Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You aren’t a bad person.

This thought flows within your brain, poking at the tears pooling within your eyes. Your lungs and your legs feel as if they are on fire. As you pant from the chase, you hear the echo of your pursuer’s footsteps—and as you see his clothes in the corner of your eye, close enough to catch the both of you, you run a little faster to evade his grasp.

Sometimes you wonder what you have done to deserve this.

Well, it might be related to whose hand you are grasping right now.

Your mother always had exemplified senses when it came to the complexities of the human soul. Through her seemingly astounding judgement, your oldest sibling was able to escape a marriage to an alcoholic with a tendency for domestic violence (“he’s a no-no, deary. absolutely no,” you remember her whispering to your sister when she brought her fiancée to the family dinner) one week after she got engaged.

At your mother’s age, it would be negligence to remain unable to see what lied behind the façade of a respectful smile. Everyone in your family believed in your mother’s skills and followed her advice gratuitously—which provided wonderful results every time.

So why didn’t you?

The answer is simple: your mother has always told you ‘no’ whenever she met one of your boyfriends. It was the same response all through high school, with the ‘isn’t he too old for you, deary?’ and the ‘do you really get along that well?’ and the simple ‘no, i do not agree’. You are a college student now; someone independent, someone who has enough experience to make those kinds of decisions yourself.

So, when your mother tells you ‘no’ for the millionth time, you are so tired of her poking into your love life that you simply keep dating the guy just to prove her wrong.

This time, an I told you so flits through your mind. You shake your head vehemently to get the thought out of your head because right now, who gives a shit about the different ways your mother will chide you for your brashness when you might not even get out of this building alive.

Your heart almost leaps out of your chest when your boyfriend tugs you forward, pointing at the open door at the end of the hall. The both of you speed through even faster, scrambling towards your safe haven. You’re exactly three feet away from the entrance when you taste wood, and the pain flaring on your forehead causes you to tumble.

A groan escapes you.

It’s only when you hear your pursuer laughing that you realize what your boyfriend has just done.

“In all my years of work, I have never seen anyone slam the door at their own girlfriend to escape death.” It’s not the sardonic chuckle of a serial killer who has finally gotten their prey. He sounds amused, perplexed even. “Tough luck.”

You jerk away from him when he crouches down to meet your level. “If you’re going to shoot me, you might as well do it.”

“Shoot you?” He raises an eyebrow on that. “If I really wanted to kill you, you would be lying in a pool of blood in the middle of your asshole of a boyfriend’s living room,” to further his point, he places the handgun on the floor away from him and you. “So, no. I won’t be shooting you.”

You peer intently at his face, confusion filling your entire being. “Why are you here, then?”

“Boyfriend,” he simply says, as if he would be wasting even more time to explain it to you.

“Aren’t you supposed to catch him then?” Your knuckles softy raps the door of the closed apartment, which is certainly neither of yours. “Do you think he’ll open up if we ask nicely? Like, pizza.”

The man—you have to admit, he is attractive when he isn’t chasing you with a weapon—looks at you incredulously, as if words of a foreign language have fallen out of your mouth. He points out, “You’re bleeding. You ought to get that checked.”

“Do you think I’m joking?” A small giggle escapes your lips. “If he’s dumb enough to think the Iliad was written by Homer Simpson, then he’s dumb enough to open the god damn door.”

“Tell me, O Muse, of the much-traveled man,” he begins to whisper, earning a puzzled look from you. “I do know Homer. And you should really get that wound checked.”

“My pursuer doesn’t plan to slaughter me—”

“There’s a large difference between murder and manslaughter, if you’re interested to know—”

“—he reads, and is a large smartass,” he rolls his eyes at that, but you continue, “but he has totally forgotten that my ex-boyfriend is through this door, probably escaping through the fire exit at this moment. Aren’t you supposed to catch him?”

“Not at the moment, no. My brother has it… handled.”

“Handled?”

A heavy scream pierces the air, resounding from one of the open windows along the hallway you are slumped against, then a large thud. It’s easy to figure out where the scream originates from—you have heard it countless of times when he yells at you for disagreeing with him, for inquiring where he plans to go in the middle of the night—and it fills you with relief, satisfaction even.

“Well, send my thanks to your brother for handling it.” You close your eyes, waiting for him to disappear as sudden as he appeared inside your kitchen.

But when you open them, the man is still there, crouching and staring at you intently.

“You chase me around my apartment, make fun of my ex’s lack of care for me, and you look at me like I’m some sort of…some sort of puppy,” you say, a laugh escaping you. “but you haven’t told me your name. I ought to think that you’re aware of what introductions are, right?”

He thinks, and simply says, “Five.”

“Five dollars?” You inquire, his response incoherent to you. “You can’t possibly mean that your name is—” and then the sudden appearance within your apartment, the get-up of a British boarding school college boy, the brother. It hits you. “Oh. That five.”

“You look quite different with the mask,” you add, staring at the so-called superhero before you. “And you're very... talkative.”

“I stopped wearing the mask years ago.” He swiftly picks up the handgun and tucks it back onto his figure before he stands up. “And you really need to get that wound checked.”

“Well, thank you for your kindness, five,” in more ways than one, “but next time, please try to use the front door instead of teleporting into my kitchen when you want to arrest the next boyfriend I have.”

Chapter Text

When you return from your evening dessert haul, you find Five sitting on your living room couch covered in what seems to be blood. Streaks of crimson coat his pale face, and everything else he’s wearing—his navy suit, his jacket, his hair—but what seems to pique your concern is not the blood itself, but rather his disheveled presence in your apartment.

You have not known Five for a long time. But you certainly know one fact about him: Five Hargreeves likes to keep the door shut. He likes to keep his worlds separate, with you (a stranger, you woefully think) on one side, and his family on the other. Along with this, there are even more unspoken rules about Five, with one he clearly upholds around you: you are never, ever, to see him vulnerable.

Or covered in blood, to be specific.

Before he extra-ordinarily appears within your apartment, Five makes sure that the only extra-ordinary thing about him within your vicinity are his powers. Ergo no blood, no weapons, no whispers of violence. Just him, an immaculate him, and his flashing blue light.

So when you find Five Hargreeves sitting in the middle of your living room covered with enough blood to paint your white chair red, you know there is something terribly wrong.

You watch him fiddle with his hands, seemingly massaging his wrists.

You have to say something. Anything.

“Bad day?” You offer, unable to figure out where to start.

“Something like that,” Five replies, voice quieter than usual. He stands up, stuffing his hands (bloody hands) into the pockets of his pants. “I need to use your bathroom.”

“Of course,” you say. It’s not like he hasn’t showered at your place before, but the thought of him washing all that crimson away makes you swallow hard. “I’ll put out some clothes for you.”

One more thing that you learn about Five Hargreeves is that when he can’t stand the sight of something, he makes sure to wash it away as quick as he can. You barely start shoving in the last of your desserts into the fridge when you hear him plop onto the couch.

“That was a lot of blood,” you say.

A nagging feeling tells you to shut up. It tells you: you have no place beyond the door. But you set those whispers aside because consoling an evidently distraught five is much more important than your feelings of inferiority. No, not inferiority. Estrangement.

Your statement dances in the silence.

“Well, that’s the thing with bodies,” Five begins. “You end up with their blood all over you when they’re hacked into pieces.”

“How?”

“We got a call from a very concerned woman who heard a number of screams from the house beside hers. Apparently, the father went berserk when he found out that his wife wanted to leave him. What do you get when you mix a drunk bastard, a baseball bat, and murderous intent? Four dead bodies.”

“Jesus.”

The distance between the two of you closes when you take a seat beside him. You slowly slide your palm onto the back of his hand, waiting for him to reject your way of comfort. But when he doesn’t move nor mumble a word of vexation, you give his hand a small squeeze.

He sends you a half-assed smile before continuing. “Three of them were his own, trying in vain to protect their mother. Too fragile, too… weak. The guy’s explosion of violence wasn’t just a one-time thing. Their youngest daughter knew to hide inside a closet. She was watching it all unfold,” you feel him tense up. “When we arrived, we found her hugging her mother’s body. I had to pull her off.”

