(no subject)
Piotr was scarce on Christmas Day, having no presents or even cards for anyone and not wishing to dampen anyone else's spirits with his presence. He spent much of the day alone in his room hunched over his desk, but for once he was not drawing. Instead he wrote, covering page after page in neat Cyrillic characters written in pencil on lined paper. The finished sheets were placed in his top drawer, out of sight but not exactly hidden.
I am so very lost at the moment.
In the wake of what has happened, I barely know who I am, and I have no idea what I should do.
Who am I? When the Professor first removed the influence in my mind, for days, I believed that that, in my uncontrolled state, was fundamentally me. The thought scared me and horrified me, and I think perhaps I would have run away, fled from all the people here, all these people I love and could hurt so much. Have hurt so much. I was close to running. Very close. But something stopped me, the Professor, the things he showed me when he was restoring my control, the man I was. The man I thought I was. Even when Jean suggested that I go, I did not want to. My heart longs to make things right.
I came to believe that that was not me at all, that it was how I tried to act rather than those parts of me that I hate that defined who I am. I told Wesley that, and I think I still believe it. Partly. Perhaps Logan came closer to the truth when he said that I am both - in fact, surely that must be the case. But what does that say about me, about who I am?
I have never liked to hurt anyone, to cause harm at all. I always feared what my strength made me capable of, which is why I have fought so hard for control all my life, even before I knew I was a mutant, when I was simply an unusually strong youngster on the farm. It is why I was so concerned when Walter hit me after the school was attacked, because I see so much of myself in him, and to see that he must lash out to relieve his feelings when he is suffering is a warning to me that he is heading for a future where he might cause someone a great deal of harm.
But I am avoiding speaking of what really concerns me. At Jones' memorial, I thought a lot about death. It is inevitable and final, but beyond that I had not thought about it much before. Someone willingly caused Jones' death. How terrible, how truly awful must a person be to rob another of his future, his life, to think about and know what he is doing, and do it anyway?
Now I know that, at some level, I am capable of doing this terrible thing. If Scott had not stopped me, I would have killed him when he came to find me amongst the cliffs. Murder. And what I almost did to Jubilee. There is a part of me that can and will do these things, base and vile as they are. Is that part of being human, being descended from animals with no concept of right and wrong - is it something in the heart of everyone, that thousands upon thousands of years of evolution and society have buried deep and that would have been revealed no matter who the telepath attacked?
Or, more horribly, is it something that I am alone in having within me, or something that I share with very few? The man who attacked a school and shot a child. Do I have more in common with him than with the rest of the world?
Rogue. She tried to kill me. A death in exchange for broken ribs and attempted what I tried to do. She certainly had more reason for her actions than I did, a far greater justification, but she still tried to cause a death. I think I need to talk to her, but I do not know what I will say. She would not help me, of that I am sure, and there is no reason why she should. A lot of people have been forgiving of my actions. Too many, perhaps, for the pain I have caused. A part of me thinks it would have been easier if they had shouted, if they had cast me out, if Rogue or Wolverine had killed me.
Because however much I keep it down, the temptation to run away is still there, and the reasons I find for leaving keep increasing in the sense they make. Perhaps it is my mind trying to make excuses for cowardly actions, or perhaps to go is truly the best thing to do. Jean did, she said. To hide away, to give things time to heal. I want to stay, to work to change and undo - or, no. To attempt to make amends for everything that I have done. And yet, what is there here that I can do?
I want to stay at the school to help the children. Speaking with Paige gave me hope, and dear, sweet Yvette may need my help where no one else can give it. Some of the children trust me again, I know that. Aly thanked me. Thanked me. I am not sure that she or they completely understand what I have done. The worst things are still unknown to them. But others - there is fear. Cassy and Mira. What if they had been caught outside of the school grounds after the soldiers pulled out? That would have been on my head, more blood on my hands, a direct result of my own actions. Am I doing more harm than good by staying? The people from the government are asking many questions, and my actions have formed the worst of the answers to all of them. If the school is closed, if they are no longer allowed to foster children, then that is all my doing. Even Yvette, once Forge makes her protective suit, will have no need of me.
