I?”
Sighing, he lowered it, wrapping his arm around it as he rolled slightly onto his side. He felt like a child cradling a teddy bear, but at this point he could care less. “Why can't I just give up, huh?” he murmured, eyes still shut as he curled in on himself. “Jesus, that'd make this shit so much easier. But I just… Why? Huh? Fucking… Why can’t I, huh? Huh, Delores?” He scoffed angrily, feeling tears begin to sting behind his eyelids. “Not like any of it’ll go away, huh? Still gonna… gonna be seeing you everywhere. And the ash. And the death. Fuck. Doesn't matter anyways, does it?” A huff of disgust left Five; god, he really must be wasted to be acting like this, immature and miserable like all his siblings, young and inexperienced with keeping composure as they were. “Stubborn bastard…” A sigh, and he felt his body begin to relax against his will, sinking into the soft comforter. He couldn't have opened his eyes if he tried, didn't want to, didn't want to face the absence of space where Delores used to sit with a backdrop of his frantic equations on the walls of his childhood home. Instead, he opted to let the colourful static behind his eyes grow and twist, slowly overtaking him until he felt himself falling through endless time. Less than a minute later, his fist unclenched from where it laid on the black blanket, and his breathing evened out. Across the room that most definitely was not Five's, Klaus watched with wide eyes, hand clapped over an equally stunned Diego's mouth, an invisible Ben undoubtedly watching alongside them.
Guess his aim wasn't actually that good when he was drunk.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Well, it wasn't his fault that Ben had warned him to shut Diego up as the smell of ozone and booze had appeared in the air, along with a squawking, very obviously drunk child. Yes, he could have been a bit gentler with his method, but really, slapping his hand over Diego’s mouth had seemed the most time efficient one. He’d managed to silence him before Five could hear them, and they had been treated to a rather upsetting glimpse into Five’s depressing, drunk thoughts. However, After Five had finally slipped into unconsciousness, Diego had seemed to notice that Klaus’s hand was still over his mouth, and that there was a flush of red spreading from where his fingers had smacked across his skin. Klaus wasn’t sure why Diego was so upset about that; besides, wasn't it more important to focus on the fact that their dear, sweet brother was obviously dealing with some very heartbreaking things rather than trying to silently assault him for leaving a bright red handprint across Diego's face?
Apparently not. At least he was trying not to wake up Five.
“Stop it, asshole— fuck!” Klaus hissed, dodging another jab at his shoulder from Diego. “Do that again and I'll scream, I swear to god.” Finally, Diego huffed in defeat, stepping back and pulling out Klaus's desk chair with a nasty glare.
“Slap me again and I swear I'll get a knife through your balls, got it?” he threatened, sitting down. Ben snickered behind him, and Klaus muttered, “Thought you were on my side. Rude.”
“So. ...What the actual fuck was that about?” Diego asked, nodding at the passed out Five currently curled up on Klaus's comforter. Shrugging, Klaus crossed the room, carefully avoiding the creaky floorboards where he used to stash weed before leaning over Five. The not-quite-a-kid was hugging an empty bottle almost like a teddy bear, the creases in his young face from worry and stress no teenager should have slightly more relaxed than normal.
“Aww, he's almost cute like this,” Klaus cooed, gently reaching forward and extracting the bottle from his grasp. “Well, he would be if he wasn't such an obnoxious shit.” Holding the glass bottle up to the light, he whistled. “Aw man, he swiped this from Dad's cabinet. Nice.” He set it down on his bedside table. “I have no clue by the way, absolutely none at all.”
Diego raised his eyebrows at his comment. “None at all, huh? Absolutely none? What was that shit he was saying about seeing Delores everywhere, huh?” He ran a hand through his hair, mouth twisting. “And about seeing ash, and death, and… all of that. And he was talking to Delores. Without her even here. I mean, it was already unsettling when he did it before, but…” He finally looked back at Klaus, somehow managing to shrug angrily. “I don't know. Do you think we should talk to him?” Klaus paused, for once trying to think his answer through. Walking away from the bed, he sat on the desk beside Diego, tapping his fingers on his chin.
“I mean… yeah, we should probably talk to him. The guy's more fucked up than all of us, I mean; shit, he lived in an apocalypse for what, thirty years before being a damn hitman.”
“Don't forget that he fell in love with a mannequin,” Ben added, sitting on the bed next to Five and poking him gently.
