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1973.
Peter comes home to Wanda.
As he comes zooming up his driveway and into the house, finally returning to a normal speed with the rest of society, he realised how tired he really is. It’s been quite a day - driving some rental car and returning it (he wanted to keep it but the guy with the claws was kinda scary, so maybe not), kicking a bunch of ass and totally saving a bunch of lame adults from being shot, and oh yeah - breaking America’s most highly dangerous prisoner out of the Pentagon. Peter used up a lot of energy in a given day, but today was exceptional for him - which was why he agreed to doing so in the first place.
It was a thrill, and Peter got high on thrills - it was like ecstasy to him. But there was also the fact these guys were people like him helped calm down the tiniest moral voice in his head screeching at him.
Peter didn’t know any mutants. Of course he knew himself and his twin sister, but outside of the two of them it sometimes felt like he and Wendy were like the only two in the whole world who were freaks. It was like keeping this grand secret that had to be protected lest a beast escape. It was terrifying, because living in this world it often felt like he was playing a macabre version of musical chairs where any second the melody of his life would be disrupted and he’d have to claw his way to live to hear another melody. But for the most part Peter had made peace with being a freak - so long as he wasn’t alone. He was never alone with Wendy.
Peter and Wendy were balance.
Deep down, in the dead hours of the night or in the midst of the thoughts in his bee box of a mind racing like buzzing bees Peter worried that maybe fundamentally he was lonely. It scared him sometimes, how difficult it was for him to connect - how he seemed to repel or cause static shock to anyone he came into contact with. He worried sometimes he was destined to forever be lonely.
But the universe was kind too, and allowed him to be born as a part of a whole - and as a twin this connection was a birthright and his pièce de résistance. If Wendy was Yin Peter was her Yang - where Wendy was mysterious like the moon rich with intuition and a quiet intelligence and strength Peter was the sun bursting with energy and a steadfast resilience and drive.
Wendy was all he needed, really. But still, there was an instinctual loyalty he had felt to these mutants who had recruited him - it was a sense of kinship, and almost like an understanding that they were of the same tribe and they were owed to each other.
The house was silent excluding the muffled sounds of canned laughter and the pronounced delivery of sitcom jokes coming from the living room. Peter can’t help but smile fondly as he quietly shuffles over there, and when he opens the door he isn’t surprised to see Wanda sprawled across the couch, having fallen asleep watching The Brady Bunch. It was a familiar sight, and while Peter is energized and exhilarated by the new, this feeling of familiarity feels like home. He tiptoes around the room and retrieved a fluffy scarlet blanket and gently drapes it over her. He smiled down at her for a moment, before he spotted the remote laying in front of where she laid. He moves to turn it off so she can sleep in peace; but as he moves she sleepily reached for his wrist.
“Peter?” She calls groggily.
“Hey bud,” Peter grins.
She rubs her eyes and slowly props herself up with an elbow, “You finally showed up. Asshole, you left me alone to get Lorna into bed. Do you know how much of a monster she is?”
Peter laughs and starts to swat at her to move over, which she does in disgruntlement. He hops onto the couch to sit down to which she immediately plops her head back on his lap. With a groan he resigns to her.
“Is mom at work?” He asks, turning his attention to the sitcom on TV.
“Yeah, she took a late shift again,” Wendy replies, and reaches up to slap Peter lightly on the face, then pinch his cheeks obnoxiously, “Did you make new friends today Petey?”
Peter scowls at her and rolls his eyes, “Shut up. They were cool, Wendy - one of them is apparently a telepath too but like, I don’t know, I think the heroin he’s on suppresses it or something? They never explained it to me, but he was kinda boring anyway. The coolest was the guy with the claws, like they were totally gross and awesome.”
“Huh,” Wendy comments, “The other guy just super smart or what?”
Peter shrugs, “Probably. Seems like he’d be fun to pick on though.”
They sit in silence for a little while.
“It’s kinda cool though, that there are so many others out there. Like us,” Peter reflects softly, his hand absentmindedly beginning to brush at Wendy’s hair as his eyes glaze over with something distant.
“Mm,” She responds.
Peter frowns and looks down at her, beginning to poke at her incessantly, “What’s on your mind buddy?”
Wendy sighs, lifting a hand and her magic has got a grip on Peter’s, effectively swatting Peter’s hand away and stopping the annoying poking, and sits up, leaning against Peter, “I.. did some sleuthing about the guy you broke out of the pentagon.”
Peter’s heart drops, “You don’t think I..”
Wendy shakes her head, “No, it’s.. the opposite of that. I know he killed the president which is like, a whole thing but even then I.. I’m not even entirely convinced he did, but.. he.. doesn’t seem all that bad.”
Peter tilts his head, “Yeah? You think so?”
