Archive of Our Own

When Shatterstar finally opens his eyes against the flash of pain, the world is no longer washed in purple and Theresa is crouched in front of him, arms outstretched.  He falls into her, clinging to her sweater.  Her hair falls in a curtain around him, like his own used to before-  Before-  He doesn't know what happened to his hair.  Theresa's hands are strong as she helps him stand, his legs shaking.  He once would have thought it shameful, to appear so weak.  But Julio taught him that needing things is not shameful.  And so he leans on Theresa and ignores the ache in his temples and the tremors in his hands.  The man that Shatterstar almost killed is talking, but he cannot focus on that.  He wishes to be with Julio again.  Wishes for his low voice and kind, laughing eyes, gentle.  Always gentle with him.  Theresa is gentle as she helps him into the car, the large man sliding into the drivers seat.  He drifts, lulled by the rumble of the car's engine, half-remembering half-dreaming.  He swears that he can feel Julio's lips on his cheek.  Always laughing, the itch of stubble against his chin.  Hands, always gentle, plunging into his hair.  Pulling tight or braiding or simply feeling.  You're just like a cat, dude.  A ghosting breath against his ear.  Warmth.  There is a bump in the road.  He wakes, mouth tasting strange and tongue sticking to his teeth.  There's a quiet, and when he looks up, Theresa is watching him with an expression he cannot quite read.

"How're ye feelin'?" Theresa asks, smiling at him.

He does not feel quite up to smiling, but he nods.  "I am... better."

"Ye were gone for quite awhile, Shatty," she says, slowly.

He nods again.  "Yes.  Many things have happened, some of which I cannot recall with any clarity.  Others," he purses his lips, "I do not wish to speak about."

"Why'd ya come back now?" the large man at the wheel asks, "No offense, but I don't know ya from Adam and the only reason I didn't leave ya back there is because Terry vouched for ya."

"I wanted to... To see Rictor again," he confesses.  "My thoughts kept returning to him.  To our friendship.  It meant a great deal to me.  Cortex caught me.  I was careless."

The air in the car turns dense.  The man at the wheel mutters an expletive under his breath, and Theresa pales, pain flashing across her face like lightning.  Dread settles in Shatterstar's gut like a lead.

"What is it," he says, flat.  "What has happened?

"Guido," Theresa says, "Pull over."

"What-"

"Pull over.  Now."

"What happened?" he repeats.  Loud, too loud.  He got too loud sometimes.  Julio didn't mind.

Theresa is there, hands on his wrists and he yanks back.  He does not want to be touched.  "Shatty, hon'..."  Her eyes are shining.  Tears.  Why is she upset?

"What is it?" he asks, still too loud.  "What is wrong?"

Theresa's face crumples.  "I'm so sorry.  Listen, something... Something really bad happened.  Ric," she takes a shaky breath.  "Ric's dead."

Shatterstar blinks.  Once.  Twice.  The world is fuzzy.  His ears are ringing.  "Julio is dead?" he asks.  He does not recognize his own voice.  Everything is numb.  Julio cannot be dead because without Julio there is no reason for Shatterstar to have returned.  No reason now except vengeance.  He surges out of the car, cutting through the seatbelt with a snarl, "Who.  Who is responsible?  Tell me!"

"Ah christ," Guido mutters.  Shatterstar turns on him.

"Do you know?" he demands, raising his sword, "Tell me."

"Shatty!  Shatterstar, stop that!" Theresa says, grabbing his arm.  He flinches, but does not pull away.  He feels like if he stops moving he will fall and fall and never stop.  "Look at me, honey."

He looks.  Her eyes are bright with tears.  "Please, Theresa," he begs.  "Please, I must do something.  Tell me who did this.  I must avenge him."

There are tears streaming down Theresa's face.  "I'm sorry.  I'm so, so sorry.  He- he killed himself."

Shatterstar wrenches out of her grasp, shaking his head, "No, no, Julio would not-  He would not leave me!  He would not...  He told me he would be okay.  He promised."  He feels sick.  He is the one who asked to separate in Mexico and he is the one who was not there.  "Why?" he asks, searching Theresa's face for answers.  "Why would he do this? Why?  I don't understand.  Explain.  Please," he begs.

He is trembling now.  To take one's own life, it is unfathomable.  For Julio to have done so... It is something he cannot understand.  Julio could explain it to him, but Julio is gone.  He is gone and Shatterstar is alone.

"I'm sorry," Theresa says again.  "He lost his powers and..." she runs a hand across her face.  "I'm so sorry, honey."

There is a fight.  Shatterstar performs adequately.  He does not pay attention to anything other than who he must kill.  (No killing.  Monet is possessed.  I know they suck, but I don't want them dead.  They're still family.)  They free Monet.  He is permitted to attack the Madrox duplicate.  When Monet gets the final blow, he decides that he likes her very much.  She is strong, and decisive.  There is a fury in her that reminds him a little bit of Julio.  She is beautiful, in the same way those marble statues are.  Even though she is naked, he feels no pull.  Nothing.  Nothing but deep, pervasive emptiness where his heart and lungs should be.  She looks at him, one eyebrow raised in a way that he recognizes as performatory.  It is what women on television do when they are attractive and know it.  He stares back at her, unblinking.

Monet scoffs, sounding slightly amused, "Who're you?"

Theresa is by his side, handing Monet a jacket.  "This is Shatterstar.  He's a friend."

"You are a very competent fighter," Shatterstar says.

Monet smiles thinly.  It doesn't reach her eyes, which are tired.  Shatterstar understands.  He is tired too.  "I would say it's a pleasure to meet you, but not much about today has been pleasurable."

Shatterstar nods sharply.  "I will go now."

Theresa grabs his arm, "Wait, Shatty, where're ye goin'?"

He bares his teeth on instinct.  "Julio is," he pauses, "gone.  And so there is nothing for me here.  I will go back to Mojo."  All he is good for is fighting; without Julio, he has nothing left to fight for.

"Absolutely not," Theresa snaps, planting herself in front of him.  "Ye aren't goin' back there ever again, boyo.  There're people here that care about ye, me included."  Her grip on his arms is strong.  "Just because Ric is gone, it doesn't mean..."  She shakes her head.  "Stay, please?"

