Scott remembers listening to other children play, years of listening. Then
getting up and groping away from their screams of delight, the tennis
games, the basketballs on tar. He was always listening and even after the
glasses, even after he learned to see in other shades than red (although he
can still find that pigment in everything, even black, even blue); his ears
were always his first sense. Over compensation. God or nature's apology for
fucking up his eyes.
Even now, he's stretched out across his bed, listening, with his head resting on the windowsill and his eyes closed. Listening to Bobby Drake tease Jubilee and listening to Marcus change the channels in the TV room by blinking. It's all through the vents. And none of it makes up for the hole in his head.
It feels like nerves don't connect any more, like parts of his skull is missing and he feels exposed. Exposed. Funny. But that's how it feels, like he's naked and the Professor and the Students and everyone can see him for what he truly is.
Not enough.
His nose has been compensating too, recently. Maybe to make up for the fact his hands can't seem to hold tight to anything. All he seems to smell is Jean's perfume, and in his mind he can almost see it, tying him to everything, and everything tying him to memories. Cherries in her mouth, her mouth laughing, her laughing when he tickled, as they lay naked after sex, the touch of her skin against him.
Scott can identify with John. Maybe more than he should. But then again, no one else had to look through his notebooks. Then again, no one else snuck into his and Bobby's room and did. John would be proud. Angry, bitter, smirking, but proud. That he was the one who corrupted Professor Summers.
Professor Summers was always corrupt, he wants to say. It was Jean who wasn't. It was Jean who truly loved him, Jean who never strayed. Jean with everyone's best at heart. It is Jean's memories he has inside of him pushing his skull in new directions, Jean's memories that he must make sense of. Jean's memories of him, his bloated self, the person she saw in so many different colors that is nothing like the man he knows.
He knows a man who cannot stop looking at Logan, with a mixture of anger and longing. He knows a man who finds John's anger at his surroundings, at his rich room mate, refreshing, honest and he can breathe when he thinks he is not alone in hating who he has found himself to be, that for someone, something whose existence depends upon fitting in, he's shit at adapting or making friends. Because he is still only in one color. He is still only bitter red, he is still only angry red, he is still the one who broke the TV because he couldn't see what made his sisters laugh, he is the one who didn't find himself in Logan's bed but walked himself there and climbed in, pushing off the sheets because he thought he could imagine him Jean. Because he wanted to touch someone who loved her, who had wanted her.
He cannot be the man Jean knows. Knew. He cannot be the man Logan wants. He cannot be anything but blind in one color, groping his way through memories and sounds, looking for a sense of himself.
Even now, he's stretched out across his bed, listening, with his head resting on the windowsill and his eyes closed. Listening to Bobby Drake tease Jubilee and listening to Marcus change the channels in the TV room by blinking. It's all through the vents. And none of it makes up for the hole in his head.
It feels like nerves don't connect any more, like parts of his skull is missing and he feels exposed. Exposed. Funny. But that's how it feels, like he's naked and the Professor and the Students and everyone can see him for what he truly is.
Not enough.
His nose has been compensating too, recently. Maybe to make up for the fact his hands can't seem to hold tight to anything. All he seems to smell is Jean's perfume, and in his mind he can almost see it, tying him to everything, and everything tying him to memories. Cherries in her mouth, her mouth laughing, her laughing when he tickled, as they lay naked after sex, the touch of her skin against him.
Scott can identify with John. Maybe more than he should. But then again, no one else had to look through his notebooks. Then again, no one else snuck into his and Bobby's room and did. John would be proud. Angry, bitter, smirking, but proud. That he was the one who corrupted Professor Summers.
Professor Summers was always corrupt, he wants to say. It was Jean who wasn't. It was Jean who truly loved him, Jean who never strayed. Jean with everyone's best at heart. It is Jean's memories he has inside of him pushing his skull in new directions, Jean's memories that he must make sense of. Jean's memories of him, his bloated self, the person she saw in so many different colors that is nothing like the man he knows.
He knows a man who cannot stop looking at Logan, with a mixture of anger and longing. He knows a man who finds John's anger at his surroundings, at his rich room mate, refreshing, honest and he can breathe when he thinks he is not alone in hating who he has found himself to be, that for someone, something whose existence depends upon fitting in, he's shit at adapting or making friends. Because he is still only in one color. He is still only bitter red, he is still only angry red, he is still the one who broke the TV because he couldn't see what made his sisters laugh, he is the one who didn't find himself in Logan's bed but walked himself there and climbed in, pushing off the sheets because he thought he could imagine him Jean. Because he wanted to touch someone who loved her, who had wanted her.
He cannot be the man Jean knows. Knew. He cannot be the man Logan wants. He cannot be anything but blind in one color, groping his way through memories and sounds, looking for a sense of himself.