alteregos | one day I hope I'm someone you'd miss ( fifth curriculum memory au )

one day I hope I'm someone you'd miss ( fifth curriculum memory au )

[There's a wariness in Petre's blue eyes when he sits down in the middle of the room. Cold, incisive as ever, watching the telepath in his stupid little wheelchair traverse the room with that agonizingly serene look on his pale, old features. Petre hates him. He hates him. The Professor knows that. He thinks he knows everything. He's avoided him for as long as he could, made use of what freedom he had away from his grasp, even if it was within the walls of his school all the time. A boy who had once been innocent and returned home to die and be reborn as the cruel young man now relenting to have his memories back. Who knows how he was convinced. It doesn't matter. Professor Xavier claims it will be for his own good.

It's a traumatic experience, to say the least. He shakes and shivers and the memories pour in like liquid's being directly injected into his brain in the form of blinding white lights. Floods and floods of thoughts and pictures and words and emotions that shouldn't be familiar and yet they are. Painfully familiar, along with the atrocities he's committed meanwhile that finally read to him as what they should be. Malice. Ill-intent. He's lived the beginnings of a new lifetime as a monster and now he recognizes himself for what he is. The Professor lets him go only after he's full of tears and red all over, sweating from his forehead.

It's only after another hour that he allows Petre to leave. After a therapy session, both in the form of conversation and with the soothing calm of his power in Petre's brain. An anesthetic of sorts, meant to last him another day. He needs rest. It's as though he's been in a coma and someone took over his body while he was sleeping. He needs rest. They can talk tomorrow.

He's accompanied by Storm back to his room. There's a wariness of her own, looking at him almost like she's wondering if this really is the boy who could barely put two words in English together when he first walked in, or if it's just theatrics to keep people happy. Make them gullible up until the moment he laughs in their faces because they really thought he'd go away. They really thought they'd get a happy ending from him. Pathetic idiots. There are no happy endings.

Petre's the one who puts that theory. He's the one who hears those thoughts and convinces himself that no, that's not him. Not him anymore. A total daze has taken him over when the door closes behind him and he's faced with his bed. Across the room is still another bed, the one that belongs to -

Oh God -]

John...

[A mutter. His face is covered again, rubbing up to his forehead to massage it. It's not a headache, he can't have one, not with what the Professor did just moments ago, but he still feels like he has one. Like his brain and throat are swollen with remorse and anger. What in the world has he done? How can he ever face him again, let alone when he comes back from class? No, he wants to hide. He has to. He can't look at him, can't bear the thought of talking to him.

He's crying again. Stupid, stupid, stupid -]

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[John still hasn't adjusted to Petre, still feels horribly painful pangs of longing for the sweetness of what they had before, but they have found some common ground - he runs from it as often as he does into it, never sure which he really wants, but the new Petre has tapped into his innate wickedness with the same precision as the old one sought out and nurtured his well-buried warmth. They terrorize the school, they have mind-blowing sex, and then John avoids him for days because the pieces still don't fit and he can't quite be satisfied when he remembers what once was.

He's a bit disgusted with himself, pining after such a twee romance when he's got excitement and danger and constant trouble now. But it all seems to ring hollow somehow, just as Petre does most of the time, like a strange shell of a person with nothing but malevolence poured inside.

Lately he's been more on the avoiding side, and the fact that Petre went for an attempt to have his memories restored only makes him more hesitant. He doesn't know if the process will actually have brought Petre back, or if he'll meet a mocking sneer and a cold dissection of their former relationship as seen through Petre's now-cynical eyes. This could be a third Petre, a whole new adjustment to make.

Still, he can't keep away forever; he returns to their room after dinner, easing the door open and peering inside.]

Petre?

[he's been trying to sleep all day. There's no desire to go outside. See the world through new-old eyes. Not the green of nature, the blue sky. He just wants darkness and silence. Too much is happening in his head. Too much. He just wants to sleep so he doesn't have to feel or remember. Remember the life taken from him, remembering the parents he never cared to mourn, the atrocities he committed and thought about committing after he died.

