Jean-Paul was screaming. Euphoria was rushing through his veins, a hot, slow magma of euphoria. He could feel each and every nerve and cell in his body jumping and dancing and celebrating. He ran his fingers over his arms, goosebumps sprouting in the paths he took. His heart was thudding and his mind was swimming. He wanted to kiss someone, not because he wanted to make out, but because he was sure the sensitive nerves on his lips would feel even better than the ones exploding on his arms. He brought a hand to his lips and practically groaned. Even under his own fingertips, it was a delicious feeling.
He put his hands in his hair and moaned, letting his head fall back. Suddenly, there was someone kissing his revealed neck. Large hands were on his hips and his skin was burning underneath them. He arched into the feel of Piotr biting his skin, leaving dark marks in his wake. Piotr stopped and kissed him, holding him tight to his body. Jean-Paul's mouth erupted into a series of fireworks. Cells and nerves tingling and popping and exploding in pleasure and need. The kiss was hungry, their touches frantic.
When the parted, Piotr held a syringe out to him and Jean-Paul took it with eager hands. He never wanted this feeling to diminish. He never wanted to stop feeling strong and powerful and undefeatable. He could run at speeds faster than he ever thought possible. He could fly into space, amongst the stars, and breathe. He pushed the syringe in and the plunger down, slowly, carefully. He wanted this to last. He wanted to feel it. The Banshee was amazing, no matter what anyone told him. He had never felt so powerful and important. Jean-Paul moaned in satisfaction as he pulled the needle from his skin. He could feel his body on fire, burning, melting away into nothingness. A nothingness made of pure bliss and freedom of troubles.
Jean-Paul woke up to someone shaking him and yelling his name. Kurt was standing over him in the darkness, the only sign it was him were the yellow eyes lighting up in the dark. "Jean-Paul," he said again, kneeling by him. Jean-Paul looked around the room and noticed it wasn't as dark as he originally thought. He was in the living room where they had all been watching movies. The television was on, playing reruns of some old black and white show. The sound was off. "You were screaming. I thought it vwould be best to vwake you. Es tut mir leid, but maybe you should go see Piotr now. He's been asking for you."
Jean-Paul took a deep breath; his skin was sticky with a cold sweat and he was pushed himself up into a sitting position, wincing at a pain in his side. It felt like he had been running for hours but he knew that wasn't possible. Not with his useless legs. "Piotr is still awake? What time is it?"
Kurt hummed, teleporting over to a curtain and drawing it. "Somevhere around two in the afternoon, der unruhestifer. Your wheelchair is beside the couch. Do you need help getting into it?"
"No, I can do it myself. Thank you, though, Kurt." Kurt left the room, wringing his strange hands together and mumbling something in German under his breath. Jean-Paul had a feeling that Kurt wasn't too fond of him at the current moment, especially because Piotr was in the infirmary and… alive. A huge weight was lifted off of Jean-Paul's chest. He hadn't gotten Piotr killed. Piotr was going to be okay. He finagled himself into his wheelchair, running his hands through his knotted hair and began down the hallway to the infirmary.
The room was all stainless steel and silver lights, the sounds of machines whirring and fluids dripping almost made Jean-Paul feel sick. Piotr was sitting propped up on a bed, hooked up to a heart monitor. He was talking quietly to Jean, a serious look on his face. Jean looked over when Jean-Paul entered and smiled weakly at him. "It's good to see you awake, Northstar. We were all worried about you." Her smile was false but Jean-Paul returned it, especially since Piotr had turned his head and was smiling like he was seeing heaven. "I'll give you two some privacy." She left the room, shooting a thought to Jean-Paul.
You and I are going to have a talk about this later.
Jean-Paul grimaced slightly but wheeled over to Piotr, the smile on his face dropping because he couldn't even look Piotr in the eyes. "I… I'm so sorry. I'm glad you're okay," he breathed, heart thudding heavily in his chest. He thought he'd be okay knowing that Piotr wasn't dead, but guilt was eating away at his stomach, leaving him shaky and paranoid.
"You don't need to apologise, lyubimaya. This wasn't your fault. Besides, I came out fine. My heart is a little weak, but it is pumping and I can shift back and forth now. Nothing bad happened. Only good." He reached for Jean-Paul's hand but Jean-Paul couldn't stand to touch Piotr knowing he almost had him killed. It became hard for him to breath and he started to tear up.
"But it was. It was my fault," he looked up to Piotr before glancing away in shame. His cheeks were red and hot with tears. "I… I'm sorry. I don't know how to tell you. But it was my fault. I can't ever make it up. Even though you didn't die. I caused it." Piotr grabbed Jean-Paul's hand before he could pull away again and squeezed.
"If you want to tell me, okay. If not, okay. I'll live with either one, but, Jean-Paul, I don't want you to carry this shame and blame with you for the rest of your life. I'm okay, I'm alive. Nothing bad happened and there's nothing we can do to change what has happened. Only what will. I'm not mad at you for whatever you think it is you've done. Ya lyublyu tebya, please don't forget that. I love you." Piotr's deep ocean eyes stared into Jean-Paul's own with a sincerity and ferocity that sent shivers down Jean-Paul's spine.
"Okay," Jean-Paul whispered, voice hoarse and shaky. "I love you, too."
Piotr smiled, eyes softening. "Can I hear it in your mother language? I don't get to hear you speak it often."
Jean-Paul let out a weak laugh, shaking his head. "No, no." It felt good to have an honest laugh. He sighed, smiling. "Fine. Je t'aime, mon p'tit cul."
"What was that last part?"
