Learning Curve (Rictor/Shatterstar, R) Part 6
Title: Learning Curve
Author: persepolis130
Fandom: X-Men
Pairing(s): Rictor/Shatterstar (main), Shatterstar/various
Word Count: novella (WIP)
Rating: R
Summary: Shatterstar's revelations about emotions, birthday presents, gaydar, prophylactics, and why an "open relationship" is a whole lot more complicated than it sounds.
Author's Notes: Thanks again to shawn_anne for her support and telling me what sucks. According to the lovely and talented surfer_yuun, "pinche mamon" means something like "fucking egotistical bastard" in Spanish. Good thing the recipient of the insult doesn't know this! Also, as a side note, despite what he might say when in a pissy mood, Star would never, *ever* hurt Rahne.
Previous Parts: PART ONE / PART TWO / PART THREE / PART FOUR / PART FIVE
* * SIX * *
I find Rictor's bracelet in the shower drain, entangled in strands of Monet's hair. I stand beneath the showerhead, wet stream hitting my chest and steam fogging the room, and stare at the silver crosses until the water goes cold. Hair still unwashed, I turn off the tap and reach for a towel.
My reflection in the mirror is not complimentary. The Audience would be appalled. Luckily, Theresa keeps makeup in the medicine cabinet. Her skin is the same shade as mine, and I apply dabs around my unbranded eye to hide the dark circle. My eyes are dull, and even my hair, molded into place as I work product through it with my fingers, lacks its usual luminance.
Before leaving the bathroom, I scoop up the bracelet and slip it into my pocket. It feels so heavy.
My uemeur feels heavy.
"If you can't handle the television, I'm going to have to take it away," Jamie told me some time ago. "And if I do, I'm afraid it might bring Guido to tears, and believe me, no one wants to see that."
I assured him that my behavior would improve. I would not continue to watch badly-cast sci-fi films and reruns of Matlock until all hours of the night. I would take proper rest, not over-exercise, and eat my vegetables. I would not again offer to knock Rahne unconscious with the hilt of my sword and physically extract her baby no matter how much her very presence grates upon my last nerve.
Also, I would purchase more black Sharpies.
"We have plenty of empty rooms, Shatterstar. There's no reason for you to be sleeping on the couch every night," Jamie told me. He pointed to a hamper beside the couch. Rictor does his own laundry now, so the garments were mine. "Why don't you grab your stuff, and we'll move you in across from Longshot?"
"I already have a room," I told him. "Please inform Rictor that he should let me move back into it."
But he has not done so, and I continue to spend nights on the couch, which is too short for my legs and makes my back stiff, despite my enhanced healing abilities. Although I now turn off the television at 1 AM and get three straight hours of sleep before my six-hour workout and breakfast of leftover pizza with extra olives, I feel no better.
When I enter the kitchen today, Theresa is washing dishes. I open the refrigerator door, only to slam it in disgust.
I slide into a chair, clench my hands into fists, and glare at the tabletop. "Someone ate my pizza."
"I'm sorry, Star. I haven't seen anyone down here this morning… Would you like me to fix you an omelet?" she asks.
"No," I tell her. "Your cooking has disastrous effects upon my bowels."
Glasses clink, and the water stops running. A cabinet door closes. Theresa sits down beside me. "Want to talk about it?" she asks.
I consider pretending she is speaking of her lack of culinary skills, but I decide against insulting her further. This will achieve nothing. What I crave is battle-- the heat and passion of blade against blade, man against man, and the release it allows-- not having my eardrums blown out. Those take far too long to regrow, and blood pouring from my ears would ruin my jacket.
Perhaps I should have Longshot teleport me to the headquarters of the Fantastic Four so that I might pick another fight with the Thing.
"Can I ask why you and Ric are arguing?" Theresa asks.
"We are not arguing," I tell her. "To argue would require a form of interpersonal communication. I wish that we were arguing. Instead, he ignores me. We can be sitting on the couch side by side, yet he seems a million miles away…"
I want to tell her more, but my throat closes up thinking about it. I don't understand this. Rictor even told me to be quiet during the farcical conclusion of Pretty Woman. Rictor never tells me to be quiet. 'She rescues him right back,' indeed! Sometimes, I don't know who he is anymore.
Most of the time, I don't know who I am.
"And… how does it make you feel when he acts that way?" Theresa asks me.
"How do you think it makes me feel, Theresa?" I say.
She is very silent for several moments.
"I meant that as an honest question," I assure her, as I suspect my words may have come out more sharply than I intended. "Because I truly don't know. Emotions are still a mystery to me, perhaps more so now than ever before. I have begun to learn, but my knowledge is so incomplete, it is sometimes worse than knowing nothing."