Shatterstar nods numbly.  "Very well."  He allows himself to be lead to an unassuming building.

Madrox seems surprised to see Theresa.  "Oh, uh, you're back."

She glares at him, "Don't ye dare speak to me."

"Right," Madrox nods.  He focuses on Shatterstar, "Who are you?"

Shatterstar does not feel like speaking.  Theresa clearly dislikes him, and Shatterstar trusts her judgement.

"We were on X-Force together," Theresa snaps.  "Cortex got 'im.  He's stayin' here for now."

"Are you-"

"I'm gettin' 'im settled."  With that, Theresa marches further into the building.  Shatterstar follows.  "Christ almighty," she mutters once they're away from Madrox.  "I didnae think it would still ache so fiercely."

He tilts his head.  "What is the matter?"

"Nothin', Shatty," she shakes her head, "Nothin' that matters now."

Shatterstar does not believe her, but says nothing, because he is tired.  The room is sparse, undecorated, but the bed is adequate and he simply wants to lie down and sleep.  Theresa squeezes his hand and tells him to get her if he needs anything.  He agrees, but is probably lying.  The one thing he needs is Julio, and Julio is gone.  He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and startles.  His hair is cut short, cropped close to his scalp and curling longer at the top.  It looks wrong.  It is wrong.  His hair measured the years he had survived in the slave pits and the Arena.  It should not be short.  He has survived too much for it to be short.  He sinks to the floor, gripping his hair tighter and tighter, yanking, until the pain is sharp and breathtaking.  A sob curdles in his throat, sudden and unexpected.  This, of all things, is what brings him to tears?  Julio is dead.  His hair is short.  Nothing is as it should be, nor will it ever be again.

He dreams of Julio, always Julio.  Julio grinning, nudging his side and pointing out something particularly interesting.  Their thighs pressed side by side as they sit on the couch in the recreation center, warm through their clothes.  The way sometimes Shatterstar could catch him off guard and make his dark eyes go wide and a flush settle on his cheeks and neck.  His hands on Julio's hips, lifting him slightly when they kissed.  Lying out in the sun on a beach hidden from view, in a world all their own.  The feeling of his mouth curving into a smile against the skin of his neck.  He blurs around the edges sometimes, never clear enough.  Something is always missing.  There is always a tell.  He will always be dead when Shatterstar wakes up.

He wakes up the next morning with tears in his eyes.  He cannot remember the last time that he cried before all of this.  He must have been a child.  He feels like a child now.  Theresa knocks on his door some time around noon.  He does not answer.

"Shatty, love, ye have to eat," she says.  Then, "I know you miss him, but he wouldnae want ye starvin' yerself for him."

She leaves a plate outside his door.  He does not eat.  She brings another at night.  He does not eat that either.  He stays on the mattress, sinking into it.  His swords are on the other side of the room.  He wonders if he will see Julio if he dies.  Perhaps if he just lays in bed forever, he will fall asleep and wake up and Julio will be there beside him.  Hours pass.  He is unsure of how many.  It is dark outside once again.

Monet is standing in the doorway.  She shakes her head at the stack of plates and the uneaten food.  "Go take a shower," she tells him, voice firm.  "And eat something.  We could use your help with the case."

He gets up, for no reason other than bloodshed.  That is all he is anymore.  A weapon.

He is watching Wheel of Fortune when Tabitha arrives.  It is not his favorite game show, but it is soothing nonetheless.  The host has not changed, and he is relieved that some things are still the same.  Tabitha's hair has grown out.  She is thinner than he remembers, less bright.  Julio was very dear to her, he recalls.

"Terry said you were back," she says, after he makes no effort to speak.  In her arms is a nondescript box.  She shifts it like it's heavy.  "I, uh, have something for you.  From Ric."  Her voice cracks on his name.

Shatterstar lifts his head.  "From Julio?"

Tabitha purses her lips, "Well, like, he had them in the back of his closet."  She laughs a little, mirthless.  "And he wrote you a letter.  Or, I guess he tried to, I dunno."

He stands, abruptly, holding out his hands.  She hands him the box, looking up at him with that same crease in her brows that Theresa gets when he mentions Julio.

He sighs, "What is your question?"

Tabitha rocks back a little, hands clasped in front of her.  "I didn't mean to- Okay.  Um," she looks around.  "Do you wanna, like, talk in private or what?"

He frowns, "Why is that necessary?"

She scratches her head.  "It's not, but-" she presses her lips together, "I guess... well, Ric... he didn't talk about this.  Ever."

"He is dead," Shatterstar says, flat.  "I do not care if anyone knows.  It is likely that they have already figured it out."

Tabitha flinches back from the words, like they hurt.  "I know," she snaps, "But I don't think he would want his private things aired out in the open.  So I think if you wanna talk we should do it somewhere else.". Shatterstar stares at her, wide-eyed.  She deflates.  "Fuck, I'm sorry.  It's been a shitty couple a months, Shatty."  Her voice cracks, "He was my best friend and he didn't tell me 'cause he was scared.  How fucked is that?  We were supposed to take care of each other."

He swallows, "He was the other half of my soul, and now he is gone.  It is... very 'shitty'."

Tabitha lets out a shaky little sob, hand coming up to cover her mouth and eyes going wide like it surprised her.  "Oh god, he's really gone.  Like, I know he is but sometimes I forget and then...  I miss him."  She crosses her arms, sniffling, "I miss him a whole fuckin' lot."

If he were anyone else, Shatterstar might hug her.  As it is, he clears his throat and says, "Would you like to come upstairs?"

They do not speak as they make the climb to his room.  Guido raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth, likely to make a tasteless comment of a sexual nature.  Shatterstar bares his teeth at him, and Guido does not speak.  He has previously had no opinion on the state of his quarters, but something like embarrassment burns through him as he realizes just how messy they have become.  He kicks a pair of pants under the bed, and when he turns around Tabitha has a strange expression on her face.  He says nothing, simply holds out his hands for the box.  She gives it to him.  There's a great deal of dust on it, and Shatterstar wrinkles his nose at the sensation of dust against his skin, but he does not put it down immediately like he once might have.  He just holds it, because it's all he has left of Julio and he cannot make himself let go.

