Work Text:
What can I say?
I think your head’s fucked
Go on, drive me wild
— Deftones
“Poltergeist”
I
They pop back into reality among a forest of winter-dead trees. Diego hits the ground, rolls and pops to his feet so fast his head spins. Five bursts into being with his hands outstretched on either side of him, grey coat flapped open behind him. It gives the illusion of a large flying squirrel. Diego almost laughs, then Five hits the ground face first with a thud Diego feels through the soles of his shoes and he winces instead, expression a confused mutation of an aborted smile and a newborn wince. He sees where Five has landed and breathes out, “Shit,” as he rushes to check on his brother. He hit a fallen limb, sharp branches poking up off it, dry leaves that stubbornly cling rattling like teeth gone loose in their sockets.
Before Diego can touch him, Five groans and pushes himself to his feet. He sways as he turns in short little jerks like a broken piece of clockwork until he faces Diego. He takes one look at him and says, “Shit,” again. There is large cut on Five’s forehead that bisects his eyebrow. There is forest mulch and a small leaf stuck to the gore. Shocked, Diego can only stare as blood runs into Five’s eye. The white blooms bright red, turns the oil pastel blue-green of the iris into something neon, unreal and monstrous. Then Five winces and blinks; the blood smears, the spell is broken. Some of it oozes down his cheek like a tear.
“Fuck,” he hisses as he reaches up to wipe the blood from his eye. He squeezes it closed and glares with his one good eye while blood paints his entire eyelid bright red, mats down the feathery sweep of his black eyelashes.
“Are you okay?” Diego asks. It almost feels out of place to use words that aren’t shit.
“No, I am not okay. I have a bleeding head wound. I don’t have a clue where we are and you—” He jabs a finger at Diego and takes a step toward him to spit through clenched teeth, “—are a fucking idiot.”
“Look, asshole, I’m not the one who—” Diego is tired of Five’s constant insinuation—and outright assertion—that he’s stupid. He might not be as a smart as Five (who the hell is?) but he’s not an idiot. He’s not.
“Who what? Saved your life? Again?” Five asks. His upper lip curls back in a sneer and blood settles into the creases as it makes it way down his pale face. When he lowers it again, the blood flows on down and into the corner of his mouth where Five licks it away without even a blink.
“I didn’t ask you—”
“No, you didn’t,” Five snaps. “I guess I could’ve let you and die and maybe next time I fucking will because you are a huge pain in my ass.” He attempts to wipe more blood from his face, but only smears it around.
“Yeah? Well, maybe you should, you—
“We need to get out of here,” Five says. “Try to find shelter so I can deal with this.” He gestures at his head, then waves his hand all around to encompass the grey wasteland they’ve landed in.
“Fine, but stop interrupting—”
“No.” Five takes off, headed southwest at a brisk pace and Diego has two choices: stay and stare after him or follow and hope he’s not leading them deeper into the fucking woods.
They don’t talk, they just traipse through the woods that grow stranger with every step to Diego. There are no noises of living things, no rustle of small creatures in the brittle undergrowth, no call of winter songbirds or the hooting of owls to greet the fast approaching sunset. There is the wind; a low, sighing moan that becomes a scream when it picks up and cuts through the trees just so. The bare limbs clack together like the snapping fingers of dead beatniks. What few leaves are left still rattle, sounding now like lost teeth; teeth cupped in an old hoodoo woman’s hand with other small bones as she prepares a throw. A huge gust of wind roars through at one point and sends a brittle downfall of greyish orange and yellow down in a swirl that twists all around them before flitting away like veils worn by a faery maiden.
Five notices as well, all this stillness, this unnatural quiet, lifts his head like a dog scenting the air for danger. That’s just it though—there is no sense of being stalked or watched, no unease that creeps across the skin when a predator is nearby. The discomfort comes from the nothingness of the place. The only living things aside from the trees—Diego assumes they’re alive, just asleep for the winter—are a few stubbornly clinging or maybe late emerging mushrooms. Some grow from dead limbs that litter the ground, black with white-grey tips like burnt matches; strange and unsavory looking waxy, gelatinous orange ones that bear a strange resemblance to ears; purple and lavender ones that are pretty and alien to look at. He knows nothing about mushrooms and doesn’t dare to even touch them.
Mist is beginning to rise from the ground, thick white and cold as bone where it creeps pale tendrils under the cuffs of Diego’s pants. The touch to his ankles is moist, spectral and he has to fight off the urge to shake his feet around to try and get rid of it. They climb over a deadfall that looks a little too carefully constructed to be natural and down the other side. A couple hundred more feet and the forest rudely spits them out then there it is, appearing like something out of a fairytale: a house; a big, sturdy old farmhouse with dead ivy clinging to part of the back wall. Diego palms a knife on instinct, something about this place is as wrong as everything else. There is an air of abandonment to it, the sense of emptiness that clings to houses that are no longer homes. There is a barn, a corral and the vague shapes of several outbuildings perched around the property and all of it is just… dead. A place like this should be similar to the forest; this time of night there should be light glowing in the windows and maybe the distant sounds of a family sitting down to supper. Animals should make soft noises from the barn as they settle in for the night; the gentle lowing of a cow, a blustery snort from a horse, maybe a bleat from an irritable goat or the low murmuring cluck of roosting chickens. The only thing that lives here is a pervasive sense of loneliness that makes Diego’s skin crawl.
Beside him, Five sways on his feet and starts to pitch forward, but Diego grabs him and hauls him back upright. That he doesn’t shake him off or growl at him about it means he must feel like hell. He shifts around to look down into Five’s face and hisses in a breath; the entire right side of his face is a mask of dried blood the color of blackened rust. It has cracked like the crazing in pottery glaze and gummed along the seam of his eye until it has effectively glued it shut. The blood looks like paint in the crepuscular light that is fast approaching twilight, which Diego knows only because the grey is seeping toward black. The sun is a stranger here and it’s hard to tell much else from a sky the uniform color of brushed iron. This entire place is almost entirely colorless, only smears of washed out brown and dead green break the monochromatic feel. The purple mushrooms back in the forest were the only actual bright colors Diego has seen. Even the maroon trim on Five’s coat and the diamonds on his sweater vest seem muted in this light.
He doesn’t want to, but he knows they have to go inside the house at least for the night so Five can rest. He leads him across the backyard to the door set inside a slight recess so they’re standing in even more shadows. Before Diego can do anything rash—and he’s thinking about it, working out how to prop up Five so he can ram his shoulder into the door or rear back and kick it until the latch gives—Five reaches out and twists the doorknob. It swings open with an ominous creak of hinges and Diego sighs. What the hell is it with people not locking their doors? They walk inside, the doorway wide enough for the two of them to just barely squeeze through side by side. The floor beneath their feet is irregular size pieces of stone milled to lie flush and even, worn almost slippery smooth by the passage of time and countless steps. This place is old, Diego can feel it almost like a weight in the air, something with texture and life that breathes all around them. It smells damp and musty, the odor of empty places the world over; there isn’t even the sound of rodents scurrying away at their approach. It’s eerie, this entombed silence where nothing seems to be alive but Diego and Five.
Diego trades his knife with some reluctance for the small flashlight he has in one of his many pockets. He clicks it on, the small beam reassuringly bright in this dreary old place. It reveals thick walls made of whitewashed limestone, rough towards the ceiling and floor; smoother through the center where hands have and shoulders have brushed and pressed against them over time. They’re in a large mudroom, boots caked with mud so old it has gone grey and crumbled around the soles are lined up beneath a bench that runs along the wall. There is a long coat hanging from a hook by the door, dusty and stiff from disuse. Diego frowns at all of that as they pass through and up two short steps through another door that is already open.
The beam of Diego’s light and the dirty dishwater glow of the fading sunlight falling through a window over a large farm sink reveals a huge kitchen and informal dining area. The walls here are covered in yellowing plaster that has fallen off in places, some spots bristling with the horsehair that was used as a binder. Beneath the cracked patches lies more of the same limestone as in the mudroom. The walls are so thick it’s as though someone hit mute on the little bit of noise from the outside world. All except at the window where the panes rattle with light taps against their frames when the wind gusts. It doesn’t make Diego feel any better to hear that sound like insistent, tapping fingers. He imagines the wind whispering, Let us in, let us in, in the voices of a thousand damned all speaking at once.
He steers Five to the bench at the heavy oaken farm table and says, “Sit.” It shouldn’t alarm him as much as it does that Five does what he says without snark, complaint or ignoring him entirely. He refuses to give into his unease; this is all so very strange, but the air is not full of spirits. There is no soul in this place, it’s cored out, hollowed and left dry as a dead insect husk. He shines his light in Five’s face and takes some satisfaction in seeing him wince and throw his hand up to block the bright beam.
“I need to look at your head, stop it.” He notes that the palm of Five’s hand is also scraped and covered in a fine carpet of scabs and dried blood as well. “You really ate shit with that landing back there.”
“Thanks for noticing,” Five says. “I don’t always get that part right.”
“I’ve noticed,” Diego says and thinks he’s being funny.
The way Five purses his faintly bluish lips says he disagrees. Diego stares at his mouth until Five focuses his one good eye on him and clears his throat.
“What?” he asks.
“Your lips are blue,” Diego says. “Kinda.”
“Well, I’m wearing knee pants and it’s a deep freezer out there and in here,” he says. “I shouldn’t think I’d be warm, Diego.”
Sometimes he could happily smack the shit out of Five for that prissy goddamn tone of voice. For the way he can’t even bother to be civil when he’s borderline hypothermic, half blind and no doubt concussed. What Diego won’t admit—at least not out loud—is that it’s also one of those things he likes about Five. It’s not the casual cruelty or general unfriendliness; it’s that he’s steady and he’s consistent. At least for the most part, at least compared to Alison and Klaus who are both massive flakes. Even Vanya is a flake in her own right, she’s just quieter about it, the dormouse sneaking out the door when no one’s looking because she decided she’d rather be somewhere else. Luther is as sturdy and steadfast as a steel pillar, but he’s annoying in his naive earnestness; a fucking Boy Scout in a bio-engineered monkey suit he can’t take off. It’s not that Diego particularly likes Five better than the rest—he’s pretty sure Ben is his favorite sibling—but he’s at least reliable, even if he is also a mess of unpredictability and contradictions. It’s odd for Diego to step back and look at them all only to come out feeling like he is the sanest one. He knows that if he ever said that out loud then they’d argue with him on that point until Kingdom come. Except Klaus. Klaus knows he’s fucked up.
Diego takes his jacket off and drapes it over Five’s legs and listens to him sigh at the warmth from Diego’s body soaking into his. Diego watches him shudder at the contact of that heat with his cold, blue and white mottled flesh and skinned knees. In his ridiculous schoolboy outfit, Five looks like he got into a playground brawl, maybe little Timmy smacked him on the head with a big rock or something. It’s an easy story to tell himself in the background while Diego wracks his brain to figure out what to do for the gash on Five’s head. It needs stitches. Diego knows how to do stitches, but he doesn’t have any thread.
“We’re in a house,” he says out loud when the light bulb goes off in his brain.
“You’re on a roll with the observations,” Five mutters even as he lists to one side. His eyes—well, eye—is still open though, so that’s good.
“Shut up,” Diego says. “I’m trying to think.”
“By all means, please continue,” Five says. “It must be a novel experience.”
“I will throw your ass back outside and let you freeze,” Diego says.
“No, you won’t,” Five says. “I’m your ride home.”
“If you don’t die of head trauma,” Diego says. “Where the hell are we, by the way?”
Five shrugs and makes a halfhearted attempt at looking around the kitchen that’s almost totally lost in shadows now.
“A house,” he says after a beat. He waves his hand, a lazy swipe through the air. “I’ve already said I don’t know where we are. I don’t even know when we are.”
“Fucker. No, but really, that’s super great, Five. That’s another part you don’t get right, not ever,” Diego says. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs out through his nostrils. “Look,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m going to try to get some kind of warmth going in here, then I’m gonna go look for some thread and a needle. Then…” He trails off, following the steps through his mind. “Then I need to figure out a way to clean that cut so I can sew you up.”
Five doesn’t answer, only blinks his one eye closed and leaves it that way for so long Diego thinks he’s fallen asleep. Just before he shakes him awake, Five opens his eye again and waves him off.
“Go. Do. I’ll be here,” Five says.
“Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep,” Diego says.
“I’d hate for Freddy to get me,” Five says. “That’s a myth anyway; the don’t fall asleep thing.”
“Huh?”
“Go away.” Five does that airy hand-waving thing again, but he looks so tired and sick that this time Diego finds it hard to be annoyed with him. Instead, he goes to start trying to locate a way to get some heat going in here.