She sighs. "Star, I don't know how you'll feel about this after the whole Benjamin Russell… thing," she tells me. "But there's a psychologist the team talked to a while back who--"
"No psychologists," I tell her. Memories of my stay at the Weisman Institute still niggle at the dark places in my brain, and I have no desire to repeat the experience. Also, I hate niggling. The very word appalls me.
It sounds like something Rahne's baby will do.
Rictor brought home a highchair today. It is decorated with happy-looking fish. They smile and swish about with multicolored bubbles. The baby has not even been born, and already he is buying it things. He likes that baby more than he likes me, and it is not even his. I can only assume this is because it is Rahne's.
I find this unjust. Have I ever lied to him, as Rahne has? Have I ever left him? I would die before stooping to such dishonor! Yet I receive not even a smile from him, much less extravagant new home furnishings.
Where are my happy fish?
"Okay, no psychologists. I understand," Theresa says. Her hand covers mine, and I find it strangely soothing. "It was just an idea. But if you need someone to talk to… I'm all ears."
I regard her hand, the slender fingers and well-manicured nails, and consider the softness of her skin against mine. It is nothing like Rictor's.
"What I would most like at this moment," I inform her, "is to fight a lengthy battle against a worthy opponent, spilling blood, sweat, and various other bodily fluids-- and perhaps appendages-- upon the battlefield. And then I would have sex with Rictor. A lot of sex, for days without stopping and in various positions. First, I would have Rictor below me and his thighs clenched around my--"
"Okay, didn't need quite that much information, Star," she informs me, patting my hand.
I frown and stare at something spilled on the tabletop. It looks like pizza sauce. The swordsman is there again, piercing my heart with his blade of emotion, and I have no parry to his blow. "When we do it that way, we can kiss," I mumble. I haven't kissed Rictor in weeks. I ache for him.
Theresa sighs.
"Alright, suit up, people!" Jamie's voice proclaims from the doorway. "I need everyone on the roof in two minutes. Serious shit is going down."
"We're already dressed," I tell him.
"Are you a dupe?" Theresa asks.
"Two minutes!" Jamie declares.
I send forth a silent prayer to Za that serious shit involves detached appendages.
* * * * *
Apocalypse has come. Or perhaps it is The Apocalypse. Or maybe just an apocalypse-- it makes little difference to me so long as my mettle as a warrior will be tested. Arrayed around the table is likely the largest and most powerful group of superhumans the world has seen since M-Day. I catch sight of Cyclops, Iceman, Colossus, Warpath, Magneto--
"Remember, we're just here to hear them out. If we don't like it, you're taking us straight back to New York," one of several Jamies reminds me. With so many people jammed into this room like salted fish in a tin, he keeps getting bumped into.
"One of these things is not like the others," Rictor mutters. "Someone remind me why I'm here again?" He, Longshot, and I squeeze in next to--
"Shatterstar!" a delighted voice proclaims.
Across from us stands Aurora, looking positively lovely in black and white. She winks at me, then gives me a look that suggests she is picturing me naked.
Smiling, I vault over the table, take her in my arms, and dip her into a passionate kiss. It makes me feel something like myself again.
On the way back up, my head hits something. Hard. It is her brother's elbow.
"Once again, your taste in men astounds me, Jeanne-Marie," he says.
"It's Aurora, and my men are none of your business," she retorts. "It's not like you have room to talk anyway, now that everyone knows about your little affair with--"
"We are talking about you right now," Northstar counters, "and your continual lamentations that there are no 'decent men' left. If you would simply open your eyes and look instead of having constant, meaningless flings with insipid creatures such as--"
"Pardon me," I say, as he seems displeased with me for a reason I cannot grasp. I hold out my hand to him. "My name is Shatterstar. We met briefly--"
"I know who you are," he says, eyebrows arched and nose in the air. He ignores my hand. "And I honestly couldn't care less."
"Hey, lay off him, alright," Rictor says, to my surprise. "Your issues with your sister are your own business. Let's not air our dirty laundry in front of everyone."
"I agree," says someone from the other end of the table. "We have serious matters to--"
Northstar makes a noise rather like a braying horse. He regards Rictor with great disdain. "And you are?"
"Ooooh boy," mutters Guido as Rictor, arms crossed defiantly, informs Aurora's brother of his name.
"And what do you do… Rictor?" Northstar asks. "Can you fly? Do you have super speed? Strength? Enhanced senses? Do you possess the ability to--"
"Boys," says the White Queen. "I believe we have more important things to do than compare the size of our proverbial--"
"I don't do anything, okay," Rictor snaps. "I'm not a mutant anymore."
I do not like this Northstar. He is as off-putting and self-centered as he is attractive. That is to say, devastatingly so. "Rictor is an excellent detective," I inform him. "He is a fair shot with his pistol, fully fluent in three different languages, and an expert in early twenty-first century computer technology."
