Chapter Text
Waking up in the Hargreeves House was a loud affair. Dad kept the alarms blaring until each of his children (students?) stood at attention in the hallway. Perfectly dressed, hair groomed, expression numb and obedient.
Allison didn't move with any urgency. She would take her time with her hair and her shoes. She'd make her bed, even, before leaving her room. They all got annoyed waiting for her. The alarms were annoying to wake up to and got more grating as they rang out louder and louder with each passing minute.
Allison rarely got in trouble. Daddy's girl.
Klaus was always in the middle. He could never be the first out, Luther and Diego would beat him to it, but he got out of his room quickly if he was sober (well…soberish).
If Reginald entered the hallway and Klaus wasn't already waiting, he'd go inside his son's (weapon's?) room. Reginald would grab Klaus by the shoulders and slap him. Hard. Shake him. Yell at him. Klaus would be thrown to the ground and Reginald would ravage his room. Books would be tossed to the ground. Blankets would be crumpled up and crushed beneath his feet. Stuffed animals had their heads torn off. Embroidery Mom had spent hours on would be smashed into the floor. Ruined by shards of glass stuck beneath its layers.
Klaus wouldn't mind as his face was beat in. His objects could be replaced (not that he would bother). He would heal quickly enough (fortunate side effect of whatever created them, made them so different from normal people). He could forget the words with time (they all blurred together over the years).
Klaus stood in the hallway on time so Reginald didn't confiscate his drugs.
Ben was normally fourth in the hallway. He would wait until he could hear Luther and Diego bickering to truly get up. As Ben got dressed he'd ignore his stomach. The thing that lied beneath his skin and muscle and nerves. Some days it was easy disregard; Ben had books to read and pranks to pull and things to do that weren't violently murder. Some days it was harder; days where Ben could practically feel the tentacles ripping his body to shreds just like they had done to countless others.
Ben was fourth in the hall. He would keep a small book in his pocket. He couldn't read it. It was simply nice to have on hand.
Luther and Diego always raced to be the first in the hall. They would create their own competitions and rivalries over whose spine was more rigid and whose shirt was wrinkle free. Their socks would be perfectly rolled up and their ties pristinely tucked into their sweater vests. They were flawless. Immaculate.
Except for that one-time Diego dumped glitter all over Luther.
The neon pink specks strategically floated over every part of Luther (Diego putting his powers to what he felt was a good use). It dusted Luther's head like snow, caking on the top of his perfectly trimmed hair. It settled over his shoulders and wound its way into the groves on his suit jacket. It infested the folds of skin and wrinkles on his face, between his sweater vest and shirt.
The glitter squished itself over Luther's sweaty hands and became a gross sort of paste that spread further and further as he frantically tried to clean himself off. It didn't work, of course. Luther simply made matters worse with his desperate animal-like attempts at pawing himself off. The glitter wound its way into Luther's mouth. It looked like a bloody froth gathering at his lips and spilling over his face as he hyperventilated.
Reginald had looked at his oldest son with such disgust and revulsion when he stepped into the hall. Luther's hands fell uselessly to his sides. He made himself stand taller in a pathetic way to hide the small, ashamed expression on his face. He tried to compensate for his glittery failure with his strength (that was the only thing Reginald liked about him anyway). Based on the man's expression, it hadn't worked.
Everyone in the room had waited. Even Klaus kept himself from making noise. The only sound had been the alarms blaring horrifically. A warning they could no longer heed.
The siblings waited to see if Reginald would use his cane or his words. If he'd pin Luther against the wall and slam his fist into the boy's face. If he'd sneer and say something the siblings could never think of much, less recover from.
They all stood in the hallway together. The smug smiles and amusement at Luther's misfortune were gone. Dissipated. Luther was their leader and he still looked so scared. Petrified and lonely despite the large gathering of them in a small space.
Vanya had stood behind Five. Five had been relieved. He didn't want to draw attention by shielding her. Allison, who had been helping Luther try to clean the pink glitter, stood frozen a few feet away (she had retreated when Reginald walked into the room (she looked guilty)). The glitter was caked onto her hands. Klaus had his hand on her arm, gripping it tightly (Five isn't sure who Klaus was trying to help, himself or his sister). Ben had traced his finger against the edge of the little book in his pocket. His eyes were distant. They would be for a while.
Diego hadn't seemed smug anymore.
Dad took a step forward and it was nearly a relief. Something would happen. There would be an end. A terrible end, surely, but that would be so much better than being trapped for an eternity in that hallway as they waited for Reginald to decide how he'd punish them.
As Dad stepped forward Luther tackled Diego. Luther's knee was on Diego's ribs and the other was on the ground at Diego's side. Luther kept his left hand on Diego's shoulder, pinning him to the ground, and lifted his right up into the air before smashing it down onto his brother's face.
Five has always been familiar with the sound of flesh hitting flesh. The sound of his siblings hitting each other as they trained (and more recently, the sound of his siblings fighting real enemies as they went on missions) has always been commonplace. As normal as laughter or whining or bartering about what to watch at movie night.
That was different. Luther's fist slamming into Diego's face is not the same as tripping him too harshly when sparring. Under the merciless punishment of Luther's knuckles Diego's nose had been broken. His left eye swelled up and leaked blood down the side of his face like tears. His lips were split under the force of Luther's hand. A hand that moved faster as Dad walked closer. Desperately trying to prove that the glitter wasn't his fault, that his appearance was out of his control, that it's Diego. It's Diego, it's Diego, it's Diego (begging Reginald to hurt Diego, not Luther).
