{Author's Note: So . . . it's been a while . . . Also, warning for discussion of suicide in this chapter.}


Chapter 13

The door closed behind the nurse, and it was only inhuman effort that kept Erik from forcing it back open. This place and the people within it were sure giving him an exercise in self-control, which was something that he had never quite managed.

If they only knew whose patience they were testing, perhaps Erik would be given an excuse to lose control.

But for now, he would continue to harbor his discontent in silence.

Without much thought to it, Erik began to pace back and forth in front of the closed door, across the expanse of the purposeless window with its closed blinds, not only to keep his mind intact, but also his—and everyone else's—surroundings.

"Well I haven't missed that." Said Magda, crossing her arms as her eyes tracked Erik's movement across the floor, possibly close to wearing through the tile. Releasing an exasperated huff, she uncrossed her arms and moved in front of Erik's path. "Okay. This. Is. Stopping. And we're getting coffee. I know you clearly have some superhuman energy, but I do not; and I'm also still capable of recognizing the signs of when you're running on fumes."

"We should be in there with him. She could be asking any number of intrusive questions." Erik said as he was forced to come to a stop for a moment to look at his former wife.

"Yes, well, it's a hospital, they tend to do that." She replied, stepping in front of him again as he turned around to pace once more.

"Stop that." Erik said annoyed as Magda mirrored his steps once more, the smile of a vixen forming on her face, which combined with her current antics was certainly a fresh reminder of why his son could so easily look like the cat that got the cream and perhaps also why he had such fast feet.

Dropping her smirk, mouth turning into a serious line, Magda replied, "If you keep circling him like a hawk, it's inevitable that he's going to run away like a rabbit, and don't come crying to me when does."

Erik crossed his arms again, not appreciative of the analogy, but not doing much to negate it as he started his pacing again. "I'm not leaving him alone here. Anyone could come by."

Magda gave him a look for a moment, the kind she used to give him if he came home from work late or accidentally woke Anya from her nap, and then she took a breath and replied, "That is not practical. But fine. Alright. Stay here then."

"Where—" Erik began to ask, but she waved her hand in dismissal, already heading away.

Erik waited, expecting the nurse to emerge long before Magda returned. No doubt, he figured, she had gone to get herself coffee without the burden of his company, but then, less than five minutes later, she was back with a familiar figure in tow.

"There." Said Magda, physically planting Hank in front of him.

"Erik." Hank said cordially, if not with some exhaustion, but he still eyed the other man with a slight hint of reproach that never quite disappeared.

"You've got your sentry." Said Magda, looping her arm through Erik's, like it hadn't been nearly three decades since they'd been so close. "Now. We're going to the café. Hank, thank you for your service."

Hank opened his mouth to respond, but Erik spoke over him before he could.

"How do you know, Hank?" Erik asked, ignoring the other mutant in favor of addressing Magda.

"I already said that I spoke with Pietro's little blue friend about his leg; he pointed Hank out to me. And when three men take my baby on a prison break, I don't forget their faces." Said Magda eyes narrowed, and Hank had the wherewithal to look thoroughly chastised. "I also saw him out in the waiting room earlier. I figured he'd still be there now if the reason he was here was because of Pietro."

"And you just assumed he was safe to approach?" Erik demanded.

"You're going to tell me how to live my life. Really? Is that what's happening here? And no. I did not assume. Like I said, Pietro's friend, Kurt, introduced me. Remind me, if I ever get a chance to meet that boy's mother, I'd really like to compare parenting notes." Magda replied with a glare that would have some fearful of whether they were about to be on the opposite of laser vision.

"Honestly, Erik. Just go get some coffee." Hank started. "You look like sh. . ."

At Erik's glare, Hank trailed off.

"Do you know?" Erik asked Hank, heart beating rapidly.

The question hung in the air, heavy like the lingering smoke of a wildfire.

"That Peter's your son?" Hank asked, lifting an eyebrow at him.

Erik glanced around instinctively at Hank's response to make sure that no one else was listening to something so dangerous, but passersby weren't paying them any mind, all set in their own tasks.

He knew it was almost unavoidable that Hank would know. If Magda hadn't told him directly, the man would have undoubtedly figured it out from context clues. He and Magda may have been at each other's throats a moment ago, but even Erik could admit that after so many years apart, there was a familiarity to them that had to be obvious to anyone who took a moment to observe their interactions. But what was likely the most damning evidence of their relation was how Erik reacted to Pietro, even before his near-death injury. Although his son had been avoiding him as of late, up until recently, Erik had been spending more time with him than anyone.

