What if...?
What If Piotr had a more of an 'Ultimate' streak to him?
10 September 2000
The Sanctuary Roof
There is an innocence about the young figure perched on the stonework close to the edge of the Sanctuary's roof despite his physical size, such that, when he asked in his faltering English if he might be allowed to come up here to draw, the establishment's owner could not find it in her heart to refuse. Now, a soft pencil works carefully across the open page of Piotr's sketchbook, describing in dark greys a cityscape under the day's moody, autumnal clouds.
A brief and passing wind, fitting in nicely with the seasonal atmosphere, the kind of breeze that pulls leaves from dry branches and brings a bit of a chill to uncovered skin. Without warning or any other heraldry, footsteps as quiet as a cat's land on the roof of the Sanctuary, the slide of a heel against the stone in turning bring attention to the latest visitor. A slim looking teen in a hoodhead sweatshirt pulled up over his head, a bit of fringy bangs peeking out from inside, stood not a few feet from the large Russian artist. A brief moment of surprise, he shook his head. "Pardon," he mumbled
Consumed in his work, the quiet sounds of the newcomer's arrival register only vaguely in Piotr's mind, as he fumbles to put down on paper the reflection of a ray of dirty sun on an equally grimy window. It is only when the Canadian speaks that he looks up, offering a faint smile to quietly indicate that no apology is necessary. "There is no trouble," he adds in case the gesture was not enough, though his words do little to clarify his meaning. "I am Peter," he adds, by way of polite introduction.
Jean-Paul silently kicks himself for even saying a word as it looks as if he could have gone completely unknown if he'd just kept quiet. As the boy turns back, the kicking isn't as fierce. He wasn't looking for artful speech, maybe a little French would have been nice, so the lack of clarity to his words rather rolls off him like water off a duck's back. He sways slightly, before giving into the impulse for introductions. "Eh, Jean-Paul," he tosses off, going so far as to toss his head in turn to shake the hair from his eyes. The action causes him to see the sketchpad, the artwork... more surprising to him than seeing someone else on an empty rooftop. "You... are an artist," he states more than questions, accent making his words seem round and vowely.
Piotr ducks his head a little in an embarrassed acknowledgement of the words, a rosy tint coming to the fair skin of his cheeks. "I- I will like to be," he ventures, looking up at the stranger from under furrowed brows before he turns away quickly, glancing at the sketch on the paper and covering it with a hand that is still a little large for the rest of his body. "I am not so good now."
Jean-Paul's words had a bite to them, a bitter tone developed from years of disappointment and let-down. But standing there, looking back at the face that had turned around to see his rather suspicious appearance on top of a not-so-well-known roof spot, that bite didn't even have bark. He was more curious than he should have been. "You wish to be... and are on a very high roof to do such things." A look at the very large hand. "You are... better than those who try on the ground, no?"
This is a cause for confusion as Piotr wonders if there is some extra meaning to Jean-Paul's words, some idiomatic subtext beyond the literal that he cannot decipher. "I want to draw the roofs and the sky," he says, almost gesturing towards the urban landscape ahead of him, but changing his mind at the last minute and keeping his hand protectively on the page instead. "So I must be high up, so I can see them and draw them."
So he wasn't funny. He didn't know if there was any difference drawing above than below only that everyone else with a pencil and paper seemed to be on the ground. He makes a little noise, a 'hmn' of understanding as things were explained. Even without the gesture, Jean-Paul looks up at the sky and the tops of tall buildings, seeing a little of what the strong young man could have been called to. Everything looked so small from up here...
Feeling a little awkward with the silence, unsure whether he had caused it through some failing in courtesy or people skills, Piotr slides the pencil into his other hand, securing it between fingers and sketchbook, so that he can point out towards the buildings ahead of him. "There is nice light there," he says, indicating a place where the sun's rays clip a shining metal framework on a roof not far away. "And," he continues valiantly, trying to justify his position as his hand swings round to the other side of his centre, "this little garden, in the middle of the city, it is beautiful."
