Archive of Our Own ^beta

The energy is - as it always has and always will be - sweeping through his veins, through his muscles and all the important anatomical bits that lie home under his skin. Most often than not, a gentle throb of power, thrumming as noticeably and with as much reliability as his heartbeat - barely noticed, barely even a thought in the corners of his mind, but always working nonetheless, an unmistakable part of his body, unrelenting and unfailing. A gentle pulsation, as vital and as noticeable to Five’s being as oxygen is to the lungs - unnoticeable, barely even thought of in the common thoughts one would think in a day - yet disastrous if gone. Of course, Five strongly doubted that losing that gentle, reassuring heartbeat of energy in his veins would cause him any serious harm, the thought of living, carrying out normal activities and duties without it seemed as foreign as driving a car with no wheels. Impossible, of course, but more nonsensical and confusing than anything.

But this energy is different, in a way.

The gentle, unwavering presence of this energy wasn’t foreign to him per say. No - it has been warming his veins and soothing his soul for as long as he can remember. The gentle thrum being the focus of many of his sleepless nights - barely old enough to clamber into the mass expanse of quilts and blankets of his twin sized bed unassisted, curled up into a ball trying to escape the heavy imposition of the darkness. Shadows twisting into all sorts of bedtime monsters and harmless coats hung on the back of his bedroom door morphing against the logic of a child’s brain into horrors that were so dastardly, they failed to even form a definitive shape. Just a mass of terror, a vaguely dark shape which creeps into Five’s tightening lungs, strangling him of his cries of help. The volume of silence twisting into harsh whispers and intangible creaks caused by invisible creatures with no footprints or corporeal weight. Heavy panting of a child in a world of nighttime terrors growing louder on themselves, puffing from his lungs and escaping from behind his laps, airing themselves in the dark and being tainted by the blackened horror of the night, creeping behind his self and panting with threats in his ear. The only piece of Five which was unable to be blackened and contorted to horrors in the night was the small beat of his energy. Like silk falling from a marble sculpture, or the delicacy of powder puffing from the lid of talcum powder,  like the feeling of sitting in a patch of evening sunlight through a large window. A calm, undeniably soft presence in his body which, as unimposing as it is, seemed to web comfort through the knots in his stomach and shushed his spasming lungs when it was focused on. A calming energy, unwilling to cause disruption until called upon, the soft pulsation under his skin acting as a soothing band for his anxieties, as the whispers and the empty footsteps fell into silence, as the looming figures were outlined as but pieces of furniture and clothing. As the looming weight of the darkness was lifted, and the night became less of a pitch black horror and more similar to a navy night, glittered with stars with the moon watching over the young boy, now drifting to sleep.

(In the bedroom one floor down, Klaus’ nightmare had come to its natural end.)

The consistency, unwavering in nature, Five considered to be as much part of himself as his heartbeat. As Five grows, finally able to reach the cupboards as his legs become longer and his face slowly begins to lose the baby fat on his cheeks and his mind grows sharper, Five grows to understand less about it. The soft beat, as gentle as dropping a blade of grass into a pond, continued on, unphased as ever when a loud bang had startled him from making a sandwich dutifully in the kitchen and he found himself, eyes wide in shock, holding onto an open jar of peanut butter in Allison’s bathroom - ripping a scream from both of them as Allison pushed him out of the shower and onto the slippery tile of the floor, clutching the curtain around herself, both their faces flushed. As Five lay there, partly soaked, holding a watery jar of peanut butter in his sister’s steam-filled bathroom, head spinning and stomach lurching both from the fear that comes from blinking and opening the fabric of space into a room two floors away from where you had been prior and the discomfort deep in his unsettled stomach of ripping through the delicate folds of space (which Five will find himself almost immune to in the future), a new feeling had bristled under his skin.

At first - he had placed it as a feeling solely dedicated to blinking into his sister’s shower - which he had been very close to asking said sister to rumour the memory out of his head. A nauseating level of mortification hitting him whenever he and Allison crossed paths for several weeks, both unable to meet each other in the eye, neither completely sure as to what had happened - and Five definitely too embarrassed to bring it up to his Father or attempt to try it again, no matter how many times he found himself wondering what had happened.

(Five found his stomach twisting with the feelings of mortification before he had even noticed Allison standing outside his field of vision.)

The second time it had happened - it being Five finding himself blinking through space into a different place than he had been standing -  he had felt it again. A bristling, restless type of energy, like pins and needles on a phantom limb, a ghostly prickling and bristling, drawing attention without necessarily demanding it. Five had considered it was the feeling of adrenaline, a hormone released under circumstances of fear to provoke the fight or flight response, they had not yet been trained for missions, too young to be able to understand the depths of their powers, and definitely too young to have full control over them. Five, who was the other half of the late bloomers had been sparring with Vanya, who had yet to discover her powers as well. Vanya moved with all the intent of a docile mouse, seemingly having to go through a great deal of mental turmoil to even lift her fist, even as Five swiped her hands away with precision, like performing a carefully choreographed scene they had both been rehearsing since they were born. Five’s attention usually dipped between his siblings during spars with Vanya, not having to focus much to block her docile kicks and fleeting punches.  Diego’s knives were whistling through the air like arrows, powerful and demanding of attention. Dull thuds echoed through the bare training room, bouncing off the cold walls and back into Five’s curiosities. Every so often, the dull thud of Diego’s knife hitting the wooden targets would fill the air -targets which were sporadically plastered all over the walls of the training room, red and white circles contrasting the weathered beige - it looked a little tacky Five had thought. It was a sound that Five was so accustomed to hearing on these daily group training sessions, Five could probably pick the sound out of one hundred other types of wood being struck by Diego’s knife. A soft, corkboard-like wood let dull thuds sound out, warm and unthreatening, never once throwing any of them off of their training.

Until Diego missed.

