Chapter Text
The night before Peter disappeared, Jean had woken up screaming.
Kurt had appeared in her room in a flash — he hadn’t been sleeping, anyway — and found her twisted up in the sheets, gripping her head.
“Jean!” He perched at the foot of her bed, his heart beating in his throat. “Jean, what is it?”
“Agh!” Her fingers dug into her skull, her eyes squeezed shut. Kurt darted off the bed, reappearing seconds later with a glass of water. He pushed it into her hand and she drank, droplets of sweat trickling down her forehead. Kurt stood there, jittering. He wasn’t sure what else to do. Should he get Scott? Yes, get Scott, he should get Scott —
A knock sounded at the door, rapid and familiar. Kurt looked back at Jean and she nodded, slumping against her pillow.
Peter blew through the door. He was wearing his usual pajamas, a ratty old David Bowie shirt and flannel pants, but Kurt had never seen his hair like that before. It was mussed up in an odd sort of way, like he’d rolled out of bed and immediately shot to super-speed. The sight brought a tingling sensation to his stomach, and his fingers twitched.
Kurt blinked, hard. He tried not to think about what Peter looked like when he slept, but of course, he failed. Peter had fallen asleep against Kurt’s shoulder in a movie theater once, and everything had faded to white noise. His eyelids would flutter closed and his chest would move with an easy rhythm, his face smooth and peaceful as his hair splayed across his forehead. Peter, always running with one or two expressions masking what was inside with sarcasm and smirks, had melted against Kurt a few months ago during a showing of Dune, and Kurt wasn’t sure he’d ever forget it.
Mein Gott, Wagner. Focus.
“Hey, Jeanie.” Peter leaned against the wall. He was trying to look casual, but his eyes were flickering with worry. “You alright? More visions of doom?”
“Ugh.” She gave him a look that was almost too tired to be a glare. “Fine. M’fine.”
Peter’s eyebrows rose. “You are? Are we talking ‘bad thunderstorm’ fine, or ‘my dad’s about to kill another president’ fine?”
She snorted, rubbing her forehead. “Neither. Felt like . . . I dunno. Like someone’s trying to . . . tear through something.”
Peter blanched. “That’s weird. Any idea —”
The door flew open again. Jubilee rushed in, her hair in silk curlers, with Ororo at her heels. Ororo stumbled through with a loud yawn, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her palm. “Jean? Whassappenin?”
“Vision,” Peter and Kurt said at the same time.
“I’m fine,” Jean said again, giving them all a wry glance. “You don’t have to baby me.”
“Oh, well, thank God Scott’s not here,” Jubilee snorted, pulling her bathrobe over her shoulders.
Something soft flickered in Jean’s eyes. “How loud was I?”
Kurt shrugged. “I heard you from the attic.”
She squinted at him. “What the hell were you doing up there?”
Footsteps thumped in the hallway, and Scott tumbled through the door. His glasses had been jammed over his eyes, but the semblance of put-togetherness ended there. He wore nothing but a tank top and gray sweatpants, and his feet were bare.
Jean blinked, her pale cheeks taking on a distinct pink tinge that was visible even in the soft moonlight. Her eyes darted over Scott’s arms, and Kurt could hardly blame her. The guy looked like he’d been sculpted by Michelangelo . “Uh. Hi, Scott.”
“Jean.” Scott flew towards her, wringing his hands. “What happened? What was that?”
“I . . . don’t know.” She averted her eyes from Scott’s arms, brushing two fingers against her temple. “It’s gone now.” She glanced around at them all. “I’m fine. Really, just go back to sleep.”
“Okay,” Peter muttered, but he didn’t seem convinced. He stepped out into the hall as Ororo and Jubilee made their way forward to chastise Jean, and Kurt followed to make way for them in the small dorm room.
“I’ve never seen her like this.” Kurt said, his tail swaying back and forth as he paced the hall. His teeth dug into his bottom lip, and he hugged his elbows. “It can’t mean anything good.”
Peter’s throat bobbed in a swallow. He was directly in the path of the moon’s light, causing his skin and hair to shine. His eyes were dark, fixed on Jean through the doorway, and Kurt tried to suppress a stab of jealousy.
“Should we get the professor?” Peter murmured, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. His hands never stopped moving. “Or —” His eyes flicked to Kurt. “Or Raven?”
Kurt paused, his tail hovering in midair. That look in Peter’s eyes carried an underlying message, a level of seriousness Kurt only saw when they were alone together on the roof, looking up at the stars and listening to music, talking about things only the other could relate to.
Raven Darkholme was idolized by many students at the school, but to Kurt, she’d always felt a bit different. Even when she saved him in Munich, something about her had seemed oddly familiar, in ways he’d chalked up to seeing her in newspapers as a kid. Hank had been the one to propose the idea that they might be related — after all, it wasn’t every day that someone was born with blue skin — and the realization had hit Kurt right between the eyes.
She reminded him of himself.
Raven had taken the news much more actively: instead of sitting there with her mouth hanging open like Kurt, she’d shoved her chair back and fled. Kurt had spent that afternoon hovering outside Charles’s office, trying to discern a conversation from the sounds of muffled panic within. Raven had been the one panicking, Charles trying to soothe her as she blasted through some wild story that Kurt could only hear bits and pieces of. She’d spent the evening out on the porch, drinking an obscene amount of wine with Erik and talking softly until she fell asleep, and Erik carried her upstairs to bed. Kurt had followed anxiously, keeping what he thought was a safe distance until the professor appeared behind him, and told him what was going on.
Apparently, all the evidence was pointing towards Raven being Kurt’s mother.
