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Erik never thought he knew love—never thought he knew peace.
Although perhaps he did, once upon a time. A time after he had lost his father in those dreaded camps, when it became him and his mother against the world. A time when he had met Magda, when her warm smile had eased his pain.
But just as it always did—as it had been set in stone, a definitive point in Erik’s prophecy—they were taken from him. His peace and love left the moment he heard—felt—the bullet pierce his mother’s skin. The moment his heart shattered in his chest when Magda gave her last breaths.
And now Erik is left with the little boy, his son, and all he can feel is pain. He feels an intense anger, disbelief even, because how is he to be left with this precious child? A child who doesn’t deserve what comes with Erik—because all that he is is death and destruction, as it had been proved with time.
And Erik doesn’t want to admit it, because the truth of it all is cruel and shameful, but sometimes when he looks at Pietro he feels an overwhelming bitterness that almost suffocates him. It swells in the depths of his chest, turning his throat acidic and he has to force himself not to look away when he meets the infant’s eyes, because in those dark pools he can only be reminded of what he has lost.
Erik goes rigid on the bed as Pietro weeps softly at his side. He squeezes his eyes closed as the cries grow more desperate, broken and needy, and Erik just wants it to stop. He wants it all to stop because this boy is hurting, is hurting because of him.
Eventually Erik turns over, heart crushing inside of his chest when he sees the tears that stream down Pietro’s red cheeks.
Erik wipes them away with a gentleness he forgot he even had, a gentleness he didn’t have since Magda.
Pietro’s small cries subside, his dark eyes locked onto Erik’s as he sniffles the last of his tears away.
And in that moment, Erik feels that familiar sharpness in the back of his throat, something dark and harrowing and he can only stare at his son as the two of them lie in temporary silence.
I don’t deserve you, Erik wants to tell the small child in front of him. He looks at the thin tuft of auburn hair on his head, the stained tears that coat his cheeks. You are perfect and good and I don’t deserve a blessing like you.
But he doesn't. He forces the thoughts away, shoves them in the corners of his mind, before reluctantly taking Pietro into his arms.
Erik isn’t quite sure how it happens, but he feels something heal in him overtime. Something gentle takes over his heart, stitching the shattered pieces back together with each passing day he spends with his son.
Sometimes Pietro’s little giggles echo through the room and Erik can’t help the warmth that settles over his chest at the sound. He can’t help but hold Pietro close in the darkest hours of the night, relishing the soft breaths that leave his mouth with each faint heartbeat.
It’s in those hours that Erik basks in the realization of it all: that gradually, he learned to stop looking at Pietro with sadness and to look at him with love instead.
And that’s what Pietro is—pure love. Erik sees so much love in him. He sees his mother’s eyes in Pietro’s, he sees the upturned lips of Magda’s smile in Pietro’s grin. And Erik feels like a monster to ever remember the days when he used to turn away from Pietro because of the pain that came from the similarities.
Now it has become something he cherishes.
It’s safe to say that Erik is thoroughly confused when Pietro’s soft locks of auburn morph into an intense shade of silver one morning.
He runs his hand through the toddler’s hair in shock as Pietro races a toy car across his leg.
“Am I a grandpa?” Pietro asks, his voice small and disappointed when he meets Erik’s eyes in the mirror.
“Whatever do you mean by that?” Erik asks quizzically. Erik has had years to get accustomed to Pietro’s growth, but that doesn’t stop the child from saying the most baffling things.
“I have grandpa hair,” Pietro explains with a shrug, before wrinkling his nose in disgust. “But I don’t wanna be a grandpa.”
“You are not a grandpa, Pietro,” Erik replies in amusement before softening when he glances at Pietro’s hair once more. “You are only… different.”
And that’s when it clicks for Erik. Pietro is different, because Pietro is a mutant. It was bound to happen of course, and Erik would be lying if he were to say he hadn’t pondered over the possibility on numerous occasions, but it was a surprise all the same.
The next few days are not what Erik had predicted when he came to the conclusion of Pietro’s mutant gene awakening.
First, Pietro went from the energetic and bubbly toddler he always knew to a still, soulless husk.
To say Erik is concerned is an understatement: each touch to Pietro’s skin is warm, his complexion uncharacteristically pale. His eyes are hooded and that usual playful glimmer is practically nonexistent amongst the sea of exhaustion and pain that floods his pupils.