The dull bang of Diego’s knife thumping unceremoniously against the wall had made both Five and Vanya miss a beat in their movements, leading Vanya to land a fairly weak punch on Five’s arm. She apologised profusely, spilling from her mouth as though they had been building up for years and the gates had just opened. Five waved her off, not even having been phased by Vanya’s weak punch in the slightest. They continued sparring, Vanya holding back even more than she had been prior, frowning in apology everytime she raised a meek fist. Her movements were slow, Five felt as though he was dancing with a coma victim, but the remark died on his tongue, as he chose to focus on Diego’s throwing. Diego hadn’t missed such a basic throw in years , which Luther - who was sparring feveriently with a panting and red-faced Klaus in the opposite corner to Five - was none too quick to mention.

Diego sneered back a response and sent a knife cutting through the air into a target several feet from Luther. Five continued to block Vanya, Luther was just egging him on, he thought. No need to get involved - Diego and Luther were seemingly always in a competition these days, riling each other up and up and up until someone blows - more often than not, Diego lost his temper first, then the rest of his siblings are either running to avoid the shrapnel, or picking up the pieces and trying to avoid any hurt feelings.

Pogo instructed them all to rotate partners, letting Vanya - whose face was still painted in a guilty look sit down for a few minutes, Five felt the need to let her know that her punches were so weak that he doubted they would hurt even if she wanted them to. Vanya walked away looking better, but still conflicted. Klaus all but collapsed in Ben’s general direction, a breathless plea to not push him as hard as Luther had. Luther had eyed Diego in challenge, before his eyes swept almost subconsciously towards Allison, and it was as if he had forgot Diego even existed at all, marching towards Allison with a goofy puppy-dog look on his face.

Diego fumbled a little with removing the straps on his harness, which sat rather unflatteringly over his sweater vest, the leather bands restricted his movements in sparring so he usually just sparred with the knife that was strapped to his right calf, since it didn’t impact his movement and also it was rather time-consuming to remove. Five waited with some impatience as Diego eventually made his way over to him, stretching his underdeveloped muscles in preparation. The two barely made eye contact before getting into positions, eyeing each other up as though they were both predators eyeing their prey.

If sparring with Vanya was like sparring with a docile mouse, then sparring with Diego was like wrestling a cat. Diego was agile and quick, able to read Five’s body movements and dodge in the same beat, wrapping himself around Five’s punches. Five threw a punch, Diego quickly grabbed his arm and yanked him towards himself and then some, elbowing Five on the way past in just the right place to wind him. Five liked sparring Diego, even though it more often than not ended with no clear winner, a belly of bruises and a pair of busted lips. It was calculated and lithe, Diego was slippery - similar to Klaus, but Klaus was more chaotic, just throwing his body any which way to avoid getting hit, and throwing himself any which way and even biting his teeth at whatever found itself near his face, anything to hurt as much as possible, as quickly as possible - no, Diego was calculated. Diego danced around Five with expertise, jostling Five off balance, quick jabs to pressure points, distracting Five with a punch before kicking his legs from under him.

But Five was a decent fighter himself, so he thought. Not having any powers yet to train meant his focus was on sparring, hours upon hours of training with Luther had left Five with the ability to take a beating, Luther’s heavy punches were unforgiving, even catching the tail end of one of Luther’s fists felt like a thirty pound weight being dropped onto your stomach. Training with Allison had left Five with eagle eyes - Allison fought dirty, distracting her opponent, fake tapping-out, psyching the boys out by pretending to raise a knee harshly between their legs, causing them to flinch and quickly rendering them useless within that second of flinching. Sparring Klaus left Five with speed, hitting hard and hitting fast before Klaus could seemingly vanish from under him. Sparring Ben was more a training of stamina than anything, Ben’s powers were as unstable as a candle in gale force winds, as soon as Ben’s blood got pumping - either through adrenaline or fear - his eyes would gloss over and his Horror would come hurtling out. Needless to say, that was to be avoided. So hour-long sessions of wrestling, soft punches left both of them red-faced and on the verge of collapsing most days.

Yes, Five was a decent fighter. Diego was about to pounce, to knock Five to the floor more than likely, as Diego leaned all his weight on his back leg, about to push off,  Five swept his foot under him, sending Diego twisting to the ground, trying to land face down- so he could push himself back up within seconds of falling, no doubt. Diego wasn’t slow - he had begun to recognise Five’s moves. Not that it mattered, as Five quickly led a kick into the soft part of Diego’s stomach, winding him  and leaving him gasping on the floor with his arms trapped under his torso. Five plonked himself down on Diego’s back and kept him from moving, smiling smugly down at Diego.

Luther made a comment about Diego’s wriggling. Diego was wriggling furiously under Five, trying to displace him so he could get up. But Five had excellent balance, shifting his weight in accordance to Diego’s movements with ease, letting a biting chuckle out at his brother’s expense. The laughter of his siblings sang through the room, like tittering birds, short little buffs of laughter at Diego. This wasn’t really fair of course, but Five liked to play with his food a little, it wasn’t often he was able to put himself in this position when sparring so he’ll take his peaches when they’re ripe.

Diego growled under him, sounding similar to a dog before it closes its maw around your arm.

Five felt a headache blistering.

The bubbling pain in Five’s skull simmered, it was hot and Five could feel his face heat up with it. The distraction was enough for Diego to dislodge himself from Five.

Diego made quick work of knocking Five off him, Five tumbling to the side of Diego like a rider being thrown off of an unruly horse, his face already snapping, deep in concentration, assessing his possibilities from here to overpower Diego again. Five didn’t get the chance, as Diego kept his momentum going and rolled on top of Five, knees at either side of his hip and his legs pinning Five’s down, Diego using his ankles as pressure to the side of Five’s calves to limit his movement.

Five’s headache grew worse, and he grew quickly impatient of this position, unable to kick Diego off his legs, pushing at Diego’s thighs proved fruitless as Diego glowered at him for even trying. Diego’s lip twitched in a frown as Klaus made a dirty comment about Diego’s positioning, his face heating up and fists tightening.