Jean-Paul follows the travelogue, more comfortable with the silence than his rooftop counterpart. His eyes follow to the shine and to the green, brow coming in a little 'v' at the notion of a garden in all of this. He moves right to the edge, as if he was walking across large and level ground without a speck of acknowledgement of the heights. "Garden?,' he notes with a bit of disbelief, as if he'd been told there was a fountain of youth or a well-meaning philanthropist at the sidewalk's edge. "Rather small...""
"Be warning," Piotr says quickly as his companion approaches the edge, putting his hand out in caution. "Ah, no," he corrects himself with a deep frown and a rise of colour in his cheeks, "careful, be careful. I am sorry, my English is not so good." He follows Jean-Paul's gaze back to the garden, treating its defiant green grass and bright flowers to a fond smile. "Yes, it is small," he agrees. "But also, it is beautiful."
Just a trick of timing, but as Piotr reaches out, Jean-Paul's head turned back, invisible strings at work for the more astute or poetically minded. He smiles a bit as the large man corrects his language, appreciative of the effort, and says, "You see beauty in the city as this..." He is no longer interested in the garden below.
Piotr looks at Jean-Paul as he speaks, a darting movement of the eyes before his gaze returns to the garden. Then, moving slowly as he chooses his words, he looks back to the Canadian. His head tilts a little to the side, a sheepish smile that is only half for his companion dancing on his lips as he pronounces, "There is beauty in everything, if we are looking to see it."
Jean-Paul seems to laugh; not sound, just a small shake of his shoulders and a jump at the corners of his lips. "Vous êtes artiste," he tells him. He looks back down, working to see the garden for the grime and grit of the asphalt jungle.
The Russian's heavy brow creases into a tiny frown as he attempts to decipher the words, looking up at his companion in confusion. "I- I am sorry," he mumbles apologetically, his head retreating a little towards his broad shoulders in embarrassment, "I do not understand."
The large boy shrinks, the smaller one gets bolder, stepping away from the edge to shake his head ruefully and come rather close to Russian. Just within that social boundary where one is too close, but not close enough to warrant saying anything. "You do not speak French," Jean-Paul assures him, as if trying to explain. "I said... you are an artist."
Piotr's blush comes more strongly to his cheeks now, still not the burning red it can be, but pink enough that it stands out even in the now-waning evening light. His fingers curl reflexively around the pencil he holds as his head tips back a little further from his companion. "I hope to be this," he repeats, self-doubt hand in hand with mild discomfort at Jean-Paul's proximity.
Jean-Paul lets his eyes fall towards the sketch pad again, then to his feet where another round of French is spoken, all in a blur of more vowely sounds before he looks back again, speaking from one language to the next like a shift of weight, one foot to the other. "Do you come to here often, to hope such things?," he asks, knowing full well how his words have to sound.
The cliché of American culture is lost on the Russian, and Piotr assigns to the words their literal meaning, the only one he is able to see. "I am always hoping this," he corrects gently. "This is the first time I have been here to draw. I like to draw many things." He pauses, then offers an awkward smile to the stranger. "What do you hope for?"
A myriad of things come to Jean-Paul's head, each more depressing than the next. Not to mention that it's a long list long forgot, back when hope was a luxury he could afford. All of it shows for just a flicker of blankness to his features, before he chuffs out a sound and looks back to the sky. He wouldn't dare unleash his woes and fears on some unsuspecting beauty seeker. "Are you single?," he asks openly, daringly out into the autumn air.
Quiet and private as he is, being propositioned is not something that is within Piotr's sphere of experience, much less being propositioned by a boy. Shock registers on his face and in the clattering and thump of his pencil and sketchbook dropping onto the roof, but perhaps the most noticeable result of the question is that, in place of skin, Piotr has turned to steel, growing until his tee shirt and pants strain at the seams. His mouth opens and shuts like a goldfish.