Jean-Paul averted his eyes, smiling. "Just a term of endearment, don't worry. It doesn't even translate to anything properly. Most likely somewhere along the lines of beloved or whatnot." Piotr lifted his hand and pressed a kiss to it, smiling.
"Sure," he breathed, smiling.
A few hours had passed and Jean-Paul had spent most of the day sitting in the infirmary with Piotr, occasionally falling silent to lay his head on Piotr's chest and just listen to the weak but steady beating of his heart. It was nice to hear a normal heart-beat, the soft lub dubs echoed in Jean-Paul's mind, steadying his own heart and mind. During one of these moments, Piotr had drifted off into sleep, leaving Jean-Paul there with his own thoughts.
Jean entered the room, her green eyes set ablaze with fury. "Northstar," she hissed, causing Jean-Paul to wince at the anger. "I want you to start from the very beginning and tell me what happened. If you don't I will enter your mind and get the information myself."
Jean-Paul scowled at her and looked over at Piotr, whose face was content and undisturbed. "Fine, but let's go somewhere else. I don't want anyone overhearing, which seems to be a continuing theme at this school."
Jean led Jean-Paul down the hallway, to her room. She sat down on her bed before taking a moment to breathe. "Would you rather tell me, or have me look."
Jean-Paul glared at her but found a lump in his throat and realised she hadn't been prying, simply asking. He sighed deeply and opened his mind to her. "Just… find what you're looking for and then leave me alone. I know what I've done wasn't right, but there's no way of changing it and… And I'd do it again. So, go ahead and look Jean. I'm not hiding anything."
Jean-Paul had just expected to feel the tickle of Jean browsing around in his mind, just like how it felt whenever she would start to enter it. Oh, how he was wrong. He was sucked into his own mind with her, reliving the moments she dug through in a sepia tone. She started way back to the moment she revived Jean-Paul, his bloody face and wide eyes.
"We've been through this before, Jean," he hissed at her. She stood out against his memories, all bright colours. She hushed him, watching with attentive eyes. Jean-Paul turned back to the memory, shuddering as his memory self sputtered and shook, lungs aching as they breathed again.
"J-Jean?"
"Shh, you're okay," breathed the memory Jean, a soft smile on her face. "You're alive. We have to go find Piotr," she said as her smile dropped. "He can't know you actually died, not yet. He's not right in his mind. Only you can get him to calm down."
Jean moved them forward through his memories, past his confrontation with Piotr. "You're a hero, don't forget that." Past that day, where he waited on the other side of the infirmary door while Jean welded Piotr's heart back in.
Finally, they made their way to the other day. The day Quicksilver had approached Jean-Paul. Jean gasped and visibly flinched when the thought of Jean-Paul throwing himself down the stairs approached. HerH green eyes went to him and he scowled. "Don't act so surprised Jean. As if you weren't suspicious."
"I didn't know you were feeling that badly." As the bridge approached, Jean-Paul felt his gut sink and the memory's colour got darker and the sepia tone turned black and white, red creeping along the edges. Jean looked at him with concern and her own eyes darkened as the thought of drowning crossed the memory. "How often were you having these thoughts?"
"Often enough."
That's when it happened. The conversation with Quicksilver. Jean watched intensely. Her expression changed from confusion, to anger, to horror and finally, to disgust. She turned to face Jean-Paul, her mouth open as if to say something. But then the memory was exploding in colour as Quicksilver was running with Jean-Paul. Again, as if he was really feeling the wind against his face. Jean gasped, bringing a hand to her face. All too soon, the memory was over and the colours of the run were fading away and he brought a hand up to his face to wipe away tears he hadn't even known were falling. "I didn't know it felt like that," Jean breathed, wiping away her own tears.
There was a moment of silence but then Quicksilver was talking into his ear. "So, what do you say, Jean-Paul? Do you want your legs back?"
Memory Jean-Paul swallowed. "There's a catch. There's always a catch."
"We give you your legs back. But you're right. A catch. When we come for you, you leave with us. Doesn't matter when, doesn't matter where. Doesn't. Matter. Why. Capiche?"
Memory Jean-Paul looked out at the water. "Could… could you do something else for me? And I'll think it over."
"Of course, Jean-Paul. What do you need?"
"Heal Piotr as well. Heal him and me, and I'll do it. I'll go with you whenever."
Suddenly, fast enough to make Jean-Paul feel sick, Jean was pulling them out of his memories.
"You!" Her voice caught and she was standing, point her finger at Jean-Paul. "You bastard! You almost have Piotr killed just so you could walk again! I never thought you to be so goddamn selfish, Jean-Paul! I'm mortified! How could you?" Her voice was shrill in Jean-Paul's ears, making his head ache.
"Stop!" He cried out, hands going to his ears. There was a different kind of pain in his head. One he had only felt a few times. She was still screaming at him, lashing insult after insult at him. "Stop!" He screamed back, head spinning and hurting. It felt like he was about to explode. "Please! Putain, tu vas m'exploser la tête!" He realised, past all the pain he was feeling, that Jean was inadvertently sending psychic attacks to his mind. Her bedroom door slammed open and a bunch of people rushed into the room. Their voices mixed together, swimming around in Jean-Paul's head and bouncing off his skull.
He felt soft hands on him and the smell of sulphur and brimstone filled the room and there was a loud popping sound. Suddenly, all the pressure on his skull was relieved and he was back in the room where he had woken up. His ears were ringing and he tasted blood in the back of his scratched up throat. His eyes focused on the person in front of him as he blinked away tears and Kurt was hovering over him, worry in his expression.