The last thing he remembered was dying. Which isn't exactly a fun last thing to remember, if we're being honest. But yes, he had died. Him and all of his siblings. That's not the point. The point is, he woke up, and he most definitely did not wake up in heaven, or hell, or purgatory, or whatever was supposed to be waiting. In fact, he woke up during a relatively sunny day in August, with a person holding a plastic bag with a goldfish in it standing over him. His first instinct was to stab the person, but he didn't have any weapons, and anyway, they didn't seem all that threatening.

They helped him to his feet. That person is you.

At first, you didn't understand half the stuff he ranted about, and you assumed he had few screws loose. Over the next few months, he began putting things together. Yes, he and his family had sacrificed themselves and all of the marigold that ran through their veins and gave them their powers, and yes, they had all died in doing so. But it would seem that the universe decided to bring them all back, as a gift for their heroic deed, or something. Or at the very least they brought Five back.

He began spending a lot of time with you, and learned you were a relatively odd person. You lived in a dusty old apartment in Brooklyn, and seemed to collect vintage things. Gramophones, record players, old cassette tapes- lot's of music related objects. He didn't mind being surrounded by all the old stuff, though.

And then there was you. Always moving from one thing to another, late for one of your several jobs, inviting him to join you for pizza on the roof. You'd been letting him stay in your guest room for as long as he liked. He liked that room. And you. Although he wouldn't admit either of those things to anyone. Today, you were both sitting on the roof, your gramophone quietly belting out some old classical song or another. You'd both finished your pizza, and were kind of just sitting in a pleasant silence.

"Hey, stupid," he said, feeling pleased with himself when you turned.