"Ah, and you," Northstar says to me while shooting a glare at his sister, "are clearly an expert judge of character."
"Hey, you leave him the hell alone," Rictor snaps over the impolite French of Aurora's reply. "He's not even from this dimension, and your macho posturing doesn't mean crap to him, but it's pissing me off. If you've got issues with him and your sister, you take them up with me, alright? In private."
"Oh, so you're the expert judge of character," Northstar says.
"Guys," says Jamie. "Could we, uh--"
"Well, I guess when it comes to men," Rictor counters, "you're the expert, huh? Wasn't there some sort of press conference about that? We all gotta defer to your judgment, right?"
"So I am to be insulted for my sexuality now," Northstar counters, throwing up his hands in a theatrical manner, well aware of the scene he is making and almost good enough at it to earn my admiration. "You are a homophobe, and a useless one at that."
Rictor sneers in disgust. "Get over yourself, pinche mamon. I'm not a homophobe. I'm putting you in your place because you're an ass, not because you're gay."
"Is that so?" Northstar says.
"Actually," Longshot interjects, "I think it would be hard for Rictor to be a homophobe, since he's gay as well."
Silence fills the room. All eyes are trained on Rictor.
"Thanks, Longshot," he says, pressing his fingers to his temple. "That was really helpful."
Longshot shrugs. "I do what I can."
This man is an idiot.
I turn to Northstar, and the hand which I formerly offered in friendship now takes hold of the front of his uniform. His eyes narrow as I yank him toward me, his hand pressing against my chest in futile defense. No amount of speed could save him now. He says something rude, which I ignore. Into his ear, I murmur in French, "If you ever again dare to speak to Rictor in such a manner, I will cut your filthy tongue from your lying mouth, puree it, and force-feed it to you through a straw. This is not a threat; it is a promise."
Releasing him so suddenly that he topples back against Magma, I turn to Aurora. "My apologies," I tell her, as politely as possible because she is a charming person even if her twin is insane, "I enjoyed having quasi-illicit sexual relations with you very much, but I believe I am on the wrong side of the table."
Once again beside Rictor, I place my hand on his shoulder in case anyone else decides to disrespect him. They do not.
"Whenever I feel like life is spiraling out of my control," Monet muses, "I look at you two and feel so much better."
"I know, right?" says Layla.
"Alright, people," Cyclops announces, entirely unperturbed. A hologram of a young man appears on the tabletop. "Let's get down to business. As you all know…"
As he briefs us on the situation-- which offers even more potential for bloodshed than I had hoped-- Tabitha appears at Rictor's side. She looks at my hand as though she would like to bite it off. "Rictor," she snarls. "I am going to kill you!"
"Get in line," he says, glancing across the table at a glowering Northstar. "And get out of my face."
She grasps the lapel of his jacket and yanks his ear to her mouth to hiss, "Do you have any idea how long I've been mad at you for choosing Rahne instead of me?"
"What?" he says.
"What?" says Sam.
"How can you be gay with a haircut like that?" she demands. "And those jeans? They're all wrong."
"I can't believe you just said that," says Anole. He stands some way down the table beside a man who is made of rock. I smile at him. "Are we supposed to look a certain way now?"
Karma adds, "Do you know how incredibly discriminatory that was, Boom-Boom?"
"Don't worry, Scott," one of the Jamies says. "They never listen to me, either."
* * * * *
"Don't talk to me right now," Rictor tells me. "Because if you do, I'm going to punch you in the face." This is the first thing he says to me upon our return. We are just inside the door. Monet has called the first shower, and Layla has led the others to the freezer for ice cream.
"Alright," I say.
He looks at me.
"I would like to talk. You may punch me," I inform him. "Or shoot me if you prefer, though I would ask that you aim well away from any vital areas."
He sighs and turns toward the stairs. "I don't feel like talking."
"Well I do," I tell him, adjusting an unruly sleeve. My jacket is ripped across the shoulder from the battle and spattered with blood, and my pants are torn at the knee. Rictor's clothing is unaltered. He remained on Utopia and monitored our teams while we fought; there was no other suitable job for him. Though he carried out his work admirably, any warrior would feel… out of sorts in such circumstances.
"Well, I don't have anything to say," he tells me.
"I want to thank you for standing up for me against Northstar," I say, forging ahead. I am almost disappointed that he has not punched me. It might do him some good. "I am very grateful. He was in the wrong to bring up such matters at a time of potentially world-altering crisis."
Rictor turns back to me with fire in his eyes. "Yeah? Well I want to thank you for making me look like a complete pendejo in front of every mutant on the planet. Did you see how they stared at me? Highlight of my fucking life. Now go away," he orders. "I said I don't want to talk."