He passes through the kitchen via a door cut into the center of the wall to his right. Diego’s first instinct now that he’s calmed down some is to slap his hand out for a light switch. He beetles his brows when he meets nothing but smooth wood paneling then tries the other side and finds the same. “Oh, what the hell,” he says under his breath as he plays the beam of his light over the wall just inside the doorway to be extra sure. There are definitely no light switches to be found. “Come on.” He’s starting to get a prickly feeling at the back of his neck that he doesn’t like nor does he want to acknowledge.
Another sweep of his light, this time across the entire room reveals a coffee brown leather sofa with a button back and two large wingback chairs arranged to face each other. The dark leather has grown dull beneath a layer of dust and cobwebs drift on faint currents of air. They make Diego think of the fairy tales about evil old crones and frightened young maidens that Mom used to read to him. He takes note of the oil lamps placed on end tables and the coffee table that separates the couch from the chairs. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle even more as he walks into the room. He refuses to let himself think about any of this because he’s found a way to warm them up. There is a truly massive fireplace that takes up most of the far wall and on either side of it are two storage areas full of dusty logs. A little bit of luck at long last.
Diego moves across the stone floor, footsteps hushed by worn rugs laid down like piecemeal carpet, probably as a way to keep the cold somewhat at bay. He finds a tinderbox on the corner of the huge mantle, snatches it up and then starts grabbing logs that feel super dry. All he can do is hope they aren’t so dry they flame up then splutter out before he can get it warm in here. It’s quick work to get a decent sized fire going and when he’s satisfied, Diego sits back on his heels and takes a second to warm his fingers; they prickle and tingle from the heat that has only brushed them so far and he sighs. Outside, the wind rages, rattling windowpanes all along the front of the house and moaning around the eaves in a way that makes him shiver as he pops back to his feet to go get Five.
He has to use his flashlight once he crosses back into the kitchen and is startled to see Five up and leaning on the edge of the sink, fiddling with something in the dark. For a split second, he thinks he is a ghost, all grey cloth and black hair and pale skin. When he looks over his shoulder, his good eye is lit up by the beam of the flashlight and there’s nothing ghostly about it. Diego would never say it out loud, but he’s always thought Five has really pretty eyes and that’s kind of fucking weird, maybe, but he doesn’t care. It’s his personal, private thought, so what if it’s weird or something? They aren’t the way they were before, back when he was thirteen years old and too smart for his own damn good. He’s still too smart for his own damn good, but his eyes have seen things now and it’s apparent. It’s obvious in every line of Five’s body, how he holds himself, how he speaks, the way he moves. It’s fierce and even kind of feral, but there are times when Diego’s watched him and just thought he looks tired.
“Stop staring at me and come help me with this,” Five says then looks away.
“You were supposed to not be up moving around.”
“Oops,” Five says.
“Seriously, Five, that cut on your forehead is bad.” Diego moves all the way into the kitchen over to the sink where Five is fiddling with some kind of lever attached to a big, red faucet-looking thing. “What is that?”
“It’s a hand pump,” Five says. “Which means there’s water… or at least there should be. We’d find out if I could get the goddamn thing to move.”
“Here, move,” Diego says. “Let me try.”
“That was kinda the point in me calling you over here.”
“Can you maybe try not to be a total shithead for at least five minutes?” Diego asks as he sizes up the lever on the pump.
“I make no guarantees.” Five is quiet for a moment, swaying back to lean against the counter beside a dish drainer bleeding rust through its white paint. “I’ll try.”
“Wow,” Diego says. “Your head must really hurt. That was almost agreeable.”
“My head does really hurt,” Five says. “Also? Eat shit.”
Diego grins and then gives the lever a tug. It doesn’t budge at first, but there’s a sense of give to it—like it will move, it’s just going to take some elbow grease.
“There are no light switches,” he says as he begins to slowly work the lever up and down, trying to loosen it first instead of just yanking it and maybe breaking it altogether if it is really stuck. “There are oil lamps though and the fireplace is huge.”
“Huh,” Five says. He darts his tongue out to wet his lower lip and Diego makes himself look back at the pump lever. “This is definitely not a modern domicile.”
“Okay, so when the hell are we?” Diego asks. He crows when the lever gives a little under his careful wiggling. He puts more force into it on the next pull and is rewarded with a fraction’s more give. Slowly, so slowly, he thinks he is getting somewhere.
“Dunno,” Five says. He closes his good eye and winces, but doesn’t complain. “Could be the two thousands, depending on what timeline we’re in.”
“Like some steampunk bullshit?” The lever groans and metal grinds against metal when Diego gives it another hard pull.
“Exactly,” Five says. He smiles faintly with his eyes closed. “You can become an airship captain and wear goggles.”
“No.” Diego has visions of Five becoming some kind of weird supervillain that commands an army of clockwork soldiers. Maybe even a dragon. Huh. That might actually be pretty badass. To stop himself from asking what Five would surely think was an epically stupid question, Diego puts his flashlight in his mouth and uses both hands to yank down on the pump lever.
It gives with a great, grinding shriek that startles Diego so badly he drops his flashlight when he yells and jumps back. Nothing happens but a wheeze of air from the faucet and he frowns then cuts his eyes to glance at Five in the still spinning light of his flashlight as it goes sliding across the floor. He is a disco of shadows, light and still-but-not; a statue come to life. The light gives Five a false sense of movement that fucks with Diego’s eyes in the way it twists his face into strange contortions. He’s monstrous for just a moment, stop motion horror that ends when the flashlight stops moving and they are left up-lit and equally ghastly.
“It’s broken,” Diego says. He blinks. Bends down to pick up the light, thankful it didn’t shatter on the floor. The lens is cracked, but as long as it works, he doesn’t care about that. “All that and the damn thing is broken.”
“Maybe not,” Five says. “That depends on if the cistern or well or whatever they were using to draw the water in the first place has gone dry. Otherwise, you just need to prime it. When has one tug on anything ever yielded results?”
Diego’s mind falls right into the gutter as he goes back to the sink. He laughs under his breath, all soft and heh-heh with it. From the corner of his eye he can barely see the way Five’s mouth turns up at the corner, crust of blood on that side cracking. A little blackened red flake breaks free and falls down into the shadows where Diego cannot see it any longer.
“So, how do I prime it?” he asks.
“Just pull up and down kind of fast,” Five says. “It might take a few tries, there’s no telling how long it’s been unused.”
“What about rust?”
In his periphery, Five shrugs. “Drinking it won’t taste good, but we could probably use the iron. Besides, depending on how old this house is the pipes might actually be made of porcelain.”
“Seriously?” Diego asks as he starts jerking off the pump—because that is exactly what this feels like, but he will also be keeping that to himself, thanks so much. “Why?”
“Because they hadn’t invented steel pipes yet. Although they could just as well be lead or copper,” Five says. He shrugs. “I don’t care though, I just want some fucking water. I am thirsty and my face, if you failed to notice, is caked with blood.”
“I noticed,” Diego mutters and works the pump handle harder. Now that it’s come unstuck, it is moving quite freely, but so far there’s nothing but air being forced out. Maybe it’s like… he has to build up enough force to create suction so gravity can do its thing. He feels really smart for that thought and is mentally patting himself on the back around the time there’s a weird sense of something catching in the pipe. A second after that is a huge belching sound followed by several more gurgles that make Diego grimace because they sound like wet farts. Right after that, a gush of dirty water violently explodes from the mouth of the faucet and splashes Diego with freezing water.
“Oh-ho, thar she blows!” Five crows and pumps his fists in the air as Diego splutters and shivers, swiping at his face as he backs away from the sink. “Don’t you hate it when they go off in your face with no warning?”
“Dude.”
Diego is panting, borderline in shock from the icy burst of water that hit his face. He was already cold again after standing in front of the unglazed, drafty window trying to make an old hunk of metal come loose from the death grip disuse had on it. Now, he’s shivering and Five is making off-color remarks that simultaneously pique his interest (and leave him with many, many questions), make him want to wash Five’s mouth out with soap because he looks all of sixteen now and serve to remind him that regardless of how he looks, Five is a fully grown man who’s actually older than he is now. It makes his head hurt.
Five has taken over at the sink now, which is still sputtering and making those rude shart sounds, but they are fewer and farther between. The water is cloudy, dirty, but not as bad as the rush of frigid brown water that hit him just a few seconds ago. Thinking of the water being brown on top of all the farting noises from the pump just makes Diego grimace. He got shit on by a hand pump. The mental image is… weird… and he doesn’t want to think about it anymore, so he goes to watch Five.
“Told you it worked,” he says as he slowly works the pump. Water gushes out, clear now and so cold that Diego can feel the frigid chill coming off of it.
“You said maybe,” Diego says.
“Close enough,” Five says. “At least I didn’t give up after the first try.”
“Uh-huh, sure,” Diego says. He rolls his eyes then looks away to scan the room for something to put the water in. His eyes land on the stove and on that stove sets a pretty copper kettle. He goes over and grabs it then brings it back and after checking to make sure there’s nothing living in the kettle, he holds it under the running water. “I’m going to boil water so I can clean that cut finally.”
“Sure, fine, whatever,” Five says. “When you say it that way though you make it sound like I’m having a baby.”
“Gross,” Diego says.
“It really is,” Five agrees as he continues to mess with the hand pump, face screwed up in a way that says he’s curious, wants to know how it works. Diego just hopes his curiosity doesn’t lead to him trying to take the thing apart and breaking it, which would leave them back at square one.
Diego goes back into the main room to get more firewood since there isn’t any beside the big black iron stove though there’s a brass basket where it was probably kept. It takes a little fiddling and muttering of profanity, but he gets the stove lit on his own. Five has lost interest in the hand pump and is once more leaning against the counter with his eyes closes and a strained expression.
“Go in the other room and just sit down, will you?” Diego says. “You’re in pain, I can tell. Don’t worry about me with the stove, I can manage without burning the house down.”
“Like you managed not to burn down that empty lot after you huffed airplane glue with Klaus that time?” Five asks, but he pushes away from the counter.
Diego beetles his brow, wracks his brain and wonders how Five knows about that and then it clicks because of course.
“He told you about that? Dick,” Diego says. “Whatever though, that was something burning, this about not burning.”
What he doesn’t say is that he set that empty lot on fire intentionally. Diego was one of those kids who liked to play with matches and it took him a pretty long time to outgrow it. In all truth, he still hasn’t totally managed to move past it, but he didn’t grow up to be an arsonist and therefore, he counts it as a win. Small victories and all that.
“Well, yeah,” Five says. “Klaus likes to talk and believe it or not, sometimes I find what he has to say interesting.” He sways a little in place and lets out a long huff. “I’m going to sit down now. You—you stick with that whole ‘not burning’ thing you’re doing. Good job and all that.”
“Uh-huh,” Diego says as he watches the kettle, wonders if it’s like a pot; maybe it won’t boil if he’s looking right at it.
Five disappears into the warm glow emanating from the living room and Diego stands close to the stove, stealing the warmth from it for another moment before he goes in search of a bowl and some kind of cloth to clean Five’s face with. He peeks through the doorway when he passes by with a heavy crockery bowl in hand. He won’t let himself stare yet he can’t help but look for just a moment. Five is sitting on the end of the couch, elbow resting on the arm, hand cradling his un-bloodied cheek. He’s orange and yellow light and charcoal shadows like this, barely brushed with any firelight from the angle he’s sitting, so he’s mostly in silhouette with only a breath of warm colors.
Diego walks back to the stove, fingers itching to hold a pencil and sketchbook he wouldn’t know what to do with if he actually had them. Diego has always wished he could draw and this kind of thing is why, little subtle moments caught when no one else is looking, when people like Five aren’t watchful or worried, they just are. Except he’s also in pain and it’s Diego’s job to save him from that because Diego thinks it’s his job to save everyone from every-fucking-thing. He doesn’t know if that’s because of how Dad trained him or if it’s just him, some intrinsic part of his nature he can never be rid of. What is kind of appalling though is how often he doesn’t get the chance to save anyone, much less everyone. That is a thing that he drags around behind himself like a rusty wagon full of regrets. There are some though, there are a few; he tells himself to let that be enough. He wishes he could take his own advice.
The kettle shrieks and spews steam in a long hiss, the little flappy bit at the top of the spout rattles up and down and creates a sudden cacophonous racket in the relative quiet. It yanks Diego from his woolgathering with sharp, wet fingers and he jumps, yelps, “Jesus!” and grabs the handle to move it off the hob. “Fuck!” He snatches his hand back and grabs one of the towels hanging from the side of the stove instead. The cotton is brittle feeling under his fingers, stiff with age and hanging there in one position for so long. He feels the fabric crunch as he folds it up so he can grab the kettle again and hold onto it without receiving third degree burns. His hand hurts like a bitch as it is, but he let go fast enough he thinks it’s mostly all right.