Jean-Paul was still smiling, ready to take whatever answer that came at him. He could go to the edge of the rooftop without fear, he could take an upset teenager should things go wrong very quickly. Maybe it had been that one moment of silence or that one moment of truth that Piotr had spoken about beauty, but the French-Canadian boy had lost complete sight of why he'd come up to a rooftop in the first place. A beat, no answer came forth and Jean-Paul looked back down, smile to smirk as he had probably just overstepped his bounds completely and got ready to diffuse his bold statement when something shone a little too brightly at the corner of his eye. Squinting slightly, he turned to see... something that struck him dumb on the spot, leaving him practically breathless. Awe spread over his features as he looked at the metal man, whispering, "Mon dieu... "
Incomprehension morphs quickly into panic, and Piotr forces his eyes shut, willing himself to change forms once more and revert to flesh. A moment passes before, almost tentatively, he shrinks back down to his usual - still considerable - size, and the metal rescinds to reveal a burning blush that has spread beyond his cheeks right down his neck below his collar. Muttering to himself in swift, almost silent Russian, he kneels to pick up his pencil and sketchbook, and to avoid meeting Jean-Paul's eyes.
More silence to discomfort the soul. Jean-Paul takes it in, struck by the beauty he is looking to see. And see he does as the steel rescinds into skin, possibly one of the most fascinating things he could even imagine, let alone witness in person, not but within arm's reach. Movement follows the embarrassed blush, but does not get far as Jean-Paul meets him on the ground, kneeling with him, "Non, wait...." He sounds small, young, hopeful.
The look of panic is still there as Piotr looks up from the floor, clutching the pencil and sketchbook as if for protection. The gentility of Jean-Paul's voice, however, draws the fear from his expression, leaving only confusion as he meets the young boy's eyes, brows meeting and mouth still open from his failed attempts to form a response. He remains silent rather than try again.
Closer and closer still, Jean-Paul felt less and less like himself the closer he came within Piotr's presence. Less like himself... and more like the kind of kid he would want to be. First off, getting to be a kid, his troubles behind him for the present and the deerlike look being given to him. Not so much of a stare than just the world on pause as things sort themselves out and come to some sort of realization of one amazing moment taking place after another. He waited, balancing for a moment between Piotr's fear and his own uncertainty, but couldn't stop his mouth from saying quietly, "... you... you haven't answered my question."
There is a strange sense of quiet as Piotr too notices the tranquillity of the moment, and the confusion too drains from his expression, leaving only a naive curiosity. He blinks slowly then, careful not to slip into his native language, he answers in a half-whisper. "Yes."
Jean-Paul smiles, a little lopsided, but a smile nonetheless. "Me too," he replies just as quiet, as if they were slowly edging their way on a narrow ledge of confusion, back to normal conversation. The way things were before. Now that the question had been settled, he took a comfortable pause to let it sink in before asking, "Are you hungry?" No mention yet of his skin, how it happened, no pressure, just... innocence. Piotr was infectious.
Piotr begins to shake his head and politely decline, before two truths hit home: one that, as a growing young man, he is indeed hungry, and the other that, in fact, he doesn't want to decline. He changes the motion into a slow, clumsy nod and stands, sliding his pencil into his pocket and wrapping an arm across his front to keep his sketchbook pressed safe against his stomach. "I- I am a mutant," he mutters quietly, apologetically and, under the circumstances, needlessly.
Jean-Paul made no note of the fact he had pretty much assumed that part. The fact it was even spoken was taken in and digested along with all the other tidbits of this strange chance meeting. He hadn't even noticed he hadn't stopped smiling. "You are brave," he notes, leaning up with Piotr to stand at a scruffy stance, more open than the Russian's possessive press of sketchbook to his muscular chest. "To say so." He desperately wanted to just... touch him, just reach out and put his fingers to his skin as if he could feel the metal underneath, hiding, something. His hands were roughly shoved into his pockets.
Lowering his eyes to the floor, Piotr gives a wan smile in response as if he was only just realising how unnecessary the statement was, still shyly proud of the praise it elicited. "You do not fear?" he asks, raising his sky blue gaze to sweep his companion's features for some sign of nervousness, the desire to escape with which he was all too familiar.
... and at the same time, Jean-Paul was watching him for the same thing. After all, it was the Russian who had thought to bolt while he stood there, like a fool. It was a tightrope walk to make sure he didn't stick his foot in his mouth again and cause the poor young man to take off, never to be found again in such a city, no matter how long one would look for a garden in the metropolis. "Non," he said, tipping his chin up on purpose, as if to prove it. The same smile. "I... look for beauty, as well."
Set back in 2000, Piotr meets a boy who is new to America, and discovers something new to himself.