Five’s headache grew worse.

Five made a biting comment about Diego - who was just sitting on top of him - scowling. ‘You won’t be scowling at me when I kick your ass like last time.’

‘You didn’t b-beat me.’ Diego’s tone as sharp as his knives, even over his awkward stumble, cutting out of his mouth like it hurt. Diego twisted his fists in Five’s shirt, lifting his back off of the mat, pulling his face towards his sharply, eyes digging daggers into Five. Five glared him down for a moment, not pushing Diego off of him, letting him play Alpha for a moment. Five smirked at Diego, a condescing twist of his lips that his siblings hated so much.

‘Tell me how it went down then, because I remember you running off crying to Mom.’ Five didn’t miss a beat, a sharp breath of a laugh escaping him, head ringing in pain. ‘Or should I say; crying to Muh-Muh-Mom

Diego’s face twisted into a pained expression, a wounded look similar to an old dog being traded in for a little puppy, before quickly shifting to fury, barely hesitating before crashing his head into Five’s nose.

Five’s headache exploded behind his skull before Diego had even made contact. Like Five’s skull was tipped full of razor blades and rocks and set to vibrate. His head thumping like the bass at a rock concert, pumping through Five’s veins like poisoned blood, flushing his skin and making his fists shake.

He barely registered the blow to his nose, taking advantage of Diego’s recoil to send his elbow crushing into his cheek, not having the space or mobility to throw a proper punch. It seemed to be enough, sending Diego’s momentum to the side of Five. Five didn’t miss a beat before clamboring after him, throwing several punches to Diego - not really caring where they landed before Diego raised leg between himself and Five, kicking Five away from him, catching Five on the throat.

Five recoiled and gripped his throat, trying to save his breath from escaping him, matching Diego’s movement to raise to his feet. The two boys stared each other down, both shaking with venom as their siblings watched on, biting their lips,words caught in their throat - afraid that if they were to speak the  two feral boys would ravage their attacks onto them.

Five broke the standstill, broke their mirrored stillness and mirrored glare by spitting the blood which had made its way from his nose to his mouth on the floor, aiming just a few inches short of Diego’s shoes. An invitation, spitting at Diego’s feet in challenge and the message was clearly received. Diego growled and charged at Five, all -like grace gone. The two boys threw punches and pulled at each other, the cold calculations of each other’s movements long gone. This was pure brawn, punching wherever they could, when they could, looking more like a normal pair of brothers in a scrap rather than the little assassins-in-training that they were.

Diego landed a punch on Five’s nose, sending a new spray of blood splattering them both - not looking too much unlike how Ben would look in several years on the way home from missions. Five yelled in pain, briefly pulling away and tenderly pressing on the cartilage, fingers, dripping in blood. Five himself, usually composed and taking pride in his ability to remain calm, not giving into the emotions and brawn that clouds the senses when sparring, felt the remaining composure that he possessed slip out of his now bloodied hands, wanting nothing more than to punch the teeth out of Diego’s shit-eating grin.

Five let out a deep growl, pushing towards Diego and grappled Diego by the side of his head, his short fingernails cutting into Diego’s face as he struggled, with Diego more or less in place, Five swiftly kneed Diego in the stomach, sending him lurching back towards the wall. Five grinned as he watched Diego struggle to catch his breath, the cries of his siblings and Pogo not even reaching his ear. The heavy bassline of the familiar energy was thumping in his veins, thumping in time with his headache. The energy coursing through him made him restless, fists twitching as he watched Diego, braced against the wall, his face flinching in pain with every breath.

Five’s vision was clouded with anger, all his sights on Diego, his energy was thumping morse code in his muscles to go just hit him again . Five took a step forward, causing Diego’s head to shoot up - meeting Five’s eyes in an acid glare. Five smirked, bouncing on his heels a little before spurring himself forward.

‘Diego, no!’

Five barely caught the shimmer of a steel blade cutting towards him before his veins exploded and he found himself some ten feet away, dropping onto Luther’s dumbbell rack as a heavy thud of a knife hitting cork board-like wood rang out like a shot, even over the noise of Luther’s weights crashing to the floor, with Five on top of them.

The silence was heavy, broken only by Diego’s heavy breathing and Five’s  low groaning. The throbbing of his headache had settled a bit, replaced instead by the tingling sensation he had experienced last time he found himself blinking through space. The tingling was harsh this time, like hundreds of bee stings and insect bites burning his blood, burning through his body. Five felt the cloud of rage lift off of him, his consciousness parting through the waves of fury like Moses parting the Red Sea as he heard Diego make a choking sort of noise from the wall, Five wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a sentence or not.

Five briefly wonders whether him shifting through space was ever going to be a conscious decision or if it was purely left to states of panic and fear. As the thumping of energy softens, almost back to being as reluctant to be felt as usual and the bristling of his hands had stopped until they felt just a little numb. Five swallowed the bile in his throat, his stomach lurching the same as last time. He briefly wonders how long it will be before he inevitably vomits due to the unsettlement in his stomach.

Pogo had been quick to order Luther to help Five to the Medical Bay, where Mom set his broken nose and cleaned the blood off his face. An unease weighed on Five’s shoulders for the week after, his memory of the fight with Diego was foggy, he was barely able to recall much after pinning Diego to the ground, all he recalls is the pain of his headache and the heavy, angry thumping in his blood. He wonders if the act of fighting had pumped enough adrenaline in order to get his powers flowing - it would explain why his powers thumped and surged when he and Diego began to fight.

Five crosses Diego with calculation for a while, searching Diego’s face for any indication of hurt feelings. Five, of course, didn’t harbour any distrust or anger towards his brother, Diego was known to have an explosive temper. If anything, Five pinched himself for taunting him, and especially for losing his own temper, it bubbling from him like a pot overboiling, bubbling and bubbling on the surface until he boiled over, hurting Diego unfairly in the process.