Finally, he gets the kettle moved off the hob and onto a side plate also made of cast iron—the stove must weight a literal ton because it’s huge—and heaves out a sigh of relief. He leaves that there to take his bowl to the sink, which he gives a wary glance as he reaches for the pump lever. The water comes out easily, only a soft groan of pipes as the water is pulled up and out of the faucet. He moves slowly and realizes that the faster he works the lever, the faster and harder the water flows. That makes sense, but he didn’t think of it earlier. He also had a face full of frigid, dirty water that soaked his hair and his shirt, which is still wet and cold and something he is trying his best not to think too much about. If he thinks about the cold—about the way it’s still tapping at the unglazed window panes—then he’ll feel it, it’ll run right through him. It’ll leave him shaking, make his teeth chatter, turn him completely useless. Diego hates being useless, especially when he knows someone needs his help, whether or not said someone in this instance will accept that help with anything that approaches grace or gratitude.
Once he has the water drawn, he goes back to the kettle and picks it up with the towel still wrapped around the handle. He takes both into the living room and leaves them on the coffee table without a word then goes back for the stack of soft white rags he found in a drawer. They’re lightly stained and frayed from years of use as either dishcloths or for cleaning—maybe both—but there’s an entire draw full of them that smells of musty air and cold cotton. He dug deep into the neatly folded stacks and found the cloths underneath to still be soft and lacking in that unpleasant crispy texture the top ones and the towel from the stove have. Back in the living room, Diego realizes he has a bit of a problem; the firelight is pretty and good enough to navigate by, but nowhere near good enough to see and clean a wound like Five’s. He glances at one of the oil lamps sitting on an end table by Five’s elbow and clears his throat.
“You, uh, know how to light one of those?” he asks and gestures at the lamp.
“Yes,” Five says after a second. He raises his eyebrow that isn’t split in half. “You don’t.”
“No,” Diego says. He feels like a student being scolded for not knowing his ABCs and all it took was three words and a lifted eyebrow. He’s fucking pathetic sometimes. “I mean… you know… no.”
“Very eloquent, Diego,” Five says. He sits up straighter and twists around to feel along the tabletop then makes an ah sound. He holds his hand up and shakes the little box of matches he found. “Here, I’ll show you.”
He goes through the steps one by one and there’s really nothing to it, which only makes Diego feel stupider, but be damned if he will say that aloud. When Five is done, is face is awash with light, his half-mask of gore shining like the skin of something cruel and dangerous. It’s the little smile on his face that truly sells the point, the pit of his dimple on one side lost in the crackled black glaze of dried blood. It’s times like these Diego thinks Five is the perfect wolf in sheep’s clothing. No one would ever see the shit he can lay down coming. The faint sheen, the white promise of teeth barely showing in that little smile only drive the point home. The hair on the back of Diego’s neck prickles when he imagines the feel of them buried deep in his vulnerable throat right before Five tears it out in a spew of blood and shredded flesh. Those same little hairs prickle again, more now; they send a shiver down his spine and leave a sensation, warm and secretive, simmering in his lower belly.
“Diego,” Five’s voice isn’t loud, but it doesn’t need to be. There’s weight to it, an assuredness that doesn’t belong to someone who looks so young. It’s a voice that expects to be heard—heard and listened to.
“Yeah,” Diego says and turns away so fast he nearly bumps the coffee table behind him. “I’m just gonna… I g-gotta— Goddamnit. I have to pour the hot into the cold and—”
“Yeah, it’s fine, take your time,” Five says.
Take your time, hurry up. Choice is yours, don’t be late. Diego snorts softly at the old Nirvana song playing in his head so clearly he can hear the rasp of Kurt Cobain’s voice. It’s almost inevitable that will happen whenever he hears someone say “take your time”. It’s a needed distraction right now because sometimes his wandering thoughts freak him out, the way he can stare-stare-stare at Five and think the most brutal, most delectable things. He doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him, per se, but he knows it isn’t new, knows he’d been looking at Five like that for a long time before he disappeared. He’d looked at his brother and thought extremely impure thoughts, which set off an entire avalanche of guilt and internal bargaining and compromises with himself—and led to the conclusion that they were really only brothers in name. They didn’t share a single chromosome of DNA except at the most basic level like everyone else pretty much does. There was no familial match though. That made him feel a little better, but all of his formless, unnameable (at the time) ideas and fantasies, thoughts and feelings, pertaining to Five still freaked him the fuck out. It was a weird, almost brutal, way to realize that not only was he bisexual, he was also half in love with his prickly, mean, rude adoptive brother because he was also beautiful and smart and Diego thought if he tried hard enough, he could make Five love him back. Love him back and clamp a hand over his mouth, tell him to shut up and be still while he—
Diego splashes scalding water out on the table and realizes his hands are shaking. He can feel Five’s gaze boring into his back and so, he makes himself think only of what’s in front of him. No past and definitely no present, no acknowledgment that he can hear Five breathing right behind him, no nod to the fact this is one of the first times they’ve been truly alone together for more than ten or fifteen minutes since Five apparated back into existence. He breathes in, breathes out, focuses on the warmth from the fire on the side of his face. It’s a crackling blaze now, flames throwing dancing shadow puppets up on the walls and across the floor. The wind moans around the eaves again, such an eerie sound and Diego is fine. He’s all right. He dunks the first white cloth into the warm water and thinks soap would be nice, but they’re going to have to make do with what they have.
“Here we go,” he says when he turns back around to find Five watching him just as he suspected he was.
Five beckons him closer and Diego focuses on nothing but the feel of warm rivulets water twining around his fingers like little serpents before it drips to the old floral rug with muffled plip-plops of sound. He swallows hard, tastes his heartbeat on the back of his tongue, copper and alkaline, then bends down and presses the warm cloth to Five’s cheek. They’re eye-level like this and Five stares right at him, doesn’t even blink, when he presses his cheek into his hand.
II
There is food in the pantry and more wood out in a lean-to beside the back door. They are not as unlucky as they could have been, even if the food is all canned; jars of jam and jelly, sticky honey crystallized to hard white rock until they thaw it in a pan of warm water. Diego makes a mess fishing out the hunk of honeycomb they find entombed in all of that sweetness. Five looks on, disapproving, but he also smiles when Diego cuts off a chunk of the comb and passes it to him. He watches as Five chews, droplets of honey clinging to his lower lip, one oozing from the corner of his mouth. They are golden in the sun falling through the window over the sink, golden as the fine thread Diego finally found to sew closed the gash on his forehead. He imagines Five as a version of Midas who can consume what he had touched, who does not risk starvation as punishment for his greed. The sweet scent of wildflower honey, sugar and the faint memory of flowers, makes Diego feel dizzy as he finally eats his own piece. He manages to look away from the sweep of Five’s sable eyelashes resting in the hollows of his eyes as he eats the bit of honeycomb before they flutter and he opens his eyes and pins Diego like a specimen to a board. Those eyes on him will declare him the unlucky worker bee who can only buzz his wings in agonized protest as what feels like a sword is jammed into his back. He looks out the window and feels a phantom warmth, a faraway sting of pain between his own shoulder blades that grows and spreads, flows like it is also honey. Diego has always liked sharp edges a bit too much, never minded to the extent he should when he gets cut and he knows—knows—that not all blades are knives or razors, sometimes they are people, too. They are people he could cut himself to ribbons on and bleed out for, exalted and grateful they showed him their sharpest parts. He lets the honey run down his throat, thick and so sweet it burns a little, as he looks through the windowpanes at the the white expanse of snow outside and hears the secretive whisper of his skin parting just for Five. He would be a fine craftsman, could carve Diego into any shade of red he wanted. In the quiet, Diego drifts on that wave and when Five comes to stand beside him, he doesn’t care that he leans closer than he has to; he simply pretends he doesn’t notice. Because that’s what they’re supposed to do.
“We need to take a walk,” Five says sometime later. They’ve moved from the kitchen and the jar of honey, the leftovers of the half-assed porridge they made for breakfast congealing in a pot on the stove. They didn’t bother with bowls because it’s just one more thing to wash in the frigid water; it grows cold so fast even with the sink plugged up and generous kettle fulls of steaming water poured into. It’s a task they’ve learned to avoid and minimize when they have to finally do it.
“Why?” Diego asks. He’s sitting in one of the wingback chairs, playing with a knife. Five has been working on a scratch pad with a pencil trying to figure out how to get them back to the sixties. Diego understands why, he feels the urgency of it like a distant pulse beneath his skin and yet… yet now that he has gotten a little used to this place, he also doesn’t want to go back. Fuck the apocalypse, let it happen; they can stay here—but they can’t, of course they can’t and eventually the guilt of doing so would swallow him whole. For right now though he is weirdly content to idle around this house that is not his own, to play Goldilocks waiting for the Three Bears to arrive and demand to know who’s been sleeping in their bed.
“To see what’s out there, that’s the main thing, but also maybe we can find a town, get a newspaper, gain some better sense of the time we’re in,” Five says. “A house like this isn’t just sitting out here with nothing kind of close by. At least probably not.”
They have determined from what they’ve found in the house so far that they’re in England, though they have no idea what time period. Five guesses they could be anywhere from the late Victorian era to the Edwardian period or maybe even the early years of the Windsor period (which is still the current period, Five informed him). That meant it could be anywhere from the late 19th century to the early 20th. All of that, in turn, means that basically Five has little to no fucking clue when they are and the Twinings tea tins they’ve found in the pantry aren’t any help either because Five is not, as he put it when Diego asked, a goddamned antiquarian. (Even though the asshole knew that Twinings Tea Company was first established in 1706.)
“Yeah,” Diego says.
Thing is, he doesn’t want to go outside because it is fucking freezing. They’ve found clothes to wear that are better suited to this kind of weather; Five is presently sitting on the couch in a blue cable-knit sweater that is a mile too big on him and trousers that are held up by the use of a belt with extra holes in it and sheer willpower. On top of the sweater he is wearing an old barn coat that’s even bigger on him. Diego has a maroon crew neck sweater that he’s wearing over his other clothes; thankfully he’s still got his own pants, but it’s only a matter of time before they get too ripe to keep wearing—and that time is running out, he figures.
“Yeah.” Five rolls his eyes and gets up from the couch. “Come or don’t, I’m going.”
“It’s colder than… than…” Diego flounders as he pushes up from his cozy perch in the chair.
“A polar bear’s toenails? A witch’s tit in a brass bra?” Five calls over his shoulder as he walks toward the front door set in the same wall as the fireplace. “A mother in law’s kiss?” He glances back with an amused light in his eyes. “Are you trying to say it’s a tit bit nipple-y outside?” He chuffs soft laughter at the old joke. “Maybe what you’re looking for is it’s colder than a snowman’s heart. Pick one, there are many.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Diego grumbles as he hurries across the room.
He catches up with Five just as he unlocks the heavy bolt latch on the front door. It comes loose with a loud metallic bang! that echoes in the room. In the fireplace, a knot in the wood pops. Diego hugs himself in preparation for the rush of cold that’s about the bitch slap them both and tries to ignore how horrified the saying about the snowman’s heart has left him. There is something so fucking creepy about that. He looks at Five, imagines him with coal for eyes and a carrot for a nose because he runs hot, but deep down he’s as cold as they come. For some reason that thought makes Diego want to run his fingers along the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, feel the living warmth of his skin on his fingertips. Then Five flings the door open and a gust of winter wind roars in to greet them, wipes Diego’s mind clean as he grabs the door to help hold it so it isn’t ripped out of Five’s hand.
“See?! This is why I didn’t want to go out!” Diego yells as another gust buffets them.
“Shut up, Diego!” Five yells back.
Then he does something that to Diego is unthinkable, is so taboo it makes his stomach shiver: he reaches back and grabs his wrist in his already chilled fingers and yanks him out the door with him. They plunge out into the grey and white glaring light of winter and pull the door shut behind themselves. It slams closed and just like that, they are left stranded in the cold. Diego hunches deeper into his sweater and curses under his breath as he looks around. He’s peered out the windows to the overgrown lawn in front of the house, the disused track that leads away to who-knows-where and disappears in a curve right at the fence line where the forest presses close like an eager, hungry thing.
This is such a lonely place.
“Come on!”
Five tugs his wrist and he Diego start up the drive that is slowly being buried by snow.
“We aren’t going to get far dressed like this,” Diego says as he plods along behind Five. There is snow in his fucking shoes already, he thinks and if not then his feet are just freezing that fast. They’re dressed warmly, but it’s still an inside kind of warm, not stomping around outside while the savage teeth of winter chomps at their skin.
“You’re only cold if you’re standing still,” Five says. His breath puffs out around him like fog as he plows onward.