And the team as well. Can I even offer help to them at all any more? We are trained to fight, and even in the name of defence I am not certain that I can do that any more. I am determined - more than determined: certain, absolute - that I will never kill. I cannot and will not allow myself to do it. There are other functions of the team, yes, but that one in particular seems to always return to the fore, and I do not even wish to cause harm to another human being, no matter what he may be doing. Even if I met Magneto, or Victor Creed, I do not know what I would do. I would fight, I think. Yes, I would fight them, if they threatened another, but do I want to put myself in a position where I would be forced to do that? Always before I have felt responsibility to the team: I must do this, I must fight this fight, to prevent another from having to, and this is still a strong pull, but I have to wonder now if fighting that fight is destroying me. Is it selfish to ask that? Or, perhaps, am I already destroyed, have I been since my birth? Should I carry on to prevent another from having to walk this path?
Would anyone even want me to carry on? The Professor, he called to me when the school was being attacked, addressed me as one of the X-Men. - And seeing what I did there, what could have happened had I not gone to help the children, makes me question more what I have just asked about if I am needed. I am so confused. - But the team holds each others' lives in their hands, and to do that needs trust. Who among them can trust me now? Wolverine said it would take time, but can I ever completely repair the trust I have broken? Could they trust their lives to me? Rogue and Jubilee especially - that, I fear, is something I can never mend.
Some times it seems that there is little reason to stay, and other times I feel it would be cowardly and selfish to go. Where would I go? Jean said she had a place, but if I do not stay to help the school, I feel there is little use for me here in America. I could continue with college, but it feels wasteful of me. What is there to gain from me doing this? To learn a little more about art, and gain a degree for myself in this subject where a degree barely more than a piece of paper. Wasteful. I would go back to Russia. There, at least, I would know that I was doing something to help. I could work on the farm again, I could be helpful there without ever having to harm anyone. Mikhail would be gruff about me going away and returning so shamefully, but I think in truth he would be glad of an extra pair of hands around the place. It would be good to see Mama again.
But what of Illyana? If I were to go back to Russia and she found her way back to America, what would become of her? If she came back to Russia and I stayed here, what then? My beautiful Snowflake. If I had never come to America, would you still be safe at home, or would you still be stuck in that nightmare where we found you? Is that where you are now? My sweet baby sister, what would you think of your brother now, if you knew what he had done, what I could have done to Scott and Jubilee?
Jubilee. I still need to speak to her. I want desperately to do something, to make this right between us, or at least to show her how very deeply sorry I am, but what can I do? Seven, eight years of friendship I destroyed in one single action. If I tried for another eight years, or eighty, could we get along as we once did? Wesley told me to give it time, but is there enough time in the world to heal the wounds I have dealt to her?
Jackson, he has forgiven me. I do not know how, but somehow he has found it in his heart to care for me still after what I have done. Perhaps, in perspective, after what Wolverine did to him in his right mind, my actions towards him under the influence of a telepath do not seem so bad. Because of that forgiveness, I confessed to him my fears of how I have changed, what I have discovered, and still he was willing to be my friend. Does that make him the greatest of friends, ready to stand by me through thick and thin, or does that make him a fool, and perhaps a traitor to the others I have hurt? Either way, I do not deserve his friendship.
And then, there is… there is Kitty. What a truly, truly horrible situation I have put her in. What a fool I am. Her care for me has cost her her friendship with Rogue, and undoubtedly with Jubilee too. I should leave. Perhaps for her more than anything, I should walk away, I should go back to Russia. Hers is one life I am still ruining, and I can change that by leaving now. And yet, Kitty is perhaps one of the main reasons I am finding it so hard to leave. Aside from this school being like a home, and a place I have a duty to, it is the place where Katya lives. I want to be near her, I want to be close to her, even if it burns a new piece of my heart each time I pass her in the corridor and she gives me that look of sad fondness, that look of sympathy mixed with pain. I… I cannot believe this. I can barely write it, as if putting it on paper makes it real, makes it irrefutable, even though I already know that it is. I will try.
This is hard.
I love her.
There.
I am certain of it. I have known her since she walked away from me in the medbay so soon after it happened. I think I made her cry, though she tried to hide it. Seeing her like that, in such misery, knowing that I had caused it, knowing that I might have lost her forever - it hurt so much that I truly felt that everything was crumbling beneath me. I am almost weeping now, just thinking of it.
But I cannot tell her. After everything that has happened, that would be more cruel than any other blow I could inflict. She has already chosen me over others when I am sure she should not, but what a mess I would place her in if I told her I was in love. With her. It does not get easier to write. I want to tell her, I want to tell everyone, but this feeling that should be joyous is eating me up like a burning coal at my heart. I should go, for her sake, but she is keeping me here without even knowing about it.
