Greetings, readers (if, indeed, I still have any after delaying this for so long…)
Thank you; thank you for your reviews. I hope this chapter satisfies, god knows you've had to wait for it due to my GINORMOUS case of writer's block. Truly gargantuan, I tell thee.
Love as ever,
Vamp
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In what Lance had come to know to be true Pietro style, his favourite little speedster entered the house as a blue and white whirlwind, threw himself down upon the sofa with a tremendous thump, and appeared in normal time with several hairs out of place and a vast grin.
"Well, hello!" he greeted Lance, his wide smile glowing eerily in the dim evening light.
"Always know how to make an entrance, don't you?" remarked Lance, grinning himself. Pietro's smile spread like crabs in the darkest, dingiest of brothels; for want of a purely unromantic simile. "I take it things went okay with Magneto?"
At this, Pietro jumped to his feet with puppy-like enthusiasm. "Guess-what-Lance?"
Of course, Lance could already guess the answer, but wanted to humour Pietro. He sprang up himself with a long-absent glimmer in his eye. "What-what-what?"
"You-really-wanna-know?"
"Hell-yeah-I-wanna-know!"
With a playful toss of his head, Pietro feigned indifference. "Actually, I might not tell you."
Lance responded by throwing himself down on his knees theatrically and grasping Pietro's ankles in supplication. "Oh pleeeeeeeeeeeeease!"
Pietro gave a long, long sigh. "Oh, all right then." He took a deep breath, wondering how long he could hold the news back. "Well…" But much as he wanted to torment Lance, excitement swelled in the pit of Pietro's stomach and he could keep quiet no longer. The words burst out in a short, animated stream. "He said yes! Lance, he said yes! He's going to help us!"
A small pause.
"For real?"
A nod affirmed it, and in seconds Lance had flung himself upon Pietro, hugging and squeezing and laughing and crying and jumping. There may have even been squeals.
"It's going to be okay!" cried Lance as they continued to jump in each other's arms. "I just know it is! Fucking Magneto! Who'd'a thought it?"
Suddenly, a shade fell over Pietro's thoughts.
But I'm not invincible. I never was. Neither is my father, neither is Lance and neither is anybody else. We've all got to die sometime.
He stopped jumping.
We've all got to die sometime.
Deep breath.
"Whatever happens," he told Lance, seizing him with a piercing stare, "this can't die."
His pale hand found Lance's and entangled every finger with his own. Against his own beat another heart, almost tragically slower. Now their breath blended in a kiss- varying in pace and capacity, sending static shocks and cold shivers.
"Keep this alive," Pietro gasped and hissed between the fervent, possessive crush of Lance's lips. "Remember me and remember this. You can keep me alive in here-" he gestured to Lance's head and grasped a handful of hair. "D… Don't let me die!"
"Never," Lance mumbled in return as his hands wandered the length of Pietro's hot, hard body. "Never, never, never," his hands strayed to Pietro's belt and fumbled clumsily with it. "Ne-ver…" Pietro's jeans fell to his knees, and the boy clambered out of them with his arms stuck fast around Lance's neck, body pinned now to the wall.
He was dizzy, dizzy and Lance now held him in his grip- or was it his mouth? He couldn't see- he cried out- this was blind lusty ecstasy and he wanted- needed- to be taken in the hardest, fastest, dirtiest way. Passion… A little passion was good sometimes, sure.
"… Fuck?"
"Yes!"
Fuck, yes.
Lance's burning, sticky lips left that poor, desperate cock and chuckled moistly at Pietro's mournful cry.
And then Pietro shed the rest of his clothes and lay waiting on the carpet; silver-white, a perfect moon-boy begging for his completion. He dragged Lance naked into his ravenous stare, and in return big hands clasped his exposed sharp ribs and pulled his tiny frame into Lance's lap. They maintained eye contact - feral, intense, as Lance slid inside him with a razor sting. Pietro sucked in breath through his teeth and grabbed for Lance's shoulders. It began.
They started the rhythm, skipping slowness. Lance's thrusts were hard, greeted by the clash of Pietro's spiked pelvic bones as he rocked his hips. Brown hair, dripping with sweat, fell upon Pietro's shoulders. Warm, staccato breath shuddered down Lance's neck and spine as they moved together with the aching need of far too long.
Harder still, buried to the hilt, Lance plunged himself into his disgraced angel making two bodies shake with that force. Pietro was hurting- hoarse cries escaped him as he threw his head back and scored his nails down Lance's back, returning that deeply pleasurable pain. They increased the force yet more, now colliding into each other, bashing and crashing and smashing their bodies into one and with each thrust getting closer to the brink, the brink that would bring them eventually to the profound howl…. Ohhhhhhhhhhhh….
Lance's body tensed and convulsed as Pietro's inner muscles gripped him and quaked around him. They shook together, grasping and groping, arching their backs and screaming with the final release- a deep flow of power and remorse that seemed never-ending as something shattered within.
And then they fell.