“Five—I’m sorry.”

He nods. “His own kids.”

“Is he alive?” You’re sure he understands what you’re trying to ask. Did you kill him?

“Well, I did beat him shitless,” he smirks. But like his previous smile, it feels fake. “I’d be surprised if he was able to walk after what I did.”

“Are you allowed to do that?” Technically, he isn’t a policeman. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t rules he’s exempted from following. “Isn’t there protocol for that sort of thing?”

He holds up his hands, feigning innocence. For a quick moment, you long for the warmth of his hand against yours. He says sardonically, “It was self-defense.”

“Don’t misunderstand, Five. I’m glad, really glad that you beat the crap out of him. But I do think he should get a life sentence, and I don’t want him to escape that with an accidental knock to the head.”

“Oh, I made sure he was still breathing.”

Like waves on an ocean, the silence returns to the shore. You watch as Five digs his fingernails into his palms. Don’t hurt yourself, you wish to say. I know you think it’s your fault, but it’s not. It really isn’t.

“I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now, but I’m here if you need me.”

Your shoulder presses against his when you loop your arm behind his back to give him a one-armed hug. His skin feels hot. Suddenly, your heartbeat quickens, and along with your arm, you feel your cheeks start to warm up as well.

Oh, god.

What have you done? Aren’t you crossing the line? You’re not supposed to pick the lock, you’re supposed to wait for him to open the door himself.

But, fuck the door. I’m kicking it open this one time.

Five stiffens at your touch. But instead of pushing you away, he surprisingly eases into it.

For a while, Five says nothing. Then, his hand finds one of your own, caressing it so gently that it almost breaks your heart. But when he does speak, his response is simple, just like all his other rare responses laced in intense sadness. “Yeah. I know.”

“Five?”

He squeezes your hand softly as an answer.

“I always thought you were the obnoxious type of guy. You know, the know-it-all who loves to make everyone else feel like they’re back in pre-school,” you laugh, but it’s a small laugh. “Don’t get me wrong. You’re still a smart-ass.”

Five flicks the skin of your thumb, earning a hiss from you. “I barely have to do anything.”

“Yes. I definitely understand why Allison wanted to duct tape your mouth,” he raises a brow at you, probably asking you where you’re going with this. So you give him just that. “But even though you act like a priss sometimes… you do have a soft side.”

“Is that right?” This time, his smile is much more genuine. “And what exactly did you find out about this soft side you’re referring to?”

“Hmm. It’s exactly that; soft and kind,” and warm, you want to say. “It’s the marshmallow on the stick. But this time, the stick isn’t up your ass.”

Five rolls his eyes. “I’m already visualizing the duct tape over your mouth.”

You wink at him. “You’d miss my voice too much if you did that.”

Chapter Text

The white columns of the entrance are a few feet away, but every step makes you forcefully swallow down your fear. Breathe, you remind yourself. The dress you are wearing didn’t feel this tight back at your apartment. How did it shrink two sizes down within the span of a 30-minute car ride? You have no idea.

You take one deep breath for each pace, as if one deviation from this ritual would make you throw up.

It would be a shame to throw away such a pretty dress.

“Five,” you whisper, unable to keep yourself calm any longer. You stop on your tracks, effectively forcing your partner to halt his steps as well. “I can’t dance.”

“Of course you can,” he replies. Five sends a quick smile to onlookers curious at the scene, playing the classic husband-who-cares-very-much-about-his-faint-looking-wife card. “Come on.”

He begins to lead you inside, but you pull on his arm.

You hiss, “No, no, no. Five. I can’t dance. You never said anything about dancing.”

To you, Five wears more annoyance than incredulousness on his face. “What about a gala do you not understand?” He seems to take a few moments to think about the predicament, poking at fine strings in his head to find a solution that would bring you a bit of peace. Just so he doesn’t have to deal with any more trouble coming from you. “We don’t need to dance.”

“Now you don’t understand.” He rolls his eyes at your sudden change of desires, slowly exhaling as you ramble on. “Listen. We are a young rich couple who grew up surrounded by poshness, class. Dancing is a part of that. We can’t just avoid it. Even though I’m sure we definitely want to.”

“What do you suggest, then?” He’s impatient. You can feel his arm tense around yours, and the subtle turn of head. He’s looking for something, but someone seems more appropriate by the way he secretly scrutinizes the figures of apparently well-known guests.

“We dance,” you slowly say, begging the divine for an escape to this dilemma. Why did you agree to this in the first place? A quick smile, albeit a queasy one, “I guess.”

The first thing you notice are the lights, the dull chatter, the clinking of glasses. Then, the smell. It is the aroma of finger food and the lavender air fresheners that the rich so desperately love to use, clashing so strongly with the stuffy air that your throat screams to spill out something that are not words.

Five sends you a quick glance. It is surprisingly one filled with a bit of concern, but you know it probably lies more on the spectrum of the blow this up for me and you will regret it kind of look.

You reassure him with a nod, not allowing him to regret asking you to be his partner on whatever mission he wants to accomplish this early. If Five thinks you’re going to mess something up (and you know he does think that by the way he presses you on as if you’re going to throw a tantrum), you won’t give him the satisfaction of being right this easily.

You still haven’t managed to spill some wine on an unsuspecting Prime Minister.

“You never clarified what exactly our cover was,” you begin to say, leading him towards the buffet of sweets. The ring on your finger feels hot. And oh, how heavy it is. “Yes, I know you said engaged. But why not pretend to be two acquaintances?”

Five looks at you. “Do you think any man would invite as an acquaintance to a place like this?”

“Well, no.” A quick look at the gushing young ladies leading their trophy-like husbands with a lock of their arms tells you that Five is in fact, right. “But wouldn’t someone else be better at acting the part than I am? Hello. You know, your sister who acts for a living. Allison?”

“Gee. Invite a world-renown actress on a mission which requires utmost secrecy from the participants involved?” His condescending smirk makes you want to pinch him hard. “I haven’t thought about that.”

You offer, “Vanya?”

“No,” he simply says, as if a child would easily understand the reasoning. “She would stick out like a sore thumb.”

“You must not know a lot of women if your only resort is to ask me for help,” you coo, pinching on Fives cheeks like a doting wife would. And then, the act starts to fit into place. “My poor, poor Five. How on Earth will you ever get married when the only women in your life are your half-sisters?”

“And get married to a woman who will never, ever shut up?” He tilts his head, as if you said something amusing. There’s a glint of comicality in his dark eyes. “I’d rather saw my arm in half.”

You eye the small, glazed, strawberry tart in the middle of the table of sweets. If you’re going to spend the rest of the night hanging onto Five’s arm like a newlywedded wife, you might as well try out the food. But as you are about to take a bite, the music surrounding the hall changes and like the raspberry crumble on the other side of the eggshell-colored linen, your heart drops.

“Try not to step on my foot, will you?” Five says twistedly.

You hold in a breath as he leads you towards the center along with all the other couples, albeit with a tightened grip to prevent you from running away unlike all the other women who find the waltz an art to love. Then, the music starts to sing. You feel the weight of his arm around your waist, centering you in a world of haze and anxiousness.

“Slow down,” Five whispers. Your ears burn like fire from the closeness of his breath to your skin.

Your feet knock onto his as you figure out how you should move. Biting your lips, you cringe as you yet again step on his toes—whether Five has noticed your lack of kindness towards his feet, he does not show. He keeps his eyes on you, but in fear of being chided by your partner, the embarrassment blazing within your being forces you to look at everything else but him. The curtains on the other side of the hall. The swift movements of the orchestra playing some classical song you don’t know the name to.

Anything but him.

Somehow, that manages to irk him the most. “What are you doing?”

“I told you. I can’t dance!”

He squeezes your waist, imploring you to look at him. You succumb.

