Work Text:
Five was willing to bet this month's rainwater that whatever dust had been coating those rafters had caused this. Hours earlier, he had tried to shimmy free a giant sheet of metal to use as a part of his shelter, what with the winter season quickly approaching. But nothing had went to plan, and a half-dozen thick metal rafters had snapped from the ceiling, nearly crushing him and stabbing straight through the sheet he had wanted. Dust had kicked up around him, black and smoky and obscuring what little he could see through his binoculars.
Originally, Five had thought that his bandana mask had been enough to block out the particles.
Now, he realized how wrong he was.
Five flopped onto his stomach, wheezing in yet another breath. Dolores, from across the camp, stared at him with deepening concern. She was saying something, but he couldn't make out what it was. He coughed hard, his body struggling to dislodge whatever was caught in his lungs. But that was the thing: there was nothing in his lungs. His sternum burned, his chest aching with every hard cough he managed to work up his ripped-up throat.
Bonelessly, Five dropped to the ground. His cheek smushed into the ratty blanket underneath him as he focused all his energy on inhaling, on exhaling, on merely breathing because even that had been an exhausting chore. He could feel his lung capacity getting weaker, shrinking with every breath.
Something was wrong.
He had gotten sick before due to too much debris kicking into his face. But this? This had left him shaking, freezing despite the three blankets, the shelter, the fire. Five figured he had a fever on top of whatever was clogging his lungs. The inability to breathe was concerning enough. Though, with every guttural cough his body forced, he found himself caring less and less. Of course this was how he was going to die; writing on the ground, unable to catch his breath.
Admittedly, even as a child, Five had always pictured himself going out in a blaze of glory. He had seen the beauty in an honorable death, in something loud and fierce. Something like what had happened to Ben. But he knew that, in the apocalypse, his passing would be nothing more than a whimper. It would be pathetic, and quick, and nobody would see it, nobody would even know.
Hell, he doubted his family even missed him. It had been years since he heard another voice, since he saw their faces. What would they even say to him if they saw him now?
Diego may laugh. Luther and Allison would stare down at him with pity. Klaus wouldn't mind much, would he? And Vanya...
At least Vanya would care.
Five coughed hard again, his whole body spasming against it. He could taste the blood in his mouth, an unnaturally sharp taste that made him want to vomit. Trying his best to curl into himself had left him breathless, but at least the pressure in his chest had been eased as he rolled onto his side. In the low campfire light, Five could make out the pinkish-tinged froth he had spit up. He blinked over at it, then blinked again, his vision fuzzing and growing hollow with every sluggish pound of his heart. His pulse rocked his body hard. Five closed his eyes.
If he were going to die, he wished it would just happen so he could get it over with...