“Yeah, what Ben said. But I can't blame him for that. Anyways, yeah, he's probably going through some shit. But also…” he sighed, looking down at Diego. His brother stared back, eyebrows creased in the frown that never seemed to leave his scarred face. “We do owe him some privacy, Diego. Why bring up painful stuff when he obviously is already… I don't know. Going through it again, I guess?” Klaus wasn’t dumb. Five may have recognized the signs of time travel when he had returned from his accidental stint in Vietnam, but he could read his brother just as well. He had caught Five staring into nothingness on multiple occasions, his face haunted and haggard; he’d seen the fabled ‘thousand-yard stare’ on the faces of his fellow soldiers in Vietnam, in his lover’s eyes, in the mirror. Klaus may not be as intelligent as his sibling, but he knew PTSD when he saw it.
Diego paused, then shook his head. “You'll have to rephrase that later, but that's just half of it. What was he talking about giving up for? He doesn't have an apocalypse to save us from anymore, so I know it isn't about that.” He pointed at the bottle on Klaus's bedside table. “And besides that, that's the second time Five’s gotten that drunk and spilled shit he probably didn’t mean to. The little asshole's got an alcohol problem.”
“Wouldn't you if you got stuck in an apocalypse for thirty years?” Klaus countered.
“He isn't in an apocalypse now! I thought we were trying to work together to be a better family or some shit now,” Diego exclaimed, irritation obvious on his face. “Wouldn't a good way to do that be to help him not be a drunkard?”
“Could you guys stop yelling? Jesus christ, you guys are going to wake him up,” Ben called from the bed, not looking up at them. Sure enough, Five was twitching on the bed. Suitably chastised, Klaus snapped his mouth shut, mumbling “Sorry…” Attention now focused on Five, he walked over, sitting gingerly next to Ben. His young face was drawn into a pained expression, arms slowly pulling further into his balled position. Looking at Ben, he asked quietly, “Is he… having a nightmare?” Ben shrugged, frowning.
“I dunno. I think so.” Klaus huffed out a small, humourless laugh.
“Jesus, with how much he drank I'm surprised his brain is even on.”
“Is Ben…?” Diego asked softly, walking over to them. Klaus nodded, and Diego sighed. “Could have told me earlier, asshole.” Rolling his eyes, Klaus took a deep breath and focused, clenching his hand around the blanket as he sought the familiar feeling of ice in his veins that came every time he tried to make Ben tangible. It had become easier and easier as he spent more time sober, but it was still an effort to make the transition from keeping Ben visible and not. Finally, Diego nodded and murdered a soft “Hey, man,” and Klaus relaxed, focusing again on Five.
“Do you think we can do anything for him?” Klaus asked, watching his brother's features shift in his obviously troubled sleep. After a pause, Ben murmured, “I have no clue.” The three of them fell silent, starting at Five, until Ben heaved a sigh. “I guess we can at least make him comfortable.” He stood, gently pulling Klaus up off the bed with him. Leaning forward, he paused before slipping his hands beneath Five, grunting slightly as he lifted the boy's frame. “Pull back the covers, would ya?” Diego grabbed the edge of the sheets and pulled them down with the comforter, letting Ben gently lay Five down on the mattress. Klaus helped Diego lay the covers back on top of their brother, tucking the soft sheets in around his body like Grace had used to. They pulled back and simply stood there for a second, looking at Five; slowly, the tenseness in his sleeping body faded again, and he seemed to sink back into a deeper, easier rest. After a few moments, Klaus turned to Diego, a brooding look on his face.
