Title: Simple Tensions
Part: 12/?
Author: Naisumi
Rating: R (just to be safe)
Disclaimer: You've _got_ to be kidding...^.~
Archive: If you want, but could you tell me at least?
Warnings: Language
Notes: Lots of angst, BHness, tense switchness and...schtuff. Sheesh. And all this lack of synonyms is killing me T.T And yes, I know these chapters are really short ^^ But there's a reason for it. Oh, and Todd speaks a little funny at places, but that's...just...him. O.o By the way, when you're done reading ST, GO READ MY OTHER FIC! n.n;; Hahhaaa...shameless plug-in for 'This Acid Trip Called Life.' You'll like it. I promise. Anyways *coughs*
Additional Notes: NOT BETAD! ^^
Enjoy, and please give me C&C!!!
"blah." People speak
-- uh...scene switch
--
When they finally let Pietro back home, it had been about a week. We tried making some feeble conversation, but I guess he wasn't up to it because he barely spoke back. So we didn't talk at all.
I think when Pietro came home, everyone just kinda meandered off into their own thoughts. We didn't talk anymore; we just thought. At least I did. The house was so suffocatingly silent, I just couldn't take it.
A few days after Pietro came back, I remembered Fred's last name--just all of a sudden, out of the blue. I was pouring myself a glass of water at the time, I think, because when I realized what his name had been, I jolted a little and it spilled all over the place.
Dukes. His last name had been Dukes. How could I have forgotten? No, I don't think I forgot. I think that maybe I just wanted to not recall it. We never referred to him as "Dukes"--not even Mr. Tough Guy Lance who always called us by our last names in public. He did before, anyway. He never does that anymore. He always comes to pick me up after school nowadays, too.
Yes, just me. Not Pietro...Pietro doesn't go to school anymore. I get his homework for him at the end of the day usually and then after dinner at night, Lance goes over it with him. I think he reads to Pietro before bed. Pietro's always loved reading--maybe even more than me--because he can go at his own pace and zoom through the whole thing.
Lance tries to read fast, but it's probably not the same. The other night, though, I heard Pietro tell him softly that he didn't have to go so quickly; to slow down. Either he felt bad for Lance, or the speedster's lost his thrill. God, I hope it's the former.
Both Pietro and I feel bad for Lance every day now. It's no longer just a 'bad day at work.' It's like a perpetual month of 'bad days at work.' There's only eight days left before Christmas now, but Lance keeps working. It's practically the only thing he's got left now, I guess. Because high school let out, I usually hang around the hospital with Pietro, talking to Freddy, or just sitting together. Pietro's scary quiet, and not just some of the times. He's always quiet now. It's like when he lost his sight, he lost his voice, too. Lance and him, I hear them talking, but it's always in hushed whispers. I think Lance is the only one Pietro talks to anymore. They've always been close--best friends, even more like brothers than the rest of us. I think Lance is the one who got hurt the most when Pietro lost his vive.
The X-men keep looking at me, keep shooting me these sympathetic glances in the hallways. Jean Grey's the worst, always trying to make small talk whenever she sees me downtown, as if all of a sudden we matter shit to her. Rogue's close after. I think she feels guilty, 'cause of what I said back at the hospital. Most of the time, I wish I hadn't said all that crap, because if I hadn't, she most likely would've left me the hell along. As of now, I'm actually the least pissed off at Scott Summers, since even if he does look at us with pity, you can't tell because of those freakin' glasses of his.
No matter what, they just keep on trying to talk to me. Can't they get a clue?
"Hey, Tolensky!" I looked over from where I was sitting by the window, staring out at the snow. I thought it might've been one of the senior girls, asking about Pietro again. Despite what rumor might have it, all the girls actually really liked him; he would have been real popular if it weren't for us.
I saw the X-men sitting at a table like a friggin' clique, rolled my eyes, and ignored them.
"Hey! Tolensky!" It was that blue-furred freak--Kurt Wagner--and Daniels. Jeez, I didn't have time for this shit.
"What do you want?" I asked, walking toward them and plastering a scowl on my face. I was getting better at that; acting pissed off when I was just tired.
Wagner looked contrite, and was glancing around furtively, as if he were afraid that someone would see us talking together.
"Ve vere just vondering if...if, uh, you vould like to come by ze Institute for Christmas."
What the hell?
I stared at them, the words, "You've got to be kiddin', yo," coming out before I had time to really think them through.
Wagner looked sheepish and Daniels seemed to take that as his cue to continue for his friend, "No, seriously, man...I mean, it's gotta suck wit-with what happened and all that..." he trailed off uncertainly, his words trickling into silence.
I wanted to laugh. 'With what happened and all that?' All that...yeah, sure, that made a lot of sense.
"Listen," I said, making sure my voice was low, steady, "just 'cause shit happened to us doesn't make us a big, happy family, okay? I mean, thanks for paying and stuff, yo, but it doesn't mean we've gotta start being chummy."
I tried to sneer but my throat closed up and my eyes started stinging. I prayed to the God that I had forgotten about for the longest time that I wasn't crying.
"It's too late to start changin' your minds," I continued, not really seeing them at all, "and it ain't gonna happen."
"Todd," Rogue was standing there behind Wagner, her eyes wide, hurt.
