Title: When You Wake~ Chapter 2: Summer
Author: Naisumi
Rating: PG-13 (for this part)
Part: 2/4
Pairings: Lance/Pietro, Pietro/Lance
Disclaimer: You've _got_ to be kidding...^.~
Archive: If you want, but could you tell me at least?
Warnings: Um...angst. Like, MAJOR angst, slash...and I think that's all.
Notes: This fic is addicting to write! Anyways, I hope you're enjoying this as much as I am...also, except for Shindo and Morwen, who know what I have planned, this part is a bit misleading. I'm not going to elaborate. ^.~ Thanks to Michiko for being the best-est betareader!
Anyway, enjoy and pleeeeaaaase give me C&C!!!
"blah." People speak
blah. Mental speak
-- uh...scene switch
--
"You collapsed today."
Pietro fiddled absently with the sleeve of his button-down. It had been a week since he had decided that he was going to tell him. He hadn't.
"Yeah, I know."
Lance frowned darkly at him. The silver-haired boy could tell that he was on his last reserves of patience. His chest hurt.
"Lance...it's nothing, okay? I just got disoriented. You know how that is."
The older boy shook his head, standing abruptly and pacing angrily. His jaw was set, lips firm in a stern line, dark eyes flashing with barely suppressed anger.
"It's _not_ okay," He murmured, his voice low and deadly. Lance turned to him, twin orbs of blazing sienna half-pleading, half-demanding, "What the hell is going on?!"
Pietro heaved a soft sigh. He wanted to respond with some witty quip, but couldn't bring himself to do so. The reoccurring weariness that had been swathing his mind and body all the prior week was back; he felt so terribly exhausted, as if his very energy was seeping out of him, like water through a sieve.
"I'm tired," he said quietly, hoping to calm his friend. Lance whipped around to stare at him, his gaze almost panicky, yet also weary. Then, after what seemed to be ages, he closed his eyes, lifting one hand to rub his temple resignedly,
"Okay...we'll talk later."
The azure-eyed boy didn't reply, just stood from the worn old couch with an almost demure air and left. Lance was dumbfounded. Lately, there had been no snappy comebacks, no head-spinning conversations, no speed. Something was horribly wrong, and he needed to find out what...if only to reassure himself that there was nothing at hand.
--
The complete stillness of the night seemed to hold him, to reach out with invisible manacles, to clamp him down onto the bed like the restraining jaws of a great serpent. It was the deliverer from pain, yet also the entrance of nightmares. Nightmares of death, dreamscapes ravaged by the pawing claws of demons unknown, thoughts filled with nonsensical whispers, and gentle lullabies turned bloody with images of massacre.
He could still feel the heat, feel the insistent burn of the greedy flames. The warmth had been too much to bear; it had not been the nurturing fire that had cooked food to a perfection, nor the familiar crackling flames that warmed the body in the depths of winter. No, it had been a great destroyer, a reaper of souls, lives, bodies. It had been a massive scorching tide, surging against the helpless land. It had been a demonic being, cackling in the form of sparks, taunting in the shape of glowing flares, and killing in the onslaught of burning, flaming fire. Before, he remembered beaming happily at the calm, crackling blaze, relishing in the gentle warmth, so like the loving rays of the sun. Now, he cringed away, screamed hysterically in the back of his mind, feared that the flames would devour him like they did his family. His friends. His life.
The fire was there again, Pietro thought, huddled forlornly against his bed. But this time, it was no longer external. The fire, the _burning_, had stolen into his body and captured his soul. He was aflame, being burnt from the inside out. His life was smoldering, turning to ash in front of his very eyes--and yet nothing could be done to quench the everlasting thirst for life that the blazing mass had.