Diego throws his head back and rolls his eyes, always a little annoyed by his ‘go get ‘em’ attitude. Five is a force of nature, not used to stopping or being stopped. He could be really bratty as a kid (though that never stopped Diego’s mind from going where it shouldn’t) but now he’s… resilient. He lived forty five years in an apocalyptic wasteland, of course he’s fucking resilient. He did all of that alone and sure, he lost his mind just a little, tiny bit, but more than anything, Five survived. Never mind everything, where and when that came after that. When he looks at it that way, there is something monstrous about Five; something with a werewolf grin, all sharp teeth and breath that smells like blood. It makes that weird warm thing in Diego’s belly clench and he blinks hard against the stinging grit of wind-flung snow.
They make it to the end of the driveway-lane-thing and are greeted by the sight of a long, straight road that disappears into nowhere in either direction. There are no signs, of course, no indication that they should go left or right. The wind tears at their hair, leaves Five’s cheek’s flushed and ruddy red, the tip of his nose, too. Diego doubts he looks so rosy, but his nose is for sure running and that’s gross. He’s probably got snot frozen to his face. Five isn’t paying any attention to him and so, doesn’t see when he wipes his nose on his sleeve because fuck it, this is miserable as shit. Instead, Five is staring down at the road, head cocked like a raven studying the soft bits of a corpse (eyes or tongue first?). He lets Diego’s wrist slide out of his grasp as he takes a step forward from the end of the drive-lane and crouches down. Diego wraps his frozen fingers around his wrist that burns like it’s been branded and shuffled forward through the ever deepening snow to look as well. The road looks funny, he gets that, but he’s not sure what it is that’s giving him that feeling. Five makes a hmm sound under his breath and hop walks a little farther out into the road and scoops snow up in a large handful. Diego winces at the thought of how damn cold that has to be, but Five is unfazed. He moves all the way to the center of the road, digging into the deep gouges until he sits up straight on his haunches and turns around to look at Diego.
“Do you know what these are?” he asks. His hand drifts out, snow caught in the grooves of his palm catching in the wind to be whirled away, to indicate the deep wounds in the frozen mud. It looks like it has been both flattened and churned to a frenzy by the stomping feet of giants.
Diego shakes his head then says, “Something tore the road up though, I can tell that much.”
“Yeah,” Five says as he stands up all the way and brushes himself off.
There is a piece of hair caught in the corner of his mouth and Diego itches to move it away and— And nothing, that’s what.
“So, you gonna tell me or you gonna make me guess?” Diego asks.
“If I made you guess we’d be here until spring,” Five says.
“Man.” Diego hiss-growls through his teeth, all semi-kind thoughts burned out in a rush of anger. “Go fuck yourself.”
“Do plenty of that as it is, but thanks,” Five says. He grins at Diego and all Diego can do is damn him for planting that image in his mind.
“Just fucking tell me, shithead,” Diego says.
“Tank treads,” Five says. “They were made by tank treads.”
Diego takes a moment to process that then throws his hands up in the air.
“Fucking wonderful,” he says. He’s being loud, his voice echoing, dull and flat off the snowy trees around them. “That is the best news I’ve heard in a while. You’ve dragged us into a goddamned war zone.”
Five is calm in that infuriating way he has, that way that seems to suggest he’s waiting out a child throwing a tantrum. It makes Diego want to wring his neck. Except what he imagines when he thinks of that has nothing to do with strangulation. He shakes his head and just points at Five, angry and mute with it because now he’s convinced their quiet is going to be interrupted one night on account of them being shelled.
“You are so melodramatic sometimes,” Five says as he walks back to join Diego at the end of the drive. “I think, actually, we just missed the war that rolled through here. Either it’s over or it has at least moved on from this area. I think it’s over though.”
“Why? Why do you think that?” Diego asks. He’s a little shrill by this point, but he does not care except being called melodramatic only agitates him more.
“If I’ve figured the time frame right—”
“Dude, that’s like two hundred years and—”
“And if I’m right on the far end of my estimate—” Five narrows his eyes to slits and silently dares Diego to interrupt him again. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and is silent. When Five seems satisfied he’s going to stay that way, he continues, “—then we arrived in this timeline right at the end of World War One.”
“What?!” Diego yelps.
“I didn’t fucking stutter,” Five says as he walks around Diego to head back the way they came. “Come on now, there’s a storm blowing up. We’ll try to find a town another day.”
“Seriously, that’s it?” Diego asks as he hurries after Five. He’s right about a storm blowing in, the wind has picked up even more, which he thought was impossible, but now there are gusts so strong they threaten to knock him off his feet. The snow is what worries him though, falling in faster and faster, scraping their exposed skin raw as the wind swirls and shoves it around. “You look at some dirt and decide we’re stuck at the end of the first world war and decide it’s time to go back and put your feet up?”
“I looked at some dirt and determined the impressions left behind in said dirt were left by tanks and used the rest of my admittedly limited data and extrapolated and educated guess from it,” Five says. He stumbles over a new drift in the lane, shakes himself off and keeps going. “If you think about it, it makes perfect, logical sense that I came to that conclusion.”
“Right. I guess you know what kind of tanks they were, too,” Diego mutters.
“Probably British Mark IVs,” Five says. He sounds infuriatingly smug about it. “The Mark Is were unreliable and not used too much because of that.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Diego says as he, too, stumbles over a drift because he’s so irritated.
Five’s laugh carries on the wind and swirls with the snow all around them.
“Why the end of the war?” Diego asks when they’re about halfway back to the house. He doesn’t want to ask, but his curiosity is eating him up.
“Because… look around,” Five says. “This is the dead land, the entire countryside has been shocked into silence. It’s quiet and empty here because people left and they haven’t started to come back yet either.” He cocks his head, looking like a pensive raven again. “Some of them probably never will.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re either dead or so fucking traumatized they can’t bear the idea of it. That’s why.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” Five says. “War is hell, didn’t you hear?”
“I think Klaus may’ve mentioned it, actually,” Diego says. He thinks, too, he wasn’t very fucking nice to Klaus when he told him about all of that; about Dave. Maybe he should apologize. Maybe one day he’ll get the chance.
“Hmm, yes,” Five says.
After that, they’re silent all the way back to the farmhouse, the wind and snow demanding all of their attention as the sky grows heavier and heavier, clouds the color of lead and bruises.
III
Night falls and with it comes the ever present beastly scream of the wind across the war ravaged face of the countryside. Diego eats his jam and the small hunk of soda bread Five scraped together with what flour hadn’t been ruined by weevils. There’s a mug of tea steaming by his bowl of porridge that he seasoned with salt and pepper, a bit of sprouted garlic that was a little shriveled, but not rotten. Five says garlic is like the cockroach of the vegetable world and Diego is inclined to agree. The porridge is decent, better than all the sweet flavorings they’ve been putting in it; jams and jelly, honey, brown sugar, golden treacle. He sips his tea, winces at the bitter, over-brewed tanin tang of it and swallows.
“I was thinking we should try hunting,” Five says as he stirs his own porridge around. He sighs and spoons up a bite. “I’m tired of this shit.”
“Hunt with what?” Diego asks.
“I don’t know, Diego, can’t you throw knives with great precision? Last I checked, that’s kind of your thing,” Five says. He shrugs and spoons up more porridge. “I guess I could surprise something, snap its neck and drag it back if you won’t do it.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” Diego says. “I don’t really know anything about hunting though.”
“You know how to be quiet and kill things, right?” Five asks. “That’s the basic premise of hunting.”
“Okay, fine,” Diego says. He takes his time, thinks it through. His knives are sharp and he is pretty awesome at being lethal, but— “Do you think there’s anything even alive out there?”
“That, I don’t know,” Five says. He wrinkles his nose in thought, a little frown tugging at his mouth. “I doubt we’re going to find a deer or anything substantial, but we might bag a hare or rabbit if we’re lucky. It’s not substantial, but at least it would be meat and not this mush.”
“We could try cooking those split peas,” Diego offers. “It’s something a little different.”
“Also mush though,” Five says. “I’ve been looking at those jarred—canned—carrots and green beans. The seals look good and all the jelly is all right. I mean, they’ll be mush, too, but maybe not as mushy.”
“Hey, if I get a rabbit, maybe we can make a stew,” Diego says. He feels optimistic all of sudden at the prospect of something different.
“Stew would be fucking amazing right now,” Five says. He sips his own tea and sighs as he looks around the rustic old kitchen at nothing in particular.
“Uh… Have you had any luck in figuring out how to get us back?” Diego asks.
“I’m following some possible solutions, yes,” Five says. “I can’t just snap my fingers and make this happen, you know.”
“I know,” Diego says. “It’s just we’ve been here—”
“I know how long we’ve been here,” Five says, eyes narrow with annoyance. “The apocalypse will keep a little longer.”
He rubs his forehead and makes the cut there move, golden threads holding it closed catching the lantern light and winking back at Diego. He suppresses a wince at the thought of removing those stitches when it’s healed enough to try. It’s going to leave a scar, not bad really, but definitely visible. It’s really a miracle it hasn’t gotten infected, but it is cold and Five keeps it clean as he can manage, so there is that.
“Okay, I trust you,” Diego says and looks down at his bowl with a sigh of his own. He doesn’t want to eat anymore, but they need to keep up their strength. The brown bread is a welcome change of pace and impressive, too, since he didn’t know Five could cook at all. Although, he shouldn’t be surprised because what can’t Five do?
Five glances at him, eyes sharp and tinted with yellow lamplight. Diego looks up and meets his eyes, notes how he’s bathed in wavery light, remembers how he looked cast as mostly shadow by the fire their first night here. Now he can see more of him, but the effect is similar; he wishes all over again that he could draw. In light like this, with his oil pastel eyes tinted amber, Diego thinks he looks like a demon, maybe even Lucifer. The thing that people always get wrong when they talk about the Devil is that he was only ugly on the inside. On the outside he was so beautiful it hurt to look at him. Diego jumps like he’s been goosed and rubs the back of his neck as he looks away.
“Here’s hoping that trust isn’t misplaced.” Five raises his teacup to Diego in a silent cheers then drains it and goes back to his porridge with a resigned look.
“It isn’t.” Diego uses the last bit of his bread to wipe the bottom of the bowl and crams it in his mouth. He can feel Five’s eyes on him again, but he refuses to look up. There’s only so much of that stare he can take before it breaks him down.
After they’ve put their dishes in the sink and have water on to boil for washing up, Five slips back into the pantry and comes out again with jug of elderberry wine. Diego rolls his eyes instead of speaking because the glare he gets from Five is enough to curb whatever argument he might have. His brother is an alcoholic, there’s no pretending otherwise. He thinks the only reason he bothers to stay sober most of the time now is because he’s trying to save all of them. When he looks at it that way, it’s hard to begrudge Five a drink when he does want one. Diego could spin in circles, spouting bullshit about all the badness, the absolute awfulness that is being addicted to something, but he won’t. He’s tired of the fight and in this case, he thinks he might be wrong. Maybe he’s wrong when it comes to Klaus as well, he’s thought that more than is maybe normal. Most people don’t look at junkies and drunks and think, Sure, that’s a valid response. Sometimes though Diego can’t help but wonder in response: Isn’t it though? They’re not fragile or weak, they’re just trying to survive in the only way they know how—to escape their own realities because they are so, so ugly. And when viewed from that angle, Diego doesn’t feel annoyance or disgust; he just feels bad. How much does a person have to hurt to choose self-destruction just for a taste of oblivion?
“Are you sure that’s still good?” Diego asks instead of saying anything at all. He keeps his expression neutral, his tone nonjudgmental.
“Guess I’ll find out,” Five says. “If it’s not then there’s the scotch.”
“Yeah,” Diego says, eyeing the kettle now so he can grab it before it starts whistling.
“I’m going to take a bath and drink my wine,” Five says. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”
There is a bathroom in the farmhouse, one of the four upstairs rooms; Five says it was probably a nursery or something before they started making steps toward modernization. It’s small, but there’s a toilet, sink and bathtub in the room and small linen closet that also serves to hide the doorway leading up to the attic. In the corner of the bathroom is a much smaller stove with a large pot sitting on top of it for heating water. It’s a step-up from sponging off at the sink and shitting in a hole at least, but Diego doesn’t entirely trust the toilet—though so far it works fine—and he’s yet to try an actual bath. They’ve been heating water on the little corner stove and pretty much just sponging off anyway because the tub is huge. Apparently Five has changed his mind about that and Diego doesn’t think it’s a terrible idea, actually. He needs to wash his hair and that will be much easier to accomplish in an actual bathtub.
Diego looks over at him and presses his lips into a thin line. “Yes, m’lord,” he says, voice totally flat now.
“Thank you, loyal knight,” Five says and pats him on the chest as he breezes past.
“Maybe I should just change my name to Lancelot,” Diego says.
