Chapter Text
His voice is hoarse and his throat is scratchy as he parts his cracked, dry lips, a strangled noise from his throat barely audible with the thick layer of smoke in the air surrounding him. He blinks, pressing his scraped knees to his chest, draping an arm over them to lazily pull them closer to his hunched form, rapidly blinking his eye to get rid of the falling ash on his pale cheeks, like a dog snapping at a fly. He tried to scream again, to let someone know he’s there, and that he needs serious help, but no one responds, leaving only Five alone with the ash and the smoke and the rubble oh god the ruins of rubble—
Five’s lithe form twitches as he scrunches his nose, eyes blinking open at not only the thought of actual corpses and rubble, but the small creak the squeaky hinges of his door let out as it opens ajar just slightly, leaving a small enough crevice for someone to peer in.
His first thoughts are Hazel and Cha-Cha, after him again, with their bright, nauseatingly disorienting children’s masks and their hands reaching into their side pockets, ready to pull out a gun and raise, aim, and fire.
Fire.
When Five blinks again, lashes fluttering wildly at the same speed of his heart in his chest, purely out of reflexive habit to swat away the ashy particles of the apocalyptic wasteland, he can smell fire. Smoke. His lips curl into a frown as a broken groan slips past them, his head whipping around as the air grows thicker and thicker.
The smoke. God, he hates the smoke. He screws his eyes shut, only to see nothing but darkness, just like the apocalyptic sky filled with that thick layer of ashy smoke, a blanket of polluted smog.
It turns out the intruder nudging his door open was nothing of the intellectually-stunted assassin sort he was expecting, no dog or bear mask playfully prodding with a hauntingly coy giggle. Rather, a soft knock at the door, a repeating mantra of two lightly rapping knuckles.
Five can’t focus, no matter how hard he tries to zone in on whoever’s at his door he just can't do it, his vision hazy and doubled. He squints, trying to ignore how the padded tips of his fingers feel as if they’re tingling and how his chest suddenly feels tighter like a weight Luther used to lift was just placed right atop him. It really isn’t that hard to ignore and tune out until his heart starts beating faster and faster, sometimes skipping a beat as if to charge up to skip harder the next go around, and he finds that he needs to breathe, now.
Five.
And he tries, valiant efforts and all. But his heart still beats on, so hard he’d be surprised to find all of his ribs still intact after this, and it’s becoming too hard to breathe through his flaring nostrils. He tries to breathe through his mouth, something he only does when sick, only slightly surprised at the sharp and high-pitched gasp he lets out as he tries to feel for air, feeling like a fish out of water as tries to gulp for anything. His lungs take nothing new in, and Five starts to freak out.
Five.
His tingling hands, feeling so numb and practically foreign to him, grasp for the sheets beneath him as he lets out another whooping gasp, eyes wide and filled with nothing but pure terror.
“ Five— “ It’s Klaus, the intruder now identified to be no intruder at all, no Hazel or Cha-Cha anywhere in the room hidden, no Handler. His matted curls kiss against the sides of his neck, poking up in wild places. His warm hands as pressing against Five as he kneels in front of the bed, grappling him by the shoulders to get a firm grip, “ Five oh my— Okay—“
He’s freaking out himself, and Five bites back any instinctive urge to back away, hissing and bristling like a wild cat as it makes its fleeing detour to lick its own wounds. He can’t blame him, trying not to focus on how his tight and constricted his chest feels, like a boa wrapping around a man’s neck—a photo he’d seen in an illustrated book as he flipped through, perched on a discarded and dusty table next to Dolores in the apocalypse.
The Apocalypse. Heaving chest, eyes running dry from all of the tears shed, itching so much it made him want to claw his own eyeballs out. Smoke so thick he could hardly breathe, ash stuck in his hair, covering his scalp like nastier dandruff. Shaking hands, staggering breaths, and sleepless nights.
He tries to speak between his awful gasps, and all he can get out is, “Bad dream,” another gasp for air, feeling parched and horrified, “can't.. breathe.”
His vision still hazy as if he’s dazed, Five can barely make out Klaus just nodding, reaching for his shaky hands and enveloping them with his own, “Five, listen to me, okay? Listen.”
“Five things you can see, okay? Five things.”
What? Five’s stricken green eyes dart around the room crazily, “Y-You.”
He’s still shaking, and he tries to stop with a husky gulp, adam’s apple bobbing with his effort.
“My huh-hands.”
Klaus nods, a thin smile on his lips.
“The floor, the ceiling, and my sleeves,” The rest comes out in one breath, and Five still looks scared, unable to compose himself.
Klaus, once again, nods but this time it’s fervent, wetting his lips as his hand makes its way up to cup Five’s cheek. He doesn’t have it end him to push him away with a small snap.
Klaus tries to give him a smile, “Good, good— um, four things you can feel.”
“Um— my hands— they—“ Five attempts to take another whooping gulp of air, only subtly reminded of his coughing because of the smoke back in the apocalypse this time. “They tingle.”
Klaus lets out what sounds like a wet laugh.
“My covers. Your hand.” Five says, voice shaking, “My clothes.”
“Three things you can hear.”
“Your… voice,” He stops to sniff, take a breath, and Klaus can tell he’s recovering from the shock of it all, “Mine, too. And I can hear… your breath.”
“Good, good. That’s good.” Klaus nods, “Two things you can smell.”
Without a second to waste, Five snarks out, “Salt.”
Klaus has a stupid lopsided grin on his face, and Five tells himself the only reason he doesn’t smack it off of him is because he’s too tired.
“And… dew, from outside?”
“Windows are open, it was too hot in here.” Klaus shrugs, and Five gives his best attempt at a glare. “One thing you can taste.”
His breath finally rid of every quivering tremor, Five squints a grimace as he murmurs, “Snot.”
“Ew.”
“You asked.” Five sniffs, and before Klaus can ask a question, “I’d prefer if the answer was coffee, however.”
And he tightens his fists, disappearing in a puff of blue smoke. His true disappearing act.