"It's like a geek convention in here," Todd muttered to Lance through clenched teeth, jerking his head towards the various machines, equipment and scientists that were collected in Magneto's laboratory. "That guy over there? Keeps talkin' to me about tacky-cardia and heemertomer, whatever the fuck they're meant to be. And I just can't get over this whole Magneto thing. Coupla weeks ago he was damn near close to blowing us up, now we're his guest and he's serving us…." Todd paused, frowning as he inspected his drink. "What is this?"
"Moroccan Mint Tea!" Pietro cried merrily from the large metal table he was perched upon; surprisingly chipper for one with some twenty electrodes clamped to his head. He was revelling in all the attention- he had beautiful bright young scientists waiting on him hand and foot; and all he had to do was lie back, occasionally offer an arm for a blood test or injection of some sort, twitch his big toe upon direction, let the nice man listen to his heart, and follow the light on the end of his pen with eyes far too brilliant for a boy who was supposedly dying.
Also there was the added bonus of his father's undivided attention. Granted, Father Dearest was swabbing a thick malodorous gel over his hair and attaching a network of unsightly wires firmly to his skull, but it certainly made a change from the obligatory monosyllabic Christmas phone call.
"How do I look, Lance?" crooned Pietro, throwing the object of his affection a devilish wink. Lance, however, was far more interested in what was appearing on the tiny screen of Magneto's computer- the way Pietro's brainwaves would rise and fall in shaky green spikes reminded him of mountain ranges and unconquerable landscapes.
"Lovely, dear," murmured Lance, still transfixed. "What does it all mean?" he asked Erik, who was staring at the images with his head cocked to one side and, for lack of a beard, stroking his chin.
Erik raised one eyebrow at Lance. "I haven't the faintest," he shrugged. "I'm no doctor. That's Hank's job- he can tell you when he gets here."
"Doctor McCoy?" Pietro propped himself up on an elbow, only to be pushed straight back down by his father. "He's coming here?"
"Yes, and-"
But Erik didn't need to finish his sentence, for standing at the door was not only Doctor Hank McCoy but also Charles Xavier and his merry band of X-Geeks.
Three jaws dropped, and three hearts sank.
"My X-Men," Xavier declared in a rich, booming voice. "There stands before you a reformed man, united with his son through life's trials and tribulations."
As Erik bent over to adjust his son's wires, he could not help but snort with laughter. Xavier was an undeniably good fellow, but really quite full of crap underneath it all. Disguising his amusement with a cough, Erik straightened his back and gave his best angelic smile.
"Charles, Hank, how lovely to see you. Thank you very much for agreeing to help us. I see you have bought some…." His eyes scanned over the bunch of youths in front of him, narrowing for a second upon Miss Kitty Pryde. "Some, ah, students."
Jean Grey stepped forward eagerly, her toothpaste advert smile successfully administrating several migraines. "I'm going to be a doctor," she declared firmly, puffing her chest out with pride as she did so. "It's in my best interests to care for those less fortunate than I."
Concealed behind a large pillar, Lance theatrically mimed being sick.
"We are here to help," Scott Summers barked, so rigid that one could crack a walnut with his iron buttocks. "Despite our differences, we must come together."
"Is it really necessary?" Pietro quipped, somehow managing to maintain that knife-edge sharpness in his vulnerable position. "I mean we hardly know each other."
Erik chuckled under his breath. It was a poor innuendo, but God help them, it was all the X-Men could manage.
Scott frowned- or at least, his brow furrowed and mouth fell open in a style better attributed to the Neanderthal man- and having no better answer, merely nodded. "Yes."
"Let's get started, shall we?" Erik offered, still eyeing Shitty Pryde with extreme distaste. Either that damn ponytail went or he did. "Hank, Charles; if you will."
As the three men retired to Pietro's side, Lance took in the form of Kitty Pryde, devious bitch and soul-destroyer. She was not in her usual pink or baby blue; no, quite the opposite, she was shrouded in some shapeless grey wool cardigan that Lance could only assume was knitted from washing machine lint. Her face was bare and pale; the corners of her nostrils were ablaze with sickliness. Puffy-eyed, she was almost unrecognisable from the super-hyper megawatt girl he used to know.
'Here's a spoon, Shitty,' Lance thought. 'Enjoy your just desserts.' She deserved everything she got. Suppose she had torn he and Pietro apart. Would he ever have known of Pietro's illness? Fuck- suppose he was walking one day, out in the graveyard, quite unsuspecting, and from out of nowhere he'd see a stone bearing that dreaded name! Or he'd be going out early one morning to buy a pint of milk, and he'd suddenly catch sight of a newspaper emblazoned with Pietro's death. Pietro, the boy he used to love, would always love despite the heartbreak….
Life simply would not be worth living if she had got her way. Lance couldn't imagine living the rest of his life in bitter regret at having let Pietro slip away without him. The thought of Pietro dying alone petrified him more than the thought of his own death. Perhaps, if he could, he would offer up his life instead if it meant that Pietro could carry on. More realistically, he vowed to spend every second possible with Pietro so that if he should die, his arms were always open for a warm and comfortable passing.
