Five Hargreeves oneshots

Panic Attacks

(Five's pov)

I am sitting in the kitchen, on the floor, next to the stove. I am currently having a panic attack, but me being the idiot I am, didn't want to talk to anyone, so now I'm here, crying and hyperventilating... My black and white cat, Chess, is laying by my side to keep me company. Chess nudges my hand with his head, a low purr rumbling in his chest. It does little to soothe the storm raging inside me. The linoleum floor is cold against my skin, the checkered pattern blurring through the tears that refuse to stop. Every inhale hitches, a strangled gasp, and every exhale trembles with the effort of trying to hold myself together.

The smell of burnt toast lingers in the air, a testament to my failed attempt at breakfast. I hadn't even made it to the table before the walls started closing in, the weight of everything crashing down. The apocalypse, the Commission, the near-constant threat of paradox psychosis - it's a lot for a fifty-eight-year-old man trapped in a thirteen-year-old's body to handle.

A sob escapes my throat, raw and ragged. I curl tighter around myself, wishing I could disappear. Chess, bless his furry little soul, rubs against my cheek, his purr growing louder. He doesn't judge, doesn't demand explanations. He just... is. And in that moment, that's all I need.

But even Chess's unwavering companionship can't chase away the shadows. The memories flicker like a horror film on repeat: the desolate wasteland, the hollow eyes of the dead, the crushing loneliness of being the last man alive. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it's no use. The past is always there, lurking just beneath the surface.

Suddenly, a warmth envelops me. A hand, gentle yet firm, rests on my back. I flinch, but don't pull away. The scent of lilacs and old books tells me everything I need to know.

"It's okay, Five," Vanya murmurs, her voice soft as a whisper. "I'm here." I stiffen at Vanya's touch, a wave of guilt washing over me. I should be the strong one, the one who protects her, not the other way around. But the truth is, sometimes even the strongest facade crumbles. And right now, mine is nothing but dust.

"Go away, Vanya," I mutter, my voice thick with unshed tears.

"Not a chance," she says, her tone firm yet gentle. "Talk to me, Five. What's going on?"

I shake my head, burying my face in my knees. How do I even begin to explain the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside me? The fear, the guilt, the bone-deep exhaustion that has nothing to do with my thirteen-year-old body and everything to do with the weight of the world I carry on my shoulders.

Vanya doesn't push, but her presence is a comforting weight beside me. She understands darkness, understands the feeling of being different, of being broken. We may not have always seen eye to eye, but there's a bond between us, forged in the crucible of our shared dysfunction.

After what feels like an eternity, I finally manage to speak, my voice raspy from disuse. "I saw it again," I whisper, the words catching in my throat. "The apocalypse. Everyone... gone."

Vanya's hand tightens on my back. "It was just a dream, Five," she says softly. "We're here, we're safe."

"It wasn't a dream," I retort, my voice rising in panic. "It's real, Vanya. It's going to happen again. I can feel it."

I feel her hesitate, a flicker of doubt crossing her features. She knows better than anyone that my premonitions are not to be taken lightly. But she also knows how deeply the trauma of the apocalypse affects me, how easily I can get lost in the echoes of that desolate future.

"Five," she says, her voice calming, "we stopped it once, remember? We can do it again. We have each other."

Her words are meant to be reassuring, but they only serve to amplify the fear gnawing at my insides. We may have averted the apocalypse once, but the threat is always there, a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. And this time, I'm not sure we'll be so lucky.