“Oh, God, no,” Five says. His laughter chimes in the room, that usual kind of harsh bark of sound, but full of amusement. “You really don’t want to be that guy.”
“Why not?” Diego asks. He wracks his brain, trying to remember what of the King Arthur story he can. “He was banging Guinevere.”
“He was also a batshit crazy idiot with only two brain cells that were in a fight to the death,” Five says. “You should aim higher. Maybe aim for… hmm… Galahad.”
Diego didn’t know any of that about Lancelot. He also doesn’t point out that he is already a little crazy and Five is convinced he’s window-licking-stupid. Instead in the name of playing along, he just says, “Sure, whatever. So, uh… Pray tell, my lord, who was Galahad banging?”
“Arthur.” Five doesn’t look back, but his laughter floats through the air like the echo of a slap.
The kettle shrieking startles Diego so badly he nearly falls over his own fucking feet in his rush to yank it off the hob.
“Asshole,” he says under his breath as he takes the kettle to dump the boiling water in the sink with the dishes. He’s under no delusion that he is being fucked with. Five doesn’t know everything, but he’s figured out enough that he can’t resist poking at it like he’s got a stick and Diego is roadkill.
He does the dishes and nicks his finger on the serrated teeth of the bread knife, leaves two small rips in his index finger that aren’t serious at all, but sting like a bitch. He sucks the blood from his finger and listens to the sound of boot heels clumping up the stairs and down the hallway. Diego rolls his eyes up at the sound and wonders how Five can stand being up there with nothing but an oil lamp and door between him and one of the ghosts they’ve discovered inhabits the house alongside them. The steps start even and measured, slow, but as they reach the second floor landing they began to pick up pace until they boom along, audible even through the thick floor and walls. The steps are a full-out run by the time they reach the end of the hallway then they just… stop. Diego stops halfway across the kitchen to shudder then shake himself off before he walks into the living room.
The steps will come back later, some restless soul stuck in an eternal loop. He wonders what they’re running toward, what lies at the end of the hallway in the moment they are forever replaying. Klaus would be able to tell him, but he’s actually kind of glad he isn’t there; he likes it this way. He wants—needs—to get back, they both do, but for now it feels like they have a little time to just be. The world around them is in shock, still stuck in the bubble of silence that follows a scream and they are here, too—intruders, interlopers; two little housebreakers eating up all the porridge. Diego doesn’t care all that much other than a faint worry the family who actually belongs here will come back before they leave, but a hope that they’re also all right. There’s a vague sense of guilt as well, of knowing he’s taking up space in a place and time he does not belong, but he still likes it here, isn’t as bothered or anxious to leave as he thinks he should be.
He stokes the fire, builds it back up to a merry blaze and paces in front of it for so long he loses any real sense of time. He’s keyed up, restless as the stairway ghost and doesn’t know why. After another little while of that, Diego takes a lantern and goes upstairs and walks the length of the hall to the single window at the end. There is snow falling outside again and he feels like a figure stuck in one of those little glass globes. One of the more elaborate ones with an entire scene built inside of it and a little switch that can be flipped to turn a light on in the house sitting in the clearing. Would someone peer closer, try to pick out a shape in the darkness of upstairs? Would they see his shadow there? There is something unreal about this much quiet and so much snow. It’s a pocket of reality, a little bubble all their own—a very real snow globe, in fact. Diego presses his hand to the icy glass and watches a frosty mist spread out at the touch of his warm skin, leaving the fingerprints of a future man in the past. It’s cold up here, too, the cast iron wood heaters aren’t lit in their rooms and Five has the bathroom door shut, holding in the heat from that stove in tight. Yet it is still colder outside, the wind pushes against the thin glass and Diego feels it in his fingertips before he drops his hand and takes a step backward. The heaters. Yeah. That’s something he can do, get their rooms nice and toasty for them to retire in a couple of hours. If he can knock out hard enough he won’t hear the little girl in the corner of his room when she starts to giggle.
Behind him, a latch clicks and dull golden light brightens the darkness pressed against Diego’s back. He can see Five reflected in the window glass, a three candle candelabra held aloft by the little curl of metal that is its handle. The jug of wine dangles from his other hand by a smaller loop handle by the neck. He looks ridiculous dressed in a red and grey striped flannelet nightshirt that is, like all of the clothes they’ve found, a mile too big on him and thick woolen socks that have been darned with patches in blue and green. Diego turns to look at him better, some smartass barb about his choice of attire on the tip of his tongue—and never mind that he, too, has been reduced to wearing a nightshirt to sleep in as well. The words turn to dust in his mouth though because looking at Five in full color and solid, not some ghostly, desaturated reflection on the window is different.
“What are you doing up here?” Five asks, the smallest slur to his voice.
Diego licks his lips, tells himself to answer, but he is mesmerized by the way the candles light Five’s face, his black hair damp and slicked back sloppily so that it falls and droops over his forehead in places. Five stands there, watches him with calm interest—gauging, assessing and it’s infuriating, but his eyes are cast in shadow and lit with gold, his skin is rosy from the alcohol and the warm bath. He smells the orange flower water he has found and likes to rinse his hair with and over that is the woodsy, smoky scent of pine tar soap. Candlelight licks along outer flare of Five’s collar bone where the oversize nightshirt has slipped off his shoulder a bit and it, too, is touched with buttery gold.
Diego’s stone house of resolve turns to sand as he closes the distance between them in a few long strides. He doesn’t think or pause, just takes Five’s face in his hands and kisses him hard. He is rewarded with a small sip of indrawn breath and then Five is kissing him back. He tastes of sweet berry wine and his mouth is so hot in this cold old farmhouse. Diego angle his head and deepens the kiss, licking across Five’s tongue like man starved as he lets one hand drift down the side of his neck and across that bared sliver of shoulder. Five takes control of the kiss, slows it down when he sucks on Diego’s tongue, he moans in response. That sound coming out of him is like a kick to the gut and reality slams into him. Diego jerks out of the kiss, panting and wide-eyed as he covers his mouth and looks at Five who’s watching him right back, his own eyes wide, but expression far calmer than Diego’s own.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out of a throat that feels like it’s closing up. “I d-d-didn’t mean t-to. I… I’m sorry. I… have to… g-g-go.”
“Diego it’s—”
Diego doesn’t wait to hear what Five has to say as he rushes down the hall. He’s almost running by the time he’s halfway down the stairs; heels pounding against the worn risers, a stairway ghost in reverse. He hears Five say, “Goddamnit.” and “Made me drop my fucking wine.” then “Diego, where are you going? Come back!”
Except he doesn’t listen this time, Diego just keeps moving through the house once he is on the main floor. He goes through the kitchen and down the little steps into the mudroom and across it. He grabs the blue barn coat off the hook by the door with one hand and works the old latch with the other. Then he’s flinging himself out into the swirling snow and pinching fingers of the cold just so he can try to catch his breath. He yanks on the coat and stumbles through the piled snow toward the tree line; beyond that he has no destination in mind. His heart is racing and his mouth tastes like elderberry wine as taps his temple, asks himself, “What have I done? What did I do?” and tries to ignore the voice that whispers in the back of his mind, Do it again.
IV
After Diego’s abrupt and dramatic foray into the woods on a winter’s night, he comes down with a bad case of the sniffles. As he lies in bed, heater churning away and blankets piled so heavy on top of him it’s a pain in the ass to turn over, he realizes something: he’s taken to his bed after the upheaval three nights ago. Goddamnit, that’s one step away from fainting in the parlor of fright. He grumbles and arranges his blankets as he snorts back snot and tells himself it’s fine. It’s not, but if he tells himself that enough then it might eventually be.
He’s avoiding Five as much as possible, which is not at all mature or rational because Five seems fine. The problem here is Diego, it always has been, from the looks he cast his brother when they were kids leading right on up to him sticking his tongue in Five’s mouth the other night. That kind of fuck up simply cannot be topped, not really, not in his mind. He doesn’t even want to talk about his stuttering pussy ass apology. He can make a mess out of anything, but he’s pretty sure that’s just a Hargreeves family trait even though he reminds himself they are not at all related. However, a shared history of trauma and parental neglect kind of ends up with a similar effect. Then of course the fame of being teenage superheroes that everyone else seemed to outgrow but Diego. He liked saving people though, making their day a little more, well, survivable when he could. He liked being the hero. He liked being noticed and loved, even if only for a moment.
Five has let him hide in his room these past days and that is it, too—he’s letting Diego go full turtle mode and tuck himself into his shell. He knows that just as he knows that when Five is good and fed up with his wilting violet bullshit, he’ll kick the fucking door in and demand Diego get his shit together because he’s tired of dealing with it. Diego is determined to wait it out until that happens and until then, he will quietly accept the trays Five leaves outside his door, porridge and pots of tea. Tonight, for supper, there was stewed rabbit which sent a pang of guilt through Diego because he was supposed to help with that and he definitely did not. It didn’t stop him from actually licking his bowl clean before he took the tray back to set it outside his door before he slipped across the hall to brush his teeth. The tooth powder is possibly the nastiest shit he’s ever put in his mouth and the single toothbrush they’re sharing has a wooden handle with what he’s pretty sure are boar bristles for the scrubby bit. As he brushes, he thinks about how he’s not even that sick, he’s just milking it though he’s fine enough by a mile to get up and help Five hunt for their dinner. Which makes Diego a real wuss and he’s never been a coward, except now he’s never felt more like one in his life.
Diego spits and rinses, makes himself sniffle again to better sell the lie to himself then takes his candle back to his bedroom. Before he lies down, he plumps the pillow and straightens his bedclothes then throws a couple more logs in the heater.. He doesn’t want to deal with this shit, which is his shit, but he’s done acknowledging that for now as well. He’s not as avoidant as most of his siblings, but he can be if he puts his mind to it. So, with that in mind, he climbs back into bed, blows out the candle and then draws the covers over himself until nothing but the top of his head is poking out. This is fine, he tells himself as he closes his eyes. Just fine.
When he wakes again, it’s to the feel of the side of his bed sinking under strange weight and a ruddy glow behind his eyelids. Diego is up in an instant, reaching out to grab whoever has sneaked up on him even as he also waits for the giggle of the little ghost girl to send ice sliding down his spine. He doesn’t register that it’s Five until he jerks back and slaps Diego’s hand away like he’s a naughty child reaching for a hot pan.
“Calm down,” Five says as he takes his seat again. “I would’ve knocked, but you would’ve pretended not to hear me, so I didn’t bother.”
Five studies Diego, unreadable as ever unless he’s pissed about something. Then with a little nod, he yanks the covers off Diego and before he can protest that, Five has straddled his lap and is looking down at him.
“What are you doing?” Diego’s voice is strained, almost a whisper as he goes rigid, but is left oh-so painfully aware of Five’s warmth and the flex of his thighs around his hips.
“Making up your mind for you,” Five says.
“I’m—”
Diego doesn’t get the chance to finish that sentence because Five mutters, “Shut up, Diego,” right before he kisses him, thighs squeezing even tighter around him. He strokes his fingers over the side of Diego’s face to tangle in his hair to give a light tug so he lifts up a bit. Diego is weak and wanton, pathetic and hungry for this; he doesn’t try to pull away even though he’s screaming at himself to stop it. He doesn’t want to and maybe Five is onto something, maybe making his mind up for him is what he needed. He pushes up onto his elbows and licks over Five’s tongue, grabs at his waist and rolls his hips up against him. Five laughs low in the back of his throat, like he knows he’s won and Diego won’t—can’t—correct him. Easy as that, his resolution to do nothing about this is swept away because—because. It’s what he wants, goddamnit.
Five nips his bottom lip hard enough Diego feels the skin split, sucks in a breath as he breaks out of the kiss with a shiver. Five stares down at him, head cocked and a little smile tugging up one corner of his mouth. The low light from the lantern catches the moisture in his eyes, turns it to liquid gold and makes it gleam. Diego is once more reminded of a predator as he licks away the bead of blood on his lip. He doesn’t know why he likes that Five looks at him like a hungry wolf, but he does. It’s like he wants to take a bite out of him, rip into his tender throat and lap at the blood like it was water from a fountain. Diego would tip his head back in offering, a supplicant before a vengeful god.
“Why, Diego, did you like that?” Five asks.
“Don’t—” Diego flounders, doesn’t know how to follow through with that: Don’t be mean to me about this. Don’t be a dick. Don’t talk about it. Don’t make it more of an issue than it really is. Don’t be weird about it. Don’t make me talk about it.