"I believe it was Longshot who did that," I point out, gently.
"If you hadn't been making a spectacle of yourself with that woman," Rictor counters, "he wouldn't've said anything."
I frown. "But I am always making a spectacle of myself-- it is my nature. And why does what Longshot said matter? It was not an untruth. I don't understand why it upset you so."
Rictor scowls. "Look, I just… I don't want to be lumped together with Northstar and Anole and," he looks over his shoulder for assurance that we are alone, and lowers his voice, "and go to Pride parades and wear rainbows and pink triangles, and watch Broadway musicals and talk about gaydar. Okay? I don't want to be stereotyped that way. I don't want to be judged because of who I'm attracted to. I just want to be me."
"I would never judge you for your taste in colors or geometrical designs, and I don't see why anyone else would, either," I assure him.
"They're symbols," he insists, agitated for a reason I cannot grasp. "Every man who likes men is supposed to be a certain way-- it's this gay lifestyle idea-- and I don't wanna be part of that shit. It's degrading."
"You write off a valid identity as a gay man as degrading, yet you desire to be identified as a mutant, something which you are not?" I ask, confused.
"Do you really have to keep reminding me? It's like part of me died, and nobody has the decency to let it lie," he snaps.
"But being in a parade sounds enjoyable," I tell him encouragingly. "We could be on a float. And throw candy!"
"You're unbelievable," he says.
"Perhaps," I concede. I set a hand on his shoulder. "But when you say you are only trying to be yourself, this is untrue. Maybe you have come out of the cupboard, but you are still clinging to the door with a death grip. It does not become you, Rictor."
"Closet, Star," he mutters, pulling away from my touch.
"Whatever," I tell him. "If you truly wish to be the man you were born to be, you should ignore what other people think instead of altering your behavior to fit their standards. Rainbows never hurt anyone, and pink would suit your skin tone. Anole seems friendly-- though he kisses terribly-- and we would have fun in a parade together. You are lying to yourself."
"You know what?" he says. "I'm leaving. I've had it. I can't take any more of this. I'm outta here." He heads back toward the door, not looking at me, and zips up his jacket.
"But we've just returned," I insist. "And my clothing is bloody. Where are we going?"
"We're not going. I'm going," he corrects.
I shake my head, baffled. "But where--"
"Anywhere but here," he says. "Do not follow me. And don't count on seeing me anytime soon."
Stunned, I can only watch as he storms out the door, slamming it with all his might. The action has all the dramatic finality of a season-ending soap opera cliffhanger. I imagine the camera panning from the door to my dismayed face, and the voiceover inviting viewers to tune in next season for the shocking conclusion.
If only someone had shown me the script.
I sit down on the stairs and tug at my torn sleeve again. The hallway feels so very empty without him. Everything feels empty without him. The emotion this evokes defies definition, but it is not a pleasant one. It burns like acid.
I wish Rictor were here to explain it to me.
This thought upsets me terribly.
"Wow," says Layla, coming down the stairs with an ice cream cone in her hand. "That sounded really unpleasant. You should buy me some tequila. I'm underage, so I can't get it myself, but I'm pretty sure it's going to come in handy."
It takes me a moment to comprehend the implications of her presence.
"You know the future. You knew this would happen," I accuse, "yet you did nothing. You let Rictor leave and didn't even warn me. You chose ice cream over your own teammates!"
"It's not that simple, Shatterstar," she attempts to explain. "Maybe I know stuff, but that doesn't mean I can change anything. What's meant to happen is going to happen no matter what. I just sometimes… help things along."
"Then you… helped Rictor leave," I say.
She shrugs.
And suddenly the pieces fall into place.
"It was you the whole time! You broke the washing machine on purpose, didn't you?" I demand. "You sent me to that laundromat because you knew I would meet that man, and it would upset Rictor to be asked to pierce his tongue. You took me to Toronto shopping because you knew Rictor would not go, and you knew I would meet Aurora, and it would drive Rictor from me. You even foresaw his upsetting confrontation with Northstar!"
She smiles. "Yeah, pretty much. Roberto actually would've called Ric on the whole gay thing earlier if I hadn't taken him into the hall and made out with him, but that bitch fight on Utopia was way too entertaining! Oh, and I made sure to bring up Rictor's suicide attempt to Rahne so she'd mention it to you, too."
I stare at her in disbelief.
"Also," she adds, "I ate all your pizza the other day, just to make sure you were good and riled. Gave me a stomachache, though. Next time, less olives."
"This is all your fault," I gape, feeling numb. "Rictor may never come back. You have ruined my life!"
"Sure," Layla shrugs. She licks her ice cream and holds out a twenty dollar bill. "Now could you get me some tequila?"