"I can go," Tabitha says, after a moment.  She does not sound like she wants to leave, but he appreciates the offer.

"No," he tells her, "That is not necessary.  You may stay."  He sits down, knees hitting the floor with enough force that he is suddenly reminded of the first time he gave Julio a blowjob, knees digging into the cheap carpet of the motel room and Julio's hands in his hair.  "I do not think I want to be alone right now."

"I looked inside, but I didn't, like, go through it all," Tabitha admits, scrubbing a hand through her hair.  "And I added a few things from his apartment that I thought you might want, if you ever came back.  And you did, so..."  She looks at him, mouth set in a line.  "I can leave, seriously, if you don't wanna do this around me."

"Do you want to leave?" he asks.

She blinks, working her jaw.  "No," she says after a moment, "No, I really fucking don't."

He nods.  "Then stay."

"Wait, okay, here," she hands him an envelope.  "I don't think he really finished writing it.  Mine wasn't finished either.  So I put it in an envelope for you."

For half a second, Shatterstar imagines he can feel Julio's hand on his shoulder, lips pressed to the space where his neck meets his jaw.  It's not real, but he wishes it were.  He used to imagine Julio speaking to him when he was with Mojo, during the long lonely nights.  He did not touch himself because he had no desire for it without Julio around.  It was always about touching and being touched by Julio.  The pleasure was secondary.  He dreamt of sex sometimes, woke up erect, but there was no point without Julio.  There has never been any point without him, no point to sex and romance and watching television and doing anything other than what he was engineered to do.  He is a weapon, and Julio was the only reason he had to be anything else.  His hands are shaking.  He ignores it.  Julio is gone, and this is all he has left of him.  Julio deserves better than shaking hands and blurred vision.  He deserves to be witnessed and not forgotten.

He takes the envelope and places it carefully off to the side, "Thank you."

Her lips quirk up, "No problem."

He opens the box.  A t-shirt taunts him, old and thin and worn soft, has been placed on top of the rest of the contents.  The name of a band emblazoned across the front, so faded that it is illegible.  He picks up the shirt, twisting the fabric between his fingers.  He abandons what little semblance of dignity he has left and buries his face in the fabric for a moment, inhaling deeply.  It doesn't smell like him, not really.  It's been too long, too many months since he died.  But, if Shatterstar squeezes his eyes shut, he can pretend.  He can pretend, just for a little while.  He feels Tabitha's hand on his shoulder, tentative, and a sob rattles from deep within his chest.  He never stops missing Julio, but sometimes it rises up and chokes him from the inside out.  Right now, he can barely breathe because of it.  He could swear that it is breaking his ribs, crushing him like a can of soda.

He remembers, abruptly, Julio laughing.  He's drunk, a high flush in his cheeks, and he's using his powers to crush empty beer cans.  The sun is setting, and Shatterstar doesn't quite understand what's funny, but Julio's laugh is intoxicating all the same.  It's even moreso when he bends, leaning down to kiss him, swallowing the sound, fisting in his worn t-shirt.  Dude, c'mon, not out here.  Let's go to the truck and then you can do whatever you want.

He sets the shirt down, exhaling.  Wipes the tears from his cheeks, blinking rapidly.  "I am fine," he says, although Tabitha did not ask.  Her hand is burning his shoulder, suddenly.  He shrugs it off.

The box is not organized, but then Julio's side of their shared room was always messy.  It used to annoy him, when they first started sharing.  He adapted to it, and Julio always kept his mess on his side of the room.  There's a plastic bag filled with photographs, Mexico, 2005 scrawled in sharpie across the label.  Julio's green bandana, dotted with old bloodstains.  A handful of bullets rolling around the bottom.  Rocks, too, some that Shatterstar recognizes but some he doesn't.  A dappled brown feather, a star-shaped magnet, a button with a band name on it.  A cassette tape, with Shatterstar's own careful handwriting on the side.  He recognizes it; he made it for Julio with Theresa's help because he saw it in a movie.  Some old receipts; upon closer inspection, there are what Shatterstar assumes are movie titles scribbled on the back.  A braided lock of Shatterstar's own hair, fraying like it's been rubbed between Julio's fingers.  Shatterstar gave it to him when they first started "dating", although it was really just sneaking kisses between training sessions until they left for Mexico and had more privacy.  Even then, they never went out in public.  He does not resent Julio for that, or at least he didn't at the time.  A wrinkled brochure for some sort of self-help group, a small rainbow flag underneath the title.  It's tattered, like Julio flipped through it several times.  He blinks, throat tight.  One of the receipts he's holding crinkles.  Hesitantly, he reaches for the brochure.  Stops.  Grabs the bag of photographs instead.  It dislodges the brochure anyway, and it falls open.  Circled in thick black sharpie are the words, "Find acceptance and community!" underneath which Julio wrote, Good luck with that bullshit.  Shatterstar would laugh, if he didn't feel like screaming.

"Shit," Tabitha mutters, picking up the brochure.  She rubs a thumb over the words Julio scrawled in sharpie.  "Shit, Ric, why didn't you tell me?"  Her voice cracks, and she wipes at her eyes.

"Your mascara is running," Shatterstar tells her, because he cannot figure out how to articulate the scream caught in his throat.

"Fuck off," she says, but bumps his shoulder.  She peers at the bag of photographs, "Wazzat?"

"Photographs," he says.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious.  Pictures of what?"

"Me and Julio," he says.

"Ohmigod, did you guys make a fucking sex tape or something?"  She grabs the cassette, "Is that what this is?"

He bristles, snatching the tape from her.  "No.  They are just... pictures.  Mundane images.  This is a mixtape.  I made it for him."

"Oh," she says, "Sorry, I-"  She shakes her head.  "Sorry."

"Would you like one?"

"A mixtape?"

"A picture.  Of him."

She stares at him, "Seriously?  I mean, those are, like, yours."

"You were important to him, too," he says firmly.  "He would want you to have one."

She laughs, "I don't think he would, but yeah.  Yeah, I'd like one."