“Is it just me or do you really want to go adopt a middle schooler right now?” A hard hit on the shoulder from Ben coupled with a knock on the head from Diego sufficiently answered his question.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Five awoke to a comforting weight over him and an extremely uncomfortable heat around him, not to mention an exceptionally inconvenient headache that seemed to pulse in his skull with his heartbeat. “Oh, jesus fuck…” he muttered, blindly pawing away the weight. What was that, a comforter? Blinking his eyes open, he gazed at the ceiling for a moment, before realization hit. This wasn't his room, and this was decidedly not his blanket. “Oh, shit.” He shot up, and immediately regretted his decision as the world spun around him, brain feeling as if it had been tossed like a football inside his skull. “Ah, fuck— god dammit!” he hissed, even the quiet utterance seeming loud to his sensitive ears. Clamping his hands over his ears, he hunched over, resting his face on the comforter. The smell of cheap cologne pervaded his nostrils, and he frowned when he recognized it. Klaus. How the fuck did he get into Klaus's bed? Did he…Faint memories of his drunken fall and subsequent jump into a bed rattled hazily in his skull, and he groaned before unleashing a string of curses that ended with a very vehement “Fuck!” Finally sitting up, he thanked whatever shitty god there was that Klaus's lights were dim and that the room was blessedly empty. Hopefully nobody had been in there when he accidentally transported himself from his room to Klaus's. Groaning again, he kicked the comforter off of him, thankful that at the very least his young body could probably fight off a hangover more adeptly than his fifty year old one could.Still, though, he needed some painkillers.Forcing himself to stand up, he grimaced before closing his eyes and pulling the fabric of space around him, the familiar staticky ozone taste seeming to fill his brain like electric cotton as he jumped to the kitchen. Immediately, bright lights flooded him, and he hissed another quiet expletive as he blinked, trying entirely to fight the assault of light on his poor, dry retinas. Lowering his hands from his ears, he noted with relief that he had landed on the stool beside the medicine cabinet, and immediately reached up to open the door, looking inside for the migraine medicine.Behind him, a throat cleared. Five froze, hand hovering over a box of Nyquil tablets. “...Ah, shit.”“How're you doing, bro?” Klaus's voice was too loud in the small room, and Five winced, continuing his rummaging through the medicine cabinet. “Sleep well?”“...I take it I didn't exactly make it into the bed I was hoping to last night,” Five muttered.“Not quite.” Behind him, a pill bottle shook, and at the grating sound, a spark of apprehension ran through Five. Hand pausing, he slowly turned around. Klaus sat at the table, bottle of Excedrin in hand. Beside him, Diego had his feet propped up on the table, and was staring at him with his usual frown furrowing his face. It was the latter who had spoken this time, and it didn't take Five long to put together the pieces.“Oh, goddammit.”“Five, we need to talk.” Klaus was, for once, serious in his demeanour, and it was enough to make Five uneasy.“About what?”“About exactly what was going on last night.” Diego's voice was, shockingly, somewhat soft compared to his normal harsh tone. “Will you come sit down?”Five stared at his brother with distaste. “What happens if I say no?” Klaus held up the bottle of Excedrin, shaking it again slightly. The sound of pills clattering around inside pounded against his eardrums, and he winced. The implication was clear; sit and talk or keep the headache. With a pained sigh, Five turned and closed the medicine cabinet, instead grabbing a glass and stepping off the stool. “Fine. Let me get some water first.”Klaus and Diego waited quite patiently for him to fill his glass, which was enough to worry Five even more. He couldn't quite remember all that he had said in his drunken stupor; what had happened that had made his brothers actually show serious concern? Finally pulling out a chair from the table, he sat, sipping the blessedly cold water before fixing Klaus with an admittedly bloodshot gaze. “Alright. Why the intervention?” Diego slowly took his shoes off the table, glancing at Klaus as he positioned himself in a more acceptable pose on the chair. “And please hurry up with it, do you have any idea what these lights are doing to my head?”“Do you remember last night? At all?” So something had happened, and Diego had been privy to it. Shit.“Not really. Got drunk, fell off my chair, accidentally jumped into Klaus's bed instead of my own, passed out. Why?” Klaus cleared his throat softly. Thank goodness at least one other person here knew what a hangover was like.“Have you been having flashbacks, Five?” Five froze in place, mind blanking completely as his brother stared at him. Six words, and his carefully constructed façade crumbled around him. He could feel himself turning pale as his normal denials flew through his mind. No, of course he wasn't having flashbacks. Sure, he had been through a lot, and going through the apocalypse hadn't been easy for christ's sake, but he was fine now. Perfectly fine. “You, uh… you said some stuff. Last night. About… seeing things? Like from, uh… when the world ended?” ...And so much for maintaining pretenses. How rude of him not to play along with the script in Five’s head.