I am so selfish, nothing but a source of pain for others when I want no more than to keep each one of them safe, and I am too afraid to leave despite that.
I wish I were at home today with my family. Mama and Mikhail - I wish Papa and Illyana were there too. I think if they were, the choice to leave America would not be so hard. I wish I had never come to this country in the first place. How much harm would have been prevented? How much heartache would I have been spared?
I should go, and yet, I cannot. Downstairs now, the few children who are left are playing games. They are trying to forget the things that have happened to them in the past few weeks, trying not to remember the child who is no longer here to play along with them. There are presents and tasty food and goodwill to all men.
I have no religion, and at home we never celebrated Christmas, but I have always enjoyed the festival time here. In the years before, I have seen such goodwill, the happiness of the season spread throughout the hearts and minds our mismatched collection of people thrown together by nothing more than a random fact of genetics. Even this year, there has been a little of that happiness. I have no faith in any god, and I certainly have no faith left in myself, but it is not possible to hear the sounds of happiness from children who have lost so very much and not retain at least some faith in people, in humanity as a whole. I truly, deeply hope they have a merry Christmas.
23 December 2006
The Blue Guest Room
Jackson's duffel bag is open on his bed. Meticulously folded clothes are being transferred from his chest of drawers to the bag; beside it, his art case is also awaiting being packed full of supplies. He hums quietly to himself as he works, an Advent hymn, though the wires clamping his jaws shut prevent him from giving words to his tune.
The steady pace of footsteps up from the stairwell slows to something rather more tentative as the carefully gentle tread approaches the door to Jackson's guest room. An equally tentative hand, its touch as light and restrained as the steps lifts to rap twice on the door. "Jackson?" Piotr calls out quietly, knowing his accent will be enough to give his identity away should the younger man want to make an excuse not to see him.
Inside, Jackson freezes, head bowing and his eyes slipping shut as he hears Piotr's voice. For a long moment he does not respond, and when the answer does come it is not verbal. The lock clicks, and the door is pulled open, and Jackson, still dressed in somber black slacks and dress shirt from the memorial, though his jacket has been discarded, turns back to his packing.
The opening of the door frames the picture of Piotr, dressed as sombrely as Jackson, his own jacket still present, widening his already broad shoulders with the stiff lines of neat, black fabric. His already solemn expression becomes taut around the eyes with regret old and new as he sees his younger friend and he is unable to hold his gaze up, dropping it quickly and awkwardly to Jackson's shoulder. "How are you?" he asks quietly.
Silent, Jackson tucks a small stack of t-shirts before taking a deep breath and turning to face Piotr. There is warmth, still, in his bright blue eyes, even if it is somewhat more reserved than his usual, and masked behind the tired sadness that holds the school in the wake of recent events. His lips twitch, automatically trying to form words before he remembers the wires preventing this. Wrinkling his nose slightly, he tries a different tactic, a comic-strip speech bubble appearing beside his head, the words inside written in Jackson's own neat handwriting: /Holding up. How are /you/, hon? I've been wanting to talk to you, but./ One shoulder lifts in half a shrug.
The speech bubble draws a blink of tired surprise from the Russian, the ghost of mild amusement that might at other times have accompanied this method of communication tugging his lips into a thin downwards curl in the light of everything that has happened. It is a moment more before Piotr answers, tasting several replies to find one that is true, but at the same time not too miserable. "I am as well as could be expected," he settles for, his attention moving back to Jackson's face to meet his eyes fully. "I am sorry, truly, deeply sorry."
/I know,/ comes the answer, but despite this Jackson tenses for a moment, before shaking his head sadly. One hand reaches out to touch the larger man's arm, lightly, before dropping back to Jackson's side. /They said you weren't in control./ Written, as it is, the sentence lacks a tone to clarify it. Jackson's eyes stay steady on Piotr, more thoughtful than anything else.
The tonelessness is answered with Piotr's attempt at the same detachment, an explanatory, scientific reply that he cannot keep clear of his consuming regret. "No, I was not. There was a telepathic influence attacking my self control, my perception of right and wrong actions. I do not think it had not completely taken hold of me by the time I-- I hurt you." His words already quiet, his voice drops further still before he offers his guilt-laden explanation, barely more than a whisper. "You are still alive."
/I am alive./ Jackson's brow furrows, his arms twitching slightly at his sides before he joins them, fingers lacing together behind his back to restrain any further movement. /They fixed you?/ This one, at least, though still lacking tone, has the appropriate punctuation to turn it into a question.