That's how he views the drastic change. Petre died and in his place lived a total stranger. Someone he would have hated to meet, someone who would have hated to meet him. They're both in his head now, and it's welcoming neither one.

Then he's interrupted by John. The first and last person he ever wants to see again. He can't turn around, he tells himself. He can't - but a quiet energy pulls at his muscles and brings him to sit up, sliding his legs from the edge of the bed. His hands press down at his sides nervously. His eyes barely make it to John's face before they look away with shame. He doesn't know what he's expecting. He doesn't know what he thinks he deserves.

Petre says nothing. He looks tired, eyes swollen from the crying.]

[His first thought, when he sees that red and swollen face, the strange gestures and glance that slips from his own so quickly, is that he was right. It's a third person. But it appears to be some mesh of the two, not brand new as he had feared - not that it gives him any idea how to navigate this, but there's some familiarity in each piece.

Petre is fidgeting. Anxious. This is something he can work with, to some degree. Slowly, he steps through the doorway and shuts the door behind him, approaching Petre's bed but not sitting down yet.]

Hey. [He tries to sound gentle, not tentative, and it almost works. But he can't figure out what to say next, so he just stays there, hoping his presence can be some kind of comfort after whatever happened.]

[It is no comfort; it's pain. What he feels when John approaches is increasing pain, like someone driving a spike right into his skin, pressing further inside with each step he takes. Petre can barely look at him, let alone acknowledge his presence. Talk to him. What will he say? The only thoughts he can manage are streams of I'm sorry. He's done so many horrible things to him, when he's sure that he once loved him too much to even consider the possibility.]

... I remember. Everything.

[There's no change in his voice; it is still deep and mellow, but the smoothness that Petre would once carry has given place to that fidgety nature of the boy who came before. Subdued and submissive. Gentle and careful.]

[It's the outward nervousness that John cues from most. Petre's words, his tone, they give him no hints whatsoever as to how the experience actually affected him; his body language is still a perfect mirror of the Petre he once knew, though, and not changing as John gets nearer. Maybe getting worse, if anything.

If two people have existed in this one body, and maybe still do, the earlier is most dominant now. And John won't let him stay in pain - little does he know how much of it his own presence is causing, though, as he finally sits down and wraps an arm around Petre's shoulders, lightly stroking the top of his arm.]

And you're back now, aren't you? At least a bit.

Why are you -

[He doesn't understand. That arm is around him like John still has any feelings for him, like he hasn't been disgusted by the things Petre would do or say. He almost forgets the fact that they were in it together because his mindset through it all was so selfish, self-centered and obsessed. He saw nothing but his own wants.

Even when they had sex there was no intimacy. It was nothing more than fucking. It makes Petre feel nauseous.]

You should hate me.

You should probably hate me, too.

[Because now he's sure that he's speaking to the boy who ran up and put out his sleeve on his first day at Xavier's, and to him, everything John has done since he returned to the school probably feels like cheating. It sure as hell feels that way to John, now that he somehow has that boy back.]

I tried to hold out. You weren't the same, it was - fucked, so fucked to go along with you. Just... I never forgot, okay? I still haven't.

But I did.

[He forgot completely. That feels like his own kind of betrayal. He'd just gone home for Christmas to never quite come back. They hadn't even properly said goodbye. John said he hated goodbyes. They were for people who'd never be back.

So... so he was right.]

I did and I - I made you suffer. I did it on purpose.

[And he can't even fully understand why. He felt nothing. No remorse, no guilt. Nothing like he is now. Whatever was blocking those sentiments from reaching his brain were lifted by the Professor, and now he's not so sure that was for the best. Not if these are the realizations he's going to be dealing with for the rest of his life.]

Petre.

[His own tone has shifted, back to the gentle chiding that was really as harsh as he ever got with Petre. Nowhere near the levels of cold dismissal he's reached during his attempted avoidance periods more recently.]