"Yes." Erik replied stiffly through gritted teeth.

"Well, now I know for sure." Said Hank, and he had the audacity to give Erik a small smile while the other man grimaced again. "Relax, I thought perhaps that you had just taken an interest in him and his potential, but you don't react like that to a recruit. You haven't reacted like that since Cuba. I won't tell anyone, Erik. I know you have your reasons for keeping it quiet. Pretty obvious reasons to be perfectly candid . . . But I've never been particularly adept at keeping Charles out of my mind, and I'm not sure how Kurt fares in that regard either, so . . . Charles or someone will inevitably find out soon enough."

Despite Magda mention him several times over, Erik hadn't even thought about Kurt hearing his plea for someone to help his son, and that that meant not one, but two more people, now knew one of his most closely guarded secrets.

Erik cleared his throat, shoring the fortress of his mind before any other feelings could take hold, "I don't like this." Said Erik looking from Hank to Magda to the door that led to his son, not even sure himself exactly which particular circumstance he was commenting on in that moment.

"Look," said Magda, pulling away from Erik to place her hands on her hips. "I'm not happy about not being in there with him either, and I'm not sure I fully trust him—no offense, Hank—but as much as you're loathed to admit it, I can tell you do. And Pietro will be fine without us for a little while. Smothering him will only lead him to push us further away. Trust me, I lived through his teenage years, I know what I'm talking about."

Erik clenched his fist and gave the door one last lingering look before turning away.

"Do not go anywhere until we get back." Erik commanded, moving back to address Hank.

"Wouldn't dream of it." said Hank, settling in next to Pietro's room, looking entirely unthreatening to the untrained eye in his slightly crooked glasses and tucked in button down.


Erik let Magda pull him to what passed as a café in the hospital. The staff or someone had obviously tried to make the place look cheerful, scattering fake plants on various tables and window ledges, but to Erik, it only served as a poor attempt to cover up the lingering ambiance of despair.

Magda sat him down at a chair in front of a small square table that could do with a wipe down (or several). A few tables over, an elderly man sat alone, staring at a plate of food he had yet to touch.

Then she went in search of a life fueling drink.

She came back with coffee. It was disgusting and burned the roof of his mouth, but acceptable, and Erik couldn't stop himself from drinking it.

"Hmmph." Magda said a corner of her lip turning up in a half formed smile as she tapped the side of her own coffee cup with one finger.

"What?" Erik asked, taking another sip of the coffee if only to give himself something to do with his hands.

"I'd forgotten." Magda said quietly, smile dropping off her face to be replaced by a much more morose expression.

"Forgotten what?" Erik asked again, forcing himself to set the small paper cup down on the table, and ignore the feeling that a screw one of the table's legs was about to shake loose.

"How much of you I can see in him." She replied, and Erik didn't have to ask who she meant.

"Funny. I thought he looked more like you." Erik said after a beat.

"I'd like to think so, but if I'm honest with myself, our children have always favored you." Magda answered, taking a sip from her own coffee.

"They're ours now are they?" Erik asked, without any bite to the question. He genuinely wanted to know if she regretted ever having anything to do with him.

"I'll admit, I'm still angry at you, for a lot of things, but there will always be a part of you in Pietro—just as there was in Anya and in—and I can't forget that. And it's the best part of you that is—or was—in them. So yes, I will admit that they're our children." Magda replied, spinning her coffee slowly on the table for no particular reason. "For now anyway."

Erik dug his nail into the lid of his own cup, leaving a small indent, not quite able to push down the swell of feeling in his chest at that acknowledgement, even if it felt fleeting.

"I'm sorry. . . ." Erik started. He should leave it at that. He had a thousand things to be sorry for after all, and he didn't know how Magda would respond to him acknowledging a part of her and Pietro's past that he would never know, but she deserved more than a half-baked apology, so he continued. "about Wanda."

Magda looked up at that, raising her eyes up from above the cup that she seemed to grip a little more tightly in her hand at his words. "He told you then? About her? And what happened?"

Erik shook his head. "No . . . only that she died."