Wendy rests her head onto Peter’s shoulder, “I just.. I understand him. I know what he means... But I can’t help but feel like that makes me a bad person.”
Peter frowns and ruffles Wendy’s hair (maybe a tad too aggressively, causing it to resemble a bird’s nest), resting his chin atop her her head, “You couldn’t be a bad person even if you tried. Besides, no matter what you do you’ll never beat me in number of crimes committed.”
Wendy manages a soft laugh and just stays silent.
Peter frowns and kisses her hair lightly, “Hey. You’re not bad for knowing the world is a shitty place and considering ways to make it less shitty. It makes you one of the good ones.”
She seems more at peace with that, giving him a contented smile, and goes back to laying on Peter’s lap, turning to continue watching the sitcom. Peter never really cared for sitcoms, but he watched them because Wanda liked them - and at least she had better taste than Lorna with her strange gameshows and his mom and her infomercials. Though as much as he loved Wanda the exhaustion settling into his bones was stronger this time, and midway through the episode he found himself leaning his head against the armrest and falling into a slumber.
“They always look so awkward in the end credits,” Wendy comments as the credits rolls and when she receives no answer she looks up to see Peter fast asleep. She rolls her eyes, lifting a hand again to levitate a sharpie over to Peter’s face, carefully drawing a cat nose and whiskers on his cheeks and nose. Grinning at her work, she calls it a night too, and though she could probably go up to bed, but Peter was always comfy, and nice and warm - and her sense of familiarity in an ever stranger world.
Magda would return home at around 3 am to find her eldest two snuggled up against one another. She would smile, suddenly feel a lot less worn, and gently drape another blanket around Wendy. She knew it was a matter of time before Peter would hog the blanket . Taking in the sight, trying very hard not to laugh at Peter’s new look that he was definitely going to raise hell over the next morning, she gives a tender sigh - hoping that she could frame the moment so it could be relived over and over.
1979.
“I’m going to fucking kill him!” Scott screeches as he noisily plops his books on the lounge table, then goes off to pace angrily around the room.
“He was trying to do you a favour, make you look more like him because he is the more attractive Summers,” Ororo teases.
Scott had been trying out this leave in conditioner for a couple of weeks now, as he had wanted to try and impress Jean by changing up his look a little bit. However at the same time Scott had been growing on Alex’s nerves, going against danger room protocol thinking he’d get out of it Scott-free (ha) because his brother was supervising. So that’s when Alex took the liberty of replacing the contents of the conditioner with bleach and also stood to be the reason why Scott now had brassy uneven hair.
Peter knew all this, and on a regular day he’d be making fun of Scot until the cows came home (because Scott did not suit patchy blonde-suspiciously-yellow hair) but today was not a regular day.
His days got harder when September approached.
It was like a weight he had begun to carry and it was growing heavier every day.
And to top things off it had been sort of a shitty day anyway. Contrary to popular belief Peter learned incredibly quickly, and his classes had dragged so much more than they usually did, and his sugar was dropping fast, given he hadn’t actually been bothered to stuff himself with crap - which led him to feeling quite antsy, having a pounding headache, and a rapidly bouncing leg.
“I honestly pray he drops dead! I couldn’t give a damn he died.” Scott declared.
Peter is still.
“Shut the fuck up,” Peter says coldly.
Everybody stops what they’re doing - Ororo mid-bite of her cookie, Jubilee looking like she was about to spit her drink, Kurt dropping his book and Jean just frozen.
“Woah! Who pissed in your drink?!” Scott retaliated.
“Your whining honestly makes me want to throw myself off a building,” Peter hisses, “I’d honestly rather croak than have to spend one more moment here.”
“Peter, what the fuck is your problem?!” Scott asks harshly, “You’re being such an asshole!”
Peter gets up abruptly and aggressively, “I’ll just go fuck off then, you’re all a waste of time and I don’t even want to be here!”
“Good! We don’t want you either if you’re going to be such an asshole!”
“You don’t mean that,” Kurt tries to reason, “You both don’t mean that.”
“Yes I fucking do,” Peter growls, and he’s gone before anyone can blink.
1972.
“She’s asleep,” Peter whispers as he shuts Lorna’s door.
“Thank god,” Wendy sighs in relief, then smirks, “Okay, horror night begins n-“
She’s interrupted by the sound of keys jangling into the door. Magda has come home hours before date night usually ends. They give each other confused looks. Peter raises his eyebrow and speeds down the stairs.
Magda enters through the doorway looking tired, ignoring Peter and just walking past him towards the kitchen.
“Woah. You good, mom?” Peter questions as he follows her into the kitchen, as Wendy scurries down the stairs after them.
Magda pulls a beer out of the fridge and pops it open, taking a hefty swig, “Ralph cheated on me.”
“Oh, mom,” Wendy coos, wrapping her arms around Magda’s waist in a little embrace. She leads her mother to a chair to help her sit down and relax.