He does like it, he has always liked it or has liked it for as long as he can remember. Even as a kid, well before he knew much of anything about sexual arousal, there was some kind of pleasure to be found in pain. It seems antithetical to everything Diego is, but it isn’t; it’s wound up tight all the way through him, hardwired into every last nerve ending he has. Because it is weird, because he knows people will freak out, he’s never said a single word. He’s spent years having slightly less than satisfactory sex because of this weird… quirk… of his, taking a little pain where he can get it, but never daring to ask for more, deeper-harder-leave bruises and make him bleed, please, oh please. The only time he’s ever allowed himself full satisfaction is alone, dick in one hand the other hand playing with the shallow, evenly spaced cuts on his inner thighs. Running his fingers over them makes those long, shallow cuts burn like fire and they’ve been repeated so often in much the same spots that over the years, the cuts have left faint white scars on his dark skin. They’re his secret shame, things that if anyone noticed—if anyone was allowed to—would be taken out of context, they would call it self-harming behavior and Diego wouldn’t have the spine to tell them they’re wrong.
Five tilts his head the other way and presses the pad of his thumb over the little split in Diego’s lip. He presses down hard and Diego gasps again even as he takes his wrist in his hand with the intention of making him stop. Then Five says, “It’s okay to like it. I like that you like it.”
“You do?” Diego asks. “You don’t think… Because it’s weird, right? That I… I’m a freak.”
“You are a freak, but so am I,” Five says. He bends down close to whisper in Diego’s ear, “I like hurting you, so it evens out, yeah?”
Diego lets out a shaky breath, takes a second to gather his courage and breathes out, “Yeah.”
“Good.” Five nips his earlobe hard, sends a sharp little zap of pain down the side of Diego’s neck and straight to the growing ball of warmth in his lower belly. He’s hard already, knows Five can feel it when he sits back again. He raises his eyebrow and smirks then wiggles around. “Give me the knife under your pillow.”
Diego doesn’t argue, just reaches under the pillow, grabs the knife and passes it to Five. He takes it, flips it around in his hand, light gleaming golden and sharp on the honed edge. It makes Diego think of the way the light catches in Five’s eyes which only turns him on more. He wonders, he does, just what the fuck is wrong with him. Why is he like this? He just is, that’s the only answer he has ever come up with. He doesn’t think this is connected to his shitty and traumatic upbringing because it’s always been there. Maybe said shitty and traumatic upbringing reinforced some of his tendencies, but he’s not even convinced of that much. It simply is; it’s in him, it is him.
“Open your mouth and stick out your tongue,” Five says.
Diego blinks, starts to ask why, but a long, patient look from Five shuts him up. Instead, he is obedient and does what he is told, which is another thing he does not—will not—talk about with anyone. Ever. He wants to be told what to do sometimes, wants to be directed and commanded and he doesn’t much care what it is. There is pleasure in that as well, something quieter and more subtle than his desire for pain, but just as real.
Five leans forward again and licks Diego’s tongue, one slow swipe across the exposed flat of it that is startling in how erotic it is. He never would have thought something like that could feel so intimate, like a deconstructed kiss, a piece of a whole. He almost forgets about what Five told him and nearly sucks his tongue back into his mouth to savor it, but a sharp sound of negation in the back of Five’s throat stops him.
“Eyes on me,” Five says.
Diego looks up at him, mesmerized by that same, now familiar, near silhouette kissed by orange light. It’s like being bewitched by a shadow and he’s into it, he really fucking is. They’re not even doing much of anything and his breath is slow, feels thick in his lungs with anticipation. He stares for so long he doesn’t think about how ridiculous he must look with his tongue sticking out like it is. He completely forgets about the knife in Five’s hand that is hidden in a deeper well of shadows like a snake in the grass.
When Five flicks his hand up and out of the shadows to draw the blade down the center of his exposed tongue, Diego doesn’t register it for a split second. Then he does and jerks his head back, pulls his tongue inside his mouth with a shocked, “What the fuck? You fucking psycho—”
Then the pain hits, the shocked flesh of his tongue begins to bleed and he forgets to be angry. It’s hot and cold at the same time, runs through him in a prickling wash that lights up some part of his brain he’s spent too long mostly ignoring. It’s not a super deep cut, but it’s still deeper than anything Diego ever did to himself. Five is amazing with a knife, not as good as Diego (of course) but he’s got skills. He knows what he’s doing and he knows this very well. The realization leaves Diego with more questions than he’s sure he would ever want the answers to. He wonders often what Five got up to all of the years he was gone. He knows some of it, but it always feels like he’s only scratching the surface, that Five’s life is an iceberg and he can only see enough to run aground on, tear apart the hull of his ship only to sink like the Titanic.
These things run through his head like words written with sparklers in the dark. Diego can feel himself falling backwards into this bewitchment he’s allowed, sinking down into it with full consent and will. There is blood in his mouth, it leaks between the seams of his lips and finally, he swallows so he can gasp. The throb is constant and sharp, brilliantly bright against the backdrop of fog in his head. He still wants to protest, a poor token of resistance, but all he can say is, “Yes.” The word is wet, thick in his mouth and he sounds like a whore to his own ears. Then Five grins at him, wicked and sharper than any blade as he leans in for a kiss. Diego responds, eager for the feel of Five’s mouth on his and when Five sucks his bleeding tongue, he honest-to-God whimpers. It’s the most perfectly imperfect place to cut someone, a secret only they will know and way to keep hurting him without having to do a lot of maneuvering. Diego wonders if it will leave a scar. He hopes so.
His hands are trembling as he reaches for the buttons of Five’s nightshirt, the flannel soft and worn, catching in the calloused whorls of his fingertips. There is blood and saliva smeared around Five’s mouth and it only makes him look more feral than he already does; always so polished, like a well-groomed animal pacing in its cage. Diego’s first thought at the sight of blood as he unbuttons Five’s shirt is vampire, but the image doesn’t stick. It’s not wild enough, not indifferently pitiless enough to him; he instead thinks again of a werewolf wearing its man skin, but just as hungry for flesh and blood as he would be under the light of a full moon. It shouldn’t make sense, but it does, damnit, it does. It’s the light in his eyes and the slow, lazy swipes of his tongue as he licks Diego’s blood from his mouth.
Diego’s fingers meet warm skin, so pale it almost glows in the dim light. Five shrugs and the shirt falls off his shoulders, baring their smooth curves and the sharp jut of his collarbone. Diego runs the flat of his hand over the plane of his chest, strokes the cold-stiffened peaks of his nipples with his thumb. He watches with rapt fascination as Five rolls his head back and sighs with pleasure at the touch. It’s no secret he’s aroused, his erection presses against the flannel of his nightshirt and Diego palms it as well just to feel the hot, heavy weight of it in his hand. Five rocks into his grip once then lifts himself up and yanks the nightshirt over his head, tosses it aside on the floor and kisses him again. The pain is renewed and Diego jerks against him then moans and trembles when Five bites his cut tongue. It’s really not much more than a press of teeth, holding it as he pulls his head back to scrape across it.
“Jesus,” Diego whimpers and closes his eyes against the crashing waves. He can’t leave them shut though because Five is naked, straddling his hips and that’s a sight he doesn’t want to miss.
“There you are,” Five says. “Don’t make me remind you, Diego.”
“Remind me?”
“Eyes on me,” Five says. “No hiding.”
“I wasn’t— I—”
Five presses the flat of the blade against his lips and says, “Shh,” in this hissing little breath.
Diego falls silent at once, then without thought or planning, he parts his lips and runs the tip of his tongue along the blade. It makes Five smile and something coiled tight in Diego’s chest releases. It really is okay. He kept telling himself it was, but didn’t quite believe it despite all of the evidence—how could something like this be real? Now he knows for sure, all the way down in his marrow and he finds it in Five’s smile. It’s real and pleased and runs along his nerves like soft fur. It’s like Diego is getting every birthday wish he’s ever had granted all once with a bonus wish for good behavior. His brain is a little scrambled, that warm inky darkness seeping through him buoying him along.
With quick, practiced flicks of his fingers, Five undoes the top five buttons on Diego’s nightshirt and spreads it open. The tip of the knife is warm against his skin, so close to his own body temperature that he barely feels it. Still, he takes in a shaky breath and keeps his eyes locked on Five, who is staring down at his bare skin with an intensity that’s new to Diego. This—this is all for him, all of that incredible focus usually reserved for math and astrophysics and the best way to murder an entire group of people is just for him now. It’s overwhelming, swells inside of him to see Five crouched atop him like some creature from myth, naked and with a knife in his hand. A knife that is carving shallow cuts just beneath the hollow of his throat in precise lines. They sting like fire and it’s good, but Diego wants to ask him to cut deeper, to really let his blood flow. He wants to see it, feel it, wear the proof that this night happened etched into his flesh until the day he dies. Five runs the fingers over the shallow cuts—five now and the reality of what Five has done isn’t lost on him. They’re not permanent though, these cuts are the washable markers of injuries; Diego wants them as tattoos instead.
“Deeper,” Diego dares say. “Go deeper.”
“Deeper?” Five parrots and there’s that head tilt again, eyes catching the light in that way that sends a shiver of pleasure and desire straight through Diego.
“Yeah,” Diego says. He wets his bottom lip, leaves it smeared with red from his throbbing tongue. “Deeper.”
“It might scar,” Five says.
“I want it to.” The words are out of his mouth with no second guessing as Diego holds Five’s shining gaze without blinking, laying down a silent challenge, asking without saying more: Please.
Five smiles again, bigger, sharper this time and Diego feels more tension unravel from his neck and shoulders. He feels like he has passed some kind of test, earned Five’s praise and approval though he says nothing of the sort. The elation is real though; liquid, pure arousal that goes straight to his painfully hard cock. He doesn’t dare ask Five to give him any kind of relief, he doesn’t want it; there is pleasure in this kind of pain as well, the right kind of tension.
“Then hold very, very still,” Five says, voice so soft it’s hardly even a whisper.
When Diego nods, Five’s gaze goes back to his chest and grows sharp again. It’s a thrill that sends goosebumps prickling all over Diego’s skin, leaves the little hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he tilts his head back to bare himself even more. With his free hand, Five strokes the backs of his knuckles down the side of his throat, pauses at the pulse beating thick and hard there. Then with a deep breath that he lets out on a slow exhale, he begins to cut again. Diego shakes and moans through clenched teeth, fights the urge to arch into the bite of the blade and Five tuts at him.
“No, no, no, that won’t do,” he says and taps the deeper cut dead center of the five. “None of that stoic bullshit, Diego.” He lifts the knife and wags at him in admonishment. “I want to hear you. Okay?”
“Y-yea-yeah,” Diego gets out, choking on the words instead of stuttering, but it all sounds pretty much the same. “Yes.”
“Good boy,” Five says. “Now remember, be still.”
Diego gives a slight nod and satisfied, Five goes back to work. He moves slow, so slow that Diego can feel every fiber of skin as it parts, each millimeter of him opening up like his skin is a zippered suit. He breathes hard through his nose and when he moans again, he doesn’t try to muffle it.
“One day, I’m going to make you scream.” Five says this casually while he works, but Diego knows he means it and makes him whimper in the back of his throat with want. “You like that, huh? The idea of screaming for me? I bet you do.”
His breathing is heavier now, his own cock hard and exposed in the lantern light. Diego sees it twitch and it makes his mouth water even as he cries out when Five finishes deepening the last cut then sets the knife aside. Blood is running freely in little streamlets across his bare skin, soaking into the flannel of his nightshirt and making it stick to him in places. It has run far enough that a couple of slow trickles slide down his sides and almost tickle.
“Ah, Jesus,” he gasps when Five lowers his head and licks the blood, laps at it like a thirsty dog with quick flicks of his tongue against the raw flesh. Diego cradles the back of his skull, buries his fingers in Five’s thick, dark hair and presses up into his mouth, offering more of himself than he thought was possible to give, more than he thought anyone would ever want.
Five pulls back with his mouth and chin shiny and wet; the blood looks black in this light, like he’s been drinking oil instead of blood and Diego wants to taste it. Like he can read his mind, Five leans forward and kisses him deep and slow, lets Diego savor it, swallowing the blood that coats the inside of Five’s mouth and aggravating his cut tongue all over again. The pain of that is different, silvery, metallic and deeper than the wound itself is. It marries with the pain of the cuts under the hollow of his throat that fan out in a shallow arc under his collarbone by a couple of inches on either side. The merging of the two makes him hurt in ways that are not centralized solely to the actual wounds; Diego can feel it all throughout him like the throb of some large but distant machine.
As they kiss, Five lifts up, one hand braced between the pillows at the head of the bed and the other working between them to ruck up the tail of Diego’s nightshirt until it is bunched at his waist. It leaves his cock exposed and for the briefest instant, Five’s fingers brush along the hard length of it, he swipes the pad of his index finger over the damp head of it. He sits back, breaking the kiss in a way that leaves Diego reaching for him, still caught up in the moment before he realizes that it’s over.