FINAL PART!
Author: persepolis130
Fandom: X-Men
Pairing(s): Rictor/Shatterstar (main), Shatterstar/various
Word Count: novella (WIP)
Rating: R
Summary: Shatterstar's revelations about emotions, birthday presents, gaydar, prophylactics, and why an "open relationship" is a whole lot more complicated than it sounds.
Author's Notes: Thanks again to shawn_anne for her support and telling me what sucks. According to the lovely and talented surfer_yuun, "pinche mamon" means something like "fucking egotistical bastard" in Spanish. Good thing the recipient of the insult doesn't know this! Also, as a side note, despite what he might say when in a pissy mood, Star would never, *ever* hurt Rahne.
Previous Parts: PART ONE / PART TWO / PART THREE / PART FOUR / PART FIVE
* * SIX * *
I find Rictor's bracelet in the shower drain, entangled in strands of Monet's hair. I stand beneath the showerhead, wet stream hitting my chest and steam fogging the room, and stare at the silver crosses until the water goes cold. Hair still unwashed, I turn off the tap and reach for a towel.
My reflection in the mirror is not complimentary. The Audience would be appalled. Luckily, Theresa keeps makeup in the medicine cabinet. Her skin is the same shade as mine, and I apply dabs around my unbranded eye to hide the dark circle. My eyes are dull, and even my hair, molded into place as I work product through it with my fingers, lacks its usual luminance.
Before leaving the bathroom, I scoop up the bracelet and slip it into my pocket. It feels so heavy.
My uemeur feels heavy.
"If you can't handle the television, I'm going to have to take it away," Jamie told me some time ago. "And if I do, I'm afraid it might bring Guido to tears, and believe me, no one wants to see that."
I assured him that my behavior would improve. I would not continue to watch badly-cast sci-fi films and reruns of Matlock until all hours of the night. I would take proper rest, not over-exercise, and eat my vegetables. I would not again offer to knock Rahne unconscious with the hilt of my sword and physically extract her baby no matter how much her very presence grates upon my last nerve.
Also, I would purchase more black Sharpies.
"We have plenty of empty rooms, Shatterstar. There's no reason for you to be sleeping on the couch every night," Jamie told me. He pointed to a hamper beside the couch. Rictor does his own laundry now, so the garments were mine. "Why don't you grab your stuff, and we'll move you in across from Longshot?"
"I already have a room," I told him. "Please inform Rictor that he should let me move back into it."
But he has not done so, and I continue to spend nights on the couch, which is too short for my legs and makes my back stiff, despite my enhanced healing abilities. Although I now turn off the television at 1 AM and get three straight hours of sleep before my six-hour workout and breakfast of leftover pizza with extra olives, I feel no better.
When I enter the kitchen today, Theresa is washing dishes. I open the refrigerator door, only to slam it in disgust.
I slide into a chair, clench my hands into fists, and glare at the tabletop. "Someone ate my pizza."
"I'm sorry, Star. I haven't seen anyone down here this morning… Would you like me to fix you an omelet?" she asks.
"No," I tell her. "Your cooking has disastrous effects upon my bowels."
Glasses clink, and the water stops running. A cabinet door closes. Theresa sits down beside me. "Want to talk about it?" she asks.
I consider pretending she is speaking of her lack of culinary skills, but I decide against insulting her further. This will achieve nothing. What I crave is battle-- the heat and passion of blade against blade, man against man, and the release it allows-- not having my eardrums blown out. Those take far too long to regrow, and blood pouring from my ears would ruin my jacket.
Perhaps I should have Longshot teleport me to the headquarters of the Fantastic Four so that I might pick another fight with the Thing.
"Can I ask why you and Ric are arguing?" Theresa asks.
"We are not arguing," I tell her. "To argue would require a form of interpersonal communication. I wish that we were arguing. Instead, he ignores me. We can be sitting on the couch side by side, yet he seems a million miles away…"
I want to tell her more, but my throat closes up thinking about it. I don't understand this. Rictor even told me to be quiet during the farcical conclusion of Pretty Woman. Rictor never tells me to be quiet. 'She rescues him right back,' indeed! Sometimes, I don't know who he is anymore.
Most of the time, I don't know who I am.
"And… how does it make you feel when he acts that way?" Theresa asks me.
"How do you think it makes me feel, Theresa?" I say.
She is very silent for several moments.
"I meant that as an honest question," I assure her, as I suspect my words may have come out more sharply than I intended. "Because I truly don't know. Emotions are still a mystery to me, perhaps more so now than ever before. I have begun to learn, but my knowledge is so incomplete, it is sometimes worse than knowing nothing."