Five spoke to Grace about it briefly in passing one morning, expressing his desire to apologise to Diego without having to actively admit fault. More of a sign of peace than anything else. Grace had woke Five and Diego up twenty minutes early for breakfast the next morning, setting a pair of milkshakes in front of their seats at the table, giving Diego a gentle kiss on the forehead before walking out.

Five and Diego had no hard feelings.

(Diego had a punching bag installed in his room to work through his anger issues whilst Five was getting cleaned of blood).

Five hadn’t been able to avoid his Father finding out his powers after the incident with Diego, after all, Pogo seemed to be under contract to tell their Father more or less everything. So it came with a bubbling of nerves in his stomach when his Father announced - curtly and unprovoked, that Five was to join him after dinner for one-on-one training. Eyes flickered from their food to Five all across the silent dinner table, boring holes into him with their eyes - making Five feel like a spectacle - so he decided to keep focused on the meal in front of him. He responded with a confirmation to his Father and continued eating his dinner. Except the odd twisting of his stomach made his food sit uncomfortably, twisting in time to the usually comforting thump of his powers.

His stomach twisted all through dinner, rippling over itself like an ocean on a windy day, the sharp currents underneath dragging his guts in and out of themselves. He found himself not trying to eat his dinner, but rather trying to focus on ignoring his stomach, which is a ridiculous concept in and of itself - how can you truly ignore something by actively ignoring it? The pink elephant dilemma. Instead of swallowing the food that Mom had so carefully cooked for him, he was swallowing the lump in his throat - a heavy weight in his gullet that felt as though his vocal cords were being gently, but steadily squeezed.

The usual scraping of cutlery against plates and the quiet hum of quiet chewing felt mumbled, like Five was listening through a puddle of water, still audible and still there , just less noticeable. Five felt as though he was sitting half a room away, taking a quick glance to Diego beside him to reassure himself that he hadn’t blinked across the room without noticing. Five briefly wonders if he might, the steady thrum of energy beneath his skin had began to ache in his chest, making the lump in his throat constrict even tighter.

He spends the rest of the dinner with his hands folded in his lap, staring down at his plate, trying to ignore the dull ache stemming through his chest. Training with his Father goes much the same, only with more bristling, sharp energy flirting with the palms of his hands, only to snuff out like a flame that had been blown too hard. Five tried to move his body through space as hard as he could on demand - proving unsuccessful. The ache in his chest and the constricting of his throat prevented him from being able to focus, he made a decision not to tell his Father that though, partly because he knew that it would be seen as a weak excuse rather than an explanation, partly because he doubted he could have forced any words out of his throat at this moment.

After a surprisingly but thankfully uneventful training session, Five seemed to ghost through the halls, barely feeling his feet touch the ground, the thump of his energy slower and shallower than usual. HIs hands were numb, numb in a sense like it felt like he was underwater - hands twisting doorknobs to open up the hall of the second floor feeling clouded. It was an odd sensation, but it was preferred over the almost burning sensation of trying to force his hands to open a rift in space, the usual sharp pins and needles evolving into needles jabbing into his skin, it had felt like he was getting his tattoo again - only all over his hands.

He found himself pausing mid-step, having only walked half-way down the hall. The dull ache in his chest became suffocating, he tugged at his tie to allow him more room to breathe - not that it helped lessen the slow dull thudding in his chest. It hardly hurt, a mild but tangible ache, like a bruise after failing to dodge one of Luther’s punches - a dull and not really necessarily painful feeling, but constant, a reminder in the form of a dull ache, just causing enough discomfort under his skin to be noticed. Despite not being overly painful, the ache in his chest surfaced a lump in his throat, choking his breath every time it left his lungs, stuttering out of him.

The energy in his skin was dull, slow, like the heartbeat of a dying man. Long, slow pulses that if Five hadn’t been searching for, he would have thought his energy had all but been drained from him. Five briefly wondered if he could concentrate on his powers, hone in on the dull ache and force it into his hands. He failed to concentrate on his ever present dull thump of energy when he was training, focusing only on the bristling energy in his fingertips. He brushed his hair from his eyes - slightly matted with sweat - choosing to focus on the slow beats of energy in his chest.

He shuddered out a few breaths, forcing them to come out flat. He shut his eyes and imagined himself alone. Alone from everything, fading out of the hall he was standing in, sweaty and slumped, fading into the empty place he flickered through in the couple of times he had jumped - he briefly theorized that the empty space was a place outside of space. Or maybe it was all of space, at once? He notes to himself to address these questions at a later date. Five reached inside of himself, sifting through his body, all the aches and pains of his body, all the corporeal feelings that come with being alive and having a body, being aware of your body in the space you take up, being aware of the feeling of breathing, hearing the quietness of the house, even seeing the backs of your eyelids. Five sifted through all of that, like an explorer cutting through brambles in the forest, in search for what he needed, then he found it. Deep in his chest, a dull thud. The small, almost unnoticeable thumping that Five had known all of his life seemed to swallow him. The energy was big, loud, powerful. It took him by surprise, feeling what he had felt all of his life, but more. Heavier, more demanding of attention.

Five found himself gravitating towards it, feeling around it with curiosity, feeling this strange, new potent aspect of the usually doe-like energy. He breathed in deeply, not really feeling the action of his diaphragm expanding and flattening, feeling the calm storm of the potential that was inside him, finding himself being drawn closer and closer, before giving it a gentle nudge, a gentle curiosity. To say it exploded would be dramatic, it wasn’t violent, it wasn’t an explosive example of god-like wrath and force - no, it was nothing like that but somehow, the free-flowing casualness in which that it spread through his body - it was as though Five had punctured the membrane of an undercooked egg, the yolk spilling out as if it hadn’t been aware it had been encased in the first place - seemed much more daunting. The energy rolled under his skin, filling his body, flushing through his stomach, down his thighs, webbing through his fingers - all feelings of numbness now drowned.