Five moves off him entirely to reach over the side of the bed and when he sits up again, he has a small bottle of olive oil in hand. Diego has seen it several times sitting in the pantry, a fine coat of dust on the shoulders of the dark green bottle. There’s a little paper tag tied around the neck with twine that reads, For best. with a little flourished underline beneath the words. Thinking of that now almost makes him laugh, then Five uncorks the bottle, pours some oil into his hands and rubs them together. He jerks Diego off with a few quick strokes, slicking him up with the oil so that some of it runs down his shaft in pale droplets. When he lets Diego go, he reaches between his legs and slicks himself up, a sight that has Diego forgetting any amusement he might have felt. The view is brief and not that good because it’s dark, but he still thinks he could watch Five do that for hours.
Still, he furrows his brow when Five grips the base of his cock and straddles him again. Diego has done this before, he knows about prep and when too little is too little. This definitely qualifies, yet even as he opens his mouth to tell Five to hang on, to say if he rushes it then it’s going to fucking hurt, Five sits back and with a quick backwards thrust of his hips, takes half of Diego’s cock in one go. He sucks in a breath that he lets out on a soft groan of, “Yes.” Diego just looks up at him, wide-eyed as it dawns on him what the fuck is happening: Five came prepared, he did all of the prep on himself before he ever set foot in this room. He came here tonight knowing he was going to fuck Diego and wasn’t about to give him any time to think about it, to change his mind, to chicken out and say this is a bad idea.
“You sneaky little—” Diego’s breath hitches when Five rocks his hips and takes even more of his cock. “—fuck,” he finishes on a gasp. Five is hot and tight and already slick inside because of his pre-planning.
“Always be prepared,” Five murmurs. “Told ya I’m a fucking boy scout.”
Diego has absolutely zero recollection of any such thing every being said, but he doesn’t care, isn’t about to argue. Five could show up in a little skirt and pigtails, try to sell him Thin Mints (which Diego hates) and tell him he needs help earning his merit badge in Adopted Brother Fucking. Diego would be A-okay with all parts of that scenario right about now, except the pigtails part, but he could learn to live with it. He snaps his hips up so hard they smack against Five’s ass and force a surprised grunt out of him that turns into another moan. It’s one that Diego answers with one of his own when Five braces his hand right over two of the still lazily bleeding cuts on his chest.
“That’s right,” Five breathes as he begins to move. “That’s it, Diego. Fuck me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He takes Five’s hips in his hands for leverage and begins moving with him. It’s a little clumsy at first, but they quickly pick up a rhythm; Diego thrusts up as Five thrusts down so his cock is always deep inside of him. Five moans and curls his bitten fingernails into the cuts, makes them bleed more and pain sings up Diego’s spine then crashes back down as more pleasure as Five works his hips faster.
“Harder,” he pants. “Fuck me harder.”
“Fuck,” Diego pants, but does as he says.
It goes from hard and fast to borderline brutal a few strokes in, animalistic rutting in a nice four poster bed. Five cries out and throws his head back to shake his sweaty hair out of his face before he practically falls forward, leaning over Diego to take him deeper, to move his hips more freely. “Yes, yes, that’s it,” he gasps and grinds against the base of Diego’s cock, a perfect—absolutely perfect—whimper caught in the back of his throat. Even as he whimpers again, Diego having caught onto what’s happening and making a conscious effort to try and get every thrust to hit that same spot. Five shivers, starts to shake as he cries out, louder now, then smothers sounds coming out of his throat with another kiss. It’s hungry and sloppy and when Five bites his tongue again, the edges of Diego’s vision go fuzzy for a second. He can feel it in the clench of his stomach the way the pain strikes him like a bolt of lightning. He’s sweating and shaking, hurting and loving every goddamn second of his as he feels Five’s body clench and flutter around him as he cries out over and over. He babbles a little, fuck and yes and harder. He gasps and whines, rolls his hips in a steady rhythm to match Diego and shakes all over as he growls, “Make me feel it,” right into Diego’s ear right before he drops his head and bites the side of his neck like the savage, nearly feral thing he is just beneath his surface of well-educated arrogance and sophistication that he can toss on like a costume so the normal world never sees who he really is. It’s a clever disguise and he wears it well, but here and now, he’s naked in more ways than one with Diego’s blood dried and cracking on his face, under his fingernails. The taste of it probably still lingering on the back of Five’s tongue.
In that moment, Diego loves him as easily as he ever has—even if loving him shouldn’t be easy—because he gets to see this, finally gets a look at what he’s always known is there. He loves him and understands that if Five did come in here like some monster of lore to fuck him then eat his fill, Diego would let him. He’d writhe and moan while Five devoured him and he knows this because he’s already doing pretty much exactly that.
“That’s it… that’s it… right there,” Five pants against the side of his neck, licks the sore skin there where a bruise bigger and darker than any hickey will be tomorrow. “Don’t you dare fucking stop, Diego.” He whines and shudders, fucks back on Diego’s cock just as hard as Diego is fucking him. The bed sways with their movements, the headboard hitting the wall with solid, knocking thunks that almost drown out the sound of heavily booted feet running down the hall. “There. There. Theretherethere.”
Five grabs a fistful of Diego’s hair and comes with a strangled shout, hips bucking wildly and losing all sense of rhythm. He buries his face in Diego’s shoulder and bites down again, vicious and deep. It runs through Diego and his own hips stutter at the star-bright burn of pain in his muscle combined with the feel of Five’s tight body contracting around him. There is the warm splash of Five’s come on his belly that smears between them and he thinks, I did that. I’ve never done it like that before.
“Come on, come inside of me, Diego,” Five snarls like it’s a fucking dare. He sits up just enough to look into Diego’s eyes as he slaps his hand down on his cut chest.
Then it’s over, Diego is done and he comes with a cry of his own as he yanks Five all the way down on his cock to do what he says—to do what they both want. It blindsides him, leaves him panting and rigid, staring up at Five but seeing nothing. It seems to go on forever, the pleasure feeding the pain and the pain feeding the pleasure like a direct hit to the main line until it leaves Diego shivering and wrung out.
They lay there for a while, catching their breath, coming down from the high of the rush. Diego feels like he’s floating, his head full of cotton candy even as blood grows cold on his skin and begins to dry. He could fall asleep just like this, nasty as it might be, he simply does not care right now. Right after he thinks it, Five shifts around, pulls off Diego’s cock and rolls to the side. He’s always had great timing.
“So, the next question is: Do I stay here tonight or do I go back to my room?” he asks.
Diego wonders when there was a first question, but it’s whatever. He cracks his eyes open and cuts them to the side to look at Five in the orange light. His skin looks like velvet in this kind of light and Diego wants to touch, so he does. He runs the tips of two fingers down Five’s cheek, feels the soft skin still warm and flushed from the previous exertions.
“Stay,” Diego says and drops his hand back to his side.
Five’s grin is a flash of white in the warm toned shadows of the room, there and gone again like lightning. Diego closes his eyes even as he smiles in return.
“I’m going to wash the fuck off then I’ll be back.” He says it even as he slides off the side of the bed, wiggling like a snake until his feet hit the floor.
“Mm,” is Diego’s only response because he’s already drifting again. The throb of his injuries is for now, one that follows the beat of his heart. It’s hypnotic and it pulls him down with each pulsing ache.
He’s jerked out of his stupor a little bit later by a cold, wet washcloth landing on his face. With a gasp, he pops his eyes open even as he yanks the cloth off his face. He finds Five looking down at him with a little smirk, still naked as a jaybird.
“Thought you might want to wipe yourself down,” he says and then holds up another cloth. “I need to clean those cuts, too.” He cocks his head and his smirk gets bigger. “And that bite.”
Diego flops back on his pillow with a groan. So much for the afterglow.
V
After that night, things change between them. It’s not loud or colorful, they don’t sit down and have a heart-to-heart about things or go skipping off through the thigh-high snowdrifts looking for poesies or whatever. Diego doesn’t even know what a poesy is, they might not find any even if they did lose their minds and go do something like that. But no, the change between them is quieter than that, it’s unspoken but understood. Every night, they share a bed—Five’s now since there’s no creepy ass little dead girl haunting any of the corners there. As the nights go by, Five begins to forget about Diego’s personal space until one night, Diego wakes to the sound of snow thunder over the now familiar moan of howling wind to find Five sleeping with his head on his chest. Carefully, he strokes his fingers over Five’s hair, mussed from sleep and smooth as satin against his calloused fingertips. It makes him smile, that ball of warmth in his belly going hot and honey gold inside of him.
They fuck like wild animals all over the house, there are no more barriers. There’s no more playing, Should I? I shouldn’t. on Diego’s end. One night, Five tells him to take off his sweater, turn around and brace his hands on the table. He has a strop wrapped around the knuckles of his right hand and even as he looks on, Five relaxes his hand enough to let the strop unroll and dangle at his side. He whips Diego with it until his back is on fire and weeping clear plasma and bright red blood all over his skin. When Five stops and climbs onto the table beside him, pants already off and cock hard, it’s all Diego can do not to fuck him dry right there. He uses the olive oil—For best!—and spills more of it on the floor than he gets on or inside of Five probably, but it’s enough. It’s fast and brutally hard and all Five does is grin up at him as he rakes his nails down Diego’s raw back. They come together—another first for Diego—and he collapses on top of Five, nearly sobbing with it. Five says nothing, no snide remark or even a peevish demand Diego get off of him. He strokes his hair instead and rubs the back of his neck. He says, “You did so good,” and Diego shudders at the sound of his praise.
Most days they go out hunting together now instead of Five going it alone. Diego finds a hatchet in an outbuilding and a sharpening stone that he uses to grind the blade to an edge so fine it could split a hair. On their fourth day out, he uses that hatchet to kill a winter-thin doe. He gets her right between the eyes and the sound of the hatchet blade burying itself in her skull echoes in the still air. Diego says, “I’m sorry,” even as he watches the deer fall over dead, legs still twitching as her nerves die. It’s the most horrible thing he’s ever seen and Diego has seen lots of horrible things. He’s not squeamish, he’s not allergic to murder nor is he opposed to violence, but this bothers him. Five just tells him to close his eyes and take deep breaths, he says it’ll be all right. He says Diego did a great job, he really, really did; the deer never felt a thing. He listens to the low murmur of Five’s voice and lets it drown out the ringing in his ears. Five field dresses the deer and they drag the bloody corpse home where Five finishes dressing it out on his own. They eat the back strap for supper with some green beans from one of the many mason jars in the pantry.
The deer keeps them well fed and though it was thin, there’s plenty of meat for two people to last a few days, which means they don’t have to go out into the cold and snow. Without food to worry about, Five doubles down on his work to get them back to their own timeline. He says something about how they might not even be in the right time stream right now because he doesn’t remember English winters being so fucking cold. Diego has no idea what he’s even talking about, but he nods his head anyway and pretends to listen to Five’s nerd babble. He likes the sound of his voice, lets it lull him to sleep where he sits on the end of the couch with Five’s feet in his lap.
Two days later, Diego is digging through the spice cabinet looking for something that isn’t so old it’s in danger of turning to dust when Five bursts into the room. “I figured it out!” he cries as he grabs Diego’s face, leans in and kisses him hard on the mouth. When he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are sparkling with delight at having solved the problem—at having won the argument he was having with space-time. Diego’s heart lands somewhere in his shoes, sinks so fast and hard that he’s left short of breath for a moment. He should be just as excited as Five is, but… he isn’t.
“Yay,” Diego says and kisses Five again so he doesn’t have time to question his lack of genuine enthusiasm.
That night, Five cuts Diego’s tongue again and sucks the blood from it like a fucking vampire until Diego’s nerves are on fire and he can barely breathe from the weight of the want crushing his insides. Diego fucks Five in front of the fire, pins his wrists to the floor and goes so slow Five is squirming and panting. He makes these whining sounds through his clenched teeth that send prickles up Diego’s spine. When Five comes with a cry and shudders beneath him hard even as he arches his back, legs trembling and hips bucking, Diego watches, fascinated. He thinks, I’ve never done that either. He’s gotten pretty good at making Five come, but he’s never made him come like this where it leaves him shaking and twitching, moaning around his panting breaths. His cock is still hard, pressed between them as Diego starts to move again. Five moans and makes another of those whining sounds; he’s still shaking a little even as he starts to find the rhythm again. A few minutes later, Five is gasping and writhing again, swallowing hard as he bucks against Diego, tendons in his throat sharp where they press against his pale skin. Diego lets go of his wrists to take his hips in his hands and heft him up so he can fuck him harder; he can’t take much more of this.