“Shut up.” Oh, had he said that out loud? Klaus paused, watching Five as he desperately tried to regain his calm. Funny, he didn't exactly feel stressed; he felt detached, somehow, aware his body was doing that odd thing where it seemingly seized up with panic while he felt perfectly calm, somehow removed from the experience. Why did he feel like that?Of course it wasn't as if he'd been spending the last month trying desperately to convince himself he was perfectly fine after the traumatic events of his last. Wasn't as if he was victim to remembering horrible things at the drop of a hat, seemingly transported into his own hell while life continued around him. Wasn't as if lying to himself about his state was the only thing that had prevented him from fully breaking down when he wasn't staring down the neck of a bottle.How absolutely discourteous of Klaus. Really.“Five, you're not going to avoid this, okay? You can talk to us. What's going on?” Oh, great, and now Diego was joining in. Despite the visible distress Five was in, Diego continued. “You were talking to Delores, okay? And saying something about wanting to, I don't know, give up? Five, if there's something going on—”“There's nothing going on,” he replied, keeping his hand from clenching into a fist with effort. “Just drop it. Both of you.” God, why did he have to fuck up so badly? He should have just knocked himself out on the floor. The idea of just returning to his room and sleeping off the hangover tempted him, but something told him the headache would just get worse if he tried. Irritation rose in him as he stared down Klaus. Stupid, stubborn, caring brothers. Yes, he was grateful they were trying to help, but at the moment, he would rather they left him alone to deal with his shit.“Bullshit.” Leaning forward, Klaus tossed the bottle up into the air, the resulting clatter as he caught it enough to make Five wince. “You're drinking, you're talking to yourself, and not just last night but when you’re sober — and don’t pass it off as talking to Delores, she isn't here— and to be frank, you're acting like an asshole. We're not stupid, Five, we know when something's going on.”“Shut up, okay?” Five snapped, standing up, chair skidding back behind him. Nope. He was not putting up with this while his head was screaming at him, in a harshly lit kitchen, with his asshole of a brother withholding pain relief from him. “That's none of your business—”“It is our business when you come into my room drunk off your ass,” Klaus retorted, slamming down the bottle of pills. “Goddammit, Five—”“What the fuck do you know about my damn business,” Five seethed, hands balling into fists. His detached panic had yanked him back into his head at full force, twisting into anger at Klaus's invasiveness. “It's not you like you even know—”“Know what? That you get drunk to, what, escape something? You're talking to the ex-junkie, or did you forget?”“Okay, guys, hold on—” Diego held up his hand as if to pacify them, but he was ignored by both Five and Klaus.“Oh, and I'm sure you know exactly what I'm going through, huh, Klaus? You have no clue .”“You're not the only one with PTSD, asshole!” Klaus yelled, finally shooting up and pointing an accusatory finger at Five. “And you know that, I fucking told—”“From what?! One year in Vietnam?”“I fought in a fucking war, you shithead, and I was man enough to open up! You just—”“You fought in a war? I started them!” Five finally screamed, voice shrill with anger. Oh, his head was pounding, but far from deterring him, it simply amplified his anger. “I lived for 30 fucking years alone, and then do you know what I did? I killed people just to get back!” His voice cracked, and he growled in frustration. “You lived a year in a war, but that's nothing, nothing compared to the shit I saw. NOTHING! You want me to open up? You want to know what happened? You want to hear about how I picked the cockroaches off of your fucking corpse?!” Wild rage had overtaken him, and he had the faint sense that somewhere in the mix of his headache and anger and frustration with his siblings— no, not them, but himself— something had come loose. Some little cog in the workings of his mind that had been tasked with bottling up all the memories and shit he'd seen had decided to pop off, letting everything fly at the slightest provocation. Past his fury, though, he couldn't find it in himself to care. “So what if I get drunk? God knows you're not one to talk! Shoot me for trying to forget that the last time I saw you, your face was a decomposed mess!” Klaus flinched slightly away, eyes wide with shock, but any regret that Five felt at the admission and the probable hurt his words had caused was quickly washed away by the surge of defensive anger.