Magda nodded, took a long drink of her coffee, and then slowly set the cup back down. "She killed herself." Magda replied without preamble.

Erik tensed. It was not what he had expected, and he didn't know how to process that previously unknown fact that he would now never be able to unknow.

To unsee.

He had fought so long to stay alive, to keep the ones he cared about alive, and the longer he succeeded at the former and failed at the latter . . . well, sometimes finally admitting defeat sounded like a relief. And he wondered then, if that's what the daughter he would never know felt before . . . and if that was why she had taken her life and if it was—as most things are—his fault.

Magda continued, pulling him from his thoughts, and saving him from immediately having to find the words to reply.

"She was different from Pietro." Magda said, drawing a circle on the table absentmindedly with one finger. "Her personality. Her powers. I don't think I ever understood any part of her completely. And she never fully understood herself or her abilities either, and that was part of the problem. They were almost like—like magic, but she couldn't control them, and at times, they seemed to control her."

Magda looked away, out the window, lost in a memory, before she turned her gaze back to Erik and pressed on. "She was on medication. Anti-depressants. Anti-anxiety. Anti-Wanda." She laughed bitterly. "I thought they were helping. She seemed better when she was on them, more in control, and I thought—mistakenly—more herself. And as long as Pietro was around, I thought she'd be okay too. But he had—has—his own life. His own interests. He couldn't be with her every second of the day, and she never expected him to be. But still that Day, she took too much."

Magda wiped a tear from her face with the back of her hand before it could fully fall. She steeled herself, letting out her breath slowly, and started again. "I was taking Mila—my youngest—to ballet, and Pietro had track practice, so she was alone for too long, but Pietro got home first. He was the one who found her. He's the one that has to live with that memory . . . . He ran her to the hospital. My boy carried her all the way there." Magda smiled, but there was no joy in it, and her eyes glistened. "I'm sure he ran faster than he ever had before, but it didn't matter. It was too late. She never even regained consciousness. . . . and—and I think part of him died that day too. I know part of me did, and Wanda and I, well, we never had what she and Pietro did."

"I'm sorry." Erik said again, but the words sounded far away. Like someone else was speaking them.

"I hated you, you know?" Magda said, wiping at her face again, before Erik could even spot the tears. "For a long time, Max, I did. I'd—we'd just lost our baby, and then you left . . . and I lost you too. I know I told you to go, but . . . I—I was lost too. And after what happened, I couldn't stay there. So suddenly, I was alone and scared, and then I realized I was pregnant, and I was even more terrified."

"I don't regret my life," Magda said holding up her hand before Erik could interject. "The only regrets I have are that I wasn't there for my daughters when they needed me."

"You were there." Erik answered. "I'm the one who wasn't."

Magda shook her head, not exactly disagreeing with him, but more so brushing it off as an impossibility. "Maybe. But you didn't know about the twins, and it might not have changed anything even if you had. Wanda was . . . unhappy for so long. I'm not sure that you being there would've changed that. You aren't exactly a happy person either, Max, and I know you have some damn good reasons not to be, but . . . there's no point in living in 'what ifs'. There's only what is."

"Right." Erik said, his voice coming out oddly hoarse, looking down at the off white linoleum table, only to see a hand reach across it and take his own hand gently in its grasp.

Erik looked up to see Magda watching him. She didn't look angry like she had in the Peter's room. She simply looked tired.

"For what it's worth, Max, I am sorry that you've lost so much time with him, and that you'll never have any with Wanda."

"Thank you." Erik said stiffly, then cleared his throat. "But you were right the first time. I doubt I would have changed anything for the better."

Thinking of Anya and—more recently—of Nina, Erik went to pull his hand from Magda's grasp, but she only held tighter, almost painfully so.

"Just because bad things happen to the ones you love, doesn't mean those things are your fault. I don't blame you for Wanda or even Anya. And I know you care about Pietro just as deeply." Magda said, taking a breath before she gave Erik's hand a tight squeeze and let go. "But that doesn't mean I think he's safe with you. I know you want to keep him safe. I know you'll try to keep him safe, but let's face it, Max, the world never gives you what you want."

"No. It doesn't." Erik said, folding his hands into his lap so she wouldn't see them shaking.