Anything to numb the pain.
"Laa-aance?"
A tentative, pathetic bleating brought him back to earth, and he turned his wary eyes to Pryde. "Yes?"
"I, I, I, I…." She stared at her feet, turned inwards like a child about to wet herself. A long, rattling sniff preceded her reply. "I'm sorry for this, I guess."
Lance inhaled deeply. "Save it, Pryde. I've got nothing to say to you. But Pietro being sick… Well, it isn't your fault. So I guess you're excused." He turned his back.
"That's not what I meant," wavered Kitty, her voice rising in volume. The build-up of mucus made her voice thick and muffled, and an involuntary snort rose from her throat. "I tried to destroy you two because… Because I couldn't have you, and it tore me apart. My heart was breaking, Lance. It hurt so bad, I just- Please, excuse me. Try to understand what I-"
"I DON'T FUCKING BELIEVE IT!" Lance exclaimed, throwing up his hands in disbelief. "Suddenly it's all about you again! Your pain! Newsflash, Princess- Pietro might drop dead tomorrow! That's what being torn apart feels like. That's a fucking broken heart for you, and all." He sighed, and leaned in very close to her so that they were almost nose-to-nose. "Poor, poor thing. I genuinely mean it, Kitty, I feel so damn sorry for you. You just have no idea what love is, and you never will. I hope you look after yourself. Cherish that ego, because nobody else will."
x
"So, what do those scribbles mean?"
Pietro was sitting on the porch of his father's house, watching the sun begin to sink into a dull grey sky like a fat, orange cannonball. Erik was standing on the doorstep, one hand on the drainpipe as he sucked on a thin cigar with narrowed eyes.
"Hank said-" Erik paused to allow himself another long drag, suddenly becoming anxious. "The scan showed a very strange imbalance in your brain, Pietro."
Pietro tried to control the fearful tremour in his voice. "Strange how?"
Erik said nothing.
"What do you mean 'strange imbalance'?"
"There seems to be…" Erik closed his eyes for a second, careful to recollect what Hank had said right. "Pietro, there seems to be a powerful build-up of electricity in your brain- it's a rather abnormal chemical reaction that has been set off by your… Your… Condition. Now, it means that your body might start acting against itself. You will probably have seizures, it might…" He cleared his throat and stubbed out his cigar, suddenly facing Pietro with a piercing stare. "There's a chance that some nerves will be destroyed and parts of your brain will suffer resulting in what Hank ambiguously referred to as brain damage."
Stunned, Pietro stared down at his hands. They were shaking involuntarily- this had been the first symptom of his decline. Try as he might to deny it, it was gradually worsening, and always incontrollable when stressed. He spoke in a very quiet voice.
"Wow," he half-whispered, as Erik crouched down next to him and they stared out thoughtfully at the setting sun. The transition into darkness was shockingly quick. "B-brain damage, huh?"
"But," Erik said, raising his tone in volume and pitch so that it might raise some kind of hope- some artifice that father and son could cling onto in a desperately sad dusk. "Your other organs are still reasonably strong. The drugs you are on at the moment are sustaining your heart and lungs pretty well. Your reflexes are still razor-sharp, and your blood is quite healthy save for a slightly decreased white-cell count."
Pietro wrapped his arms around his knees and muttered into them, now strongly lethargic. "So I'll get sick pretty easy."
Erik sighed and reached out to pat his son's shoulder. Physical contact was still somewhat tentative, and therefore never seemed fully satisfactory. "We'll just be extra careful. Any kind of sickness is likely to push you to the limits, and nobody wants that."
"Mmhm." Pietro then yawned, and gave his father a sidelong glance. "So they didn't find out what was wrong with me today."
"No, Pietro, but give them time-"
"Yeah, but how much time have I got before I become a vegetable?"
Erik closed his eyes again- this time, a wince as he reeled from the stinging reality of his son's remark. "Pietro, please."
It began to grow cold.
"Ssssorry."
"Put on a coat on, mysza," Erik said in the firm, soft tone that only a father could manage. Parental concern, however, made him take off his own jacket and drape it around the shoulders of his shivering son. It was then that he realised Pietro was watching him through narrowed eyes, locked in some intense memory.
"Mysza," he whispered, mystified. "You haven't called me that for-"
"- years," Erik nodded, a faint smile on his lips. "I know. Not so much a mouse now, though."
Pietro leaned against his father's shoulder, vulnerability washing over him and erasing those last shreds of pride. "Well, I feel very small right now. And cold. And scared." Suddenly, he looked up at Erik with a remote light in his eyes, no longer afraid to plead for what he needed. "Would you- would you speak to me in Polish again? Tell me I'll be okay. Sing to me. Tell me stories. I just want to remember…. Mysza," he repeated again, voice trailing off in tiredness.
Erik clasped his son to him, and let the language he had suppressed for so many years flow freely once more; free into the early evening air.
