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It was strange to hear Peter’s mind so quiet. It would have been peaceful, if it wasn’t all the more disturbing. His mind was as constant as the winds bellowing in with him as vanished and appeared back in less than a blink of an eyelash. The only air coming in was pushed into his lung by a ventilator, as the blue balloon swelled up before exhaling and Peter’s chest rose for a moment and fell back down; the machine was breathing for him, filling him with stale recycled air.
Charles rolled up, his hand lingered, unsure even to touch his stepson’s hand, his veins prominent, while the other had IV taped to Peter’s rest wrist. Charles’s blue eyes roamed. His body marred with purples, and blues, ripped opened by shrapnel and bullets as tore through him. Sniffing, he rubbed the inners of his eyes, brushing back unshed tears.
A pale turquoise and white striped book rested against Charles’s thigh.
Charles really hadn’t noticed just how pale Peter was as if sunlight couldn’t reach him.
And still. Just so still. Peter was in perpetual motion.
“Come back…Please come back to us, Peter.”
In the traditional Xavier Tartan—navy and gold—with its hidden X within weave of colors. Charles draped the woolen blanket carefully tucked it underneath his body in the hope of keeping him warm. Charles pressed his finger to his temple passing the miasma.
Peter’s mind was distant. In a black turtleneck and dark pants Peter merely peered up at the stars in a daylight sky, dusk had become day; plunged into darkness and yet the sun glimmered in its setting on the horizon; trapped in the dark side of the moon. The paintbrush tall grass brushed against his knees painting them in color. The abundance of flowers dotted the tall grass, rain-soaked and caressing in the sunlight, a shifting expanse, with a constant wind, Charles felt it more often than not. The starlight glazed Peter’s sliver hair giving it an ethereal glow. Where Charles’s mind couldn’t quite touch.
The hallway light streamed into this dark place. This red-hot rage erupted sweeping through the hallway. Rage. So much rage. Charles thought. The wrought of the wrath, so vivid Charles could practically see it. His cape whipped up in his hurried stride, before stopping abruptly in the doorway; blocking the last glimpses of sunlight streaming in from the opposite room’s window, before darkness set in rising with the sliverlight of the moon.
Erik had donned his armor, his face sullen and still splattered with blood and trails of dried tears. Grizzled with unkept red bristly beard.
A pain Erik knew all too well.
A silent cry that was his battle cry. Calling him to battle once more. Getting louder and louder. The place where rage and serenity colluded gave him strength once more. To repair the world. Tikkun Olam.
He didn’t want this, he rather be baking bread with his sohn, dusting the wooden island with flour. Kneading the dough, bread for the soul. Peter would still there, peering in now and then, watching the dough rise and poof up in the warm oven, captivating his world like small child’s wonder. A transmission from the past to the present for Erik; it was the closet thing to being with his mother.
Smearing on cinnamon and butter and braiding their strands together. Their lives interweaving and connecting never to be apart again. Pietro pleading with his Dadneto about recipes he knew, wanting to learn them: bundt noodle kugel, cholent with eggs and kishke, honey cake, rakott krumpli, kasha varnishkes, eyerlekh, helzel, carrot tzimmes, tzibele pletzl, blintzes, charoset and poached salmon.
Pietro wanted to learn how to make them all with such determination in his eyes, expressed he didn’t want them to be lost again. If…if he ever lost Erik…again.
While Pietro hurried himself gathering index cards and scabbling down as Erik was making it converting from European measuring Metric standard to American cups and measurements, doing the conversations in his speedy mind.
Not only to survive but live for his sohn in all that embarked to entail in the course of life, in its many peaks and valleys. This darkness wouldn’t last long.
Erik had given a secret smile to Charles; Erik had bought tickets to Queen, and it was going to be a surprise. Just the joy of it all. The joy, it was the kind of happiness that was if the whole of the sun and its warmth filled the room. For Erik, the happiness, the security of his entire world, was there in the kitchen with him. The darkness from within seemed a little less dark. For within that Erik thought of the future—how Pietro would shape into a leader and his expressed dreams and wants—even if it was a twinkie. The questions—the questions Peter asked. Gave Erik pause and finally, he smiled. Just smiled. Wrapped Peter into fierce hug, though he got sticky dough onto Peter’s favorite Pink Floyd ‘The Dark side of the Moon’ black t-shirt; Not that he minded. Before sinking into his Dadneto’s chest, unburdened by Magneto’s hard armor shell.