Magda sighed and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "I can't keep you from him. Even if I could, Pietro would never forgive me for it. I'm not even sure he's really forgiven me yet for keeping the fact that you're his father from him for so long. And he shouldn't have to. He was ready to know, long before the truth came out. He spent the last ten years looking for you. Did you know that? Trying to stop him from seeing you would be like trying to stop the sun from rising."

"He's a smart kid. He'll realize soon enough that he should have nothing to do with me."

Magda chuckled without humor. "Perhaps. Most kids start by thinking their parents hung the moon, and then they all grow up and realize their parents are just people, struggling to make it through the day, never really sure what they're doing. Like it or not, unlike most parents, you can do impossible things. And, well, Pietro always wanted a father. . . . I still remember that day you popped up on the news. He was scared yes, but he was also in awe of you. You should've seen him, Max, sitting in front of the tv, holding his little sister in his lap, watching and listening to you like you were speaking directly to him, like his world was going from black and white to color. And that was before he even knew who you were to him."

"I'm sure he was just frightened." Erik answered. Fear or disgust tended to be the only emotion Erik sparked.

"He was, yes, but you inspired him too. You're proud. It might be one of your greatest faults in addition to one of your greatest strengths, but that pride—in yourself, in your abilities—that meant something to him. It still does."


Peter was in a torture chamber. He knew the sign on the entrance probably said "St. 'No One Knows Who You Are' Memorial Hospital," but that was clearly a misnomer. H-E-L-L would've been more accurate.

Per the doctor's orders, he was stuck in bed for at least another day, which might not be so bad if he was your average Joe who could sleep through the night, or at all, but for someone that typically spent his nights drinking—a pack of soda at his best and a bottle (or several) of vodka at his worse—and running until he forgot his troubles, it was akin to torture. Okay, not really, but it was probably in the next neighborhood over. Like if Torture Street was leveled by a tornado, Bedridden Lane—more likely than not—had been hit too.

The first day and night in the hospital had come and gone, and in addition to being pretty sure he was losing his mind, Peter was also bored out of his mind. His parents were still fighting on and off with slightly less animosity, which he guessed could be sort of entertaining at times, but mostly it just made him feel like a kid watching his mom and dad deal with the pressure and stress of real world that he didn't understand, which was why, like an inmate, he was counting down the seconds to his theoretical release.

He just hoped no more time would be added to his sentence, and he'd be released for good behavior, but he was starting to lose hope of that since apparently, nearly knocking over his IV pole on the way to the bathroom that was like ten feet from his bed did not instill confidence in the medical staff in his ability to take care of himself. Which was, well probably valid, but still a bit of an unnecessary punch to the gut. But really, what the nurses and doctors didn't realize, and what was actually kind of funny, was that Peter could be super coordinated when it came to the things that mattered—like using the five finger discount to snag a case full of Twinkies or even an arcade game—but the unimportant things—like keeping himself healthy and whole—always seemed to lead to bruises and broken glass.

But if it was difficult to convince the staff that he was fine, it was twice as difficult to convince his parents of that fact. It felt like he'd taken pretty much all of the daylight hours of his second day in the hospital to finally persuade his mom that she didn't need to watch over him 24/7 and she could in fact go home and get at least a half night's sleep, reassure his sister that she didn't need to bail on school just to see Peter in a paper thin gown, and just chill without worrying Peter was going to permanently maim himself (again).

Peter hadn't even bothered to try to convince his father to leave. It would be like beating his head against a brick wall. And speaking from experience, he really didn't think that was worth the effort.

Peter shifted in his hospital bed, moving his shoulder blades back and forth, trying to scratch an itch on his back, which he couldn't quite reach by the normal means, unless he wanted to feel like someone was stabbing him in the gut for the second time.

"What is it?" Erik asked, setting aside the pen and scrap of paper he'd been using to try to teach Peter the proper spelling of some German words and phrases, despite Peter's attempts to commandeer said pen and paper to doodle Erik in full Magneto gear stuck to the front of a fridge like a common magnet. It was a rather bold move on Peter's part, but it seemed being grumpy and bored made him slightly more courageous.

"What's the matter? Are you having more pain?" Erik asked again, his voice coming out slightly more guttural.

Peter noticed his father's accent sometimes became more pronounced for no reason at all, except that he was speaking with him, whereas his mom's accent became more noticeable when she was stressed or anxious, which, come to think of it, also seemed to happen around himself . . . Peter could probably connect the dots between those two observations, but he'd prefer just to pretend they were unrelated.