A silent, painful intake of breath matches Jackson's equally soundless repetition as Piotr flinches internally under the weight of his own accusations, and he grasps onto the question to drag himself out of the sucking maw of emotional quicksand. "The Professor removed the influence," he gives in answer. "I will not be harming anyone again."
Jackson nods once, slowly. His lips part again in attempt at speech before closing as his nose wrinkles in a grimace of frustration. /Good. Cuz I missed you./ writes his mutation, the brightness glistening in his eyes as he looks up at his friend lending, at least, some emotion to the inadequate written words.
Piotr's face forms a momentary picture of incomprehension before splitting to a tiny smile that fades just as quickly to a look of deep, saddened thought. "That-- that means a lot to me," he tells his friend, the words punctuated by tense, heavy breaths, before he carries on, the strength of conviction of his previous words failing. "But I am not so sure I am the same person that I was before."
The cuff on the sleeve of Jackson's dress shirt is not particularly absorbant. Nevertheless, it is employed now in carefully dabbing moisture from Jackson's eyes before it can condense enough to fall and -- God forbid -- streak his eyeliner. /You've been through a lot. I've been praying for you every day./ For a moment Jackson's eyes drop to the floor before lifting, still thoughtful and only slightly dryer, back up to Piotr. /I'd like to get to know the Piotr you are, then, if you'll let me./
"Are you sure?" Piotr asks in quick response, his words shrouded in a strange, twisted darkness of bitter self-deprecation, their bite harsh against the look of fear and loathing on his face. "The man I am now knows he is capable of doing terrible things. I was so close--" He cuts himself off haltingly, his mouth slamming shut against the words.
/They gave you your control back. You know what you're capable of, but you can make your own choices freely now./ The darkness on Piotr's face shadows Jackson's own expression with sadness, and one hand lifts to touch lightly against his friend's cheek. /If you'll let me,/ the bubble writes again, /then of course I'm sure./
The tall man presses his eyes closed, and Jackson's words are left to hang in the air, almost literally, for a long time before he gives a tiny flicker of motion, a blink in reverse. He notices the new sentences displayed for him to read and purses his lips, trying to accept the words there. A tense nod marks their absorption, if not his agreement. "Perhaps I should not let you," Piotr mumbles quietly. "Perhaps it would be for the best that way; I do not want to risk hurting you again. But-- I will not try to tell you what you can and cannot do, and I admit it would sadden me greatly to lose your friendship."
Jackson's own self control is, admittedly, not always that wonderful, although when it breaks the consequence is generally untoward affection rather than violence. So it is now, as he steps closer to wrap his arms around Piotr in a fierce, tight hug, his face (the unbroken side of it) pressing against the bigger man's chest. His speech bubble, for the moment, has nothing further to offer.
A quick breath draws Piotr's stomach in and inflates his chest as Jackson's unexpected hug catches him off guard. The same breath shivers through him minutely as it is released, before he pulls even that under tight control and returns the gesture with a tiny, awkward pat to his friend's shoulder, forcing himself not to collapse, not to break down. "Thank you..." he whispers.
A moment longer passes before Jackson pulls back, tears shining bright in his eyes again and his cheeks tinged pink at his own lack of restraint. /I don't want to lose your friendship, neither, Piotr. I kind of love you. I was so scared I would./ Blushing further, one hand lifts to wipe again at the tears threatening to fall.
If ever tone was needed as an indication to the meaning of a sentence, it was there. The hand that Piotr reaches out to offer comfort to Jackson in the form of a gentle touch to the upper arm is uncertain and hesitant in its approach and fleeting in contact, though kind in its intentions. "I will always be your friend," he mumbles, low voiced. "If you will let me."
The uncertainty of the contact makes Jackson's lips twitch slightly in brief, fond amusement. /I'll always let you,/ comes the answer, and though his expression has reverted to solemnity, a familiar sparkle returns to chase some of the sadness from his eyes. /Was gonna make you cookies 'fore I left, but I don't think they'd have been able to say quite as much as I wanted./
Piotr attempts to find a little more levity in return, not quite making it as far as a joke but lightening his expression just enough to assure his friend gently, "I am sure there will be plenty of baked good around in any case." He offers a tiny twist of a smile that manages not to veer off into a grimace and then draws himself up, shifting his weight slightly to prepare to leave. "I will leave you to your packing, and e-mail you soon. Have a good Christmas, Jackson."