Instead of narrowed eyes and agitation swirling within them, you find softness. There isn’t a single tinge of contempt on his features—no piercing gaze, no lecture hidden beneath fake appreciation. It is simply Five, looking at you as if there is no gala, no one to blend in with, nothing else to pay attention to but you.

“Do you trust me?”

Of course you do.

This time, Five leads you with both gentleness and strength. You follow his movements with ease, focusing on the pulls and pushes of his body to lead you elsewhere. Here, you are float on softness and a newfound rush of enjoyment. He keeps his eyes on you, and yours on him.

Five is surprisingly good at ballroom dancing. It both bothers and amazes you.

“When did you learn how to dance?” You whisper in disbelief.

“Our dad, for some reason, believed that mastering our powers wasn’t enough. And apparently, he thought that dancing could be the difference between life or death,” he explains, but his concentration lies elsewhere. “No matter how idiotic it seemed.”

And as quick and troublesome as it began, the dance ends with a bow. Cheers and claps of spectators fill the room, and along with the faded jibes of rich men and high-pitched giggles of ladies, everything somehow becomes less hazy and dreamlike. The music fades, the clock chimes at half-past twelve. Even the heels you danced in feel strange, as if they aren’t yours to begin with.

The spell is broken.

It is less of a ball of princesses and princes. The twirling of dresses no longer contains the shimmer that they used to. You remember: this isn’t even a ball to enjoy to begin with. Five’s gaze is no longer on you, but on the task at hand. And somehow, for some sort of reason, this breaks you.

Look at me, your being whispers.

“What are we?” You ask.

Within a second, his head turns towards you. His piercing stare feels heavy on your face. “What?”

“You know,” a hand waves at the close proximities of your bodies, “what exactly is our cover story here? Married, newlyweds, just popped the question? Who exactly are we?”

“Do I need to write an entire autobiography just to sneak into a gala?” Five asks, dismissive. “Mr. Eden is a particular man,” he begins to raise a finger for each point. “He hates gossip and small talk. He would also love for his wife,” he tilts his head towards you, “to quiet down. Isn’t that enough?”

“No, it’s not,” and to reinforce your point, you whisper, “and we aren’t married yet. See your mistake?”

“A man calling his fiancée his ‘wife’ is not a mistake.”

“Simple fumbles can break an act,” you chide. You watch his brows slowly unfurrow. Although Five may be an asshole sometimes, he does understand your point completely. “If we’re going to be questioned, we might as well have matching cover stories beyond the plain ‘lovely new couple’ description.”

“Then what does my fiancée,” Five emphasizes with a mocking grin, snaking his arm around your waist, “want to tell me about herself? Would talking about her whole life story help her shut up?”

Swallowing down the heat rising up your neck from a heart beating too fast, you stumble out, “I, uh, don’t think the future Mrs. Eden would shut up about anything. If that makes sense. She would fawn and gossip about all the clothes her fiancé has bought her.”

“Then what else would his lovely Jane go on and on about?”

It is an act. A play. You are simply an actress who has to say her lines, slipping on the mask of ‘yes, director’ and ‘no, director’ and retain the painful line between reality and fantasy. But how he looks at you, as if you are not just the fabricated Jade Eden, but as if you are someone he can truly loves as Five Hargreeves, leads you to forget the circumstances of the whole charade.

Believing you are at a loss for words and unable to conjure a backstory, Five continues: “Would she chatter on and on about how the new furniture set at Roche Bobois would look great in their shared living room in London?”

“London?” You laugh, shaking your head at the thought. “Since when were we British?”

“You don’t have to be British to live in London,” he points out.

“I do know that.” You are teetering at the edge of a skyscraper. A part of you begs you to shut up, to put a stop to this whole charade. But despite that, the travesty of an act like this provides a sliver of peace: Five also fully knows that is a façade too. “But about the furniture line… I do think that Jane would never miss a chance to showcase her new posh lifestyle.”

“Posh lifestyle. Yes, spending all his stolen money on stupid things.” He mutters. “I bet the reason why Mr. Eden puts up with her crap of gossip and extravagant shopping trips is so he doesn’t wake up with a noose tied around his neck.”

“What are you talking about? Jane would never hurt her husband,” you retort with a shake of a head.

“Is that right?” Five whispers, staring into your face. He watches your eyes blink at his sudden closeness, then his dark eyes flutter to your meticulously arranged hair. Your heartbeat quickens. And for a millisecond, his own gaze hovers over your lips. But his fingers nimbly curve around your ear, tucking in the strands of your hair that were led astray from your display of disagreement.

Both stunned and underwhelmed at his intricacy, you add, “I do know that Jane wouldn’t shut up about her ring he proposed to her with. She wouldn’t shut up about how her darling Alistair would take her off to the Maldives after the wedding. And,” you swallow, forcing a giggle to continue the act. “how many children they plan to have.”

“Children?” Five asks with a sheepish grin, vividly amused at the thought of his fictional counterpart as a father. “And here I thought Mr. Eden disliked children.”

“No, I don’t think he does.” Where all this is coming from, you do not know. But the words come to you the same way you know the sky is blue, the floor tiles of the gala are white, and the way you know how perfect his hands feel on you. They just do. “Despite being extremely cold and rude to everyone else, I think Alistair does love children.”

“Are you going to talk about how having children is his own way of making sure that his house never quiets down?” To anyone else, Five’s voice would definitely sound taunting, with dark eyes whispering his absolute superiority. But you know differently. He even sounds wistful. Longing. “That no matter where he goes, someone is waiting for him?”

“Yes,” you mumble, and suddenly, it clicks.

“One or two.” Five decides, continuing this act, or whatever this is, or is supposed to be. “Just to please my lovely fiancée.”

“But wouldn’t seven be nice?” You tease. A puzzling grin slips onto his lips as he easily figures out the connection. “We would never feel lonely with all those children running about.”

“Seven is too much to handle,” he says, thumb rubbing on the fabric of your dress near your waist. It doesn’t take any time at all for him to end it with a quick jibe. “The last time someone did that, I heard that the moon exploded. The world ended. And how would we manage to name them all?”

Feigning consideration, you reply, “I was thinking, you know, numbers.”

He scoffs at his inability to see that coming. “But apparently an eccentric billionaire has already done that.”

“What do you suggest, Five?” Your eyes glimmer with excitement. “How about colors?”

“Colors,” he repeats.

“Well, I think violet is a wonderful name for a girl.” A girl with your hair, and his eyes, zapping into every room with a blast of bright blue light. A foreign sound of imagined laughter, cheery laughter, mumbles into your ears and suddenly, like everything else, it feels too real.

“I suddenly feel bad for our dear son, Orange,” Five continues with a scoff.

“What are you talking about? I think Orange is a very cute name,” This time, your heart’s not in it.

But the ever always so observant Five notices that easily. “If you have a thing for fruits.”

You notice the lack of male partners in the ballroom a few seconds after Five, chasing his pointed glance towards the balcony over the orchestra. They try to be discreet, and in fact they are, with bystanders simply greeting the onslaught of a few men at a time with a courteous hello. To others, their congregation would be simply noted as a drink with the boys at the back room without their pestering partners to hold them down.

But you know different.

And by the way Five’s eyes roam the balcony, surveying and landing on the same person every time, you figure out that the tall blond man is his target.

“Remember,” Five says, ducking his head towards your ear. “If I’m not back by—”

“—I don’t think I can leave without you.” You try to play it off with a laugh, but your slightly shaky fingers give you away.

Reality slaps you in the face with the force of a brick. It’s funny how the weight of the mission you’re on only settles the moment you know he has to do it. To leave. A gun is probably hidden within those pants of his, lying in wait for someone to pull the trigger. Someone might die tonight.

It might be that woman stuffing her face with cream puffs, or that man surly man playing the cello.

Or maybe even Five. And that is the thought you hate the most.

He is strong, that you can’t deny. And quick, and agile. Yet something swirls in your gut. It begs you to convince him to leave this place, that whatever this investigation is supposed to be isn’t worth his life, that you can continue this charade of pretend lovers at your apartment. But one other thing you know about Five is his hardheadedness, the absence of the trait of giving up.