She sighs. "Star, I don't know how you'll feel about this after the whole Benjamin Russell… thing," she tells me. "But there's a psychologist the team talked to a while back who--"
"No psychologists," I tell her. Memories of my stay at the Weisman Institute still niggle at the dark places in my brain, and I have no desire to repeat the experience. Also, I hate niggling. The very word appalls me.
It sounds like something Rahne's baby will do.
Rictor brought home a highchair today. It is decorated with happy-looking fish. They smile and swish about with multicolored bubbles. The baby has not even been born, and already he is buying it things. He likes that baby more than he likes me, and it is not even his. I can only assume this is because it is Rahne's.
I find this unjust. Have I ever lied to him, as Rahne has? Have I ever left him? I would die before stooping to such dishonor! Yet I receive not even a smile from him, much less extravagant new home furnishings.
Where are my happy fish?
"Okay, no psychologists. I understand," Theresa says. Her hand covers mine, and I find it strangely soothing. "It was just an idea. But if you need someone to talk to… I'm all ears."
I regard her hand, the slender fingers and well-manicured nails, and consider the softness of her skin against mine. It is nothing like Rictor's.
"What I would most like at this moment," I inform her, "is to fight a lengthy battle against a worthy opponent, spilling blood, sweat, and various other bodily fluids-- and perhaps appendages-- upon the battlefield. And then I would have sex with Rictor. A lot of sex, for days without stopping and in various positions. First, I would have Rictor below me and his thighs clenched around my--"
"Okay, didn't need quite that much information, Star," she informs me, patting my hand.
I frown and stare at something spilled on the tabletop. It looks like pizza sauce. The swordsman is there again, piercing my heart with his blade of emotion, and I have no parry to his blow. "When we do it that way, we can kiss," I mumble. I haven't kissed Rictor in weeks. I ache for him.
Theresa sighs.
"Alright, suit up, people!" Jamie's voice proclaims from the doorway. "I need everyone on the roof in two minutes. Serious shit is going down."
"We're already dressed," I tell him.
"Are you a dupe?" Theresa asks.
"Two minutes!" Jamie declares.
I send forth a silent prayer to Za that serious shit involves detached appendages.
* * * * *
Apocalypse has come. Or perhaps it is The Apocalypse. Or maybe just an apocalypse-- it makes little difference to me so long as my mettle as a warrior will be tested. Arrayed around the table is likely the largest and most powerful group of superhumans the world has seen since M-Day. I catch sight of Cyclops, Iceman, Colossus, Warpath, Magneto--
"Remember, we're just here to hear them out. If we don't like it, you're taking us straight back to New York," one of several Jamies reminds me. With so many people jammed into this room like salted fish in a tin, he keeps getting bumped into.
"One of these things is not like the others," Rictor mutters. "Someone remind me why I'm here again?" He, Longshot, and I squeeze in next to--
"Shatterstar!" a delighted voice proclaims.
Across from us stands Aurora, looking positively lovely in black and white. She winks at me, then gives me a look that suggests she is picturing me naked.
Smiling, I vault over the table, take her in my arms, and dip her into a passionate kiss. It makes me feel something like myself again.
On the way back up, my head hits something. Hard. It is her brother's elbow.
"Once again, your taste in men astounds me, Jeanne-Marie," he says.
"It's Aurora, and my men are none of your business," she retorts. "It's not like you have room to talk anyway, now that everyone knows about your little affair with--"
"We are talking about you right now," Northstar counters, "and your continual lamentations that there are no 'decent men' left. If you would simply open your eyes and look instead of having constant, meaningless flings with insipid creatures such as--"
"Pardon me," I say, as he seems displeased with me for a reason I cannot grasp. I hold out my hand to him. "My name is Shatterstar. We met briefly--"
"I know who you are," he says, eyebrows arched and nose in the air. He ignores my hand. "And I honestly couldn't care less."
"Hey, lay off him, alright," Rictor says, to my surprise. "Your issues with your sister are your own business. Let's not air our dirty laundry in front of everyone."
"I agree," says someone from the other end of the table. "We have serious matters to--"
Northstar makes a noise rather like a braying horse. He regards Rictor with great disdain. "And you are?"
"Ooooh boy," mutters Guido as Rictor, arms crossed defiantly, informs Aurora's brother of his name.
"And what do you do… Rictor?" Northstar asks. "Can you fly? Do you have super speed? Strength? Enhanced senses? Do you possess the ability to--"
"Boys," says the White Queen. "I believe we have more important things to do than compare the size of our proverbial--"
"I don't do anything, okay," Rictor snaps. "I'm not a mutant anymore."
I do not like this Northstar. He is as off-putting and self-centered as he is attractive. That is to say, devastatingly so. "Rictor is an excellent detective," I inform him. "He is a fair shot with his pistol, fully fluent in three different languages, and an expert in early twenty-first century computer technology."
