Rainy Days

Chapter Two: Awkward in the Bedroom

"THIS IS my room. As you can see." Jordan said, wishing he hadn't spoken at all. Why the fuck did he feel the need to announce that? Five, oblivious to the mental berating, sat down on the small twin bed and crossed his legs, rubbing his bare arms.

As Jordan dug through his dresser—it's sources had been incredibly depleted, as five boys had taken some and he'd given a lot of it to Ron—Five stood up and started to look around. Still in his boxers.

"Uh, I found a pair of sweats that should—what are you doing?" Jordan turned around with a pair of blue pants, and then smiled confusedly.

Five froze and turned away from the picture, his face pink. He coughed awkwardly and tugged on his ear.

"Just looking around," he said. Jordan laughed.

"Okay...I found you some pants. I haven't got anymore pajama shirts, though." He held them out and Five grabbed them, slipping them on over his boxers. Jordan finally felt some of the constant heat in his cheeks dissipate.

"I might have a sweatshirt or something though, so if you just hold on..." Jordan turned away and started digging through a box of things Ron couldn't wear, and Five took this as his cue to keep looking through Jordan's things.

The center object on the nightstand, between a lamp and an alarm clock, was a framed picture of three boys: one was Jordan, although he had green braces and his curls where held back with a hot pink scrunchie. A long-haired boy that was most likely his little brother Ron, who had been mentioned once or twice, was laughing. Five wasn't sure, but it looked like Ron was wearing a dress.

The third boy was unfamiliar, with blond bangs swept to the left and a Nirvana shirt. He was smiling, and his nails where painted an electric green. It appeared that he was wearing eyeliner and eye shadow.

"That's Tate." Jordan said. Five whirled around and punched him in the stomach.

"Oh, shit!" Jordan doubled over, dropping the sweatshirt. Five groaned.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You scared me."

"You're...fine," Jordan said, rubbing his belly. "I probably should've announced that I was coming up behind you while you where...staring at one of my pictures?"

Five flushed. He found that, for once, he couldn't come up with anything to say. He couldn't look away from Jordan's small, confused smile.

"Why where you staring at my pictures?"

"Which one is Tate?" Five blurted, desperate to take that gaze off him. Even if appearing interested in his friends was what it would take.

Jordan walked over and pointed to the boy with eye makeup and the Nirvana shirt. "This one's Tate. He's basically my only friend."

"Huh. This one is Ron?" Five pointed to the long-haired boy.

Jordan's smile was tinged with something else when he looked at Ron. Five couldn't quite place it, but he didn't like it. That look didn't suit Jordan.

"Yeah, that's Ron."

Five studied the picture for another moment. As he and Jordan looked down at it, Five couldn't help but think about how...good Jordan smelled. He couldn't describe it, not yet, but he smelled a bit like the sugar cookies Mom had always made around Christmas. Beneath that rested a million others, though.

Five was suddenly taken by the desire to discover each and every one of those smells and their sources.

"Here's the sweatshirt," Jordan said, holding it out. Five was shaken out of his reverie (about a boys smell? What the fuck was that about?) and accepted it. He pulled it over his slim frame and watched his hands disappear beneath the sleeves. Jordan was, apparently, quite a bit taller. The sweatshirt smelled like him. Sugar cookie and coconut and a trillion other things.

"Thank you," he said, and then they both stood there. Silent.

Five hadn't ever felt this awkward.

"Where am I sleeping?" Five suddenly asked. It was a random question, but it was important. Diego, Allison, Luther, and Klaus had picked the attic; Ben and Vanya where in Ron's room. Five had never chosen.

Fuck. Jordan thought. He had no idea.

"Well, there's my moms room, the couch, or my room." he said. "You probably should avoid my moms, it smells like mothballs and she'll notice if anyone's stepped in there. The couch is lumpy as well, and often gives you a crick in the neck."

"So...your room?" Five arched an eyebrow. Jordan flushed pink, his freckles standing out. Five thought that was incredibly cute. Then he mentally scolded himself; they had bigger fish to fry than cute fucking boys with freckles.

"Only if you want it! I'll go to the couch, and–and yeah," Jordan stammered. He rubbed the back of his neck and smiled shyly.

"I'm not kicking you out of your room," Five said, bewildered. Jordan was so easily flustered; he was already a brilliant pink. "I can always go to the attic."

From above, yet another thump echoed. Jordan and Five gazed upwards.

"Klaus, I s-s-swear to fucking God!" Diego roared. There was a shrill scream, and then Allison was yelling for Diego to put the knives away and Luther was threatening to punch them.

"On second thought, I'll just go to the couch." Five smiled wanly.

"Five, really, take the bed. You guys just–just time-traveled or something. And you're the one who made the traveling happen, right?"

"Well, yeah, considering I'm the only one who can time-travel."

Jordan ignored this sarcastic jab. "Then you must be exhausted. Transporting seven fucking teenagers—or fucking adults, I don't know—would probably take it out of you."

Five rolled his eyes. "I'm sleeping on the couch. Goodnight, Jordan."

He left. Jordan frowned, watching Five disappear down the stairs. The fighting from upstairs died out, Ron's light flicked off, and the house was silent.

The storm outside raged on, an echo of what was happening inside Jordan's mind as he brushed his teeth and crawled into bed.

Once he was safe, shrouded in darkness with the hail outside providing a safe cover, he shoved his face into the pillow and screamed. A very long scream.

Then he started to cry. For fucks sake, the Umbrella Academy had landed in his backyard. Number-fucking-Five, his crush since he'd seen the boy on TV, had landed in his backyard. He'd handled it well, but for the next three hours he went between crying, hyperventilating, and screaming into the pillow. For about thirty minutes, there had been dancing.

The storm didn't stop for several long, long hours.