Chapter Text
Ben finds Five in the library.
It’s bright when he steps in, light streaming through the clear upper windows and straining through the stained glass below. This is the first time that Ben’s been in the library in over a decade but it looks like nothing has changed. The thought is more comforting than it should be. Dust floats past his face, lazy and uninhibited-- too gentle for this house-- and it’s so beautiful and mesmerizing that he almost forgets what he’s doing here.
Almost. Until a throat clears from behind the stack of books to the left and Five calls out, “Who’s there?”
And it should be so easy for Ben to open his mouth to call back, to say it’s just me, don’t worry, but somehow the words-- all possible words-- get lodged in his throat. He’d thought that after Allison this would be easier, but with Five it’s just… different. Five hadn’t been there when Ben had died.
The whole family may have lost Ben, but Ben had lost Five first.
“I saw the light shift in the window,” Five’s saying. “Klaus, if that’s you again, I told you that I don’t have time for--”
And then Ben rounds the corner, and his first thought is where did he get a butter knife from? followed closely by is that a wagon?? And then, god, he’s so small. Which, it’s not like he didn’t know that already; Ben has been around since Five’s come back. But something about having a solid body of his own drives the point home. Five is so, so much smaller than he should be, and this isn’t what it should feel like to stand next to him again. This isn’t what it would feel like to stand next to him again, if they’d grown up together like they should have.
Ben feels sick.
“-- You’re not Klaus.”
Ben shakes his head.
They stare at each other for a moment. Five clutches the butter knife tighter, twitches the book he’s holding in the other hand up toward his chest, as if he imagines that Ben will try to take it if he doesn’t.
“Is Klaus here?” Five finally asks. He chances a glance behind him, lip curled in disgust, as if he thinks that he’ll find Klaus there, ready to jump out of a cake or something. Surprise.
Ben shakes his head again, and at Five’s raised eyebrow, he shrugs. Klaus doesn’t need to be here for this anymore, hasn’t needed to be for a while, but it’s not like they keep Five up to date on their training so of course he wouldn’t know that.
Five considers him for another moment. Then he seems to relent, lowering his knife. After a moment he sighs and tosses it into the back of the wagon with a clatter. “Huh,” he says. He folds his now empty hand into his pocket, then folds his face into his trademark expression. “And you want what from me?”
Ben blinks, taken off guard. That’s a question he didn’t expect he’d have to answer, somehow. What does he want? Is he meant to want something? He hadn’t considered that maybe Five wouldn’t want to see him.
Well, he had considered it, if he were being honest, but had hoped that he’d be wrong.
So he shrugs again, feeling helpless next to this small, time-capsuled version of what once was his brother, but is now, he realizes suddenly, a fifty-something year old man who could’ve killed him with that butter knife and who probably has killed people with that butter knife and who Ben knows absolutely nothing about.
Five sighs when Ben doesn’t give him an answer, blowing air through his lips. “Fine. Then I suppose you’ll follow me?”
Ben nods. He’s not even sure what he’s agreeing to, really, and his legs are telling him to run, to get out of there, and this is maybe the first time ever that he actually begins to wish that he wasn’t tied to this stupid plane of reality because then he could just pop out of there and pretend that none of this had ever happened.
But, he thinks, as he scrubs a building tear out of his eye when Five turns to grab the handle of his wagon, maybe this is okay too. All he really wants is to be near Five, right? So he’ll make the best of this.
Except Ben’s an idiot, and he’s always been clumsy, and now he’s not used to having feet that touch things, so the first step he takes he trips right over Five’s little wagon full of books and goes sprawling.
“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles, catching himself on the edge of a shelf. It’s a wonder his survival instincts are still intact. But shit, what if he’d wrecked any of Five’s books? He looks up to check, heat flushing through his body, when he catches Five’s expression.
And then the handle of the wagon drops.
Five’s eyes are huge and watery and he’s frozen where he stands, mouth agape, edge of the wagon handle resting on his shoe. “Ben?” he whispers, and Ben has just enough time to note that everyone sure seems to like whispering his name now that he’s dead before he realizes what’s going on.
That was the first time he’d spoken, since he’d shown up. And the first time he’d touched anything.
“Yeah.” It comes out sandpaper thin and rough but it’s audible, and that’s enough to make Five blink.
“Shit. I thought you were just--” Five cuts himself off, waving his hand like he’s dismissing the words. He glances around the room absently as if searching for something and then shakes his head, turning to look Ben in the eye. His mouth is a line. Solemn. “I didn’t know. I should have known.”
“No, it’s okay, I should’ve, uhm, I should’ve said something. Sooner.” It’s not the first time that Ben has considered that maybe Klaus isn’t the only one who sometimes sees things-- sees people-- that aren’t really there. But now he feels the weight of that truth dawn on him, and the sadness that claws up his throat is enough to make him choke on it.
“How-- how are you here?”
“Klaus and I have been practicing,” Ben offers. He pulls his arms across his chest, and the leather around his shoulders bunches and pulls uncomfortably, limiting his range of motion. “I can be solid now, without him in the room.”
Five steps forward. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck, it’s really fucking you.”
“Language,” Ben whispers, and then he’s crying. He’s crying for real, like a whole-ass child, standing in front of this stranger who is his brother and his arms itch to reach out, to touch, to grab Five in a hug, but he’s not really sure if he’s allowed. He’s not sure what to do with himself, with this body that he’s allowed to have for these pockets of time that can’t possibly make up for everything that he’s lost.
“I’ve missed you,” he says. The words are foolish, inadequate, but they’re all that’ll come out. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve, blinking back the blurriness because he wants to see this. Wants to see Five-- his brother-- and god, why does this hurt so much? He’s had years to mourn. Weeks to get used to Five being back. To Five being different. This was a sealed wound. Wasn’t it?
Five regards his tears, watches the movement of his sleeve as he scrubs furiously. There’s an understanding in his eyes that’s far too gentle and far too knowing not to reveal his age.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, and pulls Ben into a hug.
And it’s ridiculous, because Ben is two-solid-fucking-feet taller than Five, but somehow he’s the one being hugged. And he buries his face in Five’s hair and reminds himself to breath out through his mouth so he doesn’t get snot in it because he’s pretty sure even this nicer version of Five would never forgive him for that.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you passed,” Five says. “I should’ve been there.”
“I’m sorry that I died when you were gone.”
Five snorts. “Idiot,” he chides, pulling back to smack Ben on the arm. He shakes his head, staring down at his feet.
He looks guilty, and he shouldn't. He shouldn't.
Ben grins as something occurs to him to try, and as he speaks, something soft and light flutters into his chest and he wonders if this is the first time he's actually taken a breath since he died. “I know you are," he hedges, "but what am I?”
It works. Five makes a guttural choking noise, rearing back in indignant shock like Ben had comes from the afterlife specifically to slap him in the face. “You- you can’t--” But then, miraculously, his face splits and he laughs. It's surprisingly high and soft but exactly as Ben remembers it. “I hate you. I absolutely hate you. I feel like you should know that.”
Ben ruffles his hair. “I love you too, baby bro.”
This time, when Five’s head snaps up in indignation, butter knife somehow having reappeared in his hand, Ben has the good sense to duck.