His father was angry, always angry.
But never did he think it'd get this far.
So much yelling, screaming. Things were being thrown and crashing against the wall. Diego knew he shouldn't be hearing this, should be asleep, but he couldn't. He missed Five, missed his brother.
His mother was in there, too, with his father. She was programmed to be there when he was like this, ensure he didn't hurt himself. But Diego couldn't stand the thought of his mom being in that room too, the same room where everything was breaking. What if she got hurt? What if Reginald really hurt her?
He was pacing now, pacing across his room. The Umbrella Academy pajamas he was forced to wear were itchy, uncomfortable. It was so cold, too cold, and Diego shivered. But he couldn't ignore the insistent screaming, couldn't ignore the shattering of what could've been a vase or an ash tray. He needed to help Grace, needed to help his mom, but he felt too powerless.
If only Five hadn't gone, hadn't left. He was gone for good, or at least for a long time. Diego knew that. He was never close to Five, not really. He didn't really connect with any of his siblings. He was sure that if he did he'd be in one of their rooms right now, stuttering out a sentence about how he was afraid for Grace. But he was alone, all alone, pacing in his cold room in his uncomfortable pajamas.
Then the screaming stopped, the crashing stopped, and there was only silence, deafening silence. Diego stopped, too, the floorboards creaking when he shifted his weight from one foot to another. "Dammit!" is all he heard his father yell before he ran to his father's study.
The door is open a fraction of an inch and Diego isn't sure if he should continue his path. He should just go back to his room, cover himself with blankets and sleep, right? Isn't that what the others do, isn't that what he's supposed to do?
Against his better judgement, Diego creeps forward slowly. He makes sure to make no noise, doesn't even touch the door as he peers inside. Reginald is on the ground, bent over something. Diego's heart stops when he sees what it is, who it is. Grace.
"M-M-M-" Diego wants to scream out, wants to scream for help, for someone to help his mom. But he can't, he can't. Picture the word in your head. It's his mother's words on repeat, over and over, and he closed his eyes. He needs to concentrate, concentrate. "M-M-M-M-M-" He's afraid, horrified. He can't think correctly, never can when it comes to Grace, comes to his family.
But his father is turning his head and Diego wants to run away, run as fast as he can but he can't, he's frozen. He's faced countless dangers—men with guns, deadly robots, even the Eiffel Tower flying into space—but his dad was the scariest, always the scariest, and left Diego powerless and defenseless.
Diego is quaking now, his breath just as shaky as his legs. His father's voice is powerful, booming in the large house.
"What are you doing down here? Go to bed. You saw nothing."
Reginald's eyes were filled with disappointment, but behind that was anger, too, lots of it. Five was gone, Reginald's perfect little Five that was great on missions and smart and witty. He was left with just simple Number Two, a boy who couldn't even talk. Diego wants to apologize and say he's sorry, but his tongue is tied, his feet still frozen in place.
His father stands up, and Diego can see Grace's body. There's still a smile on her face, the smile that's always there. Her arm, though, is open, exposing her cut wires. There are tears brimming in Number Two's eyes, but he'd never cry, not in front of his father. He grips on to the door tightly, fearing his legs will give out if he doesn't do so.
"I said," his father continues, voice not raised but very stern, "go to bed."
"M-Mom!" Diego finally cries out, but he's too late, his father's hands are on Diego's shoulders and he stumbles farther and farther back until he trips, back hitting the floor with a painful thud. He opens his mouth in a silent scream, too terrified to make any noise at all.
"What'd y-you do to her?" Diego shouted, stumbling back to his feet. There was anger, anger rooted deep in his soul. He was angry that his father hurt Grace, angry that his father hurt him, angry that he couldn't talk, angry that he didn't connect with his siblings, angry that Five left. Because that is what fueled him, his anger, but there was too much anger now.
"My name is Diego!" He continued to raise his voice, allowing that anger to flow out of him. Grace had given him that name, Diego, and he wasn't going to let his father ignore it. Reginald ignored too much, he wasn't going to let him ignore Grace.
"Number Two," his father repeated, his voice stricter, sterner, filled with anger just as Diego's was, but not the same anger. No, no, the anger beneath the two were very different, far too different to even be called the the same thing. Diego's was based off loss, off sadness, fear, desperation, every bottled up emotion in the kid. Reginald's, on the other hand, was based off pure selfishness and off the loneliness that came with it. "Go to bed this instant."
Diego's hand shook, clenching and unclenching, wishing a knife was in his grasp. He just wanted to defend himself, defend his mother.
"Master Hargreeves..." It's Pogo, poking his head around the corner. The chimp never liked the frequent fighting, Diego knew. Pogo felt he had some responsibility to keep them all safe, both Reginald and the kids, but they were so often angry at one another, at the other's throat. Pogo didn't know how to stop it.
Reginald's eyes flashed towards their new companion and he scowled. This wasn't the time to interrupt, clearly.
"Or—Master Diego," Pogo corrected himself, "how about you go to your room and—"
"Screw you!" Diego shouted suddenly at his father, spit accidentally spraying out of his mouth and hitting the man's face. He tried to keep a cool demeanor as he walked back to his bedroom, bumping against Pogo slightly when walking past.
And now he's alone in his room again and his thoughts are overwhelming. Because his mother was on the ground, on the ground and not living and his father was horrible and Five is gone and he's lonely, so fucking lonely and all he has is his knives.
Diego's eyes suddenly find the umbrella tattoo on his arm. That anger is back and it's swelling, so he's itching and itching and itching, nails digging into the skin of the tattoo until he's bleeding. The red stains under his nails, stains his arm, stains his sheets and he knows that if his father sees it instead of Grace he's in trouble. But Diego doesn't want to be here, he wants to be normal. He wants to be a kid and have a loving mother and a loving father and not have the fate of the whole fucking universe on his shoulders and he wants that stupid fucking tattoo gone.
Diego pants heavily, pulling his hand away from his shredded arm, warm tears on his cheek. He shuts his eyes closed, tight tight tight, because maybe then, maybe, he'll wake up and it'll all be one big, horrible, horrible nightmare.
So he closes his eyes and waits.