10 September 2000
The Sanctuary Roof
There is an innocence about the young figure perched on the stonework close to the edge of the Sanctuary's roof despite his physical size, such that, when he asked in his faltering English if he might be allowed to come up here to draw, the establishment's owner could not find it in her heart to refuse. Now, a soft pencil works carefully across the open page of Piotr's sketchbook, describing in dark greys a cityscape under the day's moody, autumnal clouds.
A brief and passing wind, fitting in nicely with the seasonal atmosphere, the kind of breeze that pulls leaves from dry branches and brings a bit of a chill to uncovered skin. Without warning or any other heraldry, footsteps as quiet as a cat's land on the roof of the Sanctuary, the slide of a heel against the stone in turning bring attention to the latest visitor. A slim looking teen in a hoodhead sweatshirt pulled up over his head, a bit of fringy bangs peeking out from inside, stood not a few feet from the large Russian artist. A brief moment of surprise, he shook his head. "Pardon," he mumbled
Consumed in his work, the quiet sounds of the newcomer's arrival register only vaguely in Piotr's mind, as he fumbles to put down on paper the reflection of a ray of dirty sun on an equally grimy window. It is only when the Canadian speaks that he looks up, offering a faint smile to quietly indicate that no apology is necessary. "There is no trouble," he adds in case the gesture was not enough, though his words do little to clarify his meaning. "I am Peter," he adds, by way of polite introduction.
Jean-Paul silently kicks himself for even saying a word as it looks as if he could have gone completely unknown if he'd just kept quiet. As the boy turns back, the kicking isn't as fierce. He wasn't looking for artful speech, maybe a little French would have been nice, so the lack of clarity to his words rather rolls off him like water off a duck's back. He sways slightly, before giving into the impulse for introductions. "Eh, Jean-Paul," he tosses off, going so far as to toss his head in turn to shake the hair from his eyes. The action causes him to see the sketchpad, the artwork... more surprising to him than seeing someone else on an empty rooftop. "You... are an artist," he states more than questions, accent making his words seem round and vowely.
Piotr ducks his head a little in an embarrassed acknowledgement of the words, a rosy tint coming to the fair skin of his cheeks. "I- I will like to be," he ventures, looking up at the stranger from under furrowed brows before he turns away quickly, glancing at the sketch on the paper and covering it with a hand that is still a little large for the rest of his body. "I am not so good now."
Jean-Paul's words had a bite to them, a bitter tone developed from years of disappointment and let-down. But standing there, looking back at the face that had turned around to see his rather suspicious appearance on top of a not-so-well-known roof spot, that bite didn't even have bark. He was more curious than he should have been. "You wish to be... and are on a very high roof to do such things." A look at the very large hand. "You are... better than those who try on the ground, no?"
This is a cause for confusion as Piotr wonders if there is some extra meaning to Jean-Paul's words, some idiomatic subtext beyond the literal that he cannot decipher. "I want to draw the roofs and the sky," he says, almost gesturing towards the urban landscape ahead of him, but changing his mind at the last minute and keeping his hand protectively on the page instead. "So I must be high up, so I can see them and draw them."
So he wasn't funny. He didn't know if there was any difference drawing above than below only that everyone else with a pencil and paper seemed to be on the ground. He makes a little noise, a 'hmn' of understanding as things were explained. Even without the gesture, Jean-Paul looks up at the sky and the tops of tall buildings, seeing a little of what the strong young man could have been called to. Everything looked so small from up here...
Feeling a little awkward with the silence, unsure whether he had caused it through some failing in courtesy or people skills, Piotr slides the pencil into his other hand, securing it between fingers and sketchbook, so that he can point out towards the buildings ahead of him. "There is nice light there," he says, indicating a place where the sun's rays clip a shining metal framework on a roof not far away. "And," he continues valiantly, trying to justify his position as his hand swings round to the other side of his centre, "this little garden, in the middle of the city, it is beautiful."