“I have no idea where we are,” you explain. “How on Earth am I supposed to get back home?”

He doesn’t argue with you nor offer you a solution. Five’s confidence washes over you with a wave of relief, but the thought of him, lying in a ditch somewhere, continues to fade and return into far corners of your mind like rescinding seawater.

His eyes swift towards the people closest to you who are watching the whole conversation unfold. They probably think you’re berating him for his love of drinking, like all those other posh wives do. “I’ll see you later.”

Five leaves a swift kiss on your temple and leaves.

The heat of the kiss distracts you for a moment. You blink once, then twice, then once again.

This is an act. A very good one at that. That is all it is—a simple act to get their scent off your trail. Five doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t mean anything. All his actions so far that night are to solidify your façade. So instead of focusing on his show of fake affection, you force yourself to watch him climb the steps of the balcony as he ducks to what seems to be an empty hallway, to use his powers unseen.

Now that he is gone from your visage, you don’t know what to do.

You don’t feel like eating cake anymore. Nor anything else, for the matter.

Scanning for a safe space within an environment that you are hardly accustomed to, you traverse the room and arrive at an open veranda. The curtains enclosing the open windows dance and fluttering with the soft breeze. There’s fortunately not a single soul there, except for the small, obvious signs of previous use—a cigarette bud, an empty glass of champagne standing on the ledge. The air is cold. It kisses your skin, goosebumps lining the ghost of its touch.

You would rather shiver than listen to the screeching pitch of another irksome old woman.

A sigh escapes your lips as you rub your hands together.

How long is he going to take?

Over the quiet veranda, there seems to be some sort of garden maze. Hedges line the rectangular area, creating a large jigsaw puzzle between rose bushes. You hear a few giggles and the swishing of leaves. It feels intimate, out of place, watching those two lovebirds flirt in what they consider a private place to show their affections.

You count the number of rows and columns of the maze, your eyes straying away from the romantic show the two strangers are putting in front of you.

Time slows down.

Soon enough, the garden becomes as silent as the veranda you are on. But with silence comes another. You swallow, a terrible thought flicking in an out of your mind. And although you try to swat it away with the reassuring phrases of ‘he’s almost done’ and ‘he can fend for himself’, the doubt hidden at the back of your mind never really fades away.

Five is never late.

You tread back to the ballroom, both pissed off and filled with worry, heels clacking against the white floor tiles. Nothing seems out of order, no one is bleeding out on the floor. The orchestra is still playing another nameless composition, the women are still carrying glasses of wine.

But as soon as you reach the first step of the balcony’s stairs, you hear a pop that reminds you a lot of the fireworks they shoot up into the sky during Independence Day celebrations. A few seconds later, another pop resounds. Then three and four in quick succession.

It’s only when someone screams—the piercing scream of a frightened woman at that—you realize what those popping sounds actually are. At the same time, the whole lot of people in the ballroom are realizing it the moment you do. Like the quiet before a storm; with a pin drop, everything descends into chaos.

Five.

You run up the stairs, bumping into rich men who are trying to get away from what seems to be the room at the end of the hall. You even recognize some of them as the feigning bachelors who were swaggering towards their drinking safe haven. At the corner of your eye, you catch a waiter with a stain of crimson on his white dress shirt. Blood. He stumbles, bumping into scattering guests, with eyes glazed in terror.

You are not like Five, or his siblings. If you rush in without a weapon, you will die.

Are you really going to go in there alone?

You grab a silver tray from another very confused waiter.

Between the space of the door and the frame, you can hear the sounds of a struggle. A surge of panic runs through you, your hands strengthening its grip on the tray. A dull thump, like a table. An emerald vase enters your vision, its jagged top broken from what could be a harsh fall. But a familiar zap of blue light bounces through the room, followed by groans and scuttling.

You watch as Five loses his footing, and stumbles.

Before you can think a single thought, a single plan, your body moves. You stealthily close the gap between you and the assailant with small steps, with the latter distracted from believing he has the upper hand. The metal tray feels weightless in your move of desperation.

It slams into the blonde man’s head with staggering weight, a dull shing resounding throughout the room.

Five breathes heavily, eyes staring into yours with wide confusion and shock as the target crumples to the ground.

“What are you doing here?” Five hisses, striding towards you. He pulls you to his side with a painful tug to the wrist, but your glare only fuels the fire. “I told you to get out of here if it went tits-up!”  

“Oh, shut up, Five! If I didn’t hit him, you’d probably be—” lying in a ditch. You pull your wrist away from him, massaging it with your left thumb. The man remains unmoving on the gray carpet. Your stomach drops. “Oh god. Is he dead?”

“No. He’s unconscious,” He says as if it’s obvious. “Even if you wanted to kill him, I doubt you could have done that with,” dark eyes scrutinize your choice of weapon, “a tray.”

“They don’t provide sharp knives at a gala, you know.”

As Five takes something from the man’s pocket, you hear loud shouts from the outside of the door you mistakenly kept wide open during your burst of adrenaline. Heavy footsteps and harsh yelling are definitely not a good sign. The both of you reach an agreement with interlocked eyes: you are fucked.

“Hold your breath,” he tells you.

“What are you—”

A sudden pain surges through your brain. Your eyes clamp shut, waiting for it to end. But as quick as it started, your knees meet the spiky texture of grass with an excruciating bang. It feels like someone has shoved your brain into a blender and stuffed it back into your head.

You bite your lip. Something threatens to spill.

“Never,” you groan, “never again.”

“Your head will stop spinning eventually,” Five says. He’s standing upright, most probably observing for anyone who would want to interfere with your getaway. And if it isn't for your head screaming of its desire to split into two, you might have said a joke about his surprisingly considerate actions to you.

He holds out his hand. You hesitantly take it, legs wobbly on nausea and your heels.

“Why did you take so long, dipshit?” Biting your lip, you lean onto him for support. “You look—” eyes zip up and down his upper figure, noting his disheveled appearance and the seeping bullet wound on his shoulder. “terrible.”

“I was—” Five thinks, eyebrows furrowing. He shrugs. “distracted.”

Once you’re able to stand on your own, the full force of a cold night hits you. “D-distracted?” You rub your hands together. “What are you talking about? You never get distracted.”

Five seems disappointed in himself by the way he carries his shoulders (that might be because of the bullet wound, still) but he won’t dare admit that. “I have no idea.”

A few seconds after another cold wave hits you, Five shrugs off his jacket and places it on your shoulders. Warmth blossoms on your skin. A sigh of gratitude escapes you, fingertips holding onto his sleeve to at least relay some of your sentiments. “At a loss for words, huh? That’s a first.” Narrowing your eyes on a damp spot, you add, “wait. Is this your blood?”

“Glad you can tell the difference between blue and red,” Five retorts, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “What’s next? Would you like to practice differentiating shapes and numbers?”

“Gee, missed you too, Five.”

Your hand finds his in a search for more warmth. Instead of fending your touch off, he lets you hold him.

“Why are you still carrying that tray?”

You shrug. “They can’t identify the assailant if the weapon isn’t present at the scene.”

Five sighs. “Reasonable.”

Chapter Text

You don’t remember why you are this angry, but you are.

Your fingernails dig into your palm, leaving painful crescent kisses. Whether it brims from Five’s decision to leave his stupid, fucking door bolted, or your naivety that he’d actually trust you as much as you trust him, or the excruciating hours of a deathly silent line, or the amalgamation of everything that happened today, you have no idea.

There is no use of figuring out the whys. All you feel and see and breathe is red. It climbs up your throat, suffocating you with its dryness. You can’t even look at Five without feeling the urge to cry.

You swipe away the tears brimming in your eyes. Not now.

“You're a jerk. A fucking jerk!” Your words are harsh. But they won’t hurt, words never do. In fact, Five never lets anyone see him in pain. Although bruises line his neck with a deathly halo, a stab wound lies on his left leg with even more cuts hidden under the darkness of his clothes, and blood, so much blood seeping into everything they touch, Five feels obligated to give to a half-lipped smile.