“Five, calm down.” Diego stood, putting a firm hand on his shoulder. He hit it away, turning to his brother. Still, Diego stood his ground. “You need to sit down and take a breath, okay? Just—”“ I haven't been able to take a fucking breath since I got here!” Five yelled, stepping towards Diego. “You think I can just calm down? You think that I haven't been trying to fucking take a breath for the past decade?! I can't—” His voice broke, and he stared at Diego, rage slowly fracturing into shards of frantic misery. “I have to see your body every single fucking day, and you—” He stepped unsteadily backwards. Diego's eyes tracked him, sweat shining on his brow. “You think I can talk about it like it's nothing? I can't— I—” As if it had been stolen away, his rage was gone, replace with startlingly raw melancholy, an upset that he couldn't remember feeling since he had first found himself alone in the rubble of his world. His eyes stung. Smoke or tears?The seat of the chair behind him hit the backs of his knees, and they folded, sending him into the seat abruptly. “I don't—” Where had the anger gone? He would much rather feel the inarticulate, senseless rage than this melancholy. He would rather be drunk. He would rather be alone. Dropping his head, he stared at his hands. They trembled as they rested on his knees.Hesitating a moment, Diego stepped forward, gingerly resting his hand on Five's shoulder again before he could transport himself away. “Hey. You can talk to us. Just…” Five shook his head slightly. No. He couldn't, wouldn't. He already had to relive his torture at night, during the breaks in his day, when the littlest things would happen and remind him all too clearly of his past. With a trembling hand, he reached up, lightly pushing away Diego's hand. After a second of resistance, Diego sighed softly, before allowing Five to push his hand away.A flash of blue later, and Diego was left in the kitchen with Klaus, the crackling smell of faint ozone the only trace of their sibling. Five found himself in his room, sitting on his bed, headache throbbing at full force. All the sadness he had been trying to stave off with the alcohol washed over him in full force, and he let himself sink against his pillow, eyelids squeezing shut in an attempt to fight the stinging in his eyes. No doubt Diego and Klaus would try to corner him again, force him to spill about the horrors he had witnessed. Why couldn't they just leave it alone? God knew he deserved his peace after the hell he had endured. Defying his attempts to remain fearless, to stay strong in the face of this surge of misery, he felt the heat that was stinging his eyes drip from the corners of his eyes, leaking down his temple to the pillow beneath his head. Moments later, a soft sob followed, and he pressed a fist against his mouth, rolling onto his side. Stupid goddamn memories. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
He had to go face them, didn't he? It was stupid to lock himself in his room like a child. It was immature. He was better than this. He was beyond hiding away, sitting with a knee propped under his chin, wrapping an arm around himself.
Wasn't he?
Exhaling slowly, he tapped his fingers on the bedspread. His headache had faded, finally, even though he was still hesitant to turn on his ceiling light, and his tears has long since dried. The sunlight filtering into his room through his curtains was enough. Dragging his eyes away from the window, he let his gaze wander over his walls, covered in scribbles of chalk equations and notes that he had written down in a mad frenzy. The underlying panic had kept him going during those six days; it had driven him like coals under his feet, the whip of time lashing at his back as he tried desperately to figure out what to do to stop the apocalypse.
Now, though, the marks adorning his walls served little purpose other than to remind him on his past, of his many years spent in the scorched rubble do the demolished library, equations written on every available surface. Decades of work had been scrawled on those walls; all of them sorely incorrect, as evidenced by his current body. The pale chalk against green was a stark contrast to the numbers written in scavenged charcoal against concrete, but it still did nothing to help. As he stared at the writing, he could almost see the fractured concrete instead of his walls, could feel the smudges of charcoal on his fingers as he wrote and erased, wrote and erased. Black, burnt wood scribbling against the remnants of his temple of knowledge, his only outlet. His only hope. He clenched his hand against the bed, only to feel the hard edges of a book in his fist. Vanya's book. How could he forget? The only remnant of his family. He needed to write his new developments in the book once he was done testing them on the walls, needed Vanya to check and make sure it made sense. She would tell him if he was right. She and Delores. Once he finished writing, he would show her and correct it as needed. Delores was knocking on the table, a rhythm he didn't recognize. Perhaps she was composing? He would ask later. For now he needed to finish this, find where he had left off and continue, and then he could--
“Five?” A hand waved before his eyes, almost hitting his outstretched arm. What? No, ignore it, he needed to finish. The charcoal was gone from his hand. Wait.
What?
The writing before him was white on green. The hand before him was moving.
He blinked, and his mind slammed back into the present. “Fiiive, buddy. Back with us now.” Klaus's voice rang in his small room. Five was seated on his bed, hand outstretched loosely before him. There was no book in his other hand, only clenched blankets. Oh. With a slight stutter in his movements, he turned to Klaus, trying to drag himself fully to the present as his hand dropped to his side. “You good?” Klaus's eyes watched him carefully, as if trying to scan him for weakness.
