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seven.
Number Six doesn’t understand Number Five.
Number Five is bold, and brash, and fearless, and so so smart.
And Number Six doesn’t get it.
nine.
Ben winces. He wishes the pain was something he could get used to.
His stomach cramps from the monster inside trying to force its way out. He does his best to behave and hopes the monster inside him will be kind enough to do the same. He isn’t paying enough attention. He knocks over a vase. It shatters with a loud crash and Ben hears the footsteps that approach from the noise. Ben freezes, his heart pounding, his stomach twisting up, and the monster within it is angry and scared all at once. Five blinks in with a flash of blue, and by the time Dad steps into the room and sees the damage, demanding answers, Ben is standing still and small, wanting to disappear.
“Number Five. Number Six. What is the meaning of this?”
Five is casual as he steps forward. “I was jumping. And, well.”
Dad’s eyes narrow. Ben feels like he should say something. He doesn’t.
“Teleporting indoors,” he says, his tone cold. “You need to exercise more control, Number Five. And Number Six—”
“It was ugly anyway.” Five kicks a broken shard. “I was practically doing everyone a favor.”
Ben holds his breath. He knows Five shouldn’t have said that. Dad’s expression grows tight with irritation. “If that’s what you think, Number Five, then you will be exercising more control in extended training.”
Five doesn’t even flinch. He just stands there, still as stone, his face calm and confident, like none of this bothers him. Ben watches, confused and a little awed. He doesn’t understand how Five can act like it doesn’t hurt, like he’s not scared of Dad at all. But the knot in Ben’s stomach loosens, just a little, because the blame isn’t on him anymore. Dad leaves shortly after, having given Five double the assigned training, and having completely forgotten about Ben.
“You didn’t have to do that,” whispers Ben.
He looks up at Five, unsure what else to say, but not quite wanting to outright ask. It doesn’t make sense to him. Why would Five take on extra training? Private training is awful. It’s the worst part of everything Dad makes them do. The monster in Ben’s stomach twists just thinking about it. Or maybe that’s just his nerves.
“What, you think I care about some extra training? I wanted it anyway.”
Ben blinks, taken aback. “You…wanted it?”
“Yeah,” Five says, sounding almost haughty, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Extra training means more time to work on my skills.”
“I don’t understand.”
Five shrugs. “You don’t have to.”
He pats Ben amicably and blinks away.
eleven.
Ben thinks that he understands now.
He watches Klaus go pale after dinner when Dad mentions training.
Ben grimaces at the sight of his brother’s expression. He has no comforting words to offer with Dad present. His own expression does not go unnoticed either. Dad casts a look at his direction, misinterpreting, and Ben isn’t thinking about it when he emphatically wraps an arm over his midsection and quietly says: “It’s fighting.”
Ben gets extra training. It’s something.
Klaus has nightmares. It’s not enough.
twelve.
It goes like this:
Five’s defiance gains him Dad’s disapproval.
Ben’s admittance gains him Dad’s disappointment.
It seems to circle back to the same place.
thirteen.
Five is gone. Ben misses him. He is not the only one to do so.
He sees the way Vanya fades away. He hears the way Diego rages of abandonment.
He does not see those familiar flashes of blue light. He does not hear anyone interrupt Herr Carlson. Not anymore.
fourteen.
Ben looks upon the painting of Five, crafted with oils in a perfect rendition.
He feels Five’s absence keenly. Not just in the ways that the others do, in the large house that feels so much emptier without his presence filling the room. It’s odd, standing side-by-side with Klaus for missions, going from Four to Six without a space between them, where Five should have slotted in.
But he’s been gone for a year now.
Ben is losing hope that he will ever return.
Vanya dutifully makes another sandwich; peanut butter and marshmallows.
“They’re for Five,” she says.
“If he comes back home?”
“When he comes back home.”
Ben does not voice his skepticism, but Vanya sees it anyway.
She sets the plate down with a definitive force, and leaves.
He sighs; there is no space between Six and Seven, but it feels like there is.
fifteen.
Ben is scared. His siblings are scared too.
It’s almost funny: they’re all scared of the same thing, and the Horror knows it.
He can feel the way that they’re pulling away from him. It’s getting harder to control the beast inside him. Dad doesn’t seem to understand that the Horror is not a power. None of them seem to. It is a being unto itself, and Ben is just the hapless vessel trying to fight to keep it inside. He’s scared he’s going to lose a battle and find himself covered in his siblings’ blood. He’s scared that it’ll be too easy to wash it out. He’s been washing blood out of his hair and face and hands and clothes for years now. It’s not new. It’s still scary.
He wonders if Five is scared, wherever he is.
He thinks he knows what Five would do if he were still here. If he had stayed. But Ben is not the same as Five, even if lies slip out of his mouth easier now. He doesn’t jump to take the brunt of Dad’s irritation, but he does put on a face of shame—one that is not entirely false—and says that he is losing control. And Ben will be assigned more training, more monitoring, and it will eat into the time his siblings would have had. He wonders if this was the kind of thing that Five tricked his way into extra private training for; something equal parts practice and protection. It’s awful. It’s terrible. But it’s training, and Ben would rather let the Horror rage against the walls of a fortified cage rather than be unleashed on people that will scream and cry and break and bleed—
—and Ben is scared it will not be enough.
sixteen.
Ben is gone. Klaus misses him. He is not the only one to do so.
He is, however, the only one who could bring him back.
seventeen.
Ben looks upon the statue of himself, cast in bronze in an imperfect echo.
It stands in the center of the courtyard, made to be life-sized, but capturing none of the life that Ben had had. It doesn’t even look like him. Not really. Maybe it’s the shape of the face, or the way it is posed. Ben doesn’t think he’s ever looked that way. It feels like it is trying to memorialize something he isn’t, something he never was, and it feels a bit like rewriting history. It makes Ben think of Five; the way he’d step in with a narrative and a presence, and Reginald would almost forget about the rest of them at that moment.
He wonders what Five would think of the portrait above the mantle.
Two monuments crafted to two lost boys.
eighteen.
Luther stays at the Umbrella Academy. He is the only one to do so.
twenty.
There are no more memorials for those who have gone.
The painting stays. The statue stays. Luther stays.
twenty-five.
Ben reads Extra-Ordinary over Klaus’s shoulder.
It is like the painting. It is like the statue.
It is not a tribute to what was lost.
twenty-nine.
Five returns. Ben never quite left.
Nothing is as it was.