Your words will eventually dissipate with time—possibly even seconds after they leave your mouth. Five holds no care for the words you toss onto him in anger. You know that very well by now.

“Do you know how worried I was?” It sounds screechy and painful under the influence of your tears. To Five, it might be the most irritating sound he has heard the whole day. But if you could to return even a spoonful of the agony he gave you oh so easily, then you would gladly scream at him all over again.

His glare is heavy. It weighs you down, but you can’t pull away either.

“I don’t know,” if feels an ache from talking, he doesn’t show it. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“You are so full of shit, Five.” You remember the helplessness you felt, the shock. The desire to do something more than just wait and hope and cry. “When Vanya told me what happened, I thought you were dead.”

“But I’m not,” he says. You see the irritation in his eyes before you hear it from his mouth. “Don’t blow this up, [Name]. If I wanted your output, I would have called you.”

This is when the dam breaks, when it overflows with emotions you yourself can no longer bare. Spiderwebs form on the walls of your heart, cracking, breaking, spilling onto your ribs. Five will never open the door for you. And that thought, the way he sweeps you to the side as if you are nothing but a stranger to him—everything crashes down.

So you let the water run. You let it ruin everything you try to keep within you. “I can’t believe I fell in love with you!”

And for a second, you catch disbelief. As you watch his chest rise and fall in response of the absence of a remark, a retort from the man called Five, you realize that you have no idea what you want him to say.

You actually don’t want him to say anything.

“What?” It comes out more of a whisper than a question. For some reason, your confession has rendered him speechless. He looks at you, scrutinizes your cheeks which are stained red from tears and anger, to your shaky hands you try to hide from. In his dark eyes, he whispers for a clarification, the truth. “What did you just say?”

A bitter laugh rips through you. You are tired of his games, the mist of who you are to him. “I have no idea, Five. Why don’t you figure that out yourself, like you always do?”

Chapter Text

As casual as one would pass a salt shaker at the diner table or pay back the debt of ten dollars, Five twiddles a ring between his fingers, before offering it to you.

You look up from the book you are reading. The implication is there for you to scrutinize. You are not some teenage girl anymore, who interprets his actions as some sort of April fools prank, and Five is hardly what anyone would call young (well, he does look like someone in their late 20s) so doubting his sincerity is the last thing you would do. Instead, you take a few seconds to look at the ring in question.

A sense of déjà vu floods through you. From its sleek, platinum band to its princess cut, you realize the ring’s familiarity before you comprehend the underlying question of its existence.

It reminds you of a ball. Of a dance. One that brings forth memories of blood-stained cuffs and nauseating headaches.

But despite all of that, you are still fond of remembering the details of that particular night.

You remember wearing that exact same ring.

With the tone of a ‘yes’, you ask him, “Why?”

He shrugs, eyes piercing through the jewel between his fingertips. “Why not?”

“I thought you said marriages were the last thing you would get into?” You say. “A choke hazard of the worst kind, sappy, overdone?” Your tongue rests on your lips, waiting for the go signal to continue on your enumeration. “Why?”

“I figured that the whole thing wouldn’t be such a drag-fest with you.” He simply says, but you know it is much more than that. And as if he can read your mind instead of control time, Five adds, “On contrary to what I can do, we don’t actually have all the time in the world even if Klaus tells me otherwise.”

“What if I said no?” You say. It comes out comically, with a glint of mischief coating your eyes. “This isn’t how most proposals go.”

But that alternate proposal is not how Five does things. He has an absence of flair on the tasks that do need it, and packs a punch of obnoxiousness on the startling mundane. But this proposal, this casual proposal equaling the likes of passing an eating utensil, is definitely him. And that’s all you need.

“Would you?” Five asks.

He doesn’t have to, but he does ask, considering his ego and all.

“No,” you reply, only proving his point. “Never.”

You intertwine your fingers through his, with him tightening his grip against yours. Five makes you feel safe, and despite the coldness that seldomly wafts from his being, he makes you feel warm. He is the sun—charismatic, the prickly heat of his wit and sarcasm—and like the sun, he watches over you.

Five can be overbearing sometimes, but the last thing he would ever do is hurt you.

He raises your hand wrapped around his, and presses his lips against your skin.

“As long as we’re not inviting your cousins from the other academy,” you say.

He chuckles. “Packing all those relatives into one, fragile building? That’ll be a recipe for disaster.”

“Yeah,” a shrug. “And I think one of them would kill me if they found out.”

Chapter Text

When Five Hargreeves struts into the room with his hands stuffed into his pockets for the third time this week, it almost seems like he’s doing whatever it is that got him there on purpose. That thought, along with your fatigue and aching wrists, boils you down to the core.

You are tired.

He is not.

Five still remains at the top of your year. His name sits at the top of the list, followed by scores rounding off to a full hundred percent. To your dismay, Five still remains to a genius, despite his bouts of frequent troublemaking that attempt to spoil his record.

No matter how many classes he feigns illness to escape from, his intellect is superb. The only thing your shared professors can do is to sign their agreements onto the quarterly grades submissions. They nod their heads with the same collective remark: Ah. It’s the Hargreeves boy again?

Why his father named him Five when he ranks first all the time leaves you clueless.

His fingertips ghost the metal bodice of the medal inscribed with the word valedictorian. And although you work twice as much as Five does, (on another note, you have never, ever seen him studious) you are still nothing but a measly second, clinging to the hopes that one day, Five will mess up.

You can’t beat him on your own, so you wait in the hopes for his own-caused demise.

How far you have fallen.

He plops onto the chair he usually sits on—the seat on the last row—and sighs. It seems that he believes he hasn’t done anything to warrant a time out at Room 304, but based on all the previous detentions Five’s received, you have a hunch to that might be.

He may have tried skipping out a class or two (music, guessing from the face of the modern clock in the room) but if he really desired a means to escape without facing the consequences, he does have the talent to.

He let himself get caught on purpose. That annoys you.

“What did you do this time?” You ask, slightly curious.

If Five wonders why you are here instead of in homeroom, he doesn’t question you. “Oh, are you the teacher in charge of detention now? I didn’t have the faintest idea.”

Rolling your eyes, “Do you always have to be a pain in the ass?”

He nods, strands of hair sticking to his forehead. It must be a blessing to be able to express one’s mockery with a simple movement of the head. And just like Five, he damn shows his pride in it too.

“I have no idea why everyone wants to be friends with you.”

“I wonder that too.” The guy says, a smirk plastered on his lips. “I try my best to make everyone who tries talking to me feel unwelcomed, but I’m afraid it only works half the time. Do you have any idea how to shut people up? I’ve told one person in particular that he’d look better 5,000 miles away from me, but he still continues to bother me at lunch.”

A swirl of jealously runs through you. It’s funny how the only thing that troubles him is his irritation for people. Oh, the woes of the privileged.

“I guess it has to do with the family brand. You’re a Hargreeves. You’re rich, entitled, and only god knows why, everyone thinks you’re cool. Your brother’s the captain of the football team and your sister’s the most popular girl in school. No matter what you do, everyone still wants a part of that.”

Five is smart enough to be aware of that all on his own. Yet he still asks you, only confirming exactly what you know about him: a douchebag who loves to flutter his superiority in front of everyone else’s face. If you needed another thing to further your dislike towards the boy in front of you, he’s handed it to you on a silver plate.

Gee, thanks! I’d love your head on a platter instead.

The enormous difference between Five Hargreeves and someone like you is astounding; it is a distance that can never be filled by mere hard work and commitment. You are either born into it (or adopted, as everyone is aware of) or by the sheer chance you are able to slip into their ranks and blend in, it is a life of paradise within the four years of high- school.

Unfortunately, you haven't been adopted as a child by a billionaire, nor do you possess the pure luck of being dealt with the good cards of life. You are the daughter of a middle-class family, struggling to sustain a scholarship that enables you to go to a school like this. The only friends you have are a handful of classmates who want to be paired up with you for class projects and rare ‘good mornings' and 'byes' from kind passersby in the hallways.