“I--” Five paused, clearing his throat. Shit.
Shouldn't he be honest? Hell, he had just lost himself in the past again, been dragged back simply by the writing on his wall. He… Oh, it was a bitch to admit, wasn't it? He wasn't alright. Plus, he did owe them an explanation.
Oh, Delores would be having a field day if she were here to see him.
“...Not exactly.” Klaus raised his eyebrows, perhaps in surprise that Five had been honest, but sat beside him without a sarcastic comment. “Where's Diego?”
“Downstairs. I wanted to talk to you alone.” Ah. Klaus paused, then, softening his voice, asked, “Were you having a flashback?” That word again. Five didn't know why he was so opposed to it; perhaps it was the implication of sickness that always came with it. The implication if an issue he most definitely had. It was harder to deny when he used the proper words for it, instead of dancing around it with descriptions and asides.
“Yeah.” He sighed softly. “When I was there, I lived in the library. The husk of it. I didn't want to write on the books, so I wrote on the walls. The, uh…” He jerked his head to the side, gesturing at his walls. “It reminded me of it.”
“Ah.” Klaus nodded, and Five dropped his gaze, chin still resting on his knee. Picking absently at the blanket, he waited for Klaus to continue. “You've been dealing with this for a while, right?”
“Since I came here.” Since he had returned to this unscathed world, since he had returned to his 13 year old body. Since his mind had realized he was no longer trapped on a dead planet, nor in the confines of an organization of death.
“Why don't you want to talk about it?” Five looked to his brother again.
“I already have to relive it when I don't want to. Why would I bring it up more?” Klaus nodded, conceding the point. Looking back at the blanket, he muttered, “I'd rather forget it all happened.” It would be so much easier.
“Getting drunk isn't going to help, you know.” Five snorted.
“I'm not dumb, Klaus. You're preaching to the choir. But at least it makes it go away.” He paused. “Family resemblance, huh?” Terrible.
“Yeah, definitely.” Klaus huffed out a short laugh. “Ben was saying earlier that if he needs to help another brother not be an addict he's going to drag us both to the afterlife with him. Probably best not to test that.” They lapsed into a comfortable yet tense silence for a minute, a waiting game of who would be the first to speak again. Finally, Five exhaled slowly, still staring at the blanket.
“I keep seeing things as they were then. Just… ashes, blizzards of ash and debris. Bodies. Rubble. It was so smoky I couldn't breathe for a good few years when the wind blew wrong. It was like the fires just… never went out. I'm surprised the air was still breathable. I… I had scars from how hot and dry the air was. And the…” He shuddered, remembering what he had screamed earlier that day. “Your bodies. They were… buried in the rubble.” An odd, clinical detachment, similar to what had happened earlier before he was so rudely yanked back into his emotions, overcame him. All too clearly, he recalled the corpses, dried blood caked on them, covered in dust from the fallen building. At first, they had began to decompose, but the smoke in the air had done something odd, preserving them halfway. It had been… It had been awful. Every time he passed, he had checked on the state of his siblings with a morbid curiosity. He had pulled them from the rubble, lined them up together before the horrendous course of decomposition had begun; One, Two, Three, Four. Blank spaces beside them for Six and Seven. He had protected them as they disintegrated and fermented from cockroaches, which seemed to be the only thing left on the earth aside from him and Delores. When the remains of their tissue had begun to harden from the smoke, the bugs had given up. The smell had become nothing to him; he would sit with their remains and read, murmur to them his plans and equations. Eventually, though, the elements had chipped away at what was left of his family until nothing had remained. At that point, he had left, too, explored the remainder of his world before taking refuge in the library for good.
“Five?” Gentle tapping on his shoulder. Startled, he looked up at Klaus. “You left again.”
“Oh.” He hadn't thought he had. “Sorry.”
“It's okay.” They sat in silence again, before Klaus cleared his throat. “Do you think you would talk to me again sometime? Just… I know that talking about it sucks. Believe me, I know. But it does feel good to.. I don't know. Not keep it all in.” An olive branch had been extended; after a moment, he took it. He was grateful to his brother, though he would never truly let him know how much. It was lonely after the world ended. Maybe having someone who could have a different point of view would be… nice.
“I'd like that.”