Love is Apocalyptic
A/N: Well, this is my first Xmen story, so be kind in your critique. Also, I only remembered after I had finished the story that Kitty's Jewish. I'm pretty sure Jews don't believe in the Apocalypse, but bear with me.
Disclaimer: Obviously, they're not mine as I am disclaiming ownership.
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Love: A feeling of strong attachment induced by that which delights or commands admiration.
Well, that's a little vague.
It's also much diluted. It seems like if I was the dictionary man, I would have used way more avid diction, right? I'd probably pepper the definition with words like "passionate," "omnipotent," "heartbreakingly fervent." I don't know. Something more expressive.
I just always assumed that "love" would be like an unparalleled emotion that could defy the laws of… I don't know, everything. The actual definition of the abstract is so anti-climatic.
Then again, I probably shouldn't talk. Or maybe I should. It's really hard to tell, sometimes. People say that teenage crushes are like a pretty sparkly pink fog. Okay, I sort of made that up. But essentially, a teenager with a crush will ignore every flaw in favor of a perfect "soul mate." They only see the sparkles and fog. So really, I don't know if what I'm feeling is love, per se. All I know is that if what I'm feeling is really just a teenage crush, love must be apocalyptic.
His name is Piotr Nikolaievitch Rasputin. It's a mouthful, I know. It's because he's Russian. Which, in retrospect, would call forth images of crazy communists, the Cold War, Iron Curtain, and Arms race. On the contrary though, Pete is the most honest, modest, kindest, shyest, gentlest son of a gun you'll ever meet.
He's tall. Like six foot six tall. Like, a whole foot taller than me so that I have to crane my neck just to see his face (Which is gorgeous, by the way,) tall. He's built like the perfect image of anatomy; with tight muscles and chiseled features galore. I don't even think Da Vinci could have asked for a more perfect "David."
His hair is dark and wavy, and his eyes are the bluest blue I've ever been lucky to see. They remind me of the Caribbean waters that you see in advertisements. They're ridiculously blue, and clear all the way to the bottom. I'm surprised I haven't seen his brain through those things, they're so clear. You can discern every little emotion from his eyes. He's so expressive. It's adorable.
It's a funny thing about him, though. I don't think he realizes just how amazing he is. It's like he's never looked in a mirror before. You'd think the guy would catch on to all the "admiration" being thrown at him. But I guess it's like I said before, he's the most modest guy in the history of the world.
Ironically, though, I think that may be why I like him so much. He's so unlike most guys who clamor to make a fool of themselves just to get a good lay. He's smart and introspective, even if he is a little dense when it comes to women. And he's an artist!
A very reclusive one at that. For some wacky reason, he feels unworthy of the title. Thus, he is very private when it comes to his art. It's really quite an honor if you ever get to see it. It means he trusts you enough to allow you a glimpse of that little part of his soul that he locks within his canvas.
I think it was the moment I laid eyes on his work that I really fell in love.
It was a self-portrait. Appropriate, upon reflection. He had used an intricate series of small, rough strokes that were slightly reminiscent of Van Gogh's 'Starry Night.' I don't claim to know much about art and its technicalities, but the composition of color and value was breathtaking.
I saw hues that shouldn't belong in the painting take an elegant life amongst his strong European features. I was drawn by the heavy curve of his jaw, his lips, his nose.
But mostly, I took in his eyes.
His painting made the usual cute heaviness of his lids look like something born from sorrow. He looked so sad. His painted irises were a swirl of blues, greens, and even some gold. They retained their lit up quality, as if there was a light shining from behind them, making them translucent; now their light seemed to reveal the echo of hardships.
It was a heartbreaking piece. At a glance, it simply portrayed a young man staring solemnly out of a frame, jaw set tersely on his handsome face. It was his eyes that communicated the hidden empathy and weariness unfit for such youth.
It made me want to comfort him, to take some of the pain expressed in those crystal blue orbs for myself. It made me want to hug him, soothe him; offer anything he wanted. It made me want to kiss him.
And then I turned around, and then he smiled. A hopeful smile, as if he was unsure of whether I would like the dang nabbed masterpiece he had presented. And I could see the swirling complexity in his beautiful eyes for the first time since I had laid my comparatively dull eyes on him. If I wasn't a master over my emotions and such not, I'm pretty sure I would have kissed him then.
Instead, I just settled for the best smile I've ever failed to give.
Katya? He had asked in concern. Lord, if there's a sexier voice on the planet.
I responded that I was fine; just feeling a little insignificant standing next to your face.
I guess I confused him though, because he blushed and looked a little surprised. So I elaborated; I meant his oil paint face.
Anyways, afterwards we ended up sharing a few minutes worth of weird awkward silence during which I smiled and blushed like a schoolgirl while he smiled and tried to decide if looking at me or the painting would ease the awkwardness any.
So, basically, that's the end of my short rant on love. Like I said, it could be the sparkly kind of teenage crushing that's been the downfall of many a child (I say child because legally speaking, there's only two categories of people.) But I'm definitely probably certain that there's a good chance that I might be in love with Piotr Nikolaievitch Rasputin.
And if this isn't love; then you guys better hang tight because Piotr Nikolaievitch Rasputin and I are going to bring about the Apocalypse.