Jean-Paul follows the travelogue, more comfortable with the silence than his rooftop counterpart. His eyes follow to the shine and to the green, brow coming in a little 'v' at the notion of a garden in all of this. He moves right to the edge, as if he was walking across large and level ground without a speck of acknowledgement of the heights. "Garden?,' he notes with a bit of disbelief, as if he'd been told there was a fountain of youth or a well-meaning philanthropist at the sidewalk's edge. "Rather small...""
"Be warning," Piotr says quickly as his companion approaches the edge, putting his hand out in caution. "Ah, no," he corrects himself with a deep frown and a rise of colour in his cheeks, "careful, be careful. I am sorry, my English is not so good." He follows Jean-Paul's gaze back to the garden, treating its defiant green grass and bright flowers to a fond smile. "Yes, it is small," he agrees. "But also, it is beautiful."
Just a trick of timing, but as Piotr reaches out, Jean-Paul's head turned back, invisible strings at work for the more astute or poetically minded. He smiles a bit as the large man corrects his language, appreciative of the effort, and says, "You see beauty in the city as this..." He is no longer interested in the garden below.
Piotr looks at Jean-Paul as he speaks, a darting movement of the eyes before his gaze returns to the garden. Then, moving slowly as he chooses his words, he looks back to the Canadian. His head tilts a little to the side, a sheepish smile that is only half for his companion dancing on his lips as he pronounces, "There is beauty in everything, if we are looking to see it."
Jean-Paul seems to laugh; not sound, just a small shake of his shoulders and a jump at the corners of his lips. "Vous êtes artiste," he tells him. He looks back down, working to see the garden for the grime and grit of the asphalt jungle.
The Russian's heavy brow creases into a tiny frown as he attempts to decipher the words, looking up at his companion in confusion. "I- I am sorry," he mumbles apologetically, his head retreating a little towards his broad shoulders in embarrassment, "I do not understand."
The large boy shrinks, the smaller one gets bolder, stepping away from the edge to shake his head ruefully and come rather close to Russian. Just within that social boundary where one is too close, but not close enough to warrant saying anything. "You do not speak French," Jean-Paul assures him, as if trying to explain. "I said... you are an artist."
Piotr's blush comes more strongly to his cheeks now, still not the burning red it can be, but pink enough that it stands out even in the now-waning evening light. His fingers curl reflexively around the pencil he holds as his head tips back a little further from his companion. "I hope to be this," he repeats, self-doubt hand in hand with mild discomfort at Jean-Paul's proximity.
Jean-Paul lets his eyes fall towards the sketch pad again, then to his feet where another round of French is spoken, all in a blur of more vowely sounds before he looks back again, speaking from one language to the next like a shift of weight, one foot to the other. "Do you come to here often, to hope such things?," he asks, knowing full well how his words have to sound.
The cliché of American culture is lost on the Russian, and Piotr assigns to the words their literal meaning, the only one he is able to see. "I am always hoping this," he corrects gently. "This is the first time I have been here to draw. I like to draw many things." He pauses, then offers an awkward smile to the stranger. "What do you hope for?"
A myriad of things come to Jean-Paul's head, each more depressing than the next. Not to mention that it's a long list long forgot, back when hope was a luxury he could afford. All of it shows for just a flicker of blankness to his features, before he chuffs out a sound and looks back to the sky. He wouldn't dare unleash his woes and fears on some unsuspecting beauty seeker. "Are you single?," he asks openly, daringly out into the autumn air.
Quiet and private as he is, being propositioned is not something that is within Piotr's sphere of experience, much less being propositioned by a boy. Shock registers on his face and in the clattering and thump of his pencil and sketchbook dropping onto the roof, but perhaps the most noticeable result of the question is that, in place of skin, Piotr has turned to steel, growing until his tee shirt and pants strain at the seams. His mouth opens and shuts like a goldfish.