Piotr talks to Jackson, and Jackson is surprisingly forgiving. He is also rather silent, but extremely clever in avoiding this problem. (backdated to the 23rd)
I am so very lost at the moment.
In the wake of what has happened, I barely know who I am, and I have no idea what I should do.
Who am I? When the Professor first removed the influence in my mind, for days, I believed that that, in my uncontrolled state, was fundamentally me. The thought scared me and horrified me, and I think perhaps I would have run away, fled from all the people here, all these people I love and could hurt so much. Have hurt so much. I was close to running. Very close. But something stopped me, the Professor, the things he showed me when he was restoring my control, the man I was. The man I thought I was. Even when Jean suggested that I go, I did not want to. My heart longs to make things right.
I came to believe that that was not me at all, that it was how I tried to act rather than those parts of me that I hate that defined who I am. I told Wesley that, and I think I still believe it. Partly. Perhaps Logan came closer to the truth when he said that I am both - in fact, surely that must be the case. But what does that say about me, about who I am?
I have never liked to hurt anyone, to cause harm at all. I always feared what my strength made me capable of, which is why I have fought so hard for control all my life, even before I knew I was a mutant, when I was simply an unusually strong youngster on the farm. It is why I was so concerned when Walter hit me after the school was attacked, because I see so much of myself in him, and to see that he must lash out to relieve his feelings when he is suffering is a warning to me that he is heading for a future where he might cause someone a great deal of harm.
But I am avoiding speaking of what really concerns me. At Jones' memorial, I thought a lot about death. It is inevitable and final, but beyond that I had not thought about it much before. Someone willingly caused Jones' death. How terrible, how truly awful must a person be to rob another of his future, his life, to think about and know what he is doing, and do it anyway?
Now I know that, at some level, I am capable of doing this terrible thing. If Scott had not stopped me, I would have killed him when he came to find me amongst the cliffs. Murder. And what I almost did to Jubilee. There is a part of me that can and will do these things, base and vile as they are. Is that part of being human, being descended from animals with no concept of right and wrong - is it something in the heart of everyone, that thousands upon thousands of years of evolution and society have buried deep and that would have been revealed no matter who the telepath attacked?
Or, more horribly, is it something that I am alone in having within me, or something that I share with very few? The man who attacked a school and shot a child. Do I have more in common with him than with the rest of the world?
Rogue. She tried to kill me. A death in exchange for broken ribs and attempted what I tried to do. She certainly had more reason for her actions than I did, a far greater justification, but she still tried to cause a death. I think I need to talk to her, but I do not know what I will say. She would not help me, of that I am sure, and there is no reason why she should. A lot of people have been forgiving of my actions. Too many, perhaps, for the pain I have caused. A part of me thinks it would have been easier if they had shouted, if they had cast me out, if Rogue or Wolverine had killed me.
Because however much I keep it down, the temptation to run away is still there, and the reasons I find for leaving keep increasing in the sense they make. Perhaps it is my mind trying to make excuses for cowardly actions, or perhaps to go is truly the best thing to do. Jean did, she said. To hide away, to give things time to heal. I want to stay, to work to change and undo - or, no. To attempt to make amends for everything that I have done. And yet, what is there here that I can do?
I want to stay at the school to help the children. Speaking with Paige gave me hope, and dear, sweet Yvette may need my help where no one else can give it. Some of the children trust me again, I know that. Aly thanked me. Thanked me. I am not sure that she or they completely understand what I have done. The worst things are still unknown to them. But others - there is fear. Cassy and Mira. What if they had been caught outside of the school grounds after the soldiers pulled out? That would have been on my head, more blood on my hands, a direct result of my own actions. Am I doing more harm than good by staying? The people from the government are asking many questions, and my actions have formed the worst of the answers to all of them. If the school is closed, if they are no longer allowed to foster children, then that is all my doing. Even Yvette, once Forge makes her protective suit, will have no need of me.
And the team as well. Can I even offer help to them at all any more? We are trained to fight, and even in the name of defence I am not certain that I can do that any more. I am determined - more than determined: certain, absolute - that I will never kill. I cannot and will not allow myself to do it. There are other functions of the team, yes, but that one in particular seems to always return to the fore, and I do not even wish to cause harm to another human being, no matter what he may be doing. Even if I met Magneto, or Victor Creed, I do not know what I would do. I would fight, I think. Yes, I would fight them, if they threatened another, but do I want to put myself in a position where I would be forced to do that? Always before I have felt responsibility to the team: I must do this, I must fight this fight, to prevent another from having to, and this is still a strong pull, but I have to wonder now if fighting that fight is destroying me. Is it selfish to ask that? Or, perhaps, am I already destroyed, have I been since my birth? Should I carry on to prevent another from having to walk this path?