You had amnesia. You can't blame yourself for amnesia. Plus probably some kind of brain damage to your empathy center, I don't know, but you didn't change. Something changed you. I'm not gonna blame you for that.

You damn well should!

[A snap that's uncharacteristic for him when he moves away from John, on his feet to stand by the window with his shoulders hunched and arms around himself. He's been very much pushed to his limit - by the Professor, by these memories, by the other Petre. Even to himself he's become some kind of plague he can't shake off. He feels as though he's being haunted.

And then he starts fussing with his shirt. Stupid - stupid shirt, too tight around his neck, constricting his movements. Why would he wear this? He looks ridiculous.]

Everybody - everybody hates me. I made sure of that! I manipulated everybody, I lied to them, I - I made them do things. I don't want this - I don't want any of this!

[There's the blend coming through again. He's hurt, embarrassed, deeply guilty - but lashing out at John about it is a remnant of what he's been more recently. This is going to be a very delicate balancing act now, more than it ever has.]

You don't get to tell me how to feel about this. [He comes back just as harshly, although his own voice is smooth with an eerie calm.] You hate yourself, that's what you really mean. But you don't get to decide how I feel about you, either.

[That's all the hard reality he'll deliver, though, before standing up and joining Petre at the window. Reaching out again, just a hand on his back this time.]

You've pulled a lot of shit. I'm not gonna deny that. But you've got a reason, and anyone who won't hear you out is the asshole. Not you.

[He looks away from John when he's done unbuttoning his shirt around his neck, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes because the last thing he wants is to cry, but he can't make it stop. The tears still start to pour out, his shoulders still shudder with quiet sobs. John's right - he does hate himself. He woke up to a nightmare where he can't even recognize his actions.]

How can you say that?

Because it's true. [Now he turns in toward Petre, his hand sliding to wrap an arm around his waist this time.] Look at you. You're cracking up over this. If the real you did any of that shit, you wouldn't care now any more than you did then. You'd be laughing at me over how sappy and gross we were before. Making fun of yourself. That's what I expected.

[The calm is finally broken by a furrow of emotion between his brows, a little waver in his voice.]

But instead I got you back. And I'm not losing you to that again. It wasn't your fault.

[Petre can't look at him at first, purposely turning away whenever John tries to catch his eye. He doesn't move from the embrace, though. He stays in place and continues to wipe away at the tears that won't stop coming.

And then he says things like I got you back and I'm not losing you again. Like Petre could ever expect John to look at him that way again. The urge to cry is stronger until his heart calms down just enough for a sad little smile to spread his lips.]

We were sappy and gross?

Disgusting. [There's obvious humour in his voice, even if it's fighting through the tension brought on by trying to talk Petre down from such a huge trauma.] The kinda couple that even makes other couples sick. Can't believe we could even stand ourselves.

[With his free hand, he brushes back that sweep of hair that falls across Petre's forehead - it's perfectly styled and hardly moves at all, nothing like when he'd do the same with Petre's old mess of hair, but it's a familiar gesture. That's the best he can do.]

Don't close me out of this. I want to be here.

[His brows are knitted and he looks absolutely pathetic, sentiment strengthened by how easily John's words and caresses can sway him. Wasn't it the other way around just hours ago? Petre as the one who told John what he wanted to hear, who did anything and everything to get him to react in whatever way he desired.

Except John never did it with malice. He never did it purely out of a selfish need to be in control. Whatever he felt - they felt - that was real, wasn't it? More real than anything that crossed Petre's mind in the last year.]

I liked... ourselves.

[And for the first time since he woke up again, he feels a little closer to something familiar. John is warm. He almost forgot that. He didn't know how to appreciate it before.]

So did I. [No humour now - he's almost solemn.] And I still can.

[Not do - he doesn't count what's happened since Petre came back anymore. It was thrilling, heady, but it wasn't real. While Petre is finding familiarity, John's rediscovering the reality that felt so surreal to him as it was happening. The thing he wanted selfishly, then wanted desperately, then genuinely, and finally wanted to cultivate and nurture in any way possible.

