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It comes down to this. Diego's used to fighting alone. He's a lone wolf, challenging criminals, saving innocents, the whole vigilante schtick. He does it alone and he does it well, and he got used to being by himself over the years.
It comes down to this. Five has been gone for seventeen years. He ran out of the academy when they were 13 and missed years of training, of strategies, of learning. He hasn't been a part of their lives, of their fighting structure for a very long time.
In the end, if he's being completely honest, it comes down to this. Diego forgot Five was there.
It's an accident. The knife slips Diego's fingers easily and flies seamlessly through the air towards the Commission agent aiming a gun at him.
Only it never reaches its target. There's a flash of blue and a surprised shout. And then Diego can only watch as his knife buries itself in his brother's back.
They were lined up in a training room, standing at attention, listening to their father's instructions.
“If you are to fight together,” Reginald Hargreeves was saying, circling around them like a shark on a hunt, “you must be able to predict each other’s moves.”
Diego couldn't help but roll his eyes at the unnecessary theatrics.
“None of us can see the future,” he scoffed, earning himself a glare from his father and an elbow to the side from Allison.
“That is true,” Reginald admitted and he sounded disappointed . “Which is why you need to compensate.”
He fixed them with a stern look, waiting, daring them to make any more comments. When they remained silent, he carried on, satisfied.
“You must know each other as well, no, better , than you know yourself. You must become familiar with each other's powers. You must learn their strengths and, more importantly, weaknesses. I expect you to know the other's moves even before they know them themselves.”
Those were ridiculous expectations but Diego bit his tongue. He knew from experience that arguing with dad would only end in an extended personal training session. And normal ones already left him dizzy with exhaustion.
“In order to achieve this,” Reginald continued, measuring each of them with his cold, calculating gaze, “you will combat each other until you become familiar with your every action and reaction. You will have a supplementary training added to your curriculum.”
That earned him a couple of groans and quiet protests. They were easily silenced with another stern look.
“Your combat training begins now. Number Two, Number Five. You may start.”
That was the only combat training Diego had with Five. Less than two months later his brother left the doors of the academy and disappeared.
Five’s always been quick, relying heavily on his speed rather than strength. And he's always had a tendency to disappear and appear in the most unpredictable places. And seventeen years is a hell of a long time. More than enough time to get used to his absence. More than enough time to forget his habits.
Those, of course, are just excuses. Excuses that do nothing to dull a burning guilt clawing at Diego's heart as he watches his own knife piercing Five's skin.
Time seems to slow down as Five stumbles and curls in on himself at the unexpected pain. A little gasp leaves his lips, surprised and breathless, and hurt, and Diego has no doubt it'll haunt him in his nightmares.
And then Five straightens up. He reaches back, rips the knife out of his skin and in one swift movement slices the throat of the stunned Commission agent.
They both collapse in a heap, one body on top of the other, their blood mixing on the floor.
For a moment, everything is still. Diego's stuck in place, unable to move, unable to look away from his brother's body and all he sees is the red red red of blood, seeping through that ridiculous uniform vest.
And then all at once his senses return, and he's moving, stumbling, running towards Five. An agonized scream cuts through the air and it takes a moment for Diego to realize it's coming from his throat.
He drops to his knees next to Five. He takes in his closed eyes and slack face, and feels dread gnawing at his heart. He presses his fingers to Five's neck, frantically looking for a pulse. For one agonizing, terrifying moment he feels nothing. And then a soft, unsteady heartbeat thrums against his fingertips and Diego can breathe again.
He shrugs off his jacket and presses it firmly against the wound. Five barely reacts, an almost inaudible pained groan escaping his lips, piercing Diego's heart like a gunshot.
Guilt rises, threatening to swallow him whole. He did this. He hurt his brother. Quite literally stabbed him in the back. If Five dies– No. No, now's not the time for that. Five's gonna be fine, he'll make sure of that. And then– well, then he probably will never want to see Diego again.
It doesn't matter. As long as he'll be alright, nothing else matters.
As gently as possible, Diego scoops Five up, making sure to keep a steady pressure on his wound. This earns him another sound of pain that he'd call a whimper if it were anyone else.
“I-i-it’s gonna be al-alright,” he says. His voice trembles and breaks. He forces himself to picture the words in his head “You'll be alright.”
He rushes out of the building. He needs to bring Five home.
Five wakes up alone, which shouldn't sting as much as it does. He doesn't expect his siblings to wait worriedly at his bedside, he's not naive and he knows his family way too well for that, but at least some concern would be nice. Especially after– His memories are hazy but he vividly remembers getting stabbed with Diego's knife. His moronic brother should really go to a target practice.
Five groans as he pushes himself up. His back screams at him as he moves but he forcibly ignores it. His head is pulsing with pain and he really needs coffee.
Just as he's about to stand up though, the doors open.
Diego looks exhausted. His eyes are dull, his hair is a mess but he seems to light up when he sees Five.
“You're awake!” he says, clearly relieved, but there's something in his voice Five can't quite place.
“And you're an idiot,” he snarls.
It's a quip, nothing more, a familiar insult he doesn't even fully mean. But Diego flinches as if hit. His face falls, body curling in on itself. Five frowns, unable to read the flurry of emotions flickering in his brother's eyes. But before he can say anything, Diego blurts out.
“I'm sorry,” his voice is quiet, trembling and full of guilt. “I didn't mean– I'm so sorry.”
Five can only blink at him. He doesn't blame Diego, not really. He knows how difficult it is to anticipate his moves, how hard it is to keep up with his blinking. If anything, the whole situation was his fault. He didn't see the knife. All he saw was a gun aimed at his brother. Everything else stopped mattering then. He should've paid better attention.
Diego did nothing wrong.
Diego, who's now looking at him with so much fear, so much guilt that it takes Five's breath away.
“You're an idiot,” he says again and his voice is soft.
And he can see relief wash over Diego, understanding shining in his eyes.
They're going to be ok.