Pietro clutched at his chest, fingers digging deep into cool flesh and soft cloth. It hurt to breathe, for breathing brought pain...Pinpricks of white-hot flame that spread through his body, much like the numbness that seemed ever-present in his mind. He stilled himself, on hands and knees, and breathed shallowly for what seemed to be minutes, hours, days into infinity. The pain subsided to a dull ache, and his movement was no longer as hindered. Pietro smiled wanly and cautiously crawled over to his nightstand, withdrawing a needle and bottle of pale liquid. He stared at it for a moment, wishing he didn't need it--and likewise, wishing that he didn't want it. It occurred to him that he could just throw it away, destroy the evidence, and be rid of the problem...but instead, he inserted the needle neatly into one vein, and injected the liquid into himself. It burned.
Before the whole incident, Pietro thought there had been only two kinds of burning. The warming blaze that kept one warm on cold, lonely nights. And the scorching fire that killed, maimed, and decimated. Now, he was aware of a third type; a cleansing fire. An enveloping burning that coursed through his body and stalled the pain, tamed the aching. His breath came a little easier, and he lay down, the liquid fire surging through his veins.
With the image of crackling flames in mind, he closed his eyes. That night, Pietro slept and dreamt of the sun. He saw himself in his mind's eye as a firefly, no longer lit as gloriously as the others. Instead, he was burnt out, his soul threatening to crumble under the pressure of living, of pretending. He borrowed the sun's flame, touched it to himself, and felt the thrashing hurt of setting oneself on fire. His life was almost extinguished, and even then, he spiraled closer and closer to the sun, hoping to rekindle the internal flame, not the internal fire.
Later, Pietro woke, and looked to the wall. The pendulum swung, slow and steady. The bold-faced clock read 3:55, and it was morning. The silver-haired boy lay himself down once more, covering his eyes with his arm, whether to protect any peering eyes from seeing, or to desperately shield himself from the inescapable reality.
That morning, and the many nights before and after, he cried himself back to sleep. And in sleep, the many screams of the long-past dead echoed in his ears, and the yearned-for serenity of the beckoning grave called to him with a siren's voice.
--
"Pietro, you're up pretty early, yo."
Todd moved lethargically about the kitchen, headphones around his neck, the rhythmic rock beat sounding faint in the quiet of the morning.
"You plannin' on skippin' again?"
Pietro shook his head, crossing his legs at the ankles and hooking them on crossbar of the chair's legs. He rested his clasped hands on the dining table and stared out the window, feeling calmed by the ethereal sunlight playing upon the world. The earth had a golden cast about it, almost as if it had been reborn overnight into a new age, one without the sorrows and troubles witnessed by the aged world of today. Pietro glanced up, meeting Todd's gaze, and could see the youth was concerned even though he tried not to look it.
"Nah, I'm not gonna skip." He smiled dryly, "English class is _so_ much more interesting, y'know?"
He earned a grin in response, "I know what you mean, yo. Our class is such a drag...Man, who cares about some screwed up book about the future?"
Pietro blinked and glanced over at him,
"The future? What are you guys reading?"
"Fahrenheit 451," Todd snatched a strawberry pop tart from the toaster,
"You ever have to read it? It's _so_ boring!"
The azure-eyed boy shrugged,
"I never paid that much attention in English. What's it about?"
Todd quirked an eyebrow and drawled,
"Burning. As much as I appreciate the subject, it's still as boring as hell, yo."
Then, he hopped away, evidently growing tired of the subject. Pietro couldn't move. Burning, he thought, It's about burning.
The memories surged a little at the word, as if it had some spell that summoned them. The ashen-haired teen shook his head, as if to clear it, and just stared down at his hands, not really startled when he saw they were bone-white and trembling.
Before he could completely destroy his somewhat stable mentality of the moment with reminiscing, he heard quick footsteps.
"Pietro?"
Pietro turned, and looked dumbly at Lance, still not quite recovering from the shock his own mind gave itself. The older boy stared at him, as if not sure what to make of his expression, then gave himself a mental shake. Lance jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and inquired concernedly,
"You riding with us today? Or are you gonna run?"
