Title: Simple Tensions
Part: 14/?
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*
IMPORTANT: I've adopted a new policy: STNH. Season Two Never Happened. Therefore, Lance never tried to leave, Tabitha doesn't exist, and neither do any of the new people yet.
Additional Notes: NOT BETAD! ^^
Enjoy, and please give me C&C!!!
--
Pietro was sitting next to me, his eyes unseeing as he stared forward at nothing. A few minutes ago, Lance had retreated into the kitchen to make a phone call and so had left the two of us alone with Rogue and Summers. I couldn't think of anything; I didn't know what to say. Even with the tension between Rogue and I resolved there was a livewire barrier between us that kept us from speaking with another of either side present. I hated how we had 'sides.' Us versus them. 'Because they think they're so damn better,' I remembered Lance telling me. But even then, there had been a quiet resignation in his voice--the sort of aged tiredness that one found in retired veterans of war. It didn't make sense. No--it does make sense...but it's not fair.
After a moment, Summers cleared his throat, lifting his head slightly. Always the diplomat. I would've felt some measure of amused disgust, but I couldn't muster the energy it would've taken.
"I'm sorry..." he hesitated before continuing tentatively, "We...we could help with the funeral arrangements..."
I felt Pietro groping for my hand and I gave him a reassuring squeeze, wondering when the roles had switched and when I had become the protector. Then I remember starless eyes, and my thoughts blanked in a futile attempt to shield the pain. I didn't know how to respond to Summers' overbearingly generous offer, so I just stared at the floor.
"You don't have to," Lance had come back in, "we'll take care of it."
"Alvers," Summers looked reluctant, "you guys don't have to do this alone."
Lance rubbed at his temples, too tired to get angry.
"We'll talk," he relented finally after a few moments of weary contemplation.
"Todd, you and Pietro go get some shut-eye, okay?"
I nodded and stood up, my fingers still clenched around the sleeve of Pietro's shirt. We headed upstairs and parted ways in the hall. I didn't remember saying anything and I think Pietro wasn't in the mood to talk anyway.
Then I saw the room next to mine.
Freddy, I thought, starting to feel nauseous. I found myself on the floor, once again not remembering how I got there, my head pounding. My chest hurt; it was painful to breathe--painful to think, even.
Freddy was dead.
Summers had been there, looking sad, regretful; 'I'm sorry, but something's happened. Fred...Fred--he flat-lined. About fifteen minutes ago. I'm sorry...'
'I'm sorry.'
I felt someone's arm curling about my back, a broken Southern drawl in my ear, tears that weren't mine trickling on my skin.
"C'mon, Todd," Rogue said, her voice thick as she helped me up, "You should get some rest..."
"Freddy," I replied blindly, reaching for someone who wasn't there, "Freddy--where--?"
"C'mon," Rogue repeated, nudging my door open. I collapsed in my bed and turned away from her, burying my face in the pillow. She said something else, though I didn't hear, before she left. I stared at the shadows for a while, watching the distorted patch of black that was my bookend--the smiling, cheerful frog carved from clay and out of friendship; tender, brotherly kindness--love. Then, I closed my eyes, falling asleep as I tried harder than anything to pretend that everyone was okay.
"Are we going?" Pietro's voice was low and he gulped some water down as soon as he finished speaking from his mottled gray sports cup. He barely talked anymore, because of his lungs and numerous other reasons.
"I guess," Lance kept his eyes on the road. It was two days before Christmas and we still hadn't RSVPed to the X-men's offer. Or maybe Lance had but didn't get the chance to tell us. I don't think he'd do something like that, though.
Yesterday had been Freddy's funeral. It had seemed so unreal--I hadn't known what to do. Pietro had spent the whole thing crying silently into Lance's shoulder. I guess that he really needs Lance nowadays. But that's okay; he can talk to Lance. I wouldn't know what to say anymore.
I read more and more now; I spent the last three days locked in my room reading, save for when Lance pounds on the door and tells me to come eat. I think he'd yell at me like he used to, but he's just been too tired lately. We all have been.
Summers comes by a lot, almost as much as Rogue. The Professor probably sent him on some mission of goodwill to make sure we didn't feel forgotten. I'd get mad at him, but I've got better things to do. I've got to finish reading the new Cynthia Voigt book I just got the other day. I've got to go finish pretending.
It's Christmas Day. Pietro has been getting a little better; he's begun to talk to me, too, instead of just Lance. All in that whisper-quiet voice, of course. Sometimes, I Can barely hear him. Maybe listening to loud music really did make me go deaf. Or maybe Pietro really is fading like he looks like he is.
Lance got the two of us presents even though he wouldn't let us get him anything. 'Selfless bastard,' Pietro had whispered fondly, his cerulean eyes glowing as he turned the crystal figurine he had gotten in his hands with careful fingers. 'That selfless, selfless bastard.'
He had given me a journal. It was leather-bound and kind of worn, but real nice nonetheless. When I asked him what I was supposed to write in it, he just smiled vaguely and said, 'I'm sure you'll think of something.'
It was around four in the afternoon when Summers called. I could tell it was him because Lance sounded different when he picked the phone up. He always sounds different when he talks to Summers, though in what way I can't really tell.
"No, we'll drive ourselves," Lance said stiffly into the receiver before nodding curtly and muttering a good-bye.
"Dinner's at six," he said quietly.
"What're we going to wear?" Pietro asked in return, a frown creasing his brow. No doubt he was thinking about Daniels. I smiled; at least he was being a little more superficial--like he used to. It was comforting.
"Normal stuff," Lance was expressionless.
"They ain't worth dressing up for," I added with what I hoped was nonchalance.
Pietro nodded after a moment, "Yeah, I guess."
We got there at five fifty-seven and sat in front of the opened gat in our dust-beaten jeep. Lance looked back at me and Pietro, asking,
"You guys want to do this?"
"Are we sure?" Pietro echoed the question with few words, a wan smile on his lips, "Sure, why not?"
"Might as well," I agreed even though I didn't want to go at all. I wanted to go back home and stare at the shadows on the wall. I wanted to go back home and read.
It was awkward inside. I especially didn't like hanging around with that Storm chick. Maybe it was because she nearly fried me last time we met. Or maybe it was because she looked at me with so much pity in her eyes. Pity is the worst; especially self-pity. On the streets, self-pity can kill.
I ignored most of the dinner conversation. None of it really mattered to me. Jean Grey tried to talk to me again but I didn't say anything, really. I guess I could've been more helpful...but it's not like I care.
I went out on the balcony after dinner. Being inside was making me sick; it was too warm. After a little while, Pietro followed after me, his footing unsure.
"Hey, there, Toddie," his voice was smooth even now, though as silk-soft as had become habitual, "how's it hangin'?"
"I hate it here," I said truthfully.
"Yeah, me, too," Pietro sighed, his breath freezing in the air in a puff of translucent white before fading. I watched it vanish, then turned away, nearly missing his next words;
"But Lance was smart to bring us here."
He must've somehow sensed I didn't understand what he meant because he smiled faintly and clarified with trembling eyes, twin orbs of cobalt blue still expressive even without sight,
"It'd hurt too much to have Christmas at home."
"Oh." I said, not knowing what else to say. What else could you say in the stark face of truth?
Pietro nodded and we stood in silence, each shivering and lost in thought.
"Are there any stars out tonight, Toddie?" Pietro asked after a moment.
I looked up at the cloudy sky, black and stained with night.
"Yeah," I lied. "lots of them."
"Good," Pietro smiled, then paused. After a few more minutes, he whispered,
"Merry fuckin' Christmas."
~tbc~