☂︎︎ HOUSE OF SHADOWS ☂︎︎ - five hargreeves

* 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙼𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 *

[025]
- ☾ '☂︎︎' ☽ -

"Can you stop throwing that damn thing around? You made me forget to cube."

"Ignore it."

"I'm not the type of person to happily resort to violence," Five muttered as he angrily scribbled out a large set of fractions on the wallpaper. "But never in my life has throwing that globe at your head been so appealing"

"Fifty-eight plus eleven isn't six-hundred thirty-eight."

Nearly breaking the pencil in his hand, Five angrily rubbed the butt of the nubby eraser against the wall. He was tired, irritated and his back was aching from the odd angle in which he stared up at the ceiling covered in mathematical scribbles. Cassidy's colorless tone didn't lighten the mood.

She was lying on the small couch and aimlessly throwing a soda can into the air and catching it. Into the air, catch, into the air again...

When Five was working, sound was not allowed unless it was his own grumblings or a useful interjection. Neither of which Cassidy provided.

His anger —though mostly sleep and caffeine induced—was fueled partly by Cassidy's blank face.
She was simply absent. All while Five broke his back to help save her life.

"And you wonder why our family never gets anything done," she suddenly murmured from the edge of the couch.

"Why's that?" Five snapped.

"Because we have the patience of Reginald and the attention span of a teenager," she laughed, eyeing him sideways.

Five threw the pen at her face. He grabbed another from his coat pocket and began again.
Impending doom was no closer to being stopped and he'd sacrificed hours of sleep and a few good meals.

Cassidy, despite her aloof attitude, was beginning to worry for Five. She hadn't seen him eat since he'd first arrived and consumed a sandwich unworthy of a homeless man. As for sleep, she saw the bags under his eyes and his frisky and irritable attitude as a sign that he was running low. Of course she was too tired herself to pick a fight with him. She sat up and pulled a large bottle of surprisingly well hidden whiskey from her sweatshirt. It was on loan from Allison.

The sweater, not the alcohol for further clarification.

"I'm surprised you haven't died of liver failure," grumbled Five, not bothering to look at her.

"Tolerance, dear boy, tolerance," she tipped it up and drank a considerable amount before extending to him. "Have some, it'll relax your mind."

He stared at the bottle and finally sighed, setting down the pen in his hand. "I guess a drink wouldn't hurt."

           Two pops later he was sitting on his bed opposite of her and watching the amber liquid swirling around the bottom of the glass. He recited mathematical theorems under his breath, occasionally pulling at the collar of his uniform.