The moment hung suspended in the golden sunlight. After what seemed to be centuries, Pietro stood up slowly, as if frightened that the chair would skid on the tile floor; as if he was afraid his spine would break from too much pressure.
Later, he would go to the library, and would read the book slowly. Later, he would cry about the fire; cry for the man that had lost his life to it; cry for himself. (1)
But now, he murmured quietly,
"I'll go with you."
--
Lance was shocked. The documents he held in his quivering hands explained everything--the collapses, the paleness, the loss of appetite, among other things, and the slowness. The warning signs. He dropped the papers, ignoring them as they scattered across the counter, and cradled his head in the palms of both hands. It seemed surreal, as if written down in word, it was just a story; some fictional tale that an author skillfully weaved to fool someone with its professionalism. It was no joke.
The stamp at the top right corner was cherry red, deceivingly bright and cheery. It read 'Bayville Central Hospital.' The last word struck him with quiet forcefulness, as if someone had fired a silencer into the side of his head and was watching, fascinated, as the crimson blood dribbled in rivulets down his skin.
'Hospital.'
In all his life, the word 'hospital' was never about getting better. Everyone who went there never came out. Hospitals weren't about getting better--they were about attempting to help and failing. It made no sense that Pietro had these documents. It made no sense that they were mailed to him as first-class priority. It made no sense that it listed all the 'problems' that he had. It made no sense.
"Lance?"
Lance looked up, startled wide dark eyes meeting calm filmy blue ones.
"Lance...I'm sorry."
tbc
(1) Fahrenheit 451 is a science fiction book by Ray Bradbury about a futuristic society where no books are allowed; they must be burned. That's not the significance to Pietro, though. The book's underlying theme is rebirth by fire, and hope in the future. Pietro feels hopeless without a future, and hates the fire yet needs it and wants it. More on this later...^.~ After you read all four parts, you can e-mail me if you want to clear up anything. I have a lot of hidden meanings and stuff.
Author: Naisumi
Rating: PG-13 (for this part)
Part: 2/4
Pairings: Lance/Pietro, Pietro/Lance
Disclaimer: You've _got_ to be kidding...^.~
Archive: If you want, but could you tell me at least?
Warnings: Um...angst. Like, MAJOR angst, slash...and I think that's all.
Notes: This fic is addicting to write! Anyways, I hope you're enjoying this as much as I am...also, except for Shindo and Morwen, who know what I have planned, this part is a bit misleading. I'm not going to elaborate. ^.~ Thanks to Michiko for being the best-est betareader!
Anyway, enjoy and pleeeeaaaase give me C&C!!!
"blah." People speak
blah. Mental speak
-- uh...scene switch
--
"You collapsed today."
Pietro fiddled absently with the sleeve of his button-down. It had been a week since he had decided that he was going to tell him. He hadn't.
"Yeah, I know."
Lance frowned darkly at him. The silver-haired boy could tell that he was on his last reserves of patience. His chest hurt.
"Lance...it's nothing, okay? I just got disoriented. You know how that is."
The older boy shook his head, standing abruptly and pacing angrily. His jaw was set, lips firm in a stern line, dark eyes flashing with barely suppressed anger.
"It's _not_ okay," He murmured, his voice low and deadly. Lance turned to him, twin orbs of blazing sienna half-pleading, half-demanding, "What the hell is going on?!"
Pietro heaved a soft sigh. He wanted to respond with some witty quip, but couldn't bring himself to do so. The reoccurring weariness that had been swathing his mind and body all the prior week was back; he felt so terribly exhausted, as if his very energy was seeping out of him, like water through a sieve.
"I'm tired," he said quietly, hoping to calm his friend. Lance whipped around to stare at him, his gaze almost panicky, yet also weary. Then, after what seemed to be ages, he closed his eyes, lifting one hand to rub his temple resignedly,
"Okay...we'll talk later."