As he was both the invisible light giving warmth to Erik’s life and the rainbow of colors of little stories to be told between like the time Erik had the unfortunate espresso incident—NEVER will Pietro have espresso AGAIN! Or the Gambit…Blackbird shebang that Pietro vehemently denies happened, and which should never be brought up in the presence of Erik.
He was enough.
That…for a moment he knew that—This wasn’t going to be taken away.
Erik let his guard down. As he swatted away thoughts—interrupting, of his sohn dying over and over: tortured to get him to cave and turn himself in, brainwashed and used against him, forcing him to fight him, history then-past and a possible future Shaw finding him and kidnapping and doing to him what had been done to Erik—Passing down the pain and scars onto the next generation. Preparing the same food as his grandparents.
Erik made a promise to himself and opened his heart to Charles during their evening chess game on their bed, talking about the day: ‘That never would his sohn starve’; a thought that popped into his mind more than Erik was willing to admit.
For Erik it was the closest thing to coming home again.
Erik knew he had already hurt Pietro for not being there—the track meets, graduations, boyfriends—seemingly small normal things, but in them were miracles, small, but all the more transformative. Erik didn’t want to miss anymore of his sohn’s life.
They had planned on smoking a brisket—Erik got several—you never know with Peter and the many other student, who knew all about Erik’s phenomenal cooking. Peter even said over a shabbat dinner together, ‘It was like they had their in-house professional chef’ It made Erik blush, a deeper red than the red wine at the table.
Peter was stepping up to his father a break, constantly reminding his Dadneto to get therapy and enjoy life more. That Erik hadn’t needed to have the entire weight of the world bearing down on his shoulders. He had him, Charles, Raven, Scott, Ororo, Kurt and the school behind him—Erik wasn’t going to have the entire world by himself. To pursue his dream and give life to the dream the way he planned them. For Peter, who wanted to be more than what he appeared to be: a laidback, Pac-Man playing, basement dweller, still-sorting-out-his-life, deck out in all sliver speedster. Scott needed more time to come into his own as a leader, still uncertain of himself and his powers.
He was tired. Just so tired. To fight and to keep on fighting, so his future, his sohn’s future would be one without fear to be who he was and what he was. And live without shame. Enough!
Magneto breaker of chains and transmuting them into his swords and daggers to fight.
A flying fortress, a monstrosity of steel, reigning down a stormfire of bullets spewed from the eldritch beast of humanity darkest tendency born from hate and fearing what they didn’t understand—any human from within it was assimilated—as it was much easier to kill what was not deemed ‘human’ and unable to see from eyes that did not see.
Bullets much faster and too numerous to stop. Defending his father
Erik could only turn, the splattering of blood, gasping Taking bullets meant for his father. For a moment, Erik thought his sohn dead as his sohn’s body collapsed in front of him in a thud. Rupture of blood watering the ground as if water ran red; rained down empty plasma shells as it thurrrrred. Magneto collapsed, his legs unable to carry the weight, utter shock ran across his face, his eyes wide with unacceptance that this was indeed reality, and slowly his arms cradling his boy against his own chest.
Erik always hated guns…
Erik lost it, his eyes turned into rage, cratering the ground, being the epicenter: extending his magnetism outward and collapsing inward onto itself and back again. In a brilliant light expanded outward, temporarily re-writing the rules of the universe, razes everything in its path. Crushing the eldritch war god into oblivion, tapping into rage not since Nina, with its own weight
His sohn breathed again. Tears ran from Erik’s eyes and nuzzled his forehead against his.
His sohn lived, His sohn lived! Erik’s rage dissipated—he needn’t waste any more time as his sohn lay bleeding against his chest, he required urgent medical care now.
If I could only…If I could only.
And yet he failed.
Erik couldn’t…
It was too overwhelming to even think about…
Will not—mustn’t lose another!
Erik carried with him the bullets that nearly took the life of his son in his pocket; a grim reminder of whom was almost taken from him, who was everything to him, a sohn,
And if…
Erik’s jaw tense, straining to keep composure as he looked, his eyes drifted over the still body of his sohn. Magneto was going to battle to a place most people hadn’t even heard of, let alone seen. Charles would only touch it through their minds. Going where he was needed the most.
His eyes sharp as hardened steel.
Charles brought Peter’s hand to kiss it and rubbing it with his own to give him some of his warmth. And finally allowed himself to weep for his son as much as Charles wanted to keep a calm and carry on with his duties…he couldn’t anymore.
Charles gave a slight node to Erik.
For the both of them.
Erik slides his helmet on to his head.
And Erik Lehnsherr—Magneto went off to battle for their son. Their world.