Love. Yeah. That's what it was. Petre's already faced it in his mind, because it wouldn't scare him, but it's just dawning on John that they could've been in love. And very much were.]

I love you. [His voice is quiet, almost inaudible, but he's said it. And he pulls Petre right against him then, shaking with relief that he's got Petre back. Broken, yes, but he expected that ages ago. Not what he got. He can handle this.] I love you, alright? We can do this.

You do?

[A weak voice of his own, pulled close before his gaze can properly settle on John's eyes to search them for the truth. Petre didn't realize that until now, but he wanted to hear those words so much before. They never talked about it. They were only together for those months, and then Petre went home split right down in the middle between desperately wanting to see his parents and being back with the boy he loved. It was all taken from him so suddenly, and he didn't even know it. For the longest time he didn't miss it because he didn't even know he'd had it.

Oh, God. His parents. He never mourned them. John is all he has left.

He's taller than him now. He grew so much, became so different. He hasn't been able to look himself in the mirror because he knows he won't recognize that person. Petre wishes he were still the smaller one so he could just hide his face and hands in John's chest; instead he buries his head on the crook of his neck and sobs quietly, arms wrapped around his body.]

I love you too. I always have. I'm so sorry, John. I did horrible things to you.

Don't. [He tilts his head to press his face against Petre's hair, despite a strong and rather deranged urge to rip it all right out at the roots now that what it represents doesn't hold sway any longer. Over either of them.] Don't worry about me, I've survived way fucking worse. If you're gonna cry, do it for yourself.

[Not something he'd recommend to many people, since crying over anything is pretty piss-weak and crying for yourself is basically the bottom of the barrel. But he's starting to realize how much Petre must have lost in that fog of amnesia - more than that, the strange period of total dissociation into another self - and just how much he has to grieve now that he's back with both selves intact in his memory. If he needs to cry it out a bit, John'll allow that; he just won't let it be over a few mind games and some (both intense and not terribly difficult on Petre's side) coercion.

Another little shift of his head and his nose and mouth are pressed against the side of Petre's head, kissing softly and breathing in the sickly sweet chemical scents of styling product he hopes he'll never have to smell again. He lifts a hand to cradle Petre's head, the other rubbing his back in gentle circles.]

I don't want to cry, [A soft complaint that he breathes out with a hand pressed against his nose and mouth, burying himself in John's embrace.] You don't like it when I cry.

[he remembers that. Remembers the first time he broke down in front of him, how he rubbed his back and basically showed Petre what it was like to have a friend so far away from home. That may not have been the last time it happened, but it's the one he holds the closest to memory, and the one he recalls now that John's repeating the comforting motion. He wishes he could just fall asleep like this, have this feeling forever. He loves him. He loves him, he loves him, he loves him. He doesn't ever want that to go away again.]

How do I make things right?

You've got permission this time, alright?

[It's hardly a preference thing - it just makes him feel helpless, and the feeling was so much worse back when Petre remembers it first coming up, because he had no idea how to comfort someone then. He's gotten the hang of it with Petre now, or he likes to think so, but he was completely at sea the first time Petre cried in front of him. Warring between the urge to smack him into shape and the urge to cradle him like a child.

Now he just keeps up the second, hands always in motion, even rocking him side to side the tiniest bit. This is a major trauma, not just homesickness. He wouldn't call anyone out for being shaken up by something this huge.]

Just stick around. Stay with me this time and everything'll be fine. [He runs his hand over Petre's hair again, then scowls a little and gives it a fierce mussing.] And grow this out, it looks like shit.

--okay. [He brushes the back of his hand against his eyes, sucking in his lips to lick their dryness away. His hair... he doesn't even know what to think of it. Part of him is still screaming to part completely from his past, to be something other than the pathetic child who stepped into this room just a year ago; the other can't stand to see himself in the mirror because all he sees is the monster he became.] I promise. I will make things right, and - [he breathes, lips splitting into a little grin,] I'll get rid of the hair.

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one day I hope I'm someone you'd miss ( fifth curriculum memory au )

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