As soon as his hands are free again, Five moves like a striking snake and grabs Diego’s chin. He squeezes and says, “Look at me.” Even his voice is shaking. Diego looks down at him, eyes locked with Five’s and he will forever remember him this way, painted as always with firelight, eyes like a wild animal blinking at him from the shadows that fall over his face. “That’s it, that’s good, don’t you look away from me for a second. I want to watch you come inside of me.”
Diego does what Five says—does what he tells him to do—and doesn’t look away. He wants to close his eyes, wants to hide himself away because this is raw, this is having the privacy curtain ripped off of his soul. He loves it. It ripples through him, growing and growing as he watches Five with blurring vision and then it snaps and he bites back a cry. It’s a warm cramp, a pleasant fist in the pit of his belly and the base of his spine as he comes inside of Five, breath shaking and heart pounding.
“Perfect.” Five says in a voice caught between a murmur and a soft growl as he runs his fingers along Diego’s jaw.
He turns his face into the touch and shivers when Five uses his whole hand to cradle his cheek. He sighs and closes his eyes at last. He knows he’s doomed, the wolf has its teeth in his throat and no one can save him now.
They fall asleep in front of the fireplace, filthy and satisfied. When Diego wakes again, it’s cold; not quite freezing, the fire hasn’t burned out completely, but the chill is slipping back into the air, touching him all over with sharp little fingers of ice. Outside, the wind screams around the house and he thinks he hears voices singing in it as well. He thinks, That’s new, wonders why there are so many ghosts in this place, then Five nuzzles into the back of his neck with a soft sleeping sound. Diego drifts off to sleep again, Jack Frost and his choir of whores be damned.
The next time he wakes up it’s to the sound of Five’s teeth chattering as he squats in front of the fireplace and struggles to strike a match with shaking fingers. He curses between his sucked in breaths and shudders all over even though he’s dressed again and wrapped in a quilt. Only then does Diego realize the other two quilts they use downstairs have been tossed over and tucked around him.
“Why did you let me fall asleep?” Five snaps as he finally strikes a match and holds it to some kindling.
“I didn’t let you do shit, you just did it,” Diego says and does not add that he thinks Five needs more sleep than he gets anyway. “I fell asleep, too, because… ya know.”
“Because you’re an idiot?” Five asks. The kindling catches and he holds his hands over the tiny flames.
“Fuck you,” Diego says as he huddles under the quilts and tries to remember where his pants are.
“Heh.” Five coughs out the sound, but he’s smiling and something about makes Diego smile back.
It’s quiet between them then, only the secretive crackle of a small fire hungry for more fuel. Even the outside world has fallen silent, paused its near constant snowstorm of the last few days. It’s quiet and it’s more than enough even after Five looks away to add larger bits of wood to the fire. He builds fires slowly, with the same careful calculation he does equations. It’s pleasant to watch him and even in the cold, Diego feels warm.
“Are we just staying down here tonight?” Diego asks. He finally throws back the quilts with great reluctance and yelps as the frigid air hits his bare skin. He needs to put on clothes though; warm feelings won’t keep hypothermia at bay.
“Don’t see why not,” Five says as he places the first real log on his happy little fire. “We’re leaving in the morning.”
The cold ceases to matter then because something even deeper and icier sinks right through Diego. It makes his mouth water like he’s about to vomit. He finds his pants and pulls them on with deceptively steady hands and manages to say, “Cool,” and ignores Five’s responding look of puzzlement, brows knit together like he thinks he can hear everything Diego isn’t saying if he listens hard enough.
He lays the quilts out on the couch after he’s dressed. By then Five has the fire built to his satisfaction and slips the quilt from his shoulders and passes it to Diego to add on top of the other two. He folds the heavy things back and slides under them, lies there with his chin propped on the arm of the couch at a painful angle to look at Five who is staring into the flames.
“Let’s sleep for a little longer,” Diego finally says because it’s all he has left. He thinks he should maybe try to initiate sex again or say something big and bold, something to move Five and convince him to stay a little bit longer. Except he’s a hopeless fucking sap and would really rather just hold him for one more little while. He feels the wolf’s fangs work even deeper, feels the graze of them against his jugular in this slow ripping apart.
“Yeah.”
Five turns away from the fire and Diego twists himself back around into a more comfortable position. He holds the quilts up for Five to slide under them with him. The couch is broad and they could sleep together without touching, but they don’t. Five squirms and wiggles around until he’s pressed right up against Diego. He loops an arm around his waist, lets Five use the crook of his other arm to rest his head on; it’s going to be numb by morning, but it’s a price he is willing to pay. Five covers his hand with his own and curls his fingers around it, thin and strong.
“Goodnight,” Diego says into Five’s hair.
“Shh,” Five says back, like he’s soothing a frightened child in the dark. He strokes Diego’s hand with his thumb and it really does calm him enough he feels he can close his eyes at least.
Before he knows it, the sun is up, light the color of dirty milk creeping through the windows and he lies there listening to Five breathing. He can tell he’s awake, but it doesn’t matter. This is like a secret they’re both trying very hard to keep and it’s silly, maybe, but Diego thinks he gets it, too. It’s only when Five stirs against him with a, “Welp,” and starts to peel back the quilts that Diego fully accepts this is happening after all.
Not one to usually lollygag, too impatient, too go-go-go, Diego is surprised when Five does exactly that. He seems to be dawdling. They each take a bath, they eat breakfast of chopped venison and the ever-present porridge. They make sure all the dishes are clean and put away. They double- and triple-check that the fire is out and the quilts are folded and the upstairs beds are all made. When it’s all done, Five stands in the middle of the big main room with his hands on his hips, looking around like he’s trying to find anything they might have missed.
“What now?” Diego dares to ask when Five seems satisfied with what he’s found.
“Come outside with me,” Five says and holds out his hand. “It’s time to go.
Diego feels like he’s about to be led into some haunted forest, left there alone without even a trail of breadcrumbs to follow. He takes Five’s hand anyway and walks through the kitchen and the mudroom, out the back door where the overhang has kept most of the snow away. They’re wearing only the clothes they arrived in and the wind is like invisible knives cutting through them, it yanks at their hair and pulls at their clothes. Five’s cheeks go bright, cherry red from the sting of it and Diego is charmed despite everything else running through his head. He knows that feeling, that little bit of light-headedness, the airy yet heavy feeling in his gut and the weird ache in the back of his throat that he can never understand the cause of. It’s nothing new, it’s not like he’s never felt it before, but it’s heavier now and older, it fits him like a glove and the wolf tightens its jaws even more.
When Five offers his other hand, Diego takes it, silent and going along for the sake of this being the right thing to do. When Five looks him dead in the eye and squeezes his hands hard, asks, “Are you ready?” Diego nods. In his head he is screaming, he is begging for Five to please wait, repeating his plea for them to stay just a few more days. He’s thinking, I don’t want to go. He feels it though, the shift in air pressure as it grows and tightens around him and he closes his eyes then. He doesn’t want to see what happens next as this place that started to feel like home bends and warps and bleeds away. There is a sucking whoosh of sound that makes his ears ache and hums in his fillings. It hurts in a way that is not pain, but deconstruction instead.
Diego opens his eyes again a few seconds later and it is night and there is a city alive and breathing around them. From somewhere nearby a radio is playing The Ronettes singing “Be My Baby”. All around them, the night air is warm and sticks to Diego’s skin like melted plastic.
They made it back. Diego closes his eyes again and doesn’t let go of Five’s hands, not yet.
VI
After that, everything feels like it goes by in a rush. Only when Diego is alone does he think about how alone he actually is. Five is around most of the time, but there is no touching, no looks across the table or sitting too close to Diego in the car. He doesn’t know what he was thinking; the wolf has come and gone. It has left its mark and taken its leave after tearing Diego’s heart out through the hole it ripped in Diego’s throat. Sometimes he thinks maybe Five does look at him, he catches him from the corner of his eye watching when he thinks Diego is unaware, but he never says anything, never moves closer. He could touch, they could touch, there are moments of them alone together, but it’s like being stuck in a vacuum because Five is busy, Five does not have time for Diego any longer. Five has found something better to do with his time. It hurts, oh, it hurts so much worse than Diego could have ever dreamed.
They make plans and talk shit, everyone argues with everyone else and it’s no different that it ever has been except everything is different now. Sometimes when he’s listening to Five snipe at Luther or Klaus is arguing with Ben, whom Diego cannot even see, he bites at the thin scar on his tongue. There are interested looks from Lila and she’s smart, beautiful and crazy enough to be exactly his type and still, he can barely even see her, but he can taste the blood on the back of his teeth from his aching tongue. The cut has long since healed, but Diego takes to worrying at it so much that it stays sore these days. He watches the world pass him by and does his part to try and save it, all the while running his tongue over his teeth until it throbs. When he’s lying in bed, sometimes he bites down on it as hard as he can stand and pretends it’s a kiss.
One night, he can’t rest; he’s hot and miserable, has hit the point of exhaustion where he can’t actually sleep though when it does hit him, it’s going to do so like a ton of bricks. Right now though, he has to piss like a Russian racehorse, so he gets out of bed with a grumble and pads out of his room to go take care of that.
When he returns, Five is sitting on the side of his bed like he’s been there this entire time.
“Hey,” Diego says, voice soft as he closes his bedroom door. Without thinking, he thumbs the lock on the knob over as well.
“Hello, Diego,” Five says. He looks even more exhausted than Diego, but his smile is bright as he crooks a finger to beckon him closer.
Diego goes, his feet move without him needing to tell them to; Five is a magnet and Diego is all rusted iron filings. He doesn’t stop until he’s standing between Five’s knees and looking down at him.
“I thought—”
“And that was your first problem.”
“Look, asshole, you’re the one—”
“Who neglected you? Ditched you? Forgot about you?” Five asks. He shakes his head then motions for Diego to bend down. He does, but he’s still angry, all these days of confusion and hurt making his heart beat heavy against his ribs. Then Five kisses him, soft and slow, but before they break apart, he bites Diego’s tongue hard enough he gasps. “That just isn’t so,” Five murmurs. He reaches up and traces Diego’s bottom lip with the end of his index finger. “I’m still paying attention.”
He isn’t startled when Diego grabs him and kisses him again, harder and hungrier, pushing him back to lean over him more. Five lets him do it, laughs into his mouth as he loops his arms around his neck. Diego nuzzles his cheek when they have to stop again to catch their breath.
“I missed you,” Diego says. He never thought he could miss someone so much when they were standing so close, but now he does and it’s a terrible feeling.
“Shh,” Five says as he strokes his fingers through Diego’s hair. “Now, listen very carefully because I never want to have to say this again. All right?”
Diego nods.
“Are you listening?”
Diego nods again.
“I’m sorry,” Five whispers into his ear. “I got caught up, got too busy—saving the world takes up so much time—but I’m here now.”
“Are you going to stay though?” Diego asks.
“As much as I can,” Five says. “We can’t parade this around in front of the others.” His eyes dance with mischief. “They would be scandalized.”
“Klaus would get over it,” Diego says.
“And Luther would have a coronary,” Five says.
Diego laughs, thinks he’s right even if it would make Luther a total fucking hypocrite. As if no one ever noticed the cow eyes he still gives Allison. Whatever, man.
Five unwinds his arms from around Diego’s neck and slides his hands down his arms until he can grip Diego’s.
“So, where do you want to go?” Five asks. “We can’t stay gone long, but maybe we can have a little fun while we’re there. How about somewhere warm with a beach?”
Diego smiles and presses closer to him. “Can we actually get back this time?”
“Saving the world isn’t the only problem I’ve been working on solving,” Five says. “So, yes… probably.”
“Those seem like pretty good odds to me,” Diego says.
“Then tell me where or when you want to go,” Five says. “Hurry up, we haven’t got all night.”
“You can pop in and out of space-time like some freaky little one man version of Whack-A-Mole, so, we kinda do,” Diego says.
“I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment,” Five says, but he’s smiling a little. “Stop fucking around though and tell me where you want to go. I’m offering you a pretty kick ass opportunity here. I’m still thinking something beachy.”
Diego takes a moment when the realization hits him that Five has missed him as much as he’s missed Five. The wolf took his heart, but maybe, just maybe, the wolf left its own behind in return. Wouldn’t that be some truly epic shit?
“Nah, I think I’m more of a winter guy these days,” Diego says. “As for the rest, I don’t care. You pick.”
Five blinks at him then just says, “I’ve grown rather partial to cold weather myself. So, hold on and close your eyes.”
Diego does what Five asks and smiles when he feels the change in air pressure before the world drops away and he goes with it. A moment later, icy wind shoves against his back and he can feel the soft grit of snow falling on his face. When he opens his eyes, he sees they’re standing on a rocky beach, a stormy ocean surging against the shore to rub the stones smooth as glass.
“I split the difference,” Five says with a shrug.
Diego just laughs and kisses him again as the cold wind dances around them.