Peter frowns, coming over and pressing a kiss against the top of his mother’s head, “He’s an actual boner if he cheats on someone leagues above him. I mean, he was always a boner, who the fuck doesn’t like The Beatles?”
Wendy whacks him lightly, “That is besides the point, Peter. But he’s right in that he doesn’t deserve you, mom.”
Magda sighs and stands up, taking the four pack out of the fridge, “I need a long bath. I’m sure you kids can entertain yourselves. Don’t stay up too late.”
“I’m through with love,” She mutters under her breath as she disappears up the staircase leaving the twins in the kitchen.
“What an asshole,” Wendy hisses, crossing her arms.
Peter grunts, “I hated that guy anyway, I knew something wasn’t right with him. I wouldn’t even have let him within a kilometer of mom if I could have my way.”
“God if I could just avenge mom somehow,”Wendy sighs defeatedly.
Peter suddenly got really silent, his eyes meeting with Wendy’s, and there is the familiar sparkle in his eyes, and a growing smirk. Wanda sports a matching sparkle and smirk herself. They look the epitome of tyrannical twins.
They don’t even have to say a word before Wendy’s throws herself into Peter’s arms, and he takes off in a zipping zoom.
Shortly after the twins stand before their mother’s ex boyfriend’s house, Peter towing a large can of Barbie pink paint, a brush, a jar of sparkly pink glitter and Wendy with two cartons of eggs and multiple packets of toilet roll.
“Ready?” Peter grins.
“As I’ll ever be,” Wendy nods, eyes glimmering mischievously.
Peter rushes to work, rapidly painting Ralph’s truck pink (Peter had no qualms with the colour, but Ralph did) and sprinkling glitter as a finishing touch, as if he were a fairy spreading pixie dust. Wendy gets to work too - lifting eggs out of the cartons with her magic and hurling them violently towards the crummy house. She levitates the loo roll off of the floor, looping them across the house in surprisingly artistic formations.
Once they finish they step back to admire their work. They high five.
Nobody messed around with the twins.
1979.
Everything is so white. The walls. The floor. The lights. The doctor’s coat.
The colour is the only thing he can even think about, not this strangling grip on his hand, not this clarion voice and hushed softness and not this agitation of his mother’s hands.
”She didn’t make it.”
The only thing that wakes him from his limbo is his mother’s anguished pained cry that pushes him right into the gates of hell.
He rushes to catch his broken mother before she collapses, and there is only pain. There is just so much pain.
Peter doesn't even know if he's screaming but he knows his heart is. Because his heart is aching and exploding and mountains collapse and the earth quakes and tsunamis collide with the land and tectonic plates crash and subduct and pull apart all at once and the worlds not quite the same anymore.
It's like the sun has lost its light and all Peter can feel is the cold.
Peter awakes with a start and a gasp in the dark.
He tries to feels around his surroundings and he sits up only to find he feels like he’s been strapped down. He can't move, looks around wildly, beginning to feel the emotions in his body return horribly and the panicking begins to settle in , and he can't breathe. Peter doesn't know what to do, and all he wants is this tortuous limbo to end.
Peter begins to see double, and the world is fading in and out of focus and he isn't quite sure what's real and what's not. He's not even sure if anything right now is real. He loses control of his senses, as the world starts to fade in and out again and suddenly everything fades into an eerie black.
Meanwhile in the floor above him Charles awakes with a jolt, gasping.
Erik stirs, his embrace tightening around Charles lovingly, “I’m here darling, it was just a nightmare.”
“It’s not mine,” Charles breathes in alarm, “It’s Peter.”
Erik’s eyes shoot open, immediately sitting up. Panic blares over his eyes as his heart sinks in deep worry and love. Charles follows as he holds his head, distressed, “I think he’s having a panic attack. I’ll be okay, just go check on him please, Erik.”
Erik nods and doesn’t even say a word, urgently and swiftly exiting the room, his entire system having been set on a target to get to his son. His heart was beating and thumping for his son and letting that same heart lead him to the boy he had found himself beginning to love.
1974.
Wendy is having one of those days again.
Peter wishes he knew what he was supposed to do. Because he’d do anything to make it go away, but in days like this he always felt helpless. So he just tries to love as much as he can.
He can hear her crying quietly in her room. It’s shut, and it’s shut in a way that he knows that even he can’t just force his way in as much as he wants to.
Peter loved with his time, with his dedication. He went through the motions quickly, and there was always more to do, time was ongoing and Peter filled his with as much as he could. So when Peter placed his time in a bottle for somebody else it was out of love. He loved through the time wasted with someone worth wasting it with.
So it was difficult, when Wendy needed to be alone but equally needed love. At least he knew she needed it, and deserved it, even if she didn't think so herself. If anybody was worthy of all of the love in the universe it was his sister. He just wished she could let herself be loved.