He opens the bag, pouring the pictures out over the floor.  Some of the photos are of the two of them, squeezed together into a single frame.  What he's heard Layla call a selfie.  There's one where they are both blurry because Julio surprised him with a kiss, and he almost dropped the camera.  Another that is blurry because he said something that made Julio laugh.  Others are of just him; he shuffles through them quickly.  It hurts to see himself happy, knowing what comes next.  He is inexplicably both jealous and bitter towards his younger self for not holding on tighter to Julio.  There are comparably fewer pictures of Julio than there are of the two of them, landscapes, or of Shatterstar himself.  He was preoccupied with photographing the desert and interesting rocks that were too big for him to physically bring back to Julio or a cat that was napping in the sun, and Julio disliked being photographed.  He'd asked Shatterstar if it had bothered him, and he'd told Julio that it did not, because there is a very big difference between the dazzling camera flashes of Mojo and the single warm bulb of the camera in Julio's hands.  It is a world of difference.  Julio never made him feel like the center of attention.

He glances at Tabitha, and watches as she shuffles through the photographs of Julio, brushing her thumb over his face reverently.  "He looks happy," she muses, "Like, happier than I've ever seen him."  Fingers skimming each photo, chewing her lip.  "This one," she decides, grabbing a picture of Julio laughing, a strand of his hair pulled over his lip like a mustache.  "Did you take it?"

"I did," he confirms.

"You're good at that," she says, "You should get an Instagram or something, post pictures like this.  It might give you something to do."  She sighs, "I gotta go, but take care of yourself, okay?  Ric would never forgive me if I let you get yourself killed."

"I will do my best," he assures her, attention drawn to the envelope next to him.

She doesn't hug him goodbye.  He doesn't want her to.  The letter taunts him; it isn't sealed, so he can see the jagged edges of the notebook paper peaking out from inside.  The envelope is overfull, bulging and creased.  He cannot leave it unread, however, because these are Julio's final words to him.  They are important.  Still, his fingers tremble as he takes the pages out of the envelope.  It's creased, and there are portions that are ripped.  It smells faintly of alcohol, and there is a section where the ink has smeared to the point where it is illegible.

Hey,

I'm sorry

Everything sucks without you  

I know you won't understand why I did it.  This isn't an apology  I can't explain it.  I know you hate when I say that.  I keep thinking about you finding out.  Did you cry?  Please don't blame yourself.  I'm an asshole, okay.  Terry could probably help you understand.  It's not your fault, I promise.  I know you need people to explain things like this to you.  Emotions and how to react the right way and all that shit.

It's all bullshit.  You're fine the way you are.  Don't feel like you need to figure out the "right way" to grieve me.  Fuck, you don't need to grieve me at all.  You're better off without me.  I wish I could help you figure it out.

Or maybe you don't need me.  I don’t know if you still wonder about what happened in Jalisco. I don’t know if you still think about me. It's been years, so I get it if you just moved on.  I hope you don't need me. Last I heard you were trying to find yourself. I hope to God you found something.

I need

I wish you'd come back

I fucking hate how shit ended between us. You’re always looking for a fight so why didn't you fight back? Why didn't you fight for us? For me? I’m an idiot. You knew I was an idiot.  I've always been an idiot, and I was an idiot for letting you go you knew that.  You were the only one who ever saw through my bullshit, so why didn't you fight me on this?  I was scared and stupid and I pushed you and you didn't push back. 

This is gonna sound lame

I never realized I could feel so numb and in so much pain at the same time. I want to talk to you about it but no one has your current phone number.  Or if you even have a phone.  God, you're gonna love emojis.

I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry.  No one gets it.  You would get it, but you left me aren't here.  My powers are gone.  I'm a useless, pathetic sack of meat.  I go out and lie on the ground and I can’t even fucking feel it. There’s just nothing. Bet you I’ll feel the ground when I hit it at terminal velocity. 

I love you

<3,

Rictor

Julio

A keening noise reaches his ears, and he belatedly realizes that it is coming from his throat.  He hunches in on himself, scrabbling at the carpet, paper crinkling in his clenched fists.  There are tears in his eyes, running down his cheeks, and he cannot breathe.  He cannot breathe.  He presses the letter to his chest, like if he holds on tight enough to the crumpled paper then it will bring Julio back.  He knows it will not.  He can hear his voice as he reads, despite the pain the words bring.  He does not have any recordings of his voice, and that realization hits him like a blow to the gut.  It hurts, so much more than the times he has stabbed himself.  He will never hear his voice again.  This letter is all he has left of his voice.  It is not enough.  It will never be enough.  Julio died and took Shatterstar's heart and lungs with him. 

Weeks pass, same as ever.  People come to them asking for help, and Shatterstar does not care about them, but each new case means a chance to wet his blade with the blood of his enemies, and that brings him something almost resembling joy.  No, it's not joy.  It's satisfaction.  But even that rings hollow.  It has been almost a month since he returned to Earth when a woman he recognizes as Rahne Sinclair arrives.  He knows of her, though only by reputation.  He and Julio "went out" for a short time, but Julio had confided in him that he just wanted to feel normal and that Rahne would not have pressed him to engage in sexual activities because she is something called a Calvinist.  She is also extremely pregnant, and despite the emptiness of his soul, he is fascinated.  He has never seen a pregnant woman before.

"Hullo," Rahne says politely, although she is looking at him strangely.  Perhaps it is because he is staring.  He was trying to remedy this habit before Julio died, but now he does not care.  "Theresa says that ye were friends with Rictor?"

"He was very dear to me," Shatterstar agrees.  "He spoke of you sometimes."

She smiles sadly, "Good things, I hope?"

"Yes," he says, and it is not a lie, because Julio was genuinely fond of Rahne.  He also used her as an example of someone who would hate him for being in a relationship with another man.  However, Julio also believed that Tabitha and Theresa would despise him for that reason, and they have shown him nothing but loyalty and friendship.  Perhaps, Rahne will be the same.  "He said that you are a kind person."

She wipes at her eyes, sniffling.  "Damn these hormones.  It's good to know he had such a loyal friend."

"Yes," Shatterstar agrees.  "I have pictures that he left me from when we were younger.  I gave one to Tabitha.  If you want, you may also choose one."