You don’t really mind the absence.

It hasn’t really bothered you that much.

The thought of approaching someone and being fended off with a contemptuous giggle is much scarier than being alone.

You’re fine with that.

“And you?” Five asks, dark eyes meeting yours. His gaze teeters on the edge, testing how far he can traverse through the waters.

You know that look. “What?”

He continues, “Don’t you want a part of that?”

His insinuation makes your blood boil. It almost makes you want to force out a laugh. Instead, you tear your eyes away from him as he continues on his ridicule.

“Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Of course not, idiot!”

“Then why are you here?” He folds his arms across his chest. He almost seems to be interested in the mystery of your presence, but perhaps it originates from the fact that he doesn’t know who you exactly are.

He isn’t aware that his presence, his very being, is the one barrier that holds you away from the very thing for which you are working yourself to death for.

Five isn’t aware that you are obsessed with his continuous winning sprees.

He doesn’t know you exist.

You slip a smile onto your face. “I have no idea. I just thought I’d find something more than a pompous douchebag. I was mistaken.”

It seems that the world is out for your blood.

A few days after your nice chat with Five, the secretary of the scholarship department calls you in for a meeting. You surmise it to be a request for yet another formally written letter of thanks to the ever so generous board of directors who paid for your stay.

Thank you for paying for me, old-man! As if your measly tuition could dent their pockets.

But when you enter the office, the secretary wears a grim smile. The scene reminds you of an archaic death sentence with the accompanying orchestra burning fear into your gut. It pulls at you like waves, dangerous, large waves, tearing you apart little by little.

You know what the woman will say before it leaves her mouth.

“—the budget cuts, I’m afraid,” A picture of the computer lab filled with unnecessarily expensive MacBook’s enters your mind. You also make no mention of the gold plating in the principal’s office either, not that the secretary would care of your woes. Budget cuts, my ass. “Only the top student in each year level is given the scholarship, and as you are aware, your grades are perfectly high. Extremely high, in fact, but not—”

As if you needed a reminder of your inadequacy.

For a while, you stare at the phone in your hand, unmoving. The emptiness of the courtyard yells at you to get up, go to class, but you toss it away. With a chest full of cotton, you stare at the phone number blinking on the screen of your electronic.

With shaky fingers, you press the cool metal to your ear.

And so it begins. You hear the fatigue of your mother through her croaky voice, but she still manages to greet you invitingly. You know how it is going to end—the yelling, the accuses—but you’d rather do it now, through the phone, where the only thing that can hurt you here is the disappointment in your mother’s tone.

Let the grenade blow up now. Let the wound seep. You have no other choice. This is something you cannot delay.

“No – you don’t understand, mom. I did study!” When your mother’s temper spikes, there is nothing you can say to make her back off. But you do anyways. You are sick and tired of feeling tired, staying awake for something your fingertips can never hold. “All I do is study! No matter what I do, I still can’t beat— No – it’s not like that at all! You aren’t lis—”

But the only thing present is her disappointment and anger.

And you are tired.

With a beep, you shut your mother’s voice off.

A sob escapes you as your body wracks with an onslaught of tears. While the courtyard remains to be a ghost town as the rest of the students are sitting in their respective classes, you stifle your tears as if it is entirely the opposite. Gossip at your school isn’t particularly kind. The last thing you’d do is trust the plastic, doll-faced girls of your class.

You swallow your next sob, and the one after that.

Meadows has a public school. It’s a 30-minute bus ride from your house, plus the tuition’s free. There’s another private school in the next town. It might be cheaper than the academy, but you have no idea if they accept applicants this late into the school year.

Between the painful thoughts of transferring to yet another school, you hear the rustling of leaves. But neither does your hair nor the bushes beside you flutter with the wind—there is simply no breeze to dance with.

It clicks.

Your head whips towards the direction of the rustling you heard.

Nothing seems to be out of place.

But when you return to your sad state, legs tucked in, your eyes meet blue ones.

Five stares at you with some sort of expression you cannot decipher. It is heavy yet fragile, like the glass panes of the academy’s greenhouse. You hold your breath.

Right now, as he stares at you, scrutinizing every part of your figure his blues can touch, what is it that he is thinking of? Will he regard you as some sort of weak girl who cries over everything? Is it pity swirling within those surprisingly light, not dark eyes of his?

It makes you feel naked, vulnerable.

You wonder if he heard everything.

Your wrists climb to wipe red, puffy eyes with force. Great. Now, your academic rival has finally seen you at your lowest. It reminds you of a few years back when a professor gave you a terrible grade due to the incompetence of fellow groupmates (Five was definitely in the room when Pugsface was berating you, you remember that memory well), but even then, you hadn’t even shed a tear.

But that no longer matters. As sudden as he had appeared, Five is gone without a trace.

“Where is it?” Frustration slips through your teeth as your fingers lift every article in your locker, searching for something in particular.

Your gym clothes aren’t here.

You a few giggles from the row of lockers after yours. Martha clearly doesn’t know what the word inconspicuous means, for her large head pokes out from a nearby metal door. Knowing her, she probably doesn’t care.

It doesn’t take you long to realize what she has done.

You know about her sad and pitiful objective to make everyone around her feel miserable. It looks like today’s your turn to be dragged into her long list of unsuspecting victims. Will she slash your name off too? Keeping an actual list of victims isn’t that unbecoming of her.

You hope she hasn’t thrown your uniform into trash like she did Sasha’s.

It is when Martha and her band of followers leave you slam your locker closed.

A very interested voice pipes into your circle of resentment, shoes clacking against the tiles of the locker room. “You’d think we were still in kindergarten by the way some of these girls act.”

You jolt, whipping your head to meet the boy you know oh so well. “Why are you here?” Your eyes pierce the closed wooden door of the room before shooting back to Five’s figure. “This is the girls room – you do know that, Five. You aren’t supposed to be in here.”

“Yes, I can read.” Five leans back, his uniform pressing against the locker beside yours. “Surprising. Are you always pulled into childish tricks like these?”

A flash of irritation rushes through you. “Rarely. I guess Sasha called in sick so Martha’s looking for her next top slave. I wonder how she ended up picking me. But now that I think about it, I might be one of the only ones she can freely bother.”

“She probably wanted to see you dumbfounded. But somehow, I do understand her sentiments.”

“Enjoying the show now, huh?” His voice makes you cynical. If it isn’t for the very fact that his presence should be kept a secret, you would have chosen to yell at him a little louder. “Then you arrived just at the right time. Would you like to take my jacket, too?”

Five rolls his eyes. When he sighs, you take a few seconds to watch him think. But although it’s obvious that cogs are swiveling in his brain, it almost seems as if he’s debating whether or not to do something. Whatever that something is.

“Take this.” He shoves a seemingly normal paper bag towards you, the edges crinkling at the presses of your fingertips.

You make no effort to hide the suspicion on your face. You take a swiftly peek at the insides, lips parting in surprise. There’s the familiar color of the academy’s gym clothes, albeit the uniform being a few sizes bigger than your own.  

You smart enough to figure that out. “Don’t we have co-ed today? What about—” Another thing hits you. Five is wearing his school uniform, not the gym clothes he’s has handed so considerately to you. “You must be joking.”

“Do you even have the time to ask me twenty-questions now?” He isn’t wrong. The gym will be shut closed, almost apocalypse-proofed in ten more minutes. “Roll up the sleeves if they’re too big for you. No one will notice. I don’t think they’ll even care.”

A few, quick steps push you towards the closest changing room. But before you swing the door open, you breathe in, absorbing the absurdity of the whole thing—but something else enters your heart while the oxygen seeps into your lungs.

Gratitude.

You swing back, hair flying. “Thank you, Five.”

He nods, finding interest in one of the lightbulbs.

“Oh,” your heartbeat knocks on the door of your eardrums, “by the way. You should get out of here before anyone finds you. You might be a Hargreeve, but that won’t save you from a lifetime of gossip.”