"Uh, no, I'm fine. Just an itch. I got it." Peter replied, though he really hadn't, stopping his squirming, only to tap one hand rapidly on top of the bedsheet, but when he noticed what he was doing, he grabbed it with his other hand, bringing it to a stop. "I'm just wunderbar now."

Erik just stared at him like he was trying to crack a safe.

It was unnerving.

"Do you practice that in the mirror?" Peter asked before he could help himself.

"What?" Erik asked confused.

"Nothing, never mind." Peter said quickly. "Ignore me. I say stupid shit some times."

Erik leaned forward to say something—probably 'don't call yourself stupid,' which, technically he hadn't—but Peter cut him off before he could something so ridiculous.

"Canyougetmesomechips?"

"Dr. Nichols said you should stick to bland foods." Erik said, impressively grasping Peter's motor mouth.

"Oh, so now we're listening to the doctor, are we?" Peter replied with perhaps a little more sass than was necessary since he was a bit irritable. "And that's not a no."

He was met, once again, with stone faced silence.

"Okay, fine, then get the plain chips. Please." Peter pleaded pathetically, throwing in a pout for good measure.

Erik stared Peter down again, and then replied. "Can you wait for them to come around with breakfast?"

"No. I know I'm not literally running right now, but I'm still running on fumes here." Peter said throwing his head back dramatically.

Erik seemed to have an internal debate, before finally responding, "I'll see if they have more Jell-O in the café. That'll be easier on your stomach."

Peter leaned his head back dramatically. "Hrmmmm. I will accept that offering, but chips would be better."

Erik rose to his feet, but he didn't go far, instead he lingered at the end of Peter's hospital bed, gripping that weird handle thing at the foot of the bed.

"Look, no one's going to attack me." Peter said, sensing his father's hesitation to leave. "I'm not that important, and well, they won't catch me sleeping." Peter said, pointing at himself with finger guns.

Unfortunately for Peter, that was clearly the wrong thing to say, since his father actually seemed to care for him for some yet to be explained reason.

"You are important enough. To me, and . . . you would be important to others too, in a very different way." Erik said, his voice conveying a thousand nightmares.

"O-kay." Peter said, clearing his throat and suppressing a shiver. "But if I don't get food, I will probably go into hypoglycemic shock and die, so you'll have to risk the would-be-kidnappers for now."

"That's not going to happen. I'll be right back with some food." Erik said, finally giving in, but he certainly didn't look happy about it. "Drink some more water in the meantime. You've hardly touched your glass."

"Fine. And I'll be right here!" Peter called after him, and then, because it really was nice of him to forage for someone with an erratic metabolism. "Thanks!"


Twenty minutes later, Peter had devoured all of the Jell-O cups Erik had procured for him, the surprise chocolate pudding cups that were much tastier, and one bag of plain potato chips. It was around that time that Erik's head started to bob back and forth in the beginning of sleep, his body finally coming to claim what it needed.

Peter hadn't seen him sleep since he'd regained consciousness, and he was certain that Erik hadn't gotten any sleep when Peter was blacked out from blood loss and pain, so, to be honest, Peter was impressed that he had lasted this long, and he was happy to see him getting the sleep he most likely desperately needed.

But there was a part of Peter—buried down deep—that watched his father's head take a final fall back and to the side and stay there that flared with envy.

Peter looked away quickly, ashamed and frustrated with himself that he hadn't gotten over the lingering longing for something he'd never have again and the resentment toward others that took it for granted, though he knew Erik wasn't one of those people. To distract himself from his despair, he set to work building a tower out of the empty plastic cups beneath the room's dimmed lights, turned down for the night.

But after stacking and restacking a pyramid of polymer again and again, he found his eyes drifting back over to his father, not for the first time, searching for his own features on the angular planes of the older mutant's face. It may have just been the way light and shadow happened to fall against his face that evening, but he thought he did find familiarity there, in the cut of his jaw and the slant of his brows, and it stirred something within him, some feeling of belonging, but before it could fully form, something entirely more sinister began to take shape behind Erik, reflected in the darkened window.

It was the woman in scarlet, eyes red, and even wilder-looking than before.

The lights above Peter began to flicker, and he swore he felt a cool wind blow past him and goosebumps rose on his arms.

The plastic spoon on the tray in front of him began to spin and the tower of cups tumbled down onto Peter's bed, though nothing touched them.