"I'd like that, thank ye."

He brings her to his room, offering his arm when it appears that she is struggling.  He does not typically like being touched by strangers very much, but he likes Rahne well enough.  She knew Julio before he did, and he wishes to pick her mind about what he was like as a young teenager.  Things that Julio might have told him had his life not been cut short.  Anything to cement him fully in Shatterstar's mind.  The pictures are strewn about his dresser and nightstand.  His favorites he keeps close at hand, so that he can look over them after he is tormented by nightmares.  It is the closest he can get to Julio whispering reassurances into his hair and holding him tightly in his arms.  Rahne observes his room politely for a moment.  It is not as clean as it should be; the bed are not made uniformly but rumpled and loose and his swords are on the folding table and have yet to be oiled and cleaned for the day.  He has been "slacking off".  He allows Rahne to look over the photos that he can bear to part with and sits down to tend to his swords.

He has barely even started his task when Rahne gasps sharply.  "What is this?" she snarls, and he looks at her, confused.

She's holding one of the photos from his nightstand, one of Julio shirtless and sleeping in a motel bed.  "That is a picture of Julio," he says, not understanding her sudden ire.

She strides across the room until she is standing above him.  With him seated, they are of eye level.  "This is not an appropriate picture for ye to take of yuir friend," she snaps.  Her eyes have gone yellow.  "It's- It's the act of a pervert."

"Julio was okay with it," he says, bristling.  "I do not understand what you are accusing me of.  I assumed you knew what we were to each other."

Her eyes widen, anger flashing in them.  "Good lord, did ye seduce him?"

"I loved him very much, and he loved me," he says, baring his teeth and snatching the photo from her hands.  She doesn't let go easily, and the edge tears.  Shatterstar's blood rushes to his head.  "Leave.  Now."

"No," she moans, burying her face in her hands, "No, no, he's in Hell because of ye!  I told him suicides go to Hell, I did, but his soul was already damned.  No, no, Rictor."  Her voice breaks and she lunges at him, "This is all yuir fault!"

He shakes her off, snarling when her claws rake across his forearm.  "He is not in Hell," he insists, "He is not.  Julio was good."

"Aye, and ye corrupted him!"  She makes another grab for him, and he pushes her back, blood pounding in his ears.  "He's in Hell because of ye!  Ye damned him to an eternity of torment!"

"Get out," he snarls at her, backing away and clutching the torn photograph in one hand.  Picks one of his swords up with his other and levels it at her, "If I see you again, I will kill you."

She stares at him, wide-eyed, then flees.  Shatterstar collapses in on himself, clutching his sword tight to his chest.  He is dimly aware of it cutting into his palm and through his shirt and into his chest, but he does not care.  Refuses to care.  There is comfort, normalcy, in this pain.  It is cold, clinical, physical.  The pain deeper in his chest, like a blade lodged between his ribs and the soft muscle of his heart, is new and unfathomable and unrelenting.  He will heal from the sword.  From his heart, he is not so sure.  His breath is coming too quickly and his vision is spotty.  He does not hear the footsteps on the stairs, is not aware of the door opening, only feels his heart racing and his throat tightening, cutting off air.  He drops his sword, clawing at his neck.  Julio cannot be in Hell.  It cannot be true.  Hell does not exist.

(Julio had confessed that he did not believe in God anymore, but that there was a part of him that was afraid of going to Hell.  Shatterstar had assured him that he would not let that happen.  Julio had laughed and said that wasn't how it worked.  He is such a failure.)

There are hands on his shoulders and he lashes out without thinking, afraid and in pain and bleeding.  The hands are around his wrists, pulling, and he can breathe.  The darkness clears from his vision and he sees red hair (Julio enjoyed braiding his hair.  He said it was beautiful, and he meant it in a way that was unlike all the rest.) and a green sweater (Julio liked green.  He wore it often.) and Theresa's pale, concerned face.

"Shatty, hon', what happened?" Theresa asks, and there is a layer of honey and desperation in her voice that he is powerless to resist, loosening his tongue.

"She said that he is in Hell," he mumbles, brain fuzzy.

"Who?" Theresa asks gently, thumb smoothing over the skin of his shoulder.

"Rahne," he chokes, "She said that Julio is in Hell because he loved me."

Theresa's face crumples.  "She's wrong," she says firmly.

"But," he chokes, "What if-"

"She's wrong," Theresa repeats, eyes flashing, "He's in Heaven.  I have to believe someone's up there with my wee babe, don' I?"

Shatterstar blinks at her, "You had a child?"

Theresa nods, "Aye, I did.  Was gonna name him after Rictor, too."

"If there is a heaven, then Julio and your baby are together," Shatterstar decides, but he cannot let go of the thought that he damned his umuer to an eternity of pain.  "Theresa, you are crying," he realizes.

She wipes her eyes quickly, and makes a noise of surprise when he pulls her into a hug.  It is awkward, because she is much smaller than him.  Even Julio, who was smaller than him, never felt breakable.  Right now, though, Shatterstar supposes that they are both very fragile.  They stay huddled together on the floor of his bedroom, clinging to one another in their grief.

After a long while, he asks, "Would you like to watch Singing in the Rain with me?"

She smiles at him.  "I would."

The sit together on the couch, Theresa curled into his side, and it is achingly familiar.  He runs his fingers through the ends of her long, curly red hair.  He misses his own hair with a sudden intensity that shocks him.  Hair was important, both to the slaves and the rebels.  Perhaps it is fitting that his hair was cut when he lost Julio.  It certainly felt like dying.  In the Arena, corpses had their hair hacked off before they were burned.  Arize obviously kept blood and tissue samples, but the hair was purely symbolic.  Dead cells, after all.  With the Alliance, however, it was different.

He clears his throat.  "Before I came to Earth, I was with the Cadre Alliance," he begins, feeling as if there is a stone lodged in his throat.  He swallows, continues, "And when one of our own died, we had traditions."

Theresa sits up.  "What kind of traditions?"

He stares at the television, watching the figures dancing across the screen.  "We would braid their hair.  Different braids meant different things.  The family, or if there were none then someone designated by the the leaders of the Alliance, would do one ringing the crown of the head.  I believe here it is called a waterfall braid.  Then, the brothers and sisters in arms would do small braids at the temples."