He looks at you with an expression that says, are you being serious right now? “You never shut up, do you?”

You know that something is definitely wrong when a particular Hargreeve sibling slips onto the plastic seat of your lunch table, wearing what is practically the largest smile you’ve ever seen.

An exchange of questionable glances follows, with Risa—the blonde a year below yours and your current lunch buddy—wondering what on earth you have gotten yourself into.

“Oh, I know you!” Klaus begins, a finger poking a dimple onto your cheek. “You used to be my partner in math—”

“—Lab.” You take a long, lingering glance at the fortunately uninterested cafeteria before swatting his finger away. “What can I do for you, Klaus?”

Klaus claps his hands together as if he has been waiting for that offer. “We’ve tried to one up our brother for years—wait. Scratch that. Not really me, but still. None of us has ever been able to come close. So, I want to know how you did it - because Allison’s denial has been ruining breakfast for a week.” His elbows press against the table as he settles his cheeks onto his palms, waiting for what seems to be a long-ass story. “Oh – don’t worry. I’m not in a rush, so don’t skip over the details.”

Blinking owlishly, you stumble out a reply, “I did what now?”

“You know, kicking my brother’s ass to next Monday?” hints Klaus, but it doesn’t do much. “That has to ring some bells. Any bells?”

“Even if I do know what you’re talking about—and I don’t—I have no idea which brother you’re talking about.” But of course you do. There is only one Hargreeves brother you are on a jab-insult-ceasefire basis with. Have you forgotten about that specific brother’s gym clothes, washed and tucked inside your locker? “You do know that you have more than one, right?”

He winks. “I think you know.”

As you try to calm the rising storm of anxiousness within your gut, the peculiar Hargreeves brother rabbles on. “You should have seen how furious dad was. Well, not that Five cared. Dad’s always grumpy and aloof – not much of a personality change. But the thing that pissed off dad the most was the raid—”

“Raid?” You repeat. “Are you sure you have the right person? I don’t remember helping someone raid – uh, something? Whatever that means.”

“—Tut-tut-tut!” His hand opens and closes, mimicking some sort of yapping animal. “I wasn’t finished. Okay, since dad kicked out our poor brother from joining us for dinner, he was feeling upset. Or pissed off. Probably pissed off. It also didn’t help that the doughnut shop’s right in front of our house. So he did what every Hargreeve sibling does to get on dad’s nerves—”

“—he got caught eating chocolate twisters in the middle of the night?”

“Well, yeah. If he got caught,” Klaus says. “But Five never gets caught.”

Unless he’s willing to.

“Are you sure Five did it? It could have well been someone who was hungry enough to throw a large rock at the window and, you know, steal some doughnuts.”

“Yeah – but there weren’t any broken windows. The waitress didn’t see a thing. I heard the police say it was as if they magically disappeared.”

Barely anything leaving his mouth makes sense – the break-in, the missing doughtnuts, hell, the only thing you wanted to know in the first place is the questionable presence of Klaus Hargreeves on your lunchtable.

But although the mashed potatoes on your plate have gone cold, you find it difficult to push the sibling away. The way Klaus sits down and talks to you as if you were childhood friends fills you with nostalgia.

“But there’s still no proof he did it,” you point out, continuing on this rollercoaster ride of a story.

He sighs, disappointed at your lack of intuition. “Come on. The absence of proof is proof. Only Five could have broken in there and left without a trace.”

“And your dad believes that?”

“We all do. He’s done worse.”

You try to pin the details, but there is one thing left you do not understand. “So – uh, Klaus. Why am I being dragged into this?”

He looks at you, agape. “You really have no clue? Weird.”

The boy’s locker room is quite different from what you imagine.

All the shows you’ve seen on tv describe them as horrific. Rooms that are the reincarnation of hell itself, wafting from the putrid smell of sweat and perspiration. However, the only thing you can smell is lime air freshener. If it isn’t for the task at hand, you would spare a few seconds to be pleasantly surprised.

Or maybe gawk. The rich indeed are scary.

You peer through the rows of metal lockers to assure yourself of the vacancy within the room. Except for one particular boy and yourself, the boys changing room is empty.

You call out his name, “Five.”

It’s almost as if he predicted you were coming. “Now I wonder if you can read.”

“No one’s here anyways.” Yet, your gaze swats over the closed door. Just in case. “I brought your uniform. And yes, before you complain – I washed it.”

You hear the rustling of clothes and thuds resounding within his locker. Five continues to search for something as you approach his figure. Slips of irritation escape his lips—a few mumbled curses, and maybe a threat—and it reminds you of the day a week ago when you were in the same position, looking for something you desperately hoped was there.

“I heard from Klaus—”

It’s only when he shuts his locker shut that you see the blooming bruise on his jaw. The sight of the purple forces you to blink, obvious concern coating your face.

“What did you do this time, Five?” You whisper, fingers hovering over the bruise in question.

He swats your hand away before skin touches skin. “It’s not your business.”

“That looks like it hurts.” It’s a painfully obvious remark. A thought pulls at Klaus’ animated conversation drifting in your head. Maybe their family isn’t the perfect, luxurious household everyone thinks it is. “Did you get—”

“—Whatever you think it is, you’re mistaken,” huffs Five. His thumb massages the growing purplish bruise, a tongue clicking in irritation. “If I needed your help, I would have asked.”

“Let me help.”

“Were you not listening?”

Your hand slips into your pocket, searching for a particular smooth surface. “I was listening. But know that you’re extremely hardheaded, so even if you need my help, you wouldn’t ask for it.”

A hand climbs to meet the purple bruise, but he grabs your wrist before you can apply the concealer. He analyzes the black lettering and the kind intent sprawled between your eyes. “I know what I’m doing,” you reassure with a genuine, kind smile. “Let me help you.”

There is no malice, no feigned graciousness to sneak under his skin. He lets go of your wrist and allows you to do your magic.

When you’re done smudging his face, you pat his cheek. “There. Was that so bad?”

 “You could have done worse.” Five replies, irritated at the pride dangling on the corner of your lips. “You should get out of here before someone finds you.”

“I know, I know. A girl sneaking into the boys room. What a scandal.”  

Five spares you a calculating glance which reminds you of an incidence a few days past of a paper bag with a spare uniform. You can see the cogs turning. To do, or not to do. “Can you manage that yourself?”

Somehow, his question tells you he chose the latter. You shrug. “I’ll try.”

It takes you a few seconds for the sound of fireworks popping outside to set in. After that, it takes only a second for the next thought to hit you—someone is lighting up fireworks inside their apartment. It takes half the time for the next one, but at this point, the comprehension is darker.

Those are fireworks. The words swirl, gripping the far corners of heart. Your lips repeat the same mantra, begging your mind to wholly believe the lie. Fireworks. Another resounding pop shoots into your eardrums, loosening the grip you currently have on your sanity.

Those are not fireworks.

No one shoots fireworks this early.

Both of your parents are still at work. And for whatever reason that whoever is shooting up the floor decides to barge into your apartment, the only thing you can protect yourself with are the dulled kitchen knives in the cabinet above the sink.

When you press your temple against the wooden front door, your ear catches a few harsh whispers. For some god damn reason, those whispers don’t belong to older men. Hell, they almost sound like—

Your palm curls around the door knob.

What shocks you aren’t the unmoving bodies on the floor nor the streaks of blood in the hallway. Rather, it stems from the stunning realization that the apparent shooting hasn’t given you acute paranoia. You actually heard it right.

“Five?” Your eyes dart from the unfamiliar school uniform he wears to the other boy he’s struggling to carry up. Both are covered in crimson, as if they took a shower in blood.

“You?” Five hisses. “Why are you here?”

“Why are you here? I live here!”

“Can you two – urgh… Quiet down? Man, that hurts!”

“Shut up, Klaus!”

From a quick look at their disheveled appearance, it’s easy to deduce that they were both present during the first few shots. At the same time, Klaus’ words from yesterday spin around your head. He’s done worse. But although they are both bloodied red and probably have done something unspeakable, they don’t seem to want to hurt you.