So Peter tries to love in other ways. He tries to love in gifts. Wendy doesn't really care for his kleptomania, and merely enforces Peter doesn't steal from local business, but Peter wants to give as much as he can.
So he runs to the local walmart, and picks her up some things he only hopes will ease the pain just a bit. He ends up with a box of things he only hopes she'll like. He'd nicked some of those nice smelling candles she liked, some silk scarves that she liked wearing in her hair, a new set of coloured pens, an amulet he thought looked kinda witchy and so, so much chocolate.
He leaves the box by the front of her door, along with takeaway he picked up for dinner, and knocks. He then speeds away, and watches from the bottom of the stairs.
Wendy opens the door, looking out to find nobody around. Then she sees it, and in this angle distorts what’s true, but Peter thinks he sees the tiny outlines of a smile. It’s enough to put him at peace. She picks the box up and closes the door again.
Then the crying quiets down, until there is just serene silence.
1979.
Erik finds his son and he can barely even recognize him.
This isn’t his son. His son is bright, and he smiles with a smile that is sunshine incarnate. Peter was light, he was bouncing and he was youth, he was a beating heart and upbeat melodies.
Peter was not this troublous wringing of hands, shaking amidst a dark space with no stars.
Erik rushes to the floor next to him where Peter sits rocking back and forth against the wall, as if trying to cradle himself until he is soothed. He doesn’t appear to be winning this barbarous game of playing both a distressed child and the anchored parent. Peter breathes erratically, features eerily colourless against the pale moonlight.
Erik yanks Peter’s agitated hands pulling viciously at his own hair away, encasing them into his own as he tries to lock gazes with his son. “Pietro, my boy, it’s dad, you’re having a panic attack, I need you to listen,” He urges.
Peter’s eyes finally meet with his, and the pain, the sorrow, the cracks of a broken China doll - and Erik knows he’s seen these kind of eyes before. He’s seen it in a mirror, in his disfigured reflection. His heart crumbles, for not even his Apollo-hailing son could escape the wrath of Beelzebub. Erik only then notices Peter is crying.
“W-Wanda,” Peter chokes, to nobody in particular, nobody here anyway, “Please.. come home..”
Erik takes deep, magnified breaths, pulling Peter closer gently, “Follow me.” Peter can’t seem to catch up with him, his shoulders still shaking violently and gasping for breath.
“It’s like a drumming rhythm, like in your songs, Peter, it’s just like music. One bar of inhale, one of exhale, you’re well able,” Erik coos, beginning to tap a simple four beat rhythm onto his own leg. He struggles, off-tempo, occasionally whimpering in despair, but Erik’s tethered him back to this space. His touch is gentle as he wipes the tears off of Peter’s face. Reality settles in like a glass of wine.
It takes a good ten minutes, but Peter’s got the rhythm. Exhausted, he slowly leans forward into Erik’s direction, and before he can even fall into his arms Erik takes him in himself, pulling him in before he needs to catch him.
“Shh,” Erik coos gently, holding Peter close in a fervently loving embrace, resting his chin atop his silver head. Peter's sobs are barely louder than veiled gasps and whispers. He doesn't care for his dampening shirt — all of his cares reserved for his son.
“I loved her,” Peter sobs.
“I know she loved you just as much,” Erik reassures quietly.
“Then why’d she leave me?” Peter spat bitterly, breath hitching with emotion.
Erik is silent, and finds that he has no words to say, and only kisses to gently press against his hair and embraces to tighten.
“I need her,” Peter cries, trembling, despite Erik’s firm hold on him to steady him.
“I know,” is all Erik can say. Sometimes there really isn’t silver linings to be discovered in grief’s deep grotto. Sometimes it’s just pain, and shadows that don’t ever quite go away. Erik doesn’t shy from truth; but this time he doesn’t shy from love.
Peter cries for a little longer, but in time his breaths are less erratic and more steady, face still buried in Erik’s chest.
“You need rest, Pietro, please try for me,” Erik coaxes.
“I can’t be alone,” Peter says gravely.
Erik’s world shifts, a deep pang striking into his heart, but he nods, “Come on, you’re coming with me. I’m not leaving you alone like this.”
Peter doesn’t even protest, and Erik helps them both up, tucking Peter into his side, supporting him by wrapping an arm around his waist. With the other hand, Erik masterfully flicks upwards, levitating Peter’s mattress by the metal springs inside it and leading it and them back towards his and Charles’ room.
Erik enters their bedroom to Charles’ worried eyes. The telepath briefly forgets his paralysis, so intent on coming to comfort and console his beloved student, but Peter thankfully with a sniffle approaches Charles to give him a hug.