"Like the ones you did back on X-Force," Theresa hums.

He nods.  "Then, if the deceased had-" his voice cracks "-a lover, they would gather those smaller braids into one larger one."  He fiddles with the blanket.  "Was Julio's hair long when he died?"

Julio had always loved Shatterstar's hair, but there was something about Julio's hair that had felt like home.  His hair had been too short to braid properly in Mexico, and when it was long he had not allowed Shatterstar to braid it.  So he only has the memory of those dark strands slipping through his fingers like the desert sand.  Curls sticking out of the sides of the braid, inevitably his bangs would come loose and frame his face.  Soft.  Home.

"Shatty," Theresa says, sounding pained.  "He jumped from the top of a building.  There wasn't really much left."

"Oh," he says, blinking rapidly, "Which one?"

She squeezes his arm, "Ye don't need to know that.  You won't find any answers."

"I would like to know," he insists.

"Okay," she gives in, "Okay, I'll take ye.  But not tonight."

She falls asleep on the couch, and he carries her to her bed.  He does not sleep, instead spending the night on Google, searching for every movie clip of Heaven and Hell he can find.  Hell is garish and cluttered and awful, Heaven seems boring and empty and cold.  Neither of these places are satisfactory for Julio.  Theresa had claimed that Julio was not in Hell, but he cannot stop himself from clinging to the hope that he is reachable. That Shatterstar can save him and bring him home.  In the morning, he tells her that he is going to see a movie, and instead turns to Monet for assistance.

"Do you know where Magik is?" he asks.

"Probably at the school or something," she replies, not looking up from the book she is reading.  "Why?"

He shifts from foot to foot.  He is suddenly afraid that if he speaks it aloud, it will become a foolish wish and nothing more.  He opens his mouth, closes it again, looks away.  He has never been very good at explaining things.  Julio would have understood.

Monet shakes her head.  "Nevermind, I honestly don't care.  Just-" she sighs, studying him "-don't do anything stupid."

He takes the bus to the school.  It is loud and chaotic and he dislikes it.  The sun is coming through the windows, heat magnified by the glass.  It is coated with something that has bubbled and started peeling at the edges.  He picks at it, peeling off long, thin strips.  The bus is slow, stopping and starting in great lurches that turn his stomach.  He rests his head against the window and closes his eyes.  He does not sleep, despite his exhaustion.  Years of living in the slave pits and then the Arena taught him never to sleep in public, because someone would surely slit his throat and take his belongings.  The bus stops, and the driver explains that the route stops here as a result of the recent bus bombings.  Shatterstar does not know what he is referring to, but the mile walk to the school is easy for someone like him.  The last time he was at this place, it led to Julio leaving him behind and returning to Mexico.  The memory makes him feel bitter and nostalgic at the same time.  They wasted so much time as children.  But he recognizes a tree that Julio would sit under when he wanted to be left alone (Shatterstar was the exception to this, always) and he changes direction and marches across the lawn towards it.  There are initials carved into the wood, a tradition Julio had explained was common for lovers.  He had gone silent when Shatterstar had asked if he could use his swords to carve their initials, in that way that meant no.  He gets lost in that memory, so close he feels as though he could reach out and grasp it.

Someone clears their throat behind him, and Shatterstar turns.  A teenager, dark skin and close-cropped hair, yellow sunglasses.  "Excuse me, sir, Miss Frost asked me to come get you."  He's eyeing Shatterstar's swords with a frown.

"Alright," Shatterstar says, because he sees no reason not to comply with this request.

The teenager relaxes slightly.  "I'm Prodigy, by the way."  He extends his hand.

"I am Shatterstar," he says, taking Prodigy's hand because that is what is considered polite.  Shakes once, lets go, and follows Prodigy across the lawn.

"Most people who fight with swords have calluses," Prodigy comments as they walk.

"I am not most people," he says blandly, observing his surroundings.  It looks the same as he remembers, and that makes him feel very small and out of place.  Too much has changed.

"Cool, man, that's cool."  Prodigy stops in front of the doors to the office that Shatterstar remembers belonging to Charles Xavier.

He frowns.  "Where is Xavier?"

"He's, uh, not around," Prodigy says.  "Miss Frost is the Headmistress now."

"I see."  He has no real opinion on this.  Prodigy is watching him like he is waiting for something else.  "I no longer require your assistance."

"Okay," Prodigy says.  "Have a good day, I guess?"

The door to the office opens, and Emma Frost stands imperiously.  She is dressed in all white, fitting for a woman known as the White Queen.  Her breasts are prominently displayed, a distraction technique Shatterstar respects, though it has no effect on him.

Frost sighs.  "Your thoughts are deafening.  I would have thought Scott's son taught you better than that."

"He attempted to," Shatterstar says, "My shielding is not what I believe you want to discuss."

"No," she says, mouth quirking upwards, "It's not.  Illyana Rasputin is in the break room, down the hall and to your left.  Danielle Moonstar is going to meet with her.  You should have ten minutes if you hurry."

He nods at her, and leaves without saying another word.  He follows her directions and, indeed, the break room is where Frost had said it would be.  He enters, and Magik is sitting on the couch tapping at her cellphone with a bored expression on her face.

"Hello?" she says, looking up at him with a vaguely annoyed expression, "Do you need something?"

"I wish to speak with you," he replies, closing the door behind him.

"What did I do to piss you off?" she asks, smirking.

"You are from Hell, correct?"

Her eyes narrow, "That's what everyone says."

"Could you-" he swallows "-would you know if someone was in Hell?  Could you help me find them?"

She seems to really look at him now, brow furrowed.  "I am from Limbo.  It is close to Hell.  But I'm not the Grim Reaper, so I cannot tell you where a soul goes when a person dies."

He nods.  "I am sorry for-"

"Wait," she holds up a finger.  "Sit down.  You were on a team with Canonball, yes?"

"Yes," he says, sitting down on the couch.  It feels unnaturally low to the ground, and creaks beneath him, "I was on X-Force."

