The air was always heavy in the apocalypse.
Hot, thick, and unrelenting. Sometimes, the cloying humidity would weigh on him, sit in his lungs, bog down his movements. Other times, he would choke on the dust and ash, the particles in the air leaving him coughing and sputtering for hours. The taste of embers would be thick on his tongue, and he'd imagine his lungs turning grey from a fine layer of dust.
He could never breathe too deeply, most of the time. Feeling winded was a constant state for him, and he had to be careful never to overexert himself. He'd been admonished more than once by Dolores for getting too excited when explaining his occasional epiphanies to her, forgetting to control himself and resulting in chest-clutching, gasping breaths. It was one more hardship on top of the pile of all the rest he struggled with, but he just tried to keep reminding himself that he should be grateful to be breathing at all—the rest of the world, it seemed, wasn't so lucky.
Things got better when he joined the Commission. Clean, filtered air and a sanitary work environment would do that. He'd have the occasional slip-up, sudden bouts of breathlessness that would leave him running to the bathroom or wherever else he could find that was private to wait it out and get back under control. It was important that no one knew—he had a reputation to maintain. These little "fits" got rarer and rarer as time went on, though, so he tried not to think about them too much.
Then he went home.
His chest hurt for an entirely different reason upon seeing his siblings alive again for the first time in decades; however, he didn't have time to catch his breath. The apocalypse was coming, and they only had eight precious days to stop it. He had to keep his priorities straight and devote all of his time to saving the world, no matter how badly he wanted to just cling to his brothers and sisters and never let go.
He struggles to explain. They struggle to understand. He tries to get a cup of coffee, only to kill a few guys along the way. He makes himself embarrassingly vulnerable to Vanya in an attempt to convince her to believe him. At some point, he ends up asleep, back in his old bed at the Academy.
He doesn't quite remember that part. What he remembers is waking up and not being able to breathe.
It feels like a straw is stuck in his throat as he lies on his back, immobile for a second as his body focuses all of its energy on gasping for breath. His lungs are burning, and distantly he thinks he can taste ash, even though he knows it has to be in his imagination because the house is still standing and the apocalypse hasn't happened yet. Except it did for him, he can still remember choking on the smoke and scraping his hands and knees on stray rubble as he fell to the side of his siblings, bloody and grey and dead…
No, he thinks as he feels his heart start to hammer in his chest, can't think about that now. Instead, he thinks only about the effort it takes to draw in the next, raspy breath as he pushes himself up and out of bed. He needs steam. That's what Dolores always made him do, sticking his head under a towel with a boiling pot of water beneath him and allowing the warm, moist air to loosen his lungs. Luckily, there were facilities on hand that should make it a lot easier this time around.
He stumbles down the hall with a hand pressed to his chest, feeling the lack of movement in his ribcage that he so desperately requires. He makes his way into the bathroom and weakly pushes the door closed behind him, not bothering to even turn on the light as he falls over the tub and fumbles for the tap under the soft blue moonlight filtering in through the window. The pipes groan as hot water rushes out in full force through the spout, and he pulls the stopper that redirects the flow to the showerhead. Steam starts to fill the room, and Five collapses against the wall next to the tub. In. Out. The warmth is a slight relief, but his chest still aches.
If he had been in top form, he would have noticed the floorboards creaking outside the bathroom as someone approached from down the hallway. Instead, he only jerks to attention when he hears a pounding on the door and a slightly slurred voice call out, "Hey, I'm the only one allowed to take baths at four A.M.!"
"Fuck off," he tries to say, but all that comes out of his mouth is a pained wheeze. The strain makes him cough harshly, and god, that feels even worse.
"Five?" the voice asks, suddenly curious, and Five curses himself for not locking the door as the knob twists and Klaus is flooding the bathroom with harsh light from the switch, brow furrowed with concern.
"What are you doing on the floor? And why is the water so hot? Look, I know it's probably been a while since you've had a shower—and believe me, I've been there—but you're gonna burn yourself if you…"
"Leave…'lone," he gasps out, and he leans forward over his knees as his lungs burn and he starts to feel lightheaded. Talking makes it worse. He needs to stop doing that.
"Hey, hey, buddy, what's wrong?" a hand is on his back suddenly, and Five flinches at the touch, unused to any sort of kind contact. Klaus isn't phased, though, just rubs up and down soothingly as he kneels at his brother's side. "Just breathe."
"Can't," Five tries to explain, tears springing to his eyes suddenly because it should have been getting better by now and it isn't. He'd never had a fit this bad before. He doesn't know what to do.
Klaus's other hand comes to his cheek, raising his head as a thumb wipes away his tears. Five can tell by the look in his eyes that he's just recently gotten high, but the seriousness of this moment seems to have granted a small amount of lucidity. "Okay. Okay, maybe there's like medication for this? Something that could help? We should—we should get Mom. Or, wait, no, she's been a little wonky lately. Hold on, I'll—I'll find someone."
"Don't go," Five wants to say as Klaus's hands disappear from his body and he stands up. But he can't speak anymore. All he can do is desperately try to suck air down his throat and relieve his dying lungs.
"Klaus, what—Five, oh my god," Allison says when she arrives a moment later, and she too crouches down and places a hand on his back when she sees him. She's wearing a pair of pink pajamas and her hair is mussed with sleep, but her eyes are entirely alert when she shifts her gaze from him back to Klaus. "He's having an asthma attack. We need to take him to the infirmary, Mom should have a nebulizer there."
Someone shuts the shower off, and then two pairs of arms are wrapped around his shoulders and he's being lifted up, supported in between his two siblings. He continues to gasp as they lead him down the stairs and to the infirmary, and Klaus makes sure he's settled in on the cot there while Allison rummages through the cabinets.
"Here," she says, pulling out a grey, square machine with a mouthpiece attached to it at the end of a hose. She pulls it apart somehow to pour a clear liquid into it, then plugs it in and flips the switch to turn it on. A low buzzing fills the air, and the steady stream of fine mist pours out of the mouthpiece. She holds it up to his mouth and he lets her slip it between his teeth, hand shakily coming up to support the device in her place. She perches herself on the cot next to him and rubs his back once again, and Klaus holds his free hand and squeezes it tightly. They sit there for an indeterminate amount of time while Five breathes in the bitter vapor, and the ache in his lungs starts to subside as he slowly feels his airway opening up.
"Better?" Allison says once the machine starts to sputter and he can no longer taste the medication coming out of the mouthpiece. She turns the nebulizer off and pulls it away, and he draws in one shaky, exploratory breath. The fit is over. He's okay.
"Yes, uh…thanks," he replies, feeling more than a little embarrassed, and yet he finds himself leaning more deeply into their touch, craving contact he hadn't had in so long.
"How long have you had asthma?" she asks with a worried frown.
"I guess since I time traveled. The air in the apocalypse was full of ash and smoke…this has happened before, but never quite this bad…"
"It's happened before? And you were all alone?" Klaus asks with wide, round eyes, his grip tightening on Five's hand.
"I was alone for forty-five years." Except for Dolores. But oh god, did it hurt.
"Well, you're not alone anymore. You can tell one of us when you're hurt or sick, let us take care of you. We're here for you, okay?"
Allison pulls him into her side after her statement and Klaus follows, throwing his arms over the both of them. Five stiffens for posterity, but doesn't reject the hug. He knows in his heart that his siblings' promises will mean nothing if they can't stop what's coming, and he can't forget the clock ticking ever closer to the end of the world.
But for a moment, he allows himself this. He allows himself the comfort he's been craving for over four decades.