“It’s alright Peter, it’s alright now,” Charles promises sweetly, brushing Peter’s hair lightly, then cups Peter’s face delicately. Erik doesn’t know what Charles says to him, and he doesn’t think he should - thats between them.
Settling the mattress next to theirs, Peter slowly settles back in. His breathing shallows eventually, into a troubled sleep. Thankfully not as troublous and nightmarish as they had been previously.
Charles and Erik don’t sleep for hours, only desiring to watch over him as if that could protect him or rewrite the story etched into the universe.
Erik doesn’t sleep at all.
1970.
Peter is walking out into the school courtyard munching on a doughnut when one of the school dickheads whacks Wendy’s book out of her hands.
“Hey freak, you still here? Thought you’d be at Salem,” He mocks, peering at Wendy’s book judgingly.
Wanda just seethes, her fists tightening into a tight ball. He can feel her anger. It’s flaring in her, and the moment he can sense that her eyes are to glow a chaotic red, everything goes into slow motion.
Peter speeds towards the gang of bullies’ direction, all huddled together over his sister. Taking their hands, he makes them give each other’s wedgies, and lightly pushes the main goon with a simple tap of the finger.
He speeds away from them, hiding behind a tree to watch his masterpiece all come together.
In a priceless moment, the goons are reaching into each other’s pants to pull violently at each other’s underwear, and the head honcho is toppling over himself.
In the midst of the commotion, Wanda rolls her eyes and picks up the book stolen from her and walks away, her eyes returning to their regular blue.
“I had that,” Wendy greets as she walks past the tree Peter is hiding behind.
“I know, but what kind of big brother would I be if I didn’t get rid of those assholes?” Peter counters.
“Don’t say bad words Peter. And you can’t just keep using your powers like that, you know what mom said,” She insists.
Peter frowns, giving a barely noticeable sigh as he walks on with her, “I just don’t think you should let them treat you like that.”
Wendy doesn’t say anything and just shrugs, not managing to even spare him a glance. Peter isn’t satisfied by that, and then gets that devilish glint behind his eyes, and his smirk is thinly veiled. Wendy sighs, knowing he was certainly up to something.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Peter declares.
“Peter, we can’t,” Wendy protests.
“Under who’s orders?” He raises an eyebrow.
Wendy sighs, then rolls her eyes fondly as she jumps into his arms - and they’re speeding away.
Peter drops them off at the skatepark, and by the time Wanda’s regained her balance, Peter comes running back having collected his skateboard and Wanda’s rollerblades.
She gives him one of those smiles, the kind that makes Peter know that he’s done his job right, and things are okay after that.
1979.
Peter has been avoiding Erik all day.
In fact he’s been avoiding everything, and everyone. He doesn’t go to class, he doesn’t talk to his friends, he doesn’t do anything but run. It’s what he does best.
He’s ran so much he’s bored of running around towns, and fields, and places that don’t end. He takes to the treadmill and picks a point on the wall and just runs with it and lets his thoughts empty.
“Pietro,” Erik’s voice sounds out from somewhere behind him, but he ignores it.
“Pietro..” Erik tries again, and Peter ignores him.
Erik sighs deeply, lifting a hand to shut the machine off, causing Peter to misplace his next step and come tumbling off off the treadmill, flat on his ass.
“Pietro, I think we need to talk about it,” Erik says gently, easing him into it. Peter hates everything about this whole situation.
He gets off of the floor and just walks past him, not even trying to look in Erik’s general vicinity, making a beeline for his bedroom, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m busy right now. See you later, Mags.”
“Pietro,” Erik repeats sternly, so sternly Peter can’t walk any further and is compelled to look towards him.
“I know full well how much easier it seems to just run from it all. Hell, you probably got it from me. But let me tell you, it does not make it any easier,” He says firmly. It feels like Erik has reached out to him, and he can practically feel Erik’s tender hand on his shoulder - but he’s somehow done so only with his words.
Peter bites his lip, his back facing Erik, because he thinks maybe if he turns around and looks at him he’ll start crying, “If I talk about it, it’ll mean she’s really gone.”
Erik is silent a moment.
“If you don’t talk about it, it’ll weigh you down for the rest of your life.”
Peter pauses, and lets that sit and hang in the air. Eventually it sinks into him. He walks into his room, but doesn’t close the door. It’s his own little way of letting his father in. Erik takes his invitation and follows.
He seats himself at the edge of his four-poster, still unable to look at Erik. Crying in front of him was humiliating as is, and he’d really wanted to keep crying in front of his father a non-occurrence, but he especially didn’t want to cry in front of him a little less than a year of having him as a father. He didn’t want to repeat that so soon.
“Her name was Wanda Maximoff,” Peter tells him, and his words seem like they echo even if this room was far too small for that. The words sound rusted and foreign.
