What I'm here for.

[odditycollector]

 
I was bored tonight, so I decided to write songfic do another one of those x-men drabble things that make people wonder if I was dropped on the head as a child. Only it ended up being a bit long.

Charles and Erik, because I still have issues with putting names in. The song is Weapon by Matthew Good Band, and it's probably easy to find (But if you really care, highlight the text and all shall be revealed).


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Sometimes I think it starts here, in this alley, in this city, half the world and some decades from the smell of rotted wood and sharp call of barbed wire that moulds your dreams. It’s June or August, or April. But ask me what colour the sun is, and I remember.

It starts here. I’m young, and not quite yet practised enough that her cry doesn’t knock me to my knees. Several of the people around us wince and glance around, and maybe she’s projecting that strongly, and maybe it’s me.

And then you’re demanding answers, but I’m already running: off the main street and onto a golden lit passage and into a part of the city I’ve never seen: dumpsters and shadows and rusted corners. It’s in this alley we find her. She’s small and broken, and there’s the Portuguese word for devil scrawled above her; and you lay a palm against her throat even though I already know the answer. It was a death cry.

You take a step back from her, and the echoes of her last, desperate wail mix with other screams, other memories, none of them my own. To the right there’s fear, slowed to the beat of marijuana, and a replay of a botched stabbing - blood the colour of pomegranates. The weariness of age and the hunger of poverty build onto the smell of burnt flesh, the taste of ash. This last comes from close to me, close and so familiar as you stare down at her. Human flesh stains the air with its own bitter flavour, and they all look the same at that age, don’t they? Sweet little girls, beautiful and innocent and dead.

The minutes pass, and my thoughts feel swollen and hollow. You turn to me – I’m leaning against the wall of the alley; the bricks are cool against the back of my head. I’m waiting for you to say something, but your mouth opens and closes and the only thing that passes through it is air.

And*you breathe in. And you breathe out.*
*
And you give in,*to a hatred that tastes exactly like their own. Rage turns your mind to steel. I tell you this later, and you welcome the comparison. Because you can control steel. You think*it makes you a weapon.*

And you’re right.

**

There were times that I’ve woken, sweating and gasping for air, in the darkness before the sun. Or cold and shaking, with the hum of electrical wires ringing between my ears. Or hungry, and craving cheese sandwiches and bacon, when the only thing I could stomach was water. I’ve shared so many of your dreams, over the years. And I only have one.

This is my dream.

That the world will awake tomorrow and be almost the same place it is today, but that it will accept us. That the dichotomy between mutant and human is erased; that our children are welcomed and have nothing to fear. That we’re stronger, together. That humanity will understand that we’re not its enemy, and that we’re not.

Would that I had it in my power: six billion minds and souls.

But that would still be wrong.


In your mind, I’m a fool for believing in such a simple dream, and you are the visionary. You speak to the angry, the lost, the unloved, and god knows there are enough among us for armies. And they listen. It frightens me, because you talk of*a new colour to paint the world;*but we both know there’s only one paint enough to wash the earth, and it’s red.

I can see that future through your eyes, when we’re close, and distance has never been enough between us. Sometimes, I close my eyes and listen. Remind myself why I cannot let you win.
*
The world drops off*into a glorious sunrise, a warm, golden metaphor of promise. The sky is scattered with moving figures that turn out to be people: mutants with the wings of a pterodactyl or extreme telekinesis. As many minds as I touch, I feel nothing but peace and the usual worries of life. Mutants, in shades of happiness and contentment and confidence. Only mutants.

And you’re*here, by my side. It’s heaven*enough.

For some.