"What do you want?" I demanded, my voice starting to sound thick even to my own ears.
"Ah'm sorry," she said, but I shook my head. I had to get out of there before I broke down.
"Tolensky, look, we..." Daniels started before he fumbled to a stop. I think I started to laugh, but it caught in my throat. They were looking at me, Wagner with this godawful look of sympathy and regret, Daniels with an expression that reeked of pity and awkwardness, and Rogue...Rogue, standing there with her lunch tray and book bag hanging off of one arm, her lips parted, her eyes shining with hurt and betrayal. Betrayal? What bullshit.
"Fuck you," I hissed, then booked it out of there. I somehow I managed to make it home, and Lance was there, his arm around Pietro. Pietro was shaking, like he was crying or something. But Pietro didn't cry, did he?
"Todd?" Lance asked, looking up when I slammed the front door. I leaned against it and stared up at the ceiling, trying not to hear Pietro's muffled sobs.
"I'm skipping," I said dully, the knowledge that I had left before the day was half over seeping through the haze of anger, hysteria, and hurt that was my mind.
I saw Lance nod slightly in understanding, then I took the stairs three by three, reached my bedroom, and threw myself onto the bed. Vaguely, before I slipped into sleep, I remember thinking: You think we betrayed you? You don't know anything at all. You don't know me at all. No one does...
When I woke up, it was around five pm and my head was pounding from sleeping too much. I could hear Lance moving around downstairs, and Pietro saying something indistinct. His voice is always thin nowadays; always lifeless and soft and hopeless.
I felt like going to see Freddy--no, I needed to go see Freddy. It was getting dark out, but I figured that it wouldn't matter. I knew the city well enough.
I was halfway down the stairs when I heard the third voice, a voice that sounded familiar but didn't belong in our house. Lance replied, and he sounded angry, like he was about to throw something.
"...just think about it, alright?"
"There's nothing to think about, Summers. Get the hell out, okay? Thanks for asking," Lance practically spat out the 'thanks,' "but no thanks."
So Summers was here again. I walked into the kitchen and saw him standing there, looking unbearably bright-colored against the pale run-down hues of our house. Summers looked so simply wrong standing there. He seemed too substantial for the household of whispers that we had become; too life-like for the surreality of dreams that I had been trying to surround myself with.
"Hey, Todd," Pietro murmured, his voice quiet like it always was. He could always tell when Lance or I entered the room, because the both of us had secretly come to the agreement that whenever we walked, we should try to make as much noise as possible. I tried to grin and looked at him. I could barely remember the boy who made up commercial jingles to bug us and zipped around too quickly, brimming with energy.
"Hey," I replied, touching his shoulder briefly. A fleeting smile flickered on his lips before it guttered out and he just stared at the floor with empty eyes again. Summers turned around at the sound of my voice, his clenched hands loosening slightly.
"Hi," he said uncertainly, as if he wasn't sure whether or not I'd respond. I looked at him for a long time, trying to figure out what to make of him. Lance was facing away, angrily stirring something in a pot.
"Hey," I said finally, sitting down on the kitchen stool beside Pietro.
"What brings you here, Summers? That Christmas thing?" I felt a little bitter, and it must've come across, because Summers looked somewhat apologetic.
"Well...yes," he looked reluctant to speak. "We just thought we should offer...--that is, I mean, it's not like we don't want you guys there," Summers added quickly, coloring slightly as he realized how that must've come across.
"It's just that--"
"Save it, Summers," Lance was getting angrier by the second. "Now, you invitin' yourself over for dinner or are you going to wheel it out of here while you have the chance?"
Before Summers could reply, Pietro said softly, "I'm tired." His head was pillowed on his arms, his shoulders bony and hunched. That seemed to settle it, because Summers heaved a sigh and glanced imploringly at Lance first then me before finally leaving.
"Fuckin' bastard," Lance muttered before setting down the wooden spoon he had been using, wiping his palms on the sides of his jeans. His expression softened and he rubbed the back of Pietro's neck, "You okay there, kid?"
Pietro made a vague sound, pressing his forehead more into his arms. Lance hesitated, then looked at me, "I was making spaghetti. Think you can finish up?"
I nodded, and Lance pulled Pietro up by the arm, helping him toward the stairs. It was odd. Sometimes Pietro wanted us to help him; needed us to be there. Other times, he was fiercely independent, determined to do things on his own despite his...condition. Suddenly, I didn't want to think about it anymore, and picked up the spoon that Lance had put aside.
Dinner was quiet, dead quiet. Pietro was sleeping, so it was just the two of us; Lance and me. We kept it to monotone questions and one-word answers, not because we were angry or uncomfortable, but because there didn't seem to be anything worth talking about. About halfway through, there was the creak of stairs, and Lance stood up, looking at the stairway.
"Pietro?"
Pietro tilted his head toward us, his expression frighteningly blank. He took a few more steps down, then let go of the banister. Before either Lance or I could speak, he was tumbling forward. I saw Lance dart towards him, trying to catch him, but he was too late--or at least he must've been, because all I heard was a sickening thud and the crack of bones.
Oh God, I remember thinking, my eyes stinging again, and my ears ringing with Lance's shouts as I picked up the phone to dial 911, Oh God, when is it going to end?
~tbc~