"Ah, and you," Northstar says to me while shooting a glare at his sister, "are clearly an expert judge of character."
"Hey, you leave him the hell alone," Rictor snaps over the impolite French of Aurora's reply. "He's not even from this dimension, and your macho posturing doesn't mean crap to him, but it's pissing me off. If you've got issues with him and your sister, you take them up with me, alright? In private."
"Oh, so you're the expert judge of character," Northstar says.
"Guys," says Jamie. "Could we, uh--"
"Well, I guess when it comes to men," Rictor counters, "you're the expert, huh? Wasn't there some sort of press conference about that? We all gotta defer to your judgment, right?"
"So I am to be insulted for my sexuality now," Northstar counters, throwing up his hands in a theatrical manner, well aware of the scene he is making and almost good enough at it to earn my admiration. "You are a homophobe, and a useless one at that."
Rictor sneers in disgust. "Get over yourself, pinche mamon. I'm not a homophobe. I'm putting you in your place because you're an ass, not because you're gay."
"Is that so?" Northstar says.
"Actually," Longshot interjects, "I think it would be hard for Rictor to be a homophobe, since he's gay as well."
Silence fills the room. All eyes are trained on Rictor.
"Thanks, Longshot," he says, pressing his fingers to his temple. "That was really helpful."
Longshot shrugs. "I do what I can."
This man is an idiot.
I turn to Northstar, and the hand which I formerly offered in friendship now takes hold of the front of his uniform. His eyes narrow as I yank him toward me, his hand pressing against my chest in futile defense. No amount of speed could save him now. He says something rude, which I ignore. Into his ear, I murmur in French, "If you ever again dare to speak to Rictor in such a manner, I will cut your filthy tongue from your lying mouth, puree it, and force-feed it to you through a straw. This is not a threat; it is a promise."
Releasing him so suddenly that he topples back against Magma, I turn to Aurora. "My apologies," I tell her, as politely as possible because she is a charming person even if her twin is insane, "I enjoyed having quasi-illicit sexual relations with you very much, but I believe I am on the wrong side of the table."
Once again beside Rictor, I place my hand on his shoulder in case anyone else decides to disrespect him. They do not.
"Whenever I feel like life is spiraling out of my control," Monet muses, "I look at you two and feel so much better."
"I know, right?" says Layla.
"Alright, people," Cyclops announces, entirely unperturbed. A hologram of a young man appears on the tabletop. "Let's get down to business. As you all know…"
As he briefs us on the situation-- which offers even more potential for bloodshed than I had hoped-- Tabitha appears at Rictor's side. She looks at my hand as though she would like to bite it off. "Rictor," she snarls. "I am going to kill you!"
"Get in line," he says, glancing across the table at a glowering Northstar. "And get out of my face."
She grasps the lapel of his jacket and yanks his ear to her mouth to hiss, "Do you have any idea how long I've been mad at you for choosing Rahne instead of me?"
"What?" he says.
"What?" says Sam.
"How can you be gay with a haircut like that?" she demands. "And those jeans? They're all wrong."
"I can't believe you just said that," says Anole. He stands some way down the table beside a man who is made of rock. I smile at him. "Are we supposed to look a certain way now?"
Karma adds, "Do you know how incredibly discriminatory that was, Boom-Boom?"
"Don't worry, Scott," one of the Jamies says. "They never listen to me, either."
* * * * *
"Don't talk to me right now," Rictor tells me. "Because if you do, I'm going to punch you in the face." This is the first thing he says to me upon our return. We are just inside the door. Monet has called the first shower, and Layla has led the others to the freezer for ice cream.
"Alright," I say.
He looks at me.
"I would like to talk. You may punch me," I inform him. "Or shoot me if you prefer, though I would ask that you aim well away from any vital areas."
He sighs and turns toward the stairs. "I don't feel like talking."
"Well I do," I tell him, adjusting an unruly sleeve. My jacket is ripped across the shoulder from the battle and spattered with blood, and my pants are torn at the knee. Rictor's clothing is unaltered. He remained on Utopia and monitored our teams while we fought; there was no other suitable job for him. Though he carried out his work admirably, any warrior would feel… out of sorts in such circumstances.
"Well, I don't have anything to say," he tells me.
"I want to thank you for standing up for me against Northstar," I say, forging ahead. I am almost disappointed that he has not punched me. It might do him some good. "I am very grateful. He was in the wrong to bring up such matters at a time of potentially world-altering crisis."
Rictor turns back to me with fire in his eyes. "Yeah? Well I want to thank you for making me look like a complete pendejo in front of every mutant on the planet. Did you see how they stared at me? Highlight of my fucking life. Now go away," he orders. "I said I don't want to talk."