Things were awkward for a few days, as (Charles insisted) Raven tried to psych herself up. Once she finally came up to Kurt, telling him in a rambling, breathless rush that she was probably his mother — he’d interrupted her.
“The — the professor told me,” he’d said, ducking his head as she flinched and muttered something like goddammit, Charles. He’d been fidgeting with his tail, his stomach just about eating itself up from the inside. “It’s fine, Raven. You don’t have to —”
“No,” she’d snapped, and there she was — awkward, but fiery and determined. There was no malice in her voice, only that overwhelming amount of emotion that neither of them knew what to do with, but goddammit, she was going to do something . “Kurt. Look at me. I fucked up. I fucked up, okay? I —” Her eyes, so similar to his, had welled with tears. “I failed you. I failed you, and I'll never forgive myself."
Kurt had stood there, mouth hanging open as he tried to process those words. Here he was, an orphan from Bavaria, the only homes he’d ever known being a monastery and a traveling circus, and Mystique — his mother — was finally standing in front of him.
He’d hugged her. Neither of them had talked after that, it had only been crying.
There was still a chasm between them. One apology wouldn’t close eighteen years of absence, but it had definitely been a start. After Raven had yelled at (and then hugged) Charles, they fell into something of a casual (if still quite awkward) rhythm, but Kurt hadn’t dared to ask her about . . . well, him. How he’d been born. Who his father was. Why she hadn’t kept him. The questions hung like glass orbs in the air, threatening to send razor-sharp shards slicing in all directions. He was terrified of somehow ruining their relationship, but something told him Raven felt the same way. In the past few months, though, they’d gotten to know each other better. Raven cared about him, in her blunt, patchy sort of way, struggling with every interaction they had but working for it all the same. Realizing that she was just as scared as him had brought Kurt a crashing wave of relief, and bit by bit, they’d relaxed around each other. There was still that gap, but it shortened with every exchange, every Danger Room session, every mission, every attempt at conversation and connection. Raven got to know him better, and . . . .
Well, she’d figured out his feelings for Peter in no time flat.
“He’s a felon, Kurt,” she’d said, giving him a pointed look after a particularly stressful Danger Room simulation. Kurt had hung back with the excuse of asking how he could improve his form, but at Raven’s light prodding, ended up spilling the truth about his feelings for the teammate he was always the most worried about. “I don’t think it’ll be a tragedy if he doesn’t like you back.”
Kurt huffed, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Aren’t you a felon?”
Raven snorted. Kurt was nervous around most people, but something about Raven made him want to relax, and lean into their shared traits. “I actually had reasons. Unlike him.”
“We’re not even completely sure you’re my mother,” Kurt pointed out, the last of his burgeoning awkwardness tingling in his gut. “We haven’t done a test, or anything. You don’t have to —”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. How many blue kids with tails are born every year?” She slung an arm around his neck, grinning slightly, but there was a hint of nervousness beneath it. “Just . . . don’t expect me to be perfect, alright?”
His tail swayed, but he couldn’t help but smile back. It was nice, having someone care about him like this. She’d tried to ruffle his hair, complained about all the gunk in it, then shoved him off to the showers, telling him to get cleaned up before dinner. Raven wasn’t perfect, but she was trying. That small fact made all the difference.
Peter, with his formerly absent parent . . . he wasn’t as lucky. Erik wasn’t around much, and when he was, he just hung around silently like a bird of prey. Peter laughed it off, calling him ‘Dadneto’ and joking that he should at least pay child support, but Kurt knew it bothered him. On those nights, looking up at the stars, he’d slip soft words in between wry remarks, and Kurt knew what it was like to desperately want that kind of presence. Even if neither of them knew what it was supposed to look like.
He did want to go get Raven. He wanted to wake her up, spill to her what was going on, have her tell him it was going to be okay, but . . . he didn’t know if she’d do that. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to take the risk and find out.
Just then, Jubilee stepped out into the hall, holding the door open as she talked to Jean. “We’ll talk to the professor about it in the morning. Just try to get some sleep, alright?”
Jean gave a muffled reply. Ororo appeared a moment later, but had to double back to physically drag Scott out of the room. She gave him a sharp look, then glanced back at Jubilee. “What do you think it is?”
“Probably just a nightmare.” Jubilee glanced over her shoulder at Jean, the red-haired figure turning over in her bed as Scott gently closed the door. His whole posture was fragile with worry. “I hope so, at least.”
Kurt hoped the same thing as he walked back with Peter and Scott to their dorms. Scott turned right at the fork, absentmindedly running a hand through his hair as he told them goodnight, his eyes a million miles away behind those glasses. Kurt and Peter continued on, stopping at Peter’s door.
The other boy glanced back at Kurt, his hand hovering over the doorknob. “You’re not going to your room?”
Kurt shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. He always felt exposed in his shared dorm room, like just anyone could barge through the door and take him by surprise. “I — I prefer the attic. More space for Piotr without me, anyway.”
Something flickered in Peter’s eyes. “Dude, the attic? Isn’t it freezing up there?”
“Ah, no.” Kurt tried for a smile. “If it gets cold, I’ll just burn your old detention slips for warmth.”
A smirk crossed Peter’s face. His breath hitched, like he was about to say something, but seemed to think better of it. He nodded instead, messy silver hair falling over his forehead. “’Kay. See you tomorrow, Kurt.”
Kurt’s tail curled into a hook behind him, and he prayed Peter couldn’t see it. He nodded, but couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing, that there were words hanging in the air that needed to be said. “I . . . I’ll see you tomorrow, Peter.”
But he hadn’t.
When he woke up the next morning, Peter was gone.