It was overwhelming. Five tried to slow the feeling down, feeling as though he was drowning inside of himself, tried to push the energy back into his chest but it was as fruitless as trying to cut through water with a knife and fork, the energy just casually spread itself around his efforts pushing. Five wasn’t panicking, he couldn’t feel much except for the overwhelming weight that had settled on his chest, he was suffocating.

Suddenly, his arm exploded in feeling and Five thought he would vomit up what little of his dinner that he had managed to eat, as all of the energy that had been drowning him, enveloping him, cutting him off from his own body, surged back into a space deep inside his chest, rushing so fast through him he feared it had taken the veins it surged through with it. He gasped violently and staggered from his stance as he finally found himself at place in his body again, feeling the sturdiness of the floor beneath his feet, feeling his sweaty skin under his Uniform, feeling the dull aches of his nose from Diego’s punch, feeling a tight grip around his upper arm, clinging to him as though whoever the hand belonged to was in fear of Five literally falling through the floor.

He blinked his eyes open, trying to blink away the clouds of his vision, only to be met with the concerned face of Klaus, whose face was twisted in a look of empathy and concern, but tender nonetheless, a friendly and open face. Klaus had always been the most open out of all of the siblings, sharing his feelings openly and without feeling the need to hide how he was feeling, even if he was painted weak for doing so. That would change in the years to come, of course.

‘Klaus?’ The words choked out of his throat, coming out sounding like wet sandpaper, he blinked and tried again, the words not sounding any better.

‘One-on-one training gets better. Well, it gets easier at least.’ Five blinked in confusion, eyes continuing to become clouded, no matter how much Five blinked the clouds away, training with Dad hadn’t went badly, not that it went overly well, it was hardly something that stuck out in his day at all and he told Klaus as much. Klaus shot him a look of confusion, head tilting.

‘Why are you crying then?’

Five, on instinct, brought his fingers to his cheeks, which were sure enough, wet. He blinked again and several droplets danced down to his fingertips. He continued to blink tears down his own face, as he recognized the choking in his throat as small sobs, being swallowed behind his teeth. The heavy feeling in his chest was swallowing his body, his entire body becoming heavy from an overwhelming feeling.

What was it? Sadness? Tiredness? Five wasn’t sure, he knew that whatever it was, he had no reason to be feeling as such. The day had been as underwhelming as a day in the Umbrella Academy could, confusion fluttered in his mind, undoubtedly showing on his face as well. Five excused himself from Klaus, shrugging off his hand, and skirting off to his room, more skittish than he would like to admit. He regarded his red, puffy eyes in the mirror, painted from the wet tracks that cut through his cheeks. It had been quite a while since he had seen what he looked like when he cried, he had almost forgotten. Five quickly gathered a clean Uniform and headed for the shower, to wash both the sweat and tears off of his body. Rambling into himself the possibilities that his power can cause mental upset, or emotional distress when exhausted. He would have to experiment he thought, as he left his room and his concerns in the privacy of his bedroom, the heavy weight on his chest settling - to be dealt with at a later date.

(Downstairs, Klaus wipes the tears off of Vanya’s face, telling her tales of how awful having powers actually is, how he wishes he had not had powers yet - like his littlest sister.)

Five remained aware of the strange energy thumping in him, no longer complacently recognising it, now cautious of its power and more importantly, its power. All the nights he stayed up late trying to figure out what exactly was coursing through him and how to tame it had lead him to a sea of questions with few answers. One thing he did figure out, through unravelling the mystery of moving through space in the blink of an eye, warping away in a blue warp of the air - is that he had been assuming the two vastly different energies within him were the same. After months of training, Five was now able to blink within the parameters of the house, the bristling feeling in his fingertips became familiar, and the nausea that had followed him blinking had for the most part, settled. The energy in his chest however, remained as much of a mystery as it always had.

As Five toyed with the power, blinking to the dining room just before his Father entered the room, blinking out of the shower into his room, even trying to blink during sparring - although under such fast-paced circumstances, it only worked about half the time - he had become slowly aware that the bristling in his hands was different than the gentle, looming thrum in his chest. He couldn’t explain it, but it was different. Related, possibly, he had yet to explore much into it, but it didn’t give a doubt in his head to say that he may have something else. Something that had yet to be explored - he hadn’t tried to coax anything out of it since the incident in the second floor hallway - but it left him restless at times, knowing that there was untapped potential thumping in his veins.

It kept him up fairly often since. The gentle thumping, gentle and usually soothing, doing nothing but reminding him that he should be delving into himself and discovering what had been settled in his bones for so long. If he did sleep, more or less every night he would shoot up in bed, nightmares tracing his brain, screams and moans falling away from his ears like a whisper caught in a draft, dissipating into the air in his room like there had been nothing there at all.

Tonight was one of those nights. The air heavy and the moon hung in the sky, a judge passing disinterest in the inky black sky, its judgement weighed heavy on Five’s shoulders, as he wiped the glistening moonlight off from his brow with the tails of his pyjama shirt, breathing deep into the fabric. The nightmares were fairly bad, but Five always found himself forgetting their contents as soon as he woke up, nothing but the ghost of screams in his ears and faceless eyes leering at him. They didn’t bother him much after he woke up, shaking the anxiety off from his shoulders and turning himself back over in bed - but Five rarely got back to sleep afterwards - spending his nights staring at the peeling beige wallpaper beside his bed, counting the nine scratches on the headboard of his bed - just as far into the corner and small enough to be noticed. Five rolled his eyes at them, an etch procured by Diego breaking into his room, marking everytime Diego had reigned victor in a sparring match.

Five could always tell if he was able to go back to sleep, and judging by his cricked neck and the lack of sleep fog clouding his brain, he let a heavy breath of air from his lungs and hoisted himself up. Taking a moment to open the heavy weights of his eyelids. He cracked his neck a little as he toed underneath his bed, bare feet searching with practiced efficiency. His feet found the slippers, soft and pliant,  making home of them not a moment before Five concentrated in bristling the energy in his hands, pulling open a hole in space and concentrating on the kitchen, in front of the refrigerator. A mere millisecond of the strange, emptiness of space displaced his guts before he felt the cold air of the kitchen nipping at his damp skin. The cold seemed to stick to his skin, leaving him feeling even more damp than he had been. He grimaced at the sensation of his pyjama bottoms sticking unpleasantly to his thighs.