Diego, for his part, flailed miserably. He had a knife in his hand quickly and rammed it into Luther's leg again and again and again. The squelch of the blade jaggedly being dragged through Luther's flesh was sickening (nothing like the minor cuts he'd leave on Luther when training). Diego's hand went still quickly. The blade dropped as he desperately clawed at Luther. He screamed but the noise was quickly smothered by his blood as he choked on it. Five's pretty sure Luther knocked a few teeth out.
Luther's spine bent as he leaned over to hit Diego more efficiently. Diego's arched as he flailed himself on the ground, trying to get free. Their shirts and jackets wrinkled as they fought. Their ties came untucked, both getting coated with blood alongside their sweater vests.
The Umbrella Academy at its finest.
Reginald had stopped less than a foot from the two fighting boys (Five still has nightmares about the way Diego's screams of anger turned into sobs (Diego could barely even cry, barely muster the energy to make noise, as Luther broke his body into pieces)). Reginald watched. Reginald looked amused.
Allison tried to rumor Luther. Force him to stop. Reginald hit her arm harshly with his cane. She opened her mouth again as Diego screamed louder. Reginald looked at her (dared her).
Allison went quiet. Klaus and Ben were quiet too, as they watched Luther tear Diego apart. Vanya was standing, terrified and frozen, in the door to her room. Reginald simply watched. Five knew exactly how much time passed (side effect of his powers) and he knew that it had been minutes, rather than years, but standing in that hallway had felt like a lifetime (not that he understood lifetimes when he was thirteen).
Five remembers the feeling of Diego's arm in his hand. The comforting warmth of it, the feeling of Diego's heart beating beneath the skin (blood moving far too fast but at least it was moving). Five teleported Diego his brother to the kitchen. Mom was waiting there with breakfast. Her programmed face seemed to glitch a bit (as if the sight of her children bloody and broken was new). Diego had pushed away from Five. He had screamed (Five couldn't make out the words beyond Diego's stutter). Five knew they were insults. Threats. Anger.
Diego started at Five with a raised fist. He collapsed to the ground when Five shoved him. Diego couldn't get back up on his own. Five made no move to hurt him, even as Diego laid there on the ground and clutched his knife dangerously in his hand. Five simply stood there and looked down at his brother.
"I should've done it faster."
It's as close to an apology as Five could manage at thirteen (he got better as he got older, as his pride over things as small as that melted away under the apocalypse sun).
Diego started crying again as Mom sat on the ground next to him. She hugged him close and stroked his hair beneath her metal fingers (that somehow found a way to simulate warmth and softness). Diego clung to her and smeared blood all over their pristine mother in the light of a kitchen with windows covered by newspaper, walls covered in diagrams of butchered animals, and a table with half-finished arts and crafts.
Five teleported back upstairs. He broke Luther's nose. He said Luther deserved it for being such an asshole (Diego deserved a moment with Mom, a break before the inevitable lecture from Dad (Five wasn't good at much but he was a good distraction)).
Waking up in the Hargreeves House was a loud affair. One Vanya was largely immune from. When she was younger she was expected to join them but after the bank, after their first mission, Reginald stopped caring. Vanya wasn't in the Academy. The standards were different because Reginald couldn't be bothered to notice when Vanya failed to meet them.
Five always pushed Vanya to wake up on time. Said that the alarms were annoying as hell and there was no reason for Vanya to drag her feet. Said that he didn't want to eat breakfast next to one of the more annoying siblings. He was bad at admitting things, when he was thirteen.
Waking up in the Hargreeves Home was supposed to be a loud affair. Five was immune to that. He always made sure he was awake half an hour or more before the alarms went off.
Five wouldn't open his eyes when he first woke up. He'd twitch his fingers just a bit to feel the comforter crinkle beneath them. The coolness of it would be a pleasant introduction to the day. He'd hear the rustle of his silk sleeves as he moved his hand, feel the fabric against his skin. His pillow had a cotton pillowcase under it. It was softer, warmer than the other two items.
Five would leisurely open his eyes and stare up at the slanted ceiling until he felt like getting out of bed. Then he'd, nice and slowly, push his comforter and quilt off. He'd swing his legs out of bed and stretch his arms above his head. There'd be a small pop sometimes as his body adjusted to being awake.
Five would pull on his shorts and button up shirt. Definitely less comfortable than the pajamas. The materials always felt bad against his skin. Tight and itchy for the shirt, too loose with the shorts. The material was so stiff. Regardless, Five put on his socks and shoes and tie. He would put on his sweater vest and suit jacket and brush his hair. He would always have time to look out the window for a bit. Enjoy how the city moved and breathed even that early in the morning.
Enjoy that there was a world outside these walls.
The alarms would go off and Five would make sure to spend a few more minutes looking out the window (the window with it's fire escape).
Five joined his siblings every morning with the knowledge that he was better than them. Sure, Diego and Luther looked more put together but that didn't matter at the end of the day because Five had a way out. He woke up outside of Reginald's control and he had a way to escape Reginald's control (not that Five would use it, or needed to, but he still had it).
Five was nearly always the last in the hallway. He would stand a few rooms away, out of sight, and listen as they all gathered together. Five still isn't sure why his room was kept away from the others (Allison jokes that it's because Five bites (Five hasn't bit anyone since she said that)). It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter where Five sleeps or hangs his clothes or keeps the toys he's long outgrown.
What matters is making Dad wait.
And that's what Five did every morning. He woke up on his own time, got ready slowly, and had a chance to truly wake up before the alarms had a chance to go off.
Every morning Five won. There was nothing anyone could do to change that.