"I believe it was Longshot who did that," I point out, gently.
"If you hadn't been making a spectacle of yourself with that woman," Rictor counters, "he wouldn't've said anything."
I frown. "But I am always making a spectacle of myself-- it is my nature. And why does what Longshot said matter? It was not an untruth. I don't understand why it upset you so."
Rictor scowls. "Look, I just… I don't want to be lumped together with Northstar and Anole and," he looks over his shoulder for assurance that we are alone, and lowers his voice, "and go to Pride parades and wear rainbows and pink triangles, and watch Broadway musicals and talk about gaydar. Okay? I don't want to be stereotyped that way. I don't want to be judged because of who I'm attracted to. I just want to be me."
"I would never judge you for your taste in colors or geometrical designs, and I don't see why anyone else would, either," I assure him.
"They're symbols," he insists, agitated for a reason I cannot grasp. "Every man who likes men is supposed to be a certain way-- it's this gay lifestyle idea-- and I don't wanna be part of that shit. It's degrading."
"You write off a valid identity as a gay man as degrading, yet you desire to be identified as a mutant, something which you are not?" I ask, confused.
"Do you really have to keep reminding me? It's like part of me died, and nobody has the decency to let it lie," he snaps.
"But being in a parade sounds enjoyable," I tell him encouragingly. "We could be on a float. And throw candy!"
"You're unbelievable," he says.
"Perhaps," I concede. I set a hand on his shoulder. "But when you say you are only trying to be yourself, this is untrue. Maybe you have come out of the cupboard, but you are still clinging to the door with a death grip. It does not become you, Rictor."
"Closet, Star," he mutters, pulling away from my touch.
"Whatever," I tell him. "If you truly wish to be the man you were born to be, you should ignore what other people think instead of altering your behavior to fit their standards. Rainbows never hurt anyone, and pink would suit your skin tone. Anole seems friendly-- though he kisses terribly-- and we would have fun in a parade together. You are lying to yourself."
"You know what?" he says. "I'm leaving. I've had it. I can't take any more of this. I'm outta here." He heads back toward the door, not looking at me, and zips up his jacket.
"But we've just returned," I insist. "And my clothing is bloody. Where are we going?"
"We're not going. I'm going," he corrects.
I shake my head, baffled. "But where--"
"Anywhere but here," he says. "Do not follow me. And don't count on seeing me anytime soon."
Stunned, I can only watch as he storms out the door, slamming it with all his might. The action has all the dramatic finality of a season-ending soap opera cliffhanger. I imagine the camera panning from the door to my dismayed face, and the voiceover inviting viewers to tune in next season for the shocking conclusion.
If only someone had shown me the script.
I sit down on the stairs and tug at my torn sleeve again. The hallway feels so very empty without him. Everything feels empty without him. The emotion this evokes defies definition, but it is not a pleasant one. It burns like acid.
I wish Rictor were here to explain it to me.
This thought upsets me terribly.
"Wow," says Layla, coming down the stairs with an ice cream cone in her hand. "That sounded really unpleasant. You should buy me some tequila. I'm underage, so I can't get it myself, but I'm pretty sure it's going to come in handy."
It takes me a moment to comprehend the implications of her presence.
"You know the future. You knew this would happen," I accuse, "yet you did nothing. You let Rictor leave and didn't even warn me. You chose ice cream over your own teammates!"
"It's not that simple, Shatterstar," she attempts to explain. "Maybe I know stuff, but that doesn't mean I can change anything. What's meant to happen is going to happen no matter what. I just sometimes… help things along."
"Then you… helped Rictor leave," I say.
She shrugs.
And suddenly the pieces fall into place.
"It was you the whole time! You broke the washing machine on purpose, didn't you?" I demand. "You sent me to that laundromat because you knew I would meet that man, and it would upset Rictor to be asked to pierce his tongue. You took me to Toronto shopping because you knew Rictor would not go, and you knew I would meet Aurora, and it would drive Rictor from me. You even foresaw his upsetting confrontation with Northstar!"
She smiles. "Yeah, pretty much. Roberto actually would've called Ric on the whole gay thing earlier if I hadn't taken him into the hall and made out with him, but that bitch fight on Utopia was way too entertaining! Oh, and I made sure to bring up Rictor's suicide attempt to Rahne so she'd mention it to you, too."
I stare at her in disbelief.
"Also," she adds, "I ate all your pizza the other day, just to make sure you were good and riled. Gave me a stomachache, though. Next time, less olives."
"This is all your fault," I gape, feeling numb. "Rictor may never come back. You have ruined my life!"
"Sure," Layla shrugs. She licks her ice cream and holds out a twenty dollar bill. "Now could you get me some tequila?"
FINAL PART!