Chapter Text
Rictor sets off in the dark corridors bare-footed, too lazy to change from his lazy nightwear to anything more appropriate. He’s not really been sleeping yet despite the looming 6 a.m. training; his internal clock is too stubborn to let him. That, in turn, makes waking up early hell… but there’s probably no force, X or othewise, on this earth to make Cable’s morning drills any type of enjoyable.
He’s only up to get a glass of water from the kitchen, but a blinking light coming from under a door stops him. It’s not difficult to guess who it is; this room, one of the many viewing rooms of Murderworld, is the one that got designated as Shatterstar’s TV room. It’s hardly ever visited by anyone else, except those rare moments others in the team make their half-assed attempts at socializing with Star, usually ending in mutual frustration; and Rictor, who seems to be the only one to have gotten used to the company of the socially oblivious maniac.
He knocks on the door lightly before opening it—although Star probably knew he was behind it already, with all of his ‘heightened senses’. He enters the room to see Star on the couch, TV switching channels by itself, and Star’s posture a little rigid, though he’s not turning around on Rictor’s behalf anymore, which must be progress.
“Hey,” Rictor says, and surprises himself with the softness on his tone. Maybe he is tired, though he doesn’t feel it. Star doesn’t answer, because the greeting business has struck him as pointless; ‘If I already know you’re there, and you know I’m here,’ he said, in the brusque way he does when humanity frustrates him, ‘what point is there to announce your presence?’ Rictor’s—admittedly fumbling—attempts at trying to explain general etiquette were met with contempt and disdain.
Rictor stands there, almost in the doorway, not really sure why he came in, and switching between staring at the back of Star’s head and the TV. He notices the intervals between changing channels are longer, like Star is actually trying to focus on some of it. Maybe something Ric’s said has stuck with him after all.
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping, dude? It’s late,” he says eventually, when it becomes too awkward just standing there doing nothing for no real reason, at least to Ric; Shatterstar doesn’t appear to notice anything being amiss.
“No,” Star says, in that straightforward, nonnegotiable way of his.
“Okay then.”
Rictor should leave, go get that glass of water he came for, and go back to his room. Something is keeping him there, though, but even if he knew what it was he won’t admit it, even—or especially—to himself. So he hovers.
The silence stretches, doing the thing it’s been doing lately a lot when Star’s concerned, where it seems to stop working like it’s supposed to, where it twists so minutes feels like hours and hours like seconds. Except for Star it all seems to go as it should. Unblinking, unwavering, he acts as normal as a guy with his circumstances can. And Rictor is thrown in a hurricane of time and space.
If it only were an earthquake. That’s a natural disaster he could work with.
When Shatterstar speaks it doesn’t feel like breaking a silence, more like expanding it.
“Are you…” Star hesitates; whether it’s to find words or consider them, it’s hard to say. But at least he is looking at Rictor now, brows furrowed in confusion, or concern, or concentration. “…troubled?”
Rictor lets out a breathy laugh that doesn’t feel, or sound, like his own; and with the way Star’s frown deepens, he doesn’t understand that reaction any more than Rictor does. Sometimes, Rictor thinks, it feels like he’s the alien. “No, just.” Pause. Pause. Pause. “Don’t feel like sleeping?”
No wonder Star’s social skills are what they are when he’s only got Rictor to show him around. It’s not that he’s not antisocial, and usually he’s talking even when there’s nothing to say, but lately his brain’s been short-circuiting, especially late at night, especially around Shatterstar.
Well, at least Star seems to take Rictor’s answer for what the words make it. “Do you feel like joining me?” he asks, not unkindly, not passively, maybe like he would actually like the company. It’s been happening occasionally as of late. Shatterstar has even spontaneously reached out to Rictor, been friendly, doing friend-things. Made Rictor less lonely, when the people who were his friends before are too busy wrapped in each other, or being lost.
“Yeah, okay,” Ric says, and climbs over the backrest on the sofa, gracelessly plopping—it’s the only applicable word—on what’s become ‘his side’.
Ric fixes his gaze on the TV, doesn’t turn when he sees from his peripheral vision Shatterstar looking at him, or when he doesn’t anymore. Shatterstar chooses a channel to stay on, from either kindness to Rictor or to prevent him from complaining. It’s late reruns of a show that Rictor has never seen before and can’t really focus on, where people are going on dates, maybe—there’s a lot of talking, little action, not very Shatterstar at all.
The show breaks for commercials when Shatterstar turns towards Ric, with his whole body now, demanding attention in a way Rictor can’t ignore. He meets Shatterstar’s eyes, feeling oddly fearful—he doesn’t know why.
“You are unwell,” he says.
“Yeah?” Rictor asks.
Shatterstar stares. Confused, like usual, but also almost defiant, like when he insists on sparring with Rictor on account of giving him skills ‘other than his powers’ to rely on.
“You’re acting different from usual,” Star explains, or observes. It’s probably something Rictor should feel proud of him for, that he’s gotten close enough to someone to manage to differentiate between normal and abnormal behaviour, but. Rictor doesn’t want him to notice, not this , whatever this is.
Looking at Star makes his eyes burn, so he turns back to the TV where people are running and shouting and laughing.
“I’m totally normal,” Rictor lies.
“You’re quiet,” Shatterstar says, “and still, and you keep…” He gestures vaguely, very person-like, “…zoning away.”
“Zoning off,” Rictor automatically corrects. “I guess I’m tired.”
“Then you should sleep.” Star’s so matter-of-fact it’s almost funny. “You need to take care of yourself.”
Rictor shrugs and resettles on the couch, knees drawn up and leaning his elbow on the armrest, and temple on his knuckles, and he stares at the nonsense on TV without registering much. Not for the first time in a short amount of time he feels things have become complicated—maybe all of a sudden, maybe little at a time, maybe they’ve always been it but only now it’s become obvious; whatever—but he feels like running away.
“Rictor,” Shatterstar says in a way that seems almost emotional, which, yeah, is worrisome. “I need you to take care of yourself. I don’t want to lose you.”
Want is a new word in Shatterstar’s vocabulary, but it’s been used a lot recently. It’s like a switch has been flipped.
Laughing it off feels like swallowing blood, but he does so anyway, no matter how phoney it comes out. “You don’t have to worry about me, man. I’m totally normal.”
“Okay,” Shatterstar says.
They sit like that for some more time but the static in Rictor’s head gets too loud and the couch uncomfortable and the show too inane, so he gets up and says something along the lines of ‘I guess I’m gonna try to sleep’.
“If you want to talk,” Shatterstar says, when Rictor is at the door again and already thinking he’s safe, “I am here, for you.” The words sound rehearsed but Rictor knows that means it’s genuine, it’s something Star has put thought into, and Ric’s heartbeat gets frantic and his palms sweaty and he doesn’t say ‘bye’ when he runs out of the door.