The azure-eyed boy didn't reply, just stood from the worn old couch with an almost demure air and left. Lance was dumbfounded. Lately, there had been no snappy comebacks, no head-spinning conversations, no speed. Something was horribly wrong, and he needed to find out what...if only to reassure himself that there was nothing at hand.
--
The complete stillness of the night seemed to hold him, to reach out with invisible manacles, to clamp him down onto the bed like the restraining jaws of a great serpent. It was the deliverer from pain, yet also the entrance of nightmares. Nightmares of death, dreamscapes ravaged by the pawing claws of demons unknown, thoughts filled with nonsensical whispers, and gentle lullabies turned bloody with images of massacre.
He could still feel the heat, feel the insistent burn of the greedy flames. The warmth had been too much to bear; it had not been the nurturing fire that had cooked food to a perfection, nor the familiar crackling flames that warmed the body in the depths of winter. No, it had been a great destroyer, a reaper of souls, lives, bodies. It had been a massive scorching tide, surging against the helpless land. It had been a demonic being, cackling in the form of sparks, taunting in the shape of glowing flares, and killing in the onslaught of burning, flaming fire. Before, he remembered beaming happily at the calm, crackling blaze, relishing in the gentle warmth, so like the loving rays of the sun. Now, he cringed away, screamed hysterically in the back of his mind, feared that the flames would devour him like they did his family. His friends. His life.
The fire was there again, Pietro thought, huddled forlornly against his bed. But this time, it was no longer external. The fire, the _burning_, had stolen into his body and captured his soul. He was aflame, being burnt from the inside out. His life was smoldering, turning to ash in front of his very eyes--and yet nothing could be done to quench the everlasting thirst for life that the blazing mass had.
Pietro clutched at his chest, fingers digging deep into cool flesh and soft cloth. It hurt to breathe, for breathing brought pain...Pinpricks of white-hot flame that spread through his body, much like the numbness that seemed ever-present in his mind. He stilled himself, on hands and knees, and breathed shallowly for what seemed to be minutes, hours, days into infinity. The pain subsided to a dull ache, and his movement was no longer as hindered. Pietro smiled wanly and cautiously crawled over to his nightstand, withdrawing a needle and bottle of pale liquid. He stared at it for a moment, wishing he didn't need it--and likewise, wishing that he didn't want it. It occurred to him that he could just throw it away, destroy the evidence, and be rid of the problem...but instead, he inserted the needle neatly into one vein, and injected the liquid into himself. It burned.
Before the whole incident, Pietro thought there had been only two kinds of burning. The warming blaze that kept one warm on cold, lonely nights. And the scorching fire that killed, maimed, and decimated. Now, he was aware of a third type; a cleansing fire. An enveloping burning that coursed through his body and stalled the pain, tamed the aching. His breath came a little easier, and he lay down, the liquid fire surging through his veins.
With the image of crackling flames in mind, he closed his eyes. That night, Pietro slept and dreamt of the sun. He saw himself in his mind's eye as a firefly, no longer lit as gloriously as the others. Instead, he was burnt out, his soul threatening to crumble under the pressure of living, of pretending. He borrowed the sun's flame, touched it to himself, and felt the thrashing hurt of setting oneself on fire. His life was almost extinguished, and even then, he spiraled closer and closer to the sun, hoping to rekindle the internal flame, not the internal fire.
Later, Pietro woke, and looked to the wall. The pendulum swung, slow and steady. The bold-faced clock read 3:55, and it was morning. The silver-haired boy lay himself down once more, covering his eyes with his arm, whether to protect any peering eyes from seeing, or to desperately shield himself from the inescapable reality.
That morning, and the many nights before and after, he cried himself back to sleep. And in sleep, the many screams of the long-past dead echoed in his ears, and the yearned-for serenity of the beckoning grave called to him with a siren's voice.
--
"Pietro, you're up pretty early, yo."