In an urge of adrenaline, you rush out of your apartment and take Klaus’ arm, propping up his shot leg.

“What are you doing?” Five grits his teeth. 

“Do you both want to die? Come on. Get inside before we all get killed!”

Somehow you are able to shove everyone through the doorway, closing it with a hasty click. You are buckling up all the locks you have (three, counting the doorknob) while Five lays his brother down on your living room.

“He’s bleeding pretty badly,” you say.

You wonder whether your mom will kill you for staining her floor with blood, or the fact that you are endangering yourself by offering shelter to what, two high school criminals?

Five glares at you. “No shit, Sherlock.” He strides through your kitchen, screeching cabinets open in search for something to help his brother out. “Do you have a first-aid kit somewhere?”

“It’s in the bathroom!” Your feet quickly pad the distance to the room in question. When you catch a glimpse of the familiar scarlet red bag, you snatch it quickly and rush back to the brothers.

“Yes. Yep. I’m definitely going to die,” whispers Klaus, who groans when you press towelettes against his thigh.  “I always imagined going out in a last stand sort of thing, not on someone’s dirty living room rug. But it’s a nice color, by the way.”

“I’m usually careful with snacks. What was I supposed to do? Continue watching Greys Anatomy while you guys are shooting rockets next door?” You say.  

Five brings out a scissor, cutting off the fabric of Klaus’ pant leg. “Hold still!”

“Ah, yes, Five. Hold still while you dig into my skin. You aren’t very good at doctor-y things, brother!” He whimpers when Five not so kindly rips the cloth. “Ouch! Watch where you’re shoving that thing.”

“Okay,” you begin, staring at the scene unfolding before you. “The last thing I want is someone dying in my living room, but there’s something I just don’t get.” You inhale, taking in a deep breath which you blow out slowly. “Excuse me, but what the fuck is happening?”

“Oh. It’s just another day of normal family bonding,” says Klaus, dryly. “Who would’ve thought that a Cartel boss hires mercenaries? Talk about a weird crossover.”

The said brother shoots him a pointed glance, which looks like a ‘shut up, or I’ll stab you with this instead’ warning to you.

“Cartel?” You ask incredulously. “Impossible.”

“Criminals hide in very unexpecting places,” mutters Five.

After a mesh of cleaning, disinfecting the wound, and Klaus’ numerous complaints, Five finally finishes bandaging up his brother’s leg. Behind Klaus’ sprawled body, you catch blots of red on your beige carpet. That won’t look good to the policemen (or the SWAT team) who will eventually check out the building.

“You need to get out of here before the cops show up,” you say. With a scurry towards the window, you take a peek through the curtains for any sign of red and blue lights. A racket certainly is brewing outside, with various screams coming from familiar faces. “Aside from them, aren’t they looking for you two? The, uh,” your voice drops low, “cartel?”

“No, no. The druggies have been dealt with. But escaping? That’s the messy part,” croaks Klaus. “My brother here apparently can’t zip us out.”

“Zip?”

The brothers exchange looks, deciding whether to explain what exactly zip means. Five wears narrowed blue slits to Klaus’ simple eyeroll. Within a few seconds, Five relents with a huff and hands shoved into his pockets.

“Five can teleport,” states Klaus. He explains further when he sees the disbelief on your face. “You know, Wonderwoman. Superman? Do you even read comic books?”

Despite knowing that superheroes don’t exist, it does kind of make sense. “Oh.”

“Oh?” repeats Five. “A dozen mercenaries are dead outside your front door, but the only thing that doesn’t confuse you is the power part?”

You shrug. “It kind of explains the appearing and disappearing act you have there, Five.”

You hear the police before you see them. As the distant sounds of sirens increase in volume, your eyes lock with Five, then dart towards the brother with a bandaged leg.

“Oh, fuck—” you whisper.

“Five?” Klaus begins. “I think it’s the right time for you to blip us out of here.”

Five curls his fingers into fists, gritting his teeth. The faint blues that coat his palms does surprise you, but aside of his glowing hands, nothing peculiar happens.

“Shit. That last piece of crap tired me out!”

With your apartment lying two doors away from the emergency staircase which the police will definitely use, you three have only have about three minutes to clean up the mess.

“Five! I can’t believe—” Klaus hisses.

“—Could you try hiding yourselves in my room?” As long as they don’t see the drenched carpet, the police won’t further investigate your apartment for now. They have much bigger things to worry about. “Bring the carpet with you!”

“And leave you to deal with the police?” retorts Five. “If you haven’t noticed, you’re not the lying type—”

With a bang, you hear the metal door to the emergency staircase barge open. The vibrations of harsh thudding run through the soles of your feet.

“I have to open the door,” you whisper. You move towards it, but Five yanks you harshly away.

“Don’t you see my brother’s blood all over you?” He hisses, pinching the cloth above your right shoulder. “If you go outside looking like that, they’ll—”

“—Then I’ll wear a jacket!” You swat his hand away, fumbling for the academy’s physical-ed uniform in the laundry room. “You have to find somewhere to hide Klaus. My bedroom. Now.”

Just as you fix the collar to hide a particularly large blood spot, an officer knocks on your door. You take a deep breath to construct the first few sentences of your explanation.

You open the door, sweat pouring down your temple. “Officer! I heard screaming and bullets shooting everywhere – I was scared out of my mind.” The blood on the floor isn’t that all surprising now that you’ve seen them both drenched in it, but it is still shocking enough to fit in with your storytelling. “Oh—”

“We’ll deal with it, miss. Just stay inside your apartment.” The officer scans the interior your apartment, finding nothing of interest in his quick flit of sight. “Are you alone?”

“Yes,” you say. “My parents are still at work.”

When you return from what seemed like a lifetime stuffed within merely a minute, the door is shut with a flick of a wrist. A deep breath wrack through you. The blood on your shoulder feels sticky, suffocating.

But when you scurry to the confines of your bedroom to berate your new found—what, friends?—acquaintances, you find not a single drop of blood on your wooden floors, nor the ghost of someone’s breathing. Oh, and your beige living room rug is missing too.

The day Klaus returns to school after a bout of the flu, you find him talking animatedly to an uninterested Five and a timid Vanya. You take a deep breath and slip into the plastic chair beside his brother.

“Oh!” breathes Klaus, eyes shining. “Why it isn’t my little savior!”

You whisper, “How’s the leg?”

“The leg’s fine. You should have seen the talking down Dad gave us.” He shrugs, turning to his brother who is mashing peas with the back of his fork. “Remind me to team up with Allison next time.”

“Agreed,” Five says simply.

“Now, what can I do for you?” Klaus asks.

You send him a thin-lipped smile. The dark shadows below his brown eyes isn’t something you have noticed before, considering that you haven’t tried taking closer look. But they’re drooping with fatigue despite Klaus’ attempts to act otherwise.

“I need Five to help me with a few things,” you say. The boy in question beckons you to explain further with a raised eyebrow. On the other hand, Vanya looks pleasantly surprised that someone has willingly asked for her brother’s presence. “You know, since being interrogated by the police was extremely tiring. Do you know how difficult it is to keep lying about our rug? My mom has asked about it a million times by now.”

“I’m afraid the rug’s a goner,” says Klaus.

Five wears a lackluster smile. “Do you want me to steal you a new one?”

“They threw it out of the window. Into the dumpster below Five’s room,” Vanya explains.

“Of course you did. But no. I’d like some help for the calculus pop quiz tomorrow.” Five sits straighter, seemingly interested at both your proposition and the belief that swims in your veins of his actual agreement to it. “You know, since you’ve given me much trouble.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because I want a part of it.”

To the other two, the words are incomprehensible, lacking context. But Five, he knows exactly what you’re talking about.

Although he takes a few seconds to think about it, you are sure of his answer before he utters it out loud. “As long as you remain the opposite of bothersome.”

“Beats erasing your name from a perfectly answered test paper.”