“More,” Pietro begs once he finishes his sandwich (at least he’s eating, Erik supposes, but then again, that’s the problem.)
“If you eat too much, you will get sick.” Erik places a gentle hand on his son’s shivering forehead.
“But I’m still hungry,” Pietro whines. “And my belly hurts.”
Erik caves immediately, not being able to take the ache that coats Pietro’s eyes. He presses a soft kiss to Pietro’s head before leaving to make another sandwich.
As the meals grow larger, so does Pietro’s energy. Within days he’s back to himself, rambunctious and loud and so characteristically Pietro, and Erik feels relief but also can’t help but notice Pietro seems much faster than usual.
His words slur together, sentences sputtered off into rushed sounds and Erik has to tell Pietro to speak slower on multiple occasions. Sometimes Erik leaves Pietro in a room and then in the next moment, he’s gone—far too quick for Erik to pass it off as a coincidence.
Erik is reading a book as Pietro plays with his toys at the foot of his chair. The room is coated with a surprising amount of silence, with the exception of the small noises Pietro makes when he wheels his cars over the rug.
It’s almost… peaceful.
That is until Pietro is suddenly on his lap, causing Erik to jump in bewilderment. He goes still at the look of surprise in Pietro’s eyes, frantically trying to work out how Pietro managed to transfer to his chair in a matter of milliseconds, and why his legs feel oddly sore at the hurried action.
“What is it?” Erik asks warily. But Pietro doesn’t look at Erik, his eyes motionless, as if he was in a trance… “Pietro?”
“Everything was slow,” Pietro mumbles suddenly, his voice distant and hesitant, almost as if he was in shock. In awe.
Erik only feels more confused. “What?”
“You were frozen,” Pietro says. “I tried talking to you, Dad, but you were frozen.”
Erik ponders over the words, trying (and failing) to piece everything together.
“I thought I was stuck,” Pietro rambles on, his words growing quicker with each passing second. “I only wanted to run, Dad, I—”
“Slow down, Pietro,” Erik says in concern, cupping Pietro’s small face tenderly as he finally makes eye contact with him.
Pietro’s eyes are frantic when he answers. “I can’t.”
It doesn’t take long for Pietro to grow accustomed to his powers, of course. Erik even begins to think of it as a familiar nature as the years pass, aside from the occasional flick of wind that hits his side when Pietro passes him in hallways. Or the onslaught of rambled words when Pietro gets too excited. These are things that might be deemed obnoxious from others, unnatural even, but Erik can only find them endearing. These traits, these habits, they are what make Pietro—well, Pietro.
Looking at his son now—dressed in his usual garb of excessively shiny sneakers and an overworn band shirt, perfectly styled silver hair and all—Erik only wonders how he could have allowed time to move so quickly, how he never noticed just how grown up his son was becoming.
“Pretty sure I just flunked that math quiz,” Pietro says, dropping his backpack on the floor. Erik peers from his newspaper as Pietro plops down beside him. “But I think I might join track. Coach says I should.”
“That’s great, Pietro.”
“That I flunked my test?”
Erik rolls his eyes as he sets the paper down. “You know what I was talking about.”
Pietro shrugs as an air of nonchalance surrounds him, but Erik can spy the unease that glints in even the most hidden parts of him—in the way he fiddles with the seam of his pants and taps his shoe rhythmically against the padded floor.
“I really did try,” Pietro finally says, his voice unusually tense. “But every time I tried to focus, my head just—I don’t know…
Erik feels a surge of sympathy at the admission. He places an assuring hand on his son’s shoulder. “You are a very sharp young man, Pietro. You are caring, clever, and intelligent. You do not need a test to prove any of those things.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re my dad,” Pietro huffs, but his eyes contain a faint glow that hadn’t been there before.
Erik merely shakes his head. “I am proud of you, son. That will never change.”
Pietro smiles as he meets Erik’s eyes, before morphing into something more mischievous. “And if I robbed a bank and used that money to buy cigarettes and alcohol? Would you be proud of me then?”
Erik sighs as Pietro chuckles at his side. “I can always count on you to ruin a moment.”
“You love me,” Pietro teases as he steals the newspaper from Erik’s hands and scans for comics.
I love you more than life itself, Erik muses as he gazes at his son. I love you because you are the best thing that could have ever happened to me. My son—my blessing.