Would anyone even want me to carry on? The Professor, he called to me when the school was being attacked, addressed me as one of the X-Men. - And seeing what I did there, what could have happened had I not gone to help the children, makes me question more what I have just asked about if I am needed. I am so confused. - But the team holds each others' lives in their hands, and to do that needs trust. Who among them can trust me now? Wolverine said it would take time, but can I ever completely repair the trust I have broken? Could they trust their lives to me? Rogue and Jubilee especially - that, I fear, is something I can never mend.
Some times it seems that there is little reason to stay, and other times I feel it would be cowardly and selfish to go. Where would I go? Jean said she had a place, but if I do not stay to help the school, I feel there is little use for me here in America. I could continue with college, but it feels wasteful of me. What is there to gain from me doing this? To learn a little more about art, and gain a degree for myself in this subject where a degree barely more than a piece of paper. Wasteful. I would go back to Russia. There, at least, I would know that I was doing something to help. I could work on the farm again, I could be helpful there without ever having to harm anyone. Mikhail would be gruff about me going away and returning so shamefully, but I think in truth he would be glad of an extra pair of hands around the place. It would be good to see Mama again.
But what of Illyana? If I were to go back to Russia and she found her way back to America, what would become of her? If she came back to Russia and I stayed here, what then? My beautiful Snowflake. If I had never come to America, would you still be safe at home, or would you still be stuck in that nightmare where we found you? Is that where you are now? My sweet baby sister, what would you think of your brother now, if you knew what he had done, what I could have done to Scott and Jubilee?
Jubilee. I still need to speak to her. I want desperately to do something, to make this right between us, or at least to show her how very deeply sorry I am, but what can I do? Seven, eight years of friendship I destroyed in one single action. If I tried for another eight years, or eighty, could we get along as we once did? Wesley told me to give it time, but is there enough time in the world to heal the wounds I have dealt to her?
Jackson, he has forgiven me. I do not know how, but somehow he has found it in his heart to care for me still after what I have done. Perhaps, in perspective, after what Wolverine did to him in his right mind, my actions towards him under the influence of a telepath do not seem so bad. Because of that forgiveness, I confessed to him my fears of how I have changed, what I have discovered, and still he was willing to be my friend. Does that make him the greatest of friends, ready to stand by me through thick and thin, or does that make him a fool, and perhaps a traitor to the others I have hurt? Either way, I do not deserve his friendship.
And then, there is… there is Kitty. What a truly, truly horrible situation I have put her in. What a fool I am. Her care for me has cost her her friendship with Rogue, and undoubtedly with Jubilee too. I should leave. Perhaps for her more than anything, I should walk away, I should go back to Russia. Hers is one life I am still ruining, and I can change that by leaving now. And yet, Kitty is perhaps one of the main reasons I am finding it so hard to leave. Aside from this school being like a home, and a place I have a duty to, it is the place where Katya lives. I want to be near her, I want to be close to her, even if it burns a new piece of my heart each time I pass her in the corridor and she gives me that look of sad fondness, that look of sympathy mixed with pain. I… I cannot believe this. I can barely write it, as if putting it on paper makes it real, makes it irrefutable, even though I already know that it is. I will try.
This is hard.
I love her.
There.
I am certain of it. I have known her since she walked away from me in the medbay so soon after it happened. I think I made her cry, though she tried to hide it. Seeing her like that, in such misery, knowing that I had caused it, knowing that I might have lost her forever - it hurt so much that I truly felt that everything was crumbling beneath me. I am almost weeping now, just thinking of it.
But I cannot tell her. After everything that has happened, that would be more cruel than any other blow I could inflict. She has already chosen me over others when I am sure she should not, but what a mess I would place her in if I told her I was in love. With her. It does not get easier to write. I want to tell her, I want to tell everyone, but this feeling that should be joyous is eating me up like a burning coal at my heart. I should go, for her sake, but she is keeping me here without even knowing about it.
I am so selfish, nothing but a source of pain for others when I want no more than to keep each one of them safe, and I am too afraid to leave despite that.