"One of the former members of X-Force died recently," she continues, then looks at him, blue eyes piercing.  "You were close with him, weren't you."

He nods, grief clawing at his chest so suddenly it surprises him.  "We were very close."

"Then why are you asking about Hell?"

He swallows.  "I- We- I was told recently that if a man loves another man, that damns him to Hell.  If that is true, then-"

"It's not," Magik interrupts.  "Wherever he is, it's not Hell.  Trust me."  She pats his shoulder, and it is extremely awkward, but still provides some comfort.  "Don't torture yourself like this.  Anyone who says those things is wrong and small-minded."

He nods, finding himself unable to speak suddenly.  He leaves the break room in a rush and flees the school.  He does not bother taking the bus, choosing to walk back to the X-Factor building.  It is dark by the time he returns, and Theresa is waiting for him with her arms crossed, face drawn and pale.

"Where in the bloody fuck were ye?" she snaps, marching up to him.  She sounds afraid.

"I went to the school," he tells her, feeling very far away from his body all of a sudden.  He finds he cannot remember anything distinct about the walk back.  It is as if while it was happening he was somewhere else.  "I spoke with Magik."

"Why would ye- Oh, honey," she says, face crumpling.

"She said he is not in Hell."  He rubs his arms.  "She said that anyone who told me that was wrong."

"She's right," Theresa says.  "You should eat something."

"I am not hungry."

"You should eat," she repeats, and he does not object.

The food tastes like nothing in his mouth, and he goes to bed immediately.  He is quite certain that he dreamt of something, but he just can't remember what.  More time passes.  He stays with X-Factor because Theresa asked him to and he has nowhere else to go.  There is no one to take vengeance upon.  Life continues, meaningless and monotonous.  He watches television and feels the prominent ache of Julio's absence beside him on the couch, the silence in place of his jokes and explanations.  There is no one to answer Shatterstar's questions about life and television, no one to help him navigate the world.  He is alone.  He will always be alone.  Theresa tries.  She helps guide him when she can, but he can tell that she is also hurting.  And Madrox has something to do with it.  Shatterstar does not like Madrox.  Layla is enigmatic and frustrating, and she looks at him with sad, knowing eyes.  Sometimes she will sit on the couch with him and watch television.  She is not Julio, so it does not matter.   Longshot comes and goes, and he looks at Shatterstar with an indecipherable expression.  Not quite pity, closer to understanding.   He never says anything, though, and Shatterstar no longer has patience for things he does not understand, so he ignores it.

He makes Theresa take him to see the building that Julio jumped off.  There is nothing special about it.  It looks like any other building in Mutant Town, old and worn down, windows boarded up and walls covered in graffiti.  He cannot figure out why Julio would choose this of all places to kill himself.  It does not make sense.  In the shadow of the doorway, there is a collection of long-dead flowers and dusty candles with figures from Christianity emblazoned on the sides.  He crouches down and looks, taking it in.  There is another thing, one that Theresa tries to stop him from seeing.  On the ground in front of the building is an ugly, rust-colored stain that has seeped into the bleached and cracking concrete of the sidewalk.  Shatterstar is very familiar with the sight of blood.  It should not phase him.

It takes Theresa ten minutes to find him, curled up in the doorway of another abandoned building, so very like that night at the Limelight.  "Let's go home, boyo," she says softly, and he does not object.

Longshot is sitting on the couch when they return, watching television.  Shatterstar finds he does not particularly care what he is watching, so long as there is noise and lights and distraction.  He pulls his knees to his chest, and Theresa asks him a question he does not hear.  It is all static.  He is unsure of how long he stays like this, far away from his body and watching the screen flicker with images.  Light.  Particles and waves, nothing more.

"Your power is not just luck," he says to Longshot, when he feels as though he can move again.  "You also are able to read emotional imprints from objects."

Longshot raises an eyebrow at him, but nods.  "Yup.  I'm lucky, and a little bit psychic."  He grins with a grandiosity that Shatterstar recognizes as staged.  They are the same in many ways.

He shifts, avoiding eye contact, "If I asked you for a favor, would you grant it without asking if I am fekting okay?"

Longshot studies him for a moment.  "What do you need?"

The building is just as plain as it was when he first saw it with Theresa.  He ignores the bloodstain.  He knows what Longshot will read from that.  The lock breaks easily beneath his swords, and they climb the stairs to the roof.  It is not a wide edge, but it is big enough for the two of them to inspect comfortably.

"You sure you wanna know?" Longshot asks.  "It won't make you feel better."

Shatterstar nods.  "I need to know."

Longshot presses his bare palm to the ledge Julio jumped from, and his eye glows white.  When he pulls his palm away, he is blinking away tears.  When he speaks, his words are incomprehensible.  They buzz in Shatterstar's ears like flies, and before he has even finished relaying the information, Shatterstar is running down the stairs, rage pulsing in his fingertips.

"MADROX!" he roars, slamming open the front door.  "MADROX, WHERE IS IT?"

He hears Guido laugh, "Jesus, Jamie, whaddya do?"  Hears Maddrox's reply as well, too low to make out, and follows the noise.

The leather of his swords' hilts creaks in his fists as he bursts into the kitchen and slams Madrox into the refrigerator so hard several duplicates appear.  He surveys them, searching for any sign that one of them was the one who pushed Julio, but they are identical.  Infuriatingly so.  He gnashes his teeth in frustration and levels his sword in Madrox's face.

"Woah, woah," Guido says, grabbing at his jacket.  "Let's calm down here."

Without removing his forearm from Madrox's throat, he turns and slashes at Guido, cutting into his arm.  "Do not touch me," he snarls.

He feels Layla's eyes on him, and he is suddenly furious.  "You knew," he hisses at her.  "You knew what he did and you did not tell me."

"It wouldn't have made a difference," Layla says.  "He didn't kill Rictor."

"I didn't," Jamie wheezes.  "The dupe that pushed him is long gone."

He turns back to the pathetic man in front of him.  "You killed it?" he asks, narrowing his eyes.