Jean-Paul was still smiling, ready to take whatever answer that came at him. He could go to the edge of the rooftop without fear, he could take an upset teenager should things go wrong very quickly. Maybe it had been that one moment of silence or that one moment of truth that Piotr had spoken about beauty, but the French-Canadian boy had lost complete sight of why he'd come up to a rooftop in the first place. A beat, no answer came forth and Jean-Paul looked back down, smile to smirk as he had probably just overstepped his bounds completely and got ready to diffuse his bold statement when something shone a little too brightly at the corner of his eye. Squinting slightly, he turned to see... something that struck him dumb on the spot, leaving him practically breathless. Awe spread over his features as he looked at the metal man, whispering, "Mon dieu... "
Incomprehension morphs quickly into panic, and Piotr forces his eyes shut, willing himself to change forms once more and revert to flesh. A moment passes before, almost tentatively, he shrinks back down to his usual - still considerable - size, and the metal rescinds to reveal a burning blush that has spread beyond his cheeks right down his neck below his collar. Muttering to himself in swift, almost silent Russian, he kneels to pick up his pencil and sketchbook, and to avoid meeting Jean-Paul's eyes.
More silence to discomfort the soul. Jean-Paul takes it in, struck by the beauty he is looking to see. And see he does as the steel rescinds into skin, possibly one of the most fascinating things he could even imagine, let alone witness in person, not but within arm's reach. Movement follows the embarrassed blush, but does not get far as Jean-Paul meets him on the ground, kneeling with him, "Non, wait...." He sounds small, young, hopeful.
The look of panic is still there as Piotr looks up from the floor, clutching the pencil and sketchbook as if for protection. The gentility of Jean-Paul's voice, however, draws the fear from his expression, leaving only confusion as he meets the young boy's eyes, brows meeting and mouth still open from his failed attempts to form a response. He remains silent rather than try again.
Closer and closer still, Jean-Paul felt less and less like himself the closer he came within Piotr's presence. Less like himself... and more like the kind of kid he would want to be. First off, getting to be a kid, his troubles behind him for the present and the deerlike look being given to him. Not so much of a stare than just the world on pause as things sort themselves out and come to some sort of realization of one amazing moment taking place after another. He waited, balancing for a moment between Piotr's fear and his own uncertainty, but couldn't stop his mouth from saying quietly, "... you... you haven't answered my question."
There is a strange sense of quiet as Piotr too notices the tranquillity of the moment, and the confusion too drains from his expression, leaving only a naive curiosity. He blinks slowly then, careful not to slip into his native language, he answers in a half-whisper. "Yes."
Jean-Paul smiles, a little lopsided, but a smile nonetheless. "Me too," he replies just as quiet, as if they were slowly edging their way on a narrow ledge of confusion, back to normal conversation. The way things were before. Now that the question had been settled, he took a comfortable pause to let it sink in before asking, "Are you hungry?" No mention yet of his skin, how it happened, no pressure, just... innocence. Piotr was infectious.
Piotr begins to shake his head and politely decline, before two truths hit home: one that, as a growing young man, he is indeed hungry, and the other that, in fact, he doesn't want to decline. He changes the motion into a slow, clumsy nod and stands, sliding his pencil into his pocket and wrapping an arm across his front to keep his sketchbook pressed safe against his stomach. "I- I am a mutant," he mutters quietly, apologetically and, under the circumstances, needlessly.
Jean-Paul made no note of the fact he had pretty much assumed that part. The fact it was even spoken was taken in and digested along with all the other tidbits of this strange chance meeting. He hadn't even noticed he hadn't stopped smiling. "You are brave," he notes, leaning up with Piotr to stand at a scruffy stance, more open than the Russian's possessive press of sketchbook to his muscular chest. "To say so." He desperately wanted to just... touch him, just reach out and put his fingers to his skin as if he could feel the metal underneath, hiding, something. His hands were roughly shoved into his pockets.
Lowering his eyes to the floor, Piotr gives a wan smile in response as if he was only just realising how unnecessary the statement was, still shyly proud of the praise it elicited. "You do not fear?" he asks, raising his sky blue gaze to sweep his companion's features for some sign of nervousness, the desire to escape with which he was all too familiar.
... and at the same time, Jean-Paul was watching him for the same thing. After all, it was the Russian who had thought to bolt while he stood there, like a fool. It was a tightrope walk to make sure he didn't stick his foot in his mouth again and cause the poor young man to take off, never to be found again in such a city, no matter how long one would look for a garden in the metropolis. "Non," he said, tipping his chin up on purpose, as if to prove it. The same smile. "I... look for beauty, as well."
Set back in 2000, Piotr meets a boy who is new to America, and discovers something new to himself.