“I called her Wendy, because we tried to fit in. We still stuck out like see thumbs nonetheless. She preferred Wanda,” He continues, voice trembling in an off-beat rhythm.
“She was really talented. She loved creating - she made her own worlds every day. She wanted to make tv shows, or movies, or novels. Anywhere where she could escape,” He begins to find some strength and harmony in his speech, warming up to it.
“Her favourite colour was scarlet. She wore scarlet lipstick to school once when we were twelve and mom almost murdered her,” Peter chuckles fondly, “She was really powerful. It scared her. She was so much but she didn’t want to be any of it.”
Peter takes a deep breath, “She was always older than she actually was. I saw something in her eyes that I could never quite help, not really. It was never enough. I.. I was never enough. I watched her.. I watched her waste away.”
He swallows, like he’s swallowing glass, “She took her own life just a bit over a month after we had our sixteenth birthday.”
Peter’s nails dig deeply into his palms, “I had been asleep, and I had woken up feeling so wrong. I knew, somehow. But I was too late. I wasn’t fast enough. I’m always.. too late.”
Peter doesn’t even know how long Erik’s been sitting next to him, but all his father does is pull him in so he can rest his head against his shoulder. He’s grateful, to be able to lean the heavy weight he carries with him against a stronger pillar.
Peter wouldn’t know Erik worries it isn’t enough. Just as Erik wouldn’t know it’s everything Peter needed.
1975.
“Pietro?”
Peter wakes up with a stir, his eyes taking a second to adjust to the fluorescent hospital lights. He jolts and looks to his left, to the hospital bed he had fallen asleep next to. He smiles fondly, and with all the warmth in the universe.
“Hey, squirt..” He takes Wendy’s hand, wrapping both of his protectively, encasing them in his so she knew he was right here with her.
“Oh god. I’m.. I’m so sorry,” She chokes, her eyes welling up with tears, and just so much pain.
“Hey, no, none of that please, it’s okay, Wendy, it’s okay,” He assures, his voice taking the rare tone of softness and gentleness that he reserved for moments like these, and the very few he loved in life.
“Wanda,” She spat, tears now spilling from her eyes.
“Woah- I’m sorry, squirt, Wanda..” He corrects quickly.
“Sorry, sorry, I-I just,” She sniffles, wiping the tears away as she hiccups violently, “I’m so.. I’m so tired of.. I’m so tired of hiding, pretending.. using a name I don’t even own, I.. I’m so tired of..”
“What is it?” He soothes.
“Everything,” She cries, “I’m so tired of everything.”
There was so much pain in her. She was so much more than him, and she was just absolutely Hercularnean, but she was in so much pain. Peter didn’t know what to do, and deep down he feared there was nothing he could do.
So he loved, and he loved so much.
“Oh, buddy , no..” He cooed, voice trembling with a vulnerability that can only be achieved through the fear of losing someone you loved. “I know you’re in pain, but it will ease, I’m telling you. Please listen to me.”
“I can’t do this anymore, Pietro, I can’t-“ She hiccups, wracked by violent sobs that had her body shaking against his hold.
“Wanda, you can do anything,” He promised, looking at her like she was a sky full of stars, or a sunrise after a bitterly cold night.
“I can’t.. I can’t beat it,” She whispers in a voice so broken that Peter can’t even begin to imagine how to fix it.
“You’ve got to stay with me, squirt, you know it’s always been you and me,” Peter pleads, squeezing her hands in his in a feeble cry to keep her with him.
She didn’t say anything. So he just held on to her tighter.
1979.
His heart is always heavy, but it’s heavier without his friends.
So Peter brings donuts as a peace offering. He gets the jam-filled kind for Kurt, the powdered sugar ones for Jean, chocolate ones for Ororo, bright pink ones for Jubilee and the cookies and cream ones for Scott.
His friends all laze around in their lounge, and with a gust of zipping wind, they suddenly have plates of donuts sitting on their laps. They all look at their surprise treats with confusion, and some delight, but mostly confusion.
Peter shuffles in shyly, bearing an obviously handmade white flag.
“I’m sorry,” Peter mumbles quietly, eyes darting from the floor to the tense, stiff expressions of his friends’ faces. He can’t keep the gaze so his eyes immediately revert back to the floor.
“I’m sorry-“ Peter start, then starts to spew words out almost as quickly as he could move, “I’m sorry I know I’ve been such an asshole the past few days and it’s totally unjustified and I shouldn’t take my bullshit out on you guys no matter how shitty I feel because that’s just not fair and just because you guys scare me doesn’t mean I can just go off and treat you like shit because I’m scared I’ll get hurt and-“
“Slow down, Maximoff,” Scott butts in, and while his voice isn’t warm it’s definitely not cold anymore; thawing.
‘I can feel your anxiety. It’s okay. You can trust us, Peter,’ Jean comforts telepathically. Her voice is just as warm and gentle as the look Kurt is giving him.