Peter closed his eyes.

He was shaking.

Trembling.

It wasn't real.

It couldn't be real.

It was all in his head.

Peter swallowed and then opened his eyes, and—with his heart in his throat—he looked over at the window again.

The woman was gone.

The window's reflection showed only the back of his father and the chair on which he sat.

And for a moment, though still trembling slightly, Peter let out a breathe of relief, and turned back to chug the glass of water sitting on the table beside him that had miraculously remained steady and full despite his hallucination and possible panic attack.

But as he extended his hand to grab it, something reached out from the screen of the patient monitor beside him and—

Grabbed him instead.

Peter instantly screamed, and jerked back frantically, sending the water flying, which spilled onto the monitor and the floor below. In the same moment, the phantom arm drew back as if burned and disappeared once more inside the monitor as it crackled and died.

At the sound of Peter's screaming, Erik jumped up from his chair, arms thrown out by his side as though ready to take flight, or, more likely—though both were possible—to command the metal objects in the room to do so. "What's happening!? Who's there?!"

The lights had returned to their normal setting and Peter's screaming stopped, but the terror lingered. He'd wrapped his arms around himself, but his heart was still hammering like it would break free of his chest.

"Pietro. What happened? What's wrong?" Erik asked still on high alert, but no longer shouting as he looked around for some hidden assassin. He moved to place himself between Peter and the door.

"N-nothing." Peter said, shaking his head. He couldn't think up an excuse for his erratic behavior. He was surprised he'd managed to get anything out at all.

"Something happened. What is it?" Erik asked again more forcefully, and Peter noticed then that there were coins, a pen, and some small random metal objects rotating around one of his hands, ready to be wielded like a loaded gun, as soon as he could find a target.

"I—I just—I thought I saw s-someone out of the corner of my eye. But it—it was nothing. Just a shadow." Peter said, and he could hear how feeble of an excuse it sounded even as the words left his mouth.

"A shadow?" Erik questioned. The rotating metal picked up speed.

"Yea." Peter replied, and he tried to imbue his response with the appropriate level of nonchalance, but it still came out too frightened and quiet, as though he were afraid to disturb whatever modicum of peace had fallen.

"What did this shadow look like, a person?" Erik asked, brow furrowing to form a severe line across his face.

"I guess, but it was just my shadow. It wasn't anything obviously." Peter replied dumbly.

"If that's the case, why are you still afraid?" Erik asked, and Peter could tell he wasn't trying to be mean, but rather, he was concerned; and was seeing through Peter's meager lie all too easily.

"I'm not." Peter said, once again unconvincingly.

"You're shaking." Erik replied, and it was only then that Peter realized he was right. His whole body was trembling, and not in the same way it did when he was on a sugar—or other kind of—high.

"I'm jumpy alright?!" Peter said defensively, as he tried to control his shaking. "Is that so unreasonable? It wasn't that long ago that I was kidnapped by the government and then beaten and broken by a self-proclaiming god! Excuse me for being a little on edge!"

Erik's jaw clenched at Peter's reply, and he took a long moment before speaking. However, when he did, he finally seemed to believe Peter's explanation. "It's not . . . unreasonable. I . . . you're not the only one who jumps at ghosts that aren't there."

The guilt was plainly written on Erik's face, like he believed he was the one responsible for his son's anxiety, which only served to make Peter himself feel guilty because whether or not that was true, he knew Erik carried that guilt like an ever present backpack without him bringing it up.

"Okay, well, you get it then. Let's just move on." Peter said, and with that, because he couldn't face that look on his father's face any longer, Peter rolled to his side—thankfully the non-shish kebab one—and turned his back on Erik.

"Okay." Peter heard his father say softly behind his back, in voice quite unlike his usual timber, as Peter stared at the empty chair where his father had sat minutes before.

He kept waiting for Erik to come back to once again take his place on the chair, but sometime later the chair remained empty, and Peter wondered if the man had eventually taken a seat on the floor. But he couldn't yet bring himself to turn around to find out because although the empty chair was troubling, there was something much more concerning that held Peter's attention . . . .

Bruises.

On his arm.

That he's sure weren't there before and—and that looked frighteningly like a handprint.


{Author's Note: Fyi Erik's POV refers to himself as Erik and not Max because the boy that was Max is dead.}