I wish I were at home today with my family. Mama and Mikhail - I wish Papa and Illyana were there too. I think if they were, the choice to leave America would not be so hard. I wish I had never come to this country in the first place. How much harm would have been prevented? How much heartache would I have been spared?
I should go, and yet, I cannot. Downstairs now, the few children who are left are playing games. They are trying to forget the things that have happened to them in the past few weeks, trying not to remember the child who is no longer here to play along with them. There are presents and tasty food and goodwill to all men.
I have no religion, and at home we never celebrated Christmas, but I have always enjoyed the festival time here. In the years before, I have seen such goodwill, the happiness of the season spread throughout the hearts and minds our mismatched collection of people thrown together by nothing more than a random fact of genetics. Even this year, there has been a little of that happiness. I have no faith in any god, and I certainly have no faith left in myself, but it is not possible to hear the sounds of happiness from children who have lost so very much and not retain at least some faith in people, in humanity as a whole. I truly, deeply hope they have a merry Christmas.
23 December 2006
The Blue Guest Room
Jackson's duffel bag is open on his bed. Meticulously folded clothes are being transferred from his chest of drawers to the bag; beside it, his art case is also awaiting being packed full of supplies. He hums quietly to himself as he works, an Advent hymn, though the wires clamping his jaws shut prevent him from giving words to his tune.
The steady pace of footsteps up from the stairwell slows to something rather more tentative as the carefully gentle tread approaches the door to Jackson's guest room. An equally tentative hand, its touch as light and restrained as the steps lifts to rap twice on the door. "Jackson?" Piotr calls out quietly, knowing his accent will be enough to give his identity away should the younger man want to make an excuse not to see him.
Inside, Jackson freezes, head bowing and his eyes slipping shut as he hears Piotr's voice. For a long moment he does not respond, and when the answer does come it is not verbal. The lock clicks, and the door is pulled open, and Jackson, still dressed in somber black slacks and dress shirt from the memorial, though his jacket has been discarded, turns back to his packing.
The opening of the door frames the picture of Piotr, dressed as sombrely as Jackson, his own jacket still present, widening his already broad shoulders with the stiff lines of neat, black fabric. His already solemn expression becomes taut around the eyes with regret old and new as he sees his younger friend and he is unable to hold his gaze up, dropping it quickly and awkwardly to Jackson's shoulder. "How are you?" he asks quietly.
Silent, Jackson tucks a small stack of t-shirts before taking a deep breath and turning to face Piotr. There is warmth, still, in his bright blue eyes, even if it is somewhat more reserved than his usual, and masked behind the tired sadness that holds the school in the wake of recent events. His lips twitch, automatically trying to form words before he remembers the wires preventing this. Wrinkling his nose slightly, he tries a different tactic, a comic-strip speech bubble appearing beside his head, the words inside written in Jackson's own neat handwriting: /Holding up. How are /you/, hon? I've been wanting to talk to you, but./ One shoulder lifts in half a shrug.
The speech bubble draws a blink of tired surprise from the Russian, the ghost of mild amusement that might at other times have accompanied this method of communication tugging his lips into a thin downwards curl in the light of everything that has happened. It is a moment more before Piotr answers, tasting several replies to find one that is true, but at the same time not too miserable. "I am as well as could be expected," he settles for, his attention moving back to Jackson's face to meet his eyes fully. "I am sorry, truly, deeply sorry."
/I know,/ comes the answer, but despite this Jackson tenses for a moment, before shaking his head sadly. One hand reaches out to touch the larger man's arm, lightly, before dropping back to Jackson's side. /They said you weren't in control./ Written, as it is, the sentence lacks a tone to clarify it. Jackson's eyes stay steady on Piotr, more thoughtful than anything else.
The tonelessness is answered with Piotr's attempt at the same detachment, an explanatory, scientific reply that he cannot keep clear of his consuming regret. "No, I was not. There was a telepathic influence attacking my self control, my perception of right and wrong actions. I do not think it had not completely taken hold of me by the time I-- I hurt you." His words already quiet, his voice drops further still before he offers his guilt-laden explanation, barely more than a whisper. "You are still alive."
/I am alive./ Jackson's brow furrows, his arms twitching slightly at his sides before he joins them, fingers lacing together behind his back to restrain any further movement. /They fixed you?/ This one, at least, though still lacking tone, has the appropriate punctuation to turn it into a question.