He set about making his usual midnight snack - a peanut butter sandwich with a bar of chocolate settled between the slices of white bread. Five hated to admit it, but he had a sweet tooth. Loving the rush of sweetness whenever Mom put an extra sugar in his hot cocoa, or on the rare occasions where they would all sneak out for donuts at Griddy’s. He hummed happily to himself, blinking himself on top of the counter to reach the peanut butter  - which he knew that Luther always put on the top shelf to watch Five have to clamber onto the counter top and stretch himself to reach it. Luther’s face when Five had simply blinked onto the counter and back had been priceless - even if Five hadn’t yet got used to the feeling in his stomach yet and it made him unable to even eat the sandwich he had so delicately prepared for himself.

Five closed the bread over the bar of dark chocolate, wiping the trail of peanut butter from his finger onto his pants  - they would need to be washed in the morning regardless - and pressed down firmly on the sandwich, trying to compress the bread as much as possible, putting all of his weight onto the diabetic’s nightmare. He placed himself at the table, barely two bites in when he heard a familiar clumsy trail of heavy feet followed by a sharp gasp.

‘Jesus, Five.’

Five huffed in an imitation of laughter at having scared his oldest brother, for someone who could bench press three times his own weight, he was the easiest to frighten, which the rest of them found more endearing than funny most times - not that Five would say that to his face. Not out of fear of course, but the huffing that would ensue would probably give him a headache. Luther chatted aimlessly at Five as he bumbled around the kitchen, procuring himself a bowl of cereal. Not the sugary, colourful kind that Five would indulge in when given the chance, usually either late at night or if he has one-on-one training with Father later on, usually ending up vomiting shortly after returning to his room as his stomach gets jumbled about from jumping across the house dozens of times in a row. Five takes another bite from his sandwich, shaking the thought as Luther sits across from him - two seats down from Luther’s usual seat. Five quirks an eyebrow at this, but otherwise not really giving Luther much of his attention.

Five always found comfort in silence, too many voices overlapping his thoughts, overlapping the general noise of a house, pipes clacking, Mom cooking, Diego boxing, wood settling, all  usually left Five feeling overwhelmed, and usually gifted him with a throbbing headache. Different than the headache he had when he had fought Diego, more of an angry niggling at the side of his brain rather than the brain-rattling pounding he had got with Diego. So Five was always thankful with his siblings that respected his preference for peace, even if he would never admit it. Vanya was one of the best, happily reading with him as Five threw himself into Physics papers and confidential research that he managed to get his hands on, of course, Vanya’s playing was an exception. The gentle and mournful notes drowning out distractions, filtering through the house like a curious animal, cautiously scampering down the halls, peeking into their rooms and playing coy, sometimes being so timid you could barely hear it at all. Five always kept his door open a crack, just in case he missed it. If he heard Vanya playing he would usually find himself dragging a pillow down and sitting outside her door, reading with Vanya’s beautiful symphonies gracing his ears. Sometimes the others would join him, Ben would plop down on the floor opposite him, reading a book alongside Five, usually. Allison would stand at her door frame for a few minutes, before going back into her room to do whatever she had interrupted, leaving her door open a tad. Luther would tap or move his shoulders off-beat as he walked around the house. Klaus would listen to Vanya’s music differently, based on his mood it seems. Sometimes he would just crack his door open, softly and slowly, a clear indication he didn’t want to be bothered. Sometimes he would stand next to Vanya’s door, leaning over to read Five’s book and swaying in tune, if Klaus was in a good mood though, he would barge into the first of his sibling’s rooms his eyes laid on and drag them out into the hall, dancing wildly and laughing. Allison and Ben usually complied, even if Ben took a little convincing, but Diego and Luther usually took a lot of peer pressure.

Five barely hid his smile behind taking a drink of his water, remembering Luther being thrust out of his comfort zone, caught in Klaus’ hurricane of movement to Vanya’s timid playing, moving stiffly around the hall, seeming to be unaware how to properly move his limbs. Luther shovelled the Bran Flakes into his mouth like he was a man dying of starvation.

Ben joined him frequently on his night-time fuel up, Ben’s nightmares had been plaguing him for while - but Five never asked and Ben never answered, so Five would make them both hot cocoa - like Grace had taught him, even though Ben insisted it was just as good, Five knew nothing could beat Mom’s hot cocoa - as Ben sat restlessly in his seat, both of them finding some form of comfort in each other’s silence.

The rest of his siblings were usually fine, sometimes annoying. Diego would sit quietly for a while, before growing restless and shaking his leg, thumping his foot into the ground, or tapping his fingers against the nearest available surface, before getting too frustrated and left to go throw knives, or box, or fight with Luther - whatever it was that Diego did in his spare time. Allison would develop almost in reverse, sitting down with Five in the ballroom, or kitchen, and chatting at him, talking to him about new Artists she thinks that he’d like, or talking about Luther, before eventually settling down, happily humming as she painted her nails, or flipped through a magazine. Klaus was, well, Klaus. How much he irritated Five was based in the stars, Klaus flickering in and out of being mischievous - irritating Five just to get a reaction. Luther usually found silence uncomfortable, and vacated the room with a mumbled excuse.

This rang true as Luther shifted awkwardly in his seat, shoulders twitching uncomfortably as he moved, eyes catching Five’s as he took a bite out of his sandwich before darting downwards, as if embarrassed he had met Five’s eyes.

Five’s stomach lurched, as if trying to jump out of his belly button. He pressed a hand gently to it, trying to qualm its worries. Five, who was growing tired of Luther’s shuffling and clear discomfort, constantly swallowing words in his mouth, enquired what Luther was doing up. A fair question, since Five had never ran into Luther at this time of night, usually sleeping like a rock.