"No," Jamie wheezes.  "No, he left.  I thought it was better-"

Shatterstar slams him harder into the refrigerator, enraged.  "You let it go?  It killed Julio and you did not avenge him?"  Madrox chokes, and for a moment Shatterstar considers killing him.  Then he lets him fall to the ground and turns to Guido and Layla.  "I am leaving.  I will find it, and take the blood that is owed to me."

None of them stop him from leaving the kitchen.  He ignores the shouting that ensues.  He marches up the stairs, intent on packing and leaving immediately, but Theresa sticks her head out of her room and frowns at him.

"What was that about?" she asks.

"Julio did not kill himself," he says, rage still buzzing in his limbs, "Madrox sent one of his duplicates to stop him and it got him to see reason and then pushed him."

Theresa's eyes go wide, and she drops the book she is holding.  "You're leaving," she says, and it's not a question.

"I must avenge Julio," he tells her.

"I know," she says.  Then she closes the distance between them and hugs him tightly.  "Ye better come back ta me, ye hear?"

He allows himself a moment of comfort before breaking the embrace.  "I will.  Madrox could never defeat me in combat."

"I'm not worried about the dupe," Terry tells him, eyes sad.

It takes him a week to find the duplicate.  It is in a bar in New Jersey, drinking despite the fact that it is noon.  Shatterstar aches to rush in and slaughter it where it sits, but he decides to wait for a more opportune time.  Julio had impressed upon him the importance of not getting caught by the police.  He had learned something from Cable's many lectures.  While he waits, he finds an abandoned building that is tall enough for the fall to be fatal.  And then he waits.  It is night when he strikes, descending upon the duplicate with all the fury and grief he possesses.  He drags it to the building, ignoring its protests and taunts.  It is drunk and weak and pathetic, like the man it came from.  He is not impressed.  If Julio were to be killed, it should have been by a much more dangerous foe.

He throws it onto the flat concrete of the roof and it laughs.  "Oh, man, I wondered if there was anyone who cared enough to come get me."

Shatterstar slams the door to the roof behind him and grabs the duplicate by the hair, dragging it towards the edge.  "Your original is a coward, and that is the only reason you have lived this long," he assures it.

The duplicate continues to laugh.  "Julio Richter was a coward.  He couldn't even kill himself right."

Shatterstar snarls, shoving the tip of one of his swords in its mouth.  "Speak his name again and I will cut out your tongue."

It just laughs.  It keeps laughing even when he holds it out, dangling it over the open air.  "Do you think he'd be horrified by what you're doing?" it asks him, grinning, "Do you think he'd be proud?"

Shatterstar does not bother to reply.  Instead he drops the duplicate and watches until it hits the ground and breaks.  "I do not get to know what Julio would think of this," he says to the night air.  "And that is your fault."

He leaves.  He does not bother to look for the reports about a man falling from a building.  He was very careful.  All there will be to report is a suicide.  Just like Julio.  Tragic, but no one will miss it.  He wonders why he does not feel better.  There was grim satisfaction, of course, and he does not regret ridding the world of it, but he feels no better.  Julio is still dead.  His heart is still gone from his chest.  His soul is still shattered.  But he is satisfied, and that will be enough.

Before he returns to X-Factor (he does not know if he will stay, but he must at least inform Theresa that he is alive and the duplicate is not), he buys a bouquet of flowers and visits Julio's grave.  He remembers asking Julio what his favorite flowers were after seeing it on television.

"I dunno, dude," Julio had laughed, "Never really thought about it.  Maybe marigolds?  We used them back home to honor the dead on Dia de Los Muertos."

There is a certain irony to that looking back on it now as he stands in front of his best friend's grave, placing the bouquet carefully on the neat grass of the grave.  The headstone reads, "Loyal friend, gone too soon.  Miss you always".  It makes something tighten painfully in his chest.  He had not visited Julio's grave until now, and he is ashamed to admit that it is because he held some resentment towards Julio for leaving him alone.  And then too much time had passed and he felt guilty for not visiting sooner.  Or perhaps he was holding onto hope that, as long as he did not see where he was buried, there was still a chance that one day Julio would walk through the front door.  Foolish.  Selfish.  Childish.

"I miss you," he says, strained.  "I love you very much."

He is not good with words, so he kneels and presses his forehead to the headstone.  The granite is cool.  Julio could tell him about where it came from, how old it was.  Someone clears their throat, and he bristles, surreptitiously wiping tears from his cheeks.  He stands, turning to face whoever has intruded upon his grief.  It is Sam Guthrie, looking older and very tired.

"Tabby told me you were back," he says.

"Yes," Shatterstar says.

"I'm sorry about Rictor," Sam continues after an awkward silence.  "If I had known-"  He shakes his head, runs a hand over his face, "My little brother tried to kill himself a coupla months before-  A few months before he died.  And then Mel, and I just..."

"I do not blame you," Shatterstar says after he trails off.  "Is your brother okay?"

"He died," Sam says distantly.  Then he shakes his head, "Sorry, don't mean to make this 'bout me.  How're you doin'?"

"Bad," Shatterstar states, because it is true.  "But I think that that is how I will always feel, without Julio.  It is like part of my soul is gone."

Sam laughs sharply, but without humor.  "That's fair.  You and Tabby were the closest to 'im."

"I loved him," Shatterstar says, looking at the headstone.

"Oh," Sam says.  "Fuck, I'm sorry."

"I am sorry about your brother," Shatterstar says.

Sam nods, and Shatterstar does him the courtesy of ignoring the tears leaking from his eyes.  They stand together at Julio's grave for what feels like hours, but is probably only minutes.  Time has become sticky and slow since Theresa told him about Julio.  There is nothing to look forward to.  But this, at least, makes it bearable.  At least someone understands.

"If you need anythin', don't hesitate to call," Sam says.

"I do not have a phone," Shatterstar tells him.

Sam laughs a little, "Shoulda figured.  If you need me, I'm at the school.  And take care yerself, Shatty."  Sam reaches out and grips his shoulder, tight and grounding.  "I'm tired a losin' folks."

Shatterstar nods, and watches as Sam disappears into the distance.  He sits down in front of Julio's grave and closes his eyes, digging his fingers into the grass.  Digs deeper until he reaches the soil and pretends that it is Julio is holding his hand.  He starts to cry, and swears he can feel stubble against his cheek.