A/N: Another Havshee one-shot, a bit more angst instead of the usual fluff. Reviews and favourites are greatly appreciated.
-I-
Hank watched in horror as the blade pierced his teammate. The scene seemed to slow as the weapon wielded by the red-skinned demon pushed forward mercilessly through the soft tissue of Sean's abdomen; the red-head's eyes widened as blade disappeared in a plume of sulphur along with the attacker and he seemed to just be staring down at the wound, blood trickling from his gaping mouth. And then, in an instant, the eerie calm of the moment vanished as a piercing cry of Sean's name ripped through the air. Banshee merely looked up in stunned silence at the blonde boy now running towards him, and as the red-head grasped at the bloodied mess that was once his stomach he fell to the ground just as Alex reached him. Hank simply stared, frozen as he watched Alex attempt to apply pressure to the wound before holding his hands up, seeing the blood and rambling incoherent words to the boy in his arms.
Walking through the halls of the all-too familiar mansion that had was now his home, Beast sighed. So much had changed, and he had been forced to move on, yet he still felt a reluctance to enter the room that he had to enter. Turning another corner he saw the doorway at the end of the corridor. It loomed before him, daring him to turn the handle whilst knowing that once he did Hank would realise that with all the change he had never really moved on. No amount of work schedules, training and researching could purge that awful day from his mind.
By the time Hank had forced himself to get close enough his friends to assess the situation, there was little to assess. Crimson stained the ageing concrete, forming a pool beneath the two teenagers. Sean was completely motionless but Alex was still holding him, still forming those incoherent words and still stroking the red-head's pale face.
"Alex…", Hank began, leaning forward to check the pulse that he already knew he would not find. Alex let him, and Hank could barely stand the look of utter despair on Havok's face when he shook his head, removing any last vestige of hope left in Alex's heart.
Pushing the door open and wincing slightly at the low creaking sound it emitted, Hank took a step into the room, hurriedly closing the door behind him as if to shield it from the world. Or maybe he was just trying to stop himself from running. Glancing around, Hank's face set into a vague grimace as he surveyed the room. He hadn't visited the shared bedroom of Alex and Sean more than once or twice, even before that dreadful day, but it was still clear to him that nothing had changed. Some clothes littered the floor, most of them were identifiable as Sean's, Alex had used the room after his lover's demise but Hank could understand why it was never tidied, he supposed that even Havok was sentimental in his own right. I layer of dust had settled over the surfaces; it must have been at least a year since anybody had even looked into the room. It had always stayed as a sort of memorial, but now that more and more young mutants were arriving it had become Hank's job to clear the room for a new arrival. Somehow the thought of it disturbed him; it felt like acknowledging that Alex would never come back.
It hadn't particularly surprised Charles of Hank when Alex left. It had been a week since Sean's funeral service, during which the blonde had stayed silent, and Alex had barely left his room since. Truth was he'd barely left his bed. Hank had attempted to visit him once or twice but Alex just lay there, as if hoping that he'd just disappear along with all of his pain. One morning, Alex had turned up at the breakfast table clutching a hold-all and stonily explaining that he would leave. He offered no explanation but it was obvious really. As he walked out of the room, Charles made one last attempt in telling Alex that he would be welcome if he ever chose to return. Alex didn't even look over his shoulder; he merely paused for a moment.
"I'm never coming back here," he had replied before exiting the room. Hank hadn't seen him since, though as he went outside for training the next morning he had noticed the roses placed by Sean's grave.
Hank had begun to sort through the wardrobe, folding the clothes neatly before placing them in the black sacks he had brought with him. Charles had decided to move the contents of the room to the attic, as he had explained many times the professor still had faith that Alex would return. It had been two years since Sean's death, and though the roses that had mysteriously appeared on Sean's grave the previous year had been left unmentioned there was still a spark of hope that Alex would return.
Finishing with the wardrobe, Hank moved onto the chests of drawers. Half of them were just filled with junk that Sean had collected: old comic books, about a dozen different pairs of sunglasses, old notes passed between him and Alex, a couple of scratched records, a seemingly endless supply of broken stationary and a smashed photo frame that had apparently held enough sentimental value to keep. Hank emptied it into a bag and tied the end, saddened by the fact that it would probably never see the light of day again. Moving to the bedside table, Hank began clearing the clutter from it. There was an old alarm clock, several sweet wrappers, a half-used tube of lube that Hank cringed at slightly, scraps of paper with mindless doodles scrawled over them, postage stamps left unused and a couple of dog-eared books.
As Hank opened the main drawer, he was surprised at how empty it seemed, but opening it fully he understood why. In the draw lay a crumpled black and white photo. It showed Sean, apparently in a park. He was holding an ice-cream in one hand and running the other hand through his hair, obviously ginger even with the lack of colour. The red-head was grinning, and Hank could see that it was Alex who had taken the picture because the smile on Sean's face was the one he only ever showed when Alex was by him. Hank smiled wistfully as he saw how worn the photograph was, the edges were folded and there were obvious creases where it had been bent down the centre to fit into a pocket.
Alex stormed into his room, his mind clouded with pain and grief and anger that Sean had been taken from him. Reaching the bed he landed a punch on a pillow, pummelling it for all that it was worth before letting out a cry. Unshed tears were making his vision hazy and all he wanted to do was go backwards in time and lie in this same bed, holding Sean in his arms as if he would never have to let go. Alex growled in frustration, grabbing a second pillow and pulling it into the air. He stopped abruptly as he saw a small piece of paper fluttering down to the ground from the pillow. Frowning slightly, Alex picked it up from the ground. He recognised it immediately. It was a photo he had taken about a month beforehand at the park, with Sean. Sean had said he would go to get the pictures developed, he must have finally gotten around to it and left the picture on the bed just before they left for the mission. Alex hands shook as he turned the photo over, revealing the message his lover had scrawled on the back.
Hank flipped the photograph over in his hands, noticing the text written in what was unmistakably Sean's lopsided handwriting. Written on the yellowing reverse of the image were the two words:
"Love you."
-I-
A/N: Gah, I'm terrible at angst. The idea just sprung to mind and I had to write it, so tell me what you think. Spell checking is always appreciated too. I need to go read some Havshee fluff now to cheer myself up… Thanks in advance for any reviews or favourites!