Todd moved lethargically about the kitchen, headphones around his neck, the rhythmic rock beat sounding faint in the quiet of the morning.
"You plannin' on skippin' again?"
Pietro shook his head, crossing his legs at the ankles and hooking them on crossbar of the chair's legs. He rested his clasped hands on the dining table and stared out the window, feeling calmed by the ethereal sunlight playing upon the world. The earth had a golden cast about it, almost as if it had been reborn overnight into a new age, one without the sorrows and troubles witnessed by the aged world of today. Pietro glanced up, meeting Todd's gaze, and could see the youth was concerned even though he tried not to look it.
"Nah, I'm not gonna skip." He smiled dryly, "English class is _so_ much more interesting, y'know?"
He earned a grin in response, "I know what you mean, yo. Our class is such a drag...Man, who cares about some screwed up book about the future?"
Pietro blinked and glanced over at him,
"The future? What are you guys reading?"
"Fahrenheit 451," Todd snatched a strawberry pop tart from the toaster,
"You ever have to read it? It's _so_ boring!"
The azure-eyed boy shrugged,
"I never paid that much attention in English. What's it about?"
Todd quirked an eyebrow and drawled,
"Burning. As much as I appreciate the subject, it's still as boring as hell, yo."
Then, he hopped away, evidently growing tired of the subject. Pietro couldn't move. Burning, he thought, It's about burning.
The memories surged a little at the word, as if it had some spell that summoned them. The ashen-haired teen shook his head, as if to clear it, and just stared down at his hands, not really startled when he saw they were bone-white and trembling.
Before he could completely destroy his somewhat stable mentality of the moment with reminiscing, he heard quick footsteps.
"Pietro?"
Pietro turned, and looked dumbly at Lance, still not quite recovering from the shock his own mind gave itself. The older boy stared at him, as if not sure what to make of his expression, then gave himself a mental shake. Lance jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and inquired concernedly,
"You riding with us today? Or are you gonna run?"
The moment hung suspended in the golden sunlight. After what seemed to be centuries, Pietro stood up slowly, as if frightened that the chair would skid on the tile floor; as if he was afraid his spine would break from too much pressure.
Later, he would go to the library, and would read the book slowly. Later, he would cry about the fire; cry for the man that had lost his life to it; cry for himself. (1)
But now, he murmured quietly,
"I'll go with you."
--
Lance was shocked. The documents he held in his quivering hands explained everything--the collapses, the paleness, the loss of appetite, among other things, and the slowness. The warning signs. He dropped the papers, ignoring them as they scattered across the counter, and cradled his head in the palms of both hands. It seemed surreal, as if written down in word, it was just a story; some fictional tale that an author skillfully weaved to fool someone with its professionalism. It was no joke.
The stamp at the top right corner was cherry red, deceivingly bright and cheery. It read 'Bayville Central Hospital.' The last word struck him with quiet forcefulness, as if someone had fired a silencer into the side of his head and was watching, fascinated, as the crimson blood dribbled in rivulets down his skin.
'Hospital.'
In all his life, the word 'hospital' was never about getting better. Everyone who went there never came out. Hospitals weren't about getting better--they were about attempting to help and failing. It made no sense that Pietro had these documents. It made no sense that they were mailed to him as first-class priority. It made no sense that it listed all the 'problems' that he had. It made no sense.
"Lance?"
Lance looked up, startled wide dark eyes meeting calm filmy blue ones.
"Lance...I'm sorry."
tbc
(1) Fahrenheit 451 is a science fiction book by Ray Bradbury about a futuristic society where no books are allowed; they must be burned. That's not the significance to Pietro, though. The book's underlying theme is rebirth by fire, and hope in the future. Pietro feels hopeless without a future, and hates the fire yet needs it and wants it. More on this later...^.~ After you read all four parts, you can e-mail me if you want to clear up anything. I have a lot of hidden meanings and stuff.