‘Mom says it’s growing pains.’ Five clicks his tongue in understanding, not that he can really empathize - Five was currently the shortest of the siblings, with Ben being an exception. Five didn’t respond beyond that, taking another large bite of his sandwich, his stomach lurching violently when he did. He swallowed it thickly, it settling heavily in his stomach, lurching with a steady thump.

Silence settles in the kitchen again, the only sound the clicking of Luther’s spoon against the ceramic bowl of his cereal. Five - whose stomach was still lurching, discomfort and bile creeping through his abdomen, gave up on his midnight sugar rush. Five glared at his sandwich, feeling betrayed. His food settled heavy in his stomach, burning through his skin.

Five rose from his seat, not even throwing the rest of his sandwich away and walked up to his bathroom, not trusting his stomach not to react if he tried to jump, he didn’t mention his departure to Luther. It was times like these that Five was thankful he was alone on the third floor - not only having one of the largest rooms, but having his own bathroom - as he locked the door behind him and immediately fell into the toilet and emptied his stomach into it, clutching the seat as he heaved, almost violently, as if his stomach was trying to jump out of his throat. His throat burned from throwing up stomach acid after a while, and he rested his head against the cool ceramic of the sink to his right, trying to calm the lurching in his stomach - which felt more like his energy lurching in his gut than anything else.

He groaned into the toilet as he thought back to his sandwich, his stomach immediately gifting him with more dry heaving.

(Three floors down, Luther grimaces in disgust as he throws Five’s sandwich in the trash for him, stomach bubbling in revulsion as he asks the empty kitchen how on Earth Five can stomach this crap.)

It took a few years, of doubts, of confusion, of Five having a deep settled sense of discomfort at having this untapped raw energy coursing through his veins. Years that had threw Five off his rhythm, emotions and feelings taking him by surprise - lurching him into violence, sorrow or whatever else had come his way. The mist of never truly knowing how he was feeling, or what his emotions were telling him had settled heavily on Five, clouding his understanding of what he was ever truly feeling - always doubting it. He stopped being taken by surprise when he would be overcome with random, violent bursts of anger, or when he would suddenly find tears streaming down his face and a deep settled sorrow in his chest. He just blinked up into his room and waited for it to pass.

Whenever he felt anything, anything he couldn’t explain from point A to point Z - he would blink away. Blink into his room and wait until he felt like his normal self. Back to the default emotion of nothing. His mood swings got worse as he hit puberty, finally catching up in height to some of his siblings. He was unpredictable to himself, always feeling everything so strongly, never having an explanation, which only irritated him further.

Anger didn’t bubble under his skin, blistering into a pounding headache, it didn’t rise like a dam overflowing - it exploded, suddenly and without any prompt. He would be sitting in his room, going over some work he had been sifting through in the late hours of the night when he suddenly explodes in fury, throwing himself out of his chair and tearing up all the paper littered on his desk, throwing his chair against the window, shattering the window and sending splinters over his floor, as glass sprayed around his room and under his socked feet, he would punch the wall, the pain in his knuckles not even registering as he tore up his room. Then, he would come down, a migraine so painful he couldn’t move, collapsing into the glass shards, cradling his head as the light from the broken window split into his head like a hacksaw, sawing his cranium open and stuffing him full of glass shards, sewing him up again with barbed wire.

Sadness didn’t choke him up, slowly letting tears blubber down his face in fat rivers as he massages the lump in his throat. It tied him down, grappled his ankles from the floor and dragged him limply to his bed, punching heavy sob after heavy sob from him, pulling tears from his eyes until they stain his pillow and his head is racked from sobbing. Then it sits on his chest, pushing him down in his bed for days at a time, starving him of anything that was outside the comforts of his duvet, blanking his mind and sucking out any thought in his heavy head - settling him to stare blankly at the ceiling.

Fear didn’t come in the form of harsh whispers after midnight, faceless screams raking through his sleep, leaving ghostly shivvers and a ghastly sheen on his body anymore. It was no longer solved by threading on slippers and sipping hot cocoa, it shot him out of training, blinking from underneath Vanya with a cry, finding himself violently shredding himself through space, blinking all over the house like an old movie, flickering in and out of reality, terror coursing through his veins. Blinking until he vomited in the attic, blinking down to his bedroom, then the kitchen then passing out on top of Allison’s dresser - shaking violently and covered head to toe in sweat, blinking only inches out of the grasp of whoever had tried to move him.

It was unbearable.

But he figured it all out.

He wasn’t proud of that. He wished he had no idea. He wished that the worst thing he had felt was the terror of horrors that failed to meet his senses, passing out in his own vomit.

They were on a mission when it had happened, all the hostages were safe. Five was beaming in that snide, proud way he does, already assuming his place at the finish line. Eager to please and deliver what justice he sees fit. His voice, not even fully broken yet, laughed lowly with mirth as he blinked out of the bullet path of two criminals, shooting each other in the stomach.

The Umbrella Academy. A team of super-kids. Trained to deliver justice. Number One, throwing criminals across the room as if they were as light as a disposable coffee cup, smiling proudly for the cameras. Number Two, stabbing anyone from any distance way, curving his knives through space, around corners, a deadly game of darts in school boy shorts. Number Three, whispering into towering men’s ears, manipulating them with a few words, controlling them with a smile on her face, The Umbrella Academy’s sweetheart, posing for cameras and gliding through interviews with boundless grace. Number Four, the little Seance - treading the line between life and death, the token rebel - capturing the hearts of fans everywhere with every sarcastic comment to a reporter or with every roll of his eyes, acting cheeky with criminals and playing with them as they were toys. Number Five, a deadly little thing, zapping through space, in and out of the path of bullets, disorienting opponents and dazzling onlookers, wearing his uniform with pride.

Number Six, announced deceased on September 2nd, 2003.

Number Six.

Ben.