Peter bounces his leg, biting his lip and rapidly fidgeting with this slinky he stole from somewhere, “This is just.. it’s such a hard time of year. It always hurts and I’m always just so angry and so sad and everything is just so goddamn heavy and I just miss her and it feels so wrong to have friends when she’s not here anymore, like the world shouldn’t move on like that, because she’s gone and the world is still spinning a-and I..”
Kurt frowns, “Who is ‘she’, Peter?”
It’s time to face the music.
“My sister,” Peter chokes, feeling numbingly light now, “My twin sister. She.. she passed, around this time, a-and I know that’s no excuse t-to be an asshole but I j-“
And all the ice that remained in Scott has completely melted away, he’s thawed completely, “Fuck, Pete- I.. I didn’t even.. I..”
He moves up to hug him, and Peter backs away just slightly, “No. Please don’t.”
Scott blinks and Peter feels like such a dick.
“I.. I really don’t mean to be an asshole but I.. I don’t want pity. I don’t want.. I just don’t want this to be a thing ,” Peter hurriedly explains.
“I don’t want you guys to look at me like that, I don’t want you to look at me differently, please. I just.. I want this to not be tainted by.. everything else,” He swallows, looking up at his friends finally with glassy eyes with a light that is flickering, “Can we please just.. be friends again and hang around like losers like we have been? Please ?”
They of course couldn’t say no to a beg with such desperation, such pleading, such pain. They all nod, albeit with a definite underlining of worry there. Kurt holds up the Atari and pats the spot next to him, “Here. I don’t like this weird game anyway. Well, maybe I do, I just don’t like playing with Scott.”
They all laugh, and Peter resumes his seat among this group of misfits. He feels more than ever like he belongs there. He’s among friends here, even though he is tied to somebody who is no longer here.
It makes the pulling tug on his heart hurt a lot less at the very least.
1973.
Peter holds onto Lorna a little tighter, to steady her, or maybe really he’s just trying to steady himself because he is shaken to his core.
“Humanity has always feared that which is different, but I am here to tell you, to tell the world, you're right to fear us. We are the future.”
They both stare awestruck at the man on TV, calling out to people like Peter. The man on TV is captivating.
“We are the ones who inherit this earth and anyone who stands in our way, will suffer the same fate as these men you see before you.”
“Do you think someone’s going to stop him Peter?” Lorna asks innocently.
Peter doesn’t even know what to say, how to explain he is the reason this man is out and free in the first place, and especially how he’s supposed to tell her that deep inside him he doesn’t want Magneto to be stopped.
“Peter, turn that off, it’s scaring her,” Magda murmurs, looking like she’s seen a ghost.
“They shouldn’t stop him,” Wendy says. Peter doesn’t even know how long she’s been standing there. She looks awfully distant, like she’s not there with them and somewhere else.
“He’s right. Fairytales don’t exist.”
“Wendy, stop that.”
Wendy looks at her mother with a gaze that is unreadable, indecipherable.
“Let this be a warning to the world and to my mutant brothers and sisters out there, I say this. No more hiding. No more suffering. You have lived in the shadows of shame and fear for too long.”
Longing, resilience and defiance is what is in Wendy’s eyes.
She slowly goes to sit down next to Lorna and Peter. Leaning against her brother, Lorna goes to nestle in between them. With one hand cradling Lorna’s head, the other arm goes to wrap around Wanda’s shoulder. He had to keep his brotherhood safe.
“No more suffering,” Peter echoes.
“Please,” Wendy whispers. Peter holds on to her tighter.
Magda watches her children bonded together, and looks up at the television to look at their prodigal father who decided to reappear with a reckoning force. Her heart aches with uncertainty and fear.
1979.
Us (us, us, us, us) and them (them, them, them, them)
And after all we're only ordinary men
Peter and Erik drive in silence. Peter’s music is the only sound between them.
It feels weird being back home with a part of his new home. It’s like worlds are colliding and yet everything just resumes as normal.
Peter makes a left turn towards a forest and pulls the cover over and parks it out of the way, “This is it.”
Erik wordlessly follows Peter into the forest. It’s only a bit less than ten minutes of a walk until they make it.
They had spread the ashes in Sokovia, in Wundagore Mountain. But it felt so wrong not to commemorate her somehow, to memorialize her - Peter wanted her here with him as long as possible. And a tombstone wasn’t enough. Wanda Maximoff was far too special for just some erected rock.
So with much convincing and bribing Magda and Peter had gotten permissions to build something for her in the forest he and Wendy had loved so much as children. Here was their childhood kingdom, and little Wendy had been the kingdom’s queen and Peter swore to protect it. It would be irresponsible of him to abandon the kingdom without a queen.