A silent, painful intake of breath matches Jackson's equally soundless repetition as Piotr flinches internally under the weight of his own accusations, and he grasps onto the question to drag himself out of the sucking maw of emotional quicksand. "The Professor removed the influence," he gives in answer. "I will not be harming anyone again."
Jackson nods once, slowly. His lips part again in attempt at speech before closing as his nose wrinkles in a grimace of frustration. /Good. Cuz I missed you./ writes his mutation, the brightness glistening in his eyes as he looks up at his friend lending, at least, some emotion to the inadequate written words.
Piotr's face forms a momentary picture of incomprehension before splitting to a tiny smile that fades just as quickly to a look of deep, saddened thought. "That-- that means a lot to me," he tells his friend, the words punctuated by tense, heavy breaths, before he carries on, the strength of conviction of his previous words failing. "But I am not so sure I am the same person that I was before."
The cuff on the sleeve of Jackson's dress shirt is not particularly absorbant. Nevertheless, it is employed now in carefully dabbing moisture from Jackson's eyes before it can condense enough to fall and -- God forbid -- streak his eyeliner. /You've been through a lot. I've been praying for you every day./ For a moment Jackson's eyes drop to the floor before lifting, still thoughtful and only slightly dryer, back up to Piotr. /I'd like to get to know the Piotr you are, then, if you'll let me./
"Are you sure?" Piotr asks in quick response, his words shrouded in a strange, twisted darkness of bitter self-deprecation, their bite harsh against the look of fear and loathing on his face. "The man I am now knows he is capable of doing terrible things. I was so close--" He cuts himself off haltingly, his mouth slamming shut against the words.
/They gave you your control back. You know what you're capable of, but you can make your own choices freely now./ The darkness on Piotr's face shadows Jackson's own expression with sadness, and one hand lifts to touch lightly against his friend's cheek. /If you'll let me,/ the bubble writes again, /then of course I'm sure./
The tall man presses his eyes closed, and Jackson's words are left to hang in the air, almost literally, for a long time before he gives a tiny flicker of motion, a blink in reverse. He notices the new sentences displayed for him to read and purses his lips, trying to accept the words there. A tense nod marks their absorption, if not his agreement. "Perhaps I should not let you," Piotr mumbles quietly. "Perhaps it would be for the best that way; I do not want to risk hurting you again. But-- I will not try to tell you what you can and cannot do, and I admit it would sadden me greatly to lose your friendship."
Jackson's own self control is, admittedly, not always that wonderful, although when it breaks the consequence is generally untoward affection rather than violence. So it is now, as he steps closer to wrap his arms around Piotr in a fierce, tight hug, his face (the unbroken side of it) pressing against the bigger man's chest. His speech bubble, for the moment, has nothing further to offer.
A quick breath draws Piotr's stomach in and inflates his chest as Jackson's unexpected hug catches him off guard. The same breath shivers through him minutely as it is released, before he pulls even that under tight control and returns the gesture with a tiny, awkward pat to his friend's shoulder, forcing himself not to collapse, not to break down. "Thank you..." he whispers.
A moment longer passes before Jackson pulls back, tears shining bright in his eyes again and his cheeks tinged pink at his own lack of restraint. /I don't want to lose your friendship, neither, Piotr. I kind of love you. I was so scared I would./ Blushing further, one hand lifts to wipe again at the tears threatening to fall.
If ever tone was needed as an indication to the meaning of a sentence, it was there. The hand that Piotr reaches out to offer comfort to Jackson in the form of a gentle touch to the upper arm is uncertain and hesitant in its approach and fleeting in contact, though kind in its intentions. "I will always be your friend," he mumbles, low voiced. "If you will let me."
The uncertainty of the contact makes Jackson's lips twitch slightly in brief, fond amusement. /I'll always let you,/ comes the answer, and though his expression has reverted to solemnity, a familiar sparkle returns to chase some of the sadness from his eyes. /Was gonna make you cookies 'fore I left, but I don't think they'd have been able to say quite as much as I wanted./
Piotr attempts to find a little more levity in return, not quite making it as far as a joke but lightening his expression just enough to assure his friend gently, "I am sure there will be plenty of baked good around in any case." He offers a tiny twist of a smile that manages not to veer off into a grimace and then draws himself up, shifting his weight slightly to prepare to leave. "I will leave you to your packing, and e-mail you soon. Have a good Christmas, Jackson."
Piotr talks to Jackson, and Jackson is surprisingly forgiving. He is also rather silent, but extremely clever in avoiding this problem. (backdated to the 23rd)