Ben, forced into a room of criminals, forced to unleash the horror. He always hated it, he always cried after missions, sometimes silently at the table, sometimes small gulps of sorrow in the bath, sometimes inhumane wailing, only letting Klaus or Vanya into the privacy of his bedroom to comfort him. He hated it, watching those tentacles rip out of his stomach and through anyone in their line of sight, tearing them apart with frenzy, sometimes there wouldn’t be any bodies, just flakes of skin and bone and a sea of blood, seeping underneath the door, lapping at their shoes.

They were waiting, impatiently as Ben’s horror ripped through criminals, sending bits of liver and heart muscle clotting at the frosted window. The screaming had stopped, the squelching of limbs being juiced had ceased, the shadows of the horror pausing in mid-air, to be sucked back into Ben’s tiny body. How could such a tiny boy house such an ancient horror.

Well, Five supposes it couldn’t because it wasn’t seconds later that Ben started to yell, screaming for help. He couldn’t push them back, they wouldn’t go back. There was no one else for them to tear into.

Five felt panic flush his body like a fever, stomach churning in fear - he ran for the door, to get Ben out, if they knocked Ben unconscious, the Horror fell limp - they had done it before in training when Ben got too worked up, barreling towards Pogo before Luther sent Ben to the floor with a punch to the back of the head. Five could hear commotion behind him, as his siblings pushed forward behind him, Luther already had a fairly heavy mahogany desk raised above his head, prepared to throw through the glass.

But they were too late, the scream hit Five first.

Only it wasn’t really a scream. Five knew a lot of words to describe the noise people make before they’re killed, he’d heard them all. Quiet whimpers, desperate calls for mercy, screeches of fear, shouts of fury, animalistic gurgles, cries of sorrow. Five had heard them all, been the cause of a few, too. But this was different. There were no words to describe the noise that Ben made in the split second that the shadow of the horror had contorted around themselves and towards Ben. Five supposes, looking back, that it was a good thing that Ben was cut off from view, not even through frosted glass.  The noise was a primal cry, a choked sob, a scream filled with fear, pain, a cry for help, a prayer to whatever deity let this happen to a kid.

That noise, that loud, echoing, terrifying noise that had been ripped out of their tiny brother like ripping a spinal cord out of someone’s back, had caused them all to pause. There was no wiggle room. There was no doubt in any of them that Ben was dying. There was nothing any of them could have done - so he tells himself - as just as quickly as the scream had ripped out of his lungs, it had stopped, and a heavy sludge sound echoed in their ears. Like dropping mud on rubber. And all movement stopped.

The air was heavy, like trying to breathe through a rock, suffocating all of them as they try to wrap their heads around what had just happened. A group of thirteen-year-olds, thirteen-year-old superheroes, who were all standing around a frosted glass door, trying to process the death of their brother.

Until Five fell to the ground, screaming in pain, voice breaking heavily over the sounds ripping out of his throat. He felt it, he could feel it. His insides were being torn apart, his body was being pulled apart in four different ways. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear his siblings yelling for him in fear, or for Ben - he couldn't tell. All Five could do was yell in agony, his stomach twisting, twisting, twisting until it tore - sending stomach acid to burn his insides. His head was bashing repeatedly into the granite floor, a subconscious attempt to knock himself out.

He felt every single cell in his body be ripped from his body, every muscle tearing under his energy, his energy ripping through his veins like glass, ripping his veins to pieces as he bleeds out, the acid in his veins eroding his muscles, sizzling them like meat on a barbeque, scorching his bones. He felt the bottom of his lungs burn from the stomach acid, the tender flesh burning like bleach, the air in his lungs dying in his throat as he couldn’t yell anymore, his body being torn to pieces, his cells shredding and his organs eroding.

He remembers begging, begging to die. Eyes scrunched close as silent screams tore out of his body, begging whoever let this happen to just put him out of his misery. Just to let him die, the agony that tore through his body, through his soul was enough to kill him. Kill him a million times over, but he was alive, alive and writhing on the floor, the back of his head split open from smashing it on the floor, finger nails broke backwards into his fingers from clawing at the marble floor, muscles torn and ligaments pulled from thrashing, vocal cords damaged from the guttural screams.

Then, mercy was given to him. Mercy similar to curing a cold with a bullet between the eyes, as he blinked away. He blinked out from writhing on the floor like a salted snail, he blinked out of agony and woke up, a day later, to a different kind of agony that his young mind could barely comprehensively understand.

He woke up, with dust in his lungs, dirt in his hair and tears in his eyes, as he stood up where he once had, surrounded by his family in his brother’s final moments. He stood to an empty world, grey dust clouding his vision and filling his lungs, choking on ashen tears. He was alone. Completely alone. The world was silent, not the type of silent from silent reading, or the type of silent when the house is asleep and he blinks down the kitchen - no - it was silent like a classroom at midnight, a place so closely correlated with activity, scratching of pencil on paper, rustling of children vibrating with impatience, distant mumbling from a nearby class playing a movie on the projector - dead silent in comparison. Eerily silent, the type of silent that is loud, the lack of noise making your ears vibrate in the attempt to tune into something, anything.

Five clutched his chest as he sought his only constant, as he concentrated inside himself to find it, the heartbeat of power, the gentle thrum that has caused him agony, gave him unrivaled amounts of grief and pain, that comforted him nonetheless, a part of him that he had grown up with, a familiar piece of home that he always found himself centering on to ground himself. It was gone. He was empty, his hands couldn’t bristle with energy, the gentle thump of his familiar energy, familiar as a mystery, was gone.  

Five cursed at himself. His empathy. He was hollow. The energy was another power, a power that he had been so frustratingly stupid to ignore. He ignored it all, oblivious to the truth - if he had figured it out earlier, maybe he wouldn’t be here, maybe he could have sensed Ben’s fear quicker than he had before, maybe Ben wouldn’t have been torn to shreds and maybe Five wouldn’t have had to feel every agony of his little brother.

For the first time in his life, Five was truly alone.