So in this little corner of the forest with trees, flower patches and a little brook Peter had built a treehouse, and a bird feeder that Lorna and Magda came to fill every once in a while.
On a plaque installed into the tree, were the words:
“HOUSE OF M : Here lies the palace of the Scarlet Witch. Long live the Queen.”
Peter climbs up into the house and sits inside. Erik follows carefully.
Peter swallows, “This was.. our place. I.. wanted it to be hers. I.. it’s stupid, but sometimes I speak to her like she’s here. It’s dumb, and stupid, but.. I like to think this is her place.”
Erik shakes his head, looking around at the monument his son had built with a bit of awe, and a bit of sorrow, “It’s not stupid at all. This is wonderful. This is nice. To have a place to be closer to someone you lose.”
Peter observes the robins that congregate around the bird feeders, “She loved those stupid birds so much. I was kind of a dickish kid and caught some for her, but she liked it best when they came to her.”
Erik smiles, “She sounds so lovely.”
“You would’ve loved her,” Peter says fondly, “Sometimes I wish you had met her instead of me.”
Erik frowns, “Pietro..”
“All I know about the dead is that those who love them will miss them,” Peter says quietly, “Can the dead listen? Do they hear us? I don’t know.”
Erik watches over him, “Talk to her. If there’s a chance she is, talk to her.”
Peter bites his lip, then relaxes, speaking out into the world, “H..hey, buddy. It’s.. it’s me..”
“I brought dad with me this time. I wish you could’ve met him. He’s kinda crazy but you know I like crazy,” He jokes, and Erik can’t help but laugh quietly.
“I wish you knew about him. I wish mom had told us before you.. you know. I think you would’ve gotten along with him pretty damn well. You know how everyone says I’ve got mom’s eyes and how you were probably adopted? Nah. You have dad’s eyes. You’re.. a lot like him.”
Erik smiles with something fond.
“You’re both quiet and intense and you’re both stupid and never get my jokes-“
“-sometimes they just aren’t funny, Pietro-“
“-see my point? You both just have zero comedic taste. But I know you would’ve really liked him. You always liked him, even.. when he was just Magneto to us,” Peter continues, and then he shifts a bit, “I wish you had stuck around longer. I know the world was never kind to you but we’re trying to change it. I just.. I just hope that other little mutant girls like you won’t have to suffer anymore.”
“I’m sorry I.. I’m sorry I wasn’t fast enough. I’m sorry I was too late. I’m sorry that.. you didn’t live to see this-“ Peter’s voice cracks and his voice catches in his throat as his breath hitches, threatening to cry. His bottom lip wobbles and his eyes turn glassy and he’s digging his nails into palms to try and steady himself.
Erik takes his hand and anchors him back to earth, his grip is comforting and so warm and he becomes his center of gravity.
“Hi Wanda, it’s your father,” Erik joins in, continuing in his stead, “I really wish I could have met you properly. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you growing up.”
Peter sniffles, stubbornly wiping away his tears as quickly as they fell, incredibly touched by this all.
“I would’ve stayed if I had known, about you, and Pietro. I..I did love your mother, you know? And though my heart belongs to somebody else now, it seems my love for her still grows because together we made two excellent children,” Erik says quietly. Peter just about nearly starts bawling but manages to control himself somehow.
“I really wish I could have gotten to know you. I know I would have loved you with all my heart. And I still will, I think, even if it’s not how it should be. Pietro keeps you alive, and one of his many gifts to me is bringing you closer to me,” He smiles sadly, “He’s as stubborn as a mule and he’s a handful, but he’s wonderful. And he tells me he’s only half of what you are, and he is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I can’t even imagine what you are like.”
“There is a place where we can meet, and I will meet you there one day,” Erik says, “Until that day comes along we will try to live as you should have, and until then I promise I’ll look after your brother.”
Erik turns to look at his son, weeping quietly.
“Pietro..”
“I’m not crying,” Peter chokes,
“It’s okay..”
“I can’t believe I’m crying in front of Magneto for the second time,” Peter jokes, deflecting with his walls built with bricks of humour.
“Pietro, look at me, please,” He asks gently. When he does Peter looks years younger, like the child Erik never got to raise. Here is an opportunity. Here is a chance. What fool would Erik be not to take it.
“I love you, Pietro,” Erik says, and his whole heart says it too.
What Erik sees in Peter’s eyes speak so much more to him than all the text he’s read in his life.
and when Peter smiles at him all the fantasy novels he’s read leaps out and becomes real. Very real, vivid and dancing and twirling and sparkling in all its rich colours as it comes to life and Erik can't help but join in and bask in it.
He pulls Peter in for a hug, at home at last.
There will always be beautiful things. Peter would think as he envelops himself into the warmth of his father. A thing is not beautiful because it lasts.
So Peter clings on to Erik a little tighter, and in this tenderness the love perseveres.