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Pietro is nothing like what Erik remembers. When they first met, when he broke him out of prison, Pietro was still young. It was clear that he lived through some bad things, but he was still full of life. So excited at finally meeting him.
Was it Erik who extinguished his sparkle? He was always capable of casual cruelty, of breaking spirits with words. Have his words cut so deep? Have his actions? Or was it the cruel world he had to grow up in?
Pietro now is much colder. He's not as energetic as he was, he's much more sarcastic and bitter. Aggressive too. He has no patience nowadays. He goes from calm to enraged in seconds. He yells, thows things. Hits things. Hits Erik.
Maybe that's how he always was. Erik didn't know his son. He only met him maybe a dozen times before he asked him for help. Still, he did his best to learn about him, to guard him from a distance, after he abandoned the X-Men.
And yet, despite his harsh words and dismissive attitude, Pietro took him in without hesitation. There was still good in him. Good that Erik believed that he himself lost. There wasn't much left of the man Charles knew. He didn't think he'd take Pietro in if he lost his powers. Much like he abandoned Mystique, he would have abandoned him.
Thirty years. Erik shakes his head. Thirty years he knew he had a son and did nothing to connect with him. He only ever tried to use him. He knew it would be different if they've met earlier; Pentagon changed him. Endless reports of violence on his fellow mutants, nothing to do but grow his hate for humans. Maybe if Mystique came ten years earlier, when he still had hope in Charles' naive dream, they'd still have a chance.
If they had one more chance, things could be different. Maybe they could be a family. But it wasn't possible to go back in time and fix his wrongs. He couldn't undo how shamefully he treated Pietro. Hurting him, threatening him, pushing him. Was there a way he could undo it?
It was not surprising that Pietro hated him. Erik tried to be better now. It wasn't hard to be more subdued without his powers. This time it was Pietro who antagonised, pushed and tried to get under his skin. It made Erik's skin crawl. He didn't want his son to be like him. Pietro deserved better.
Now that he looked at him, they seemed more similar. Pietro didn't look much like Magda. Maybe he had her smile but Pietro didn't smile. His eyes were same cold blue as Erik. They matched more now that they both had white hair. Was it his mutation? It must have been.
Pietro frowns at him. "Why are you staring?" He's twiddling with a short dagger.
Erik looks away. "I'm sorry."
"That's not what I fucking asked now, is it?" His voice is still cold. It's always so cold and angry. "I asked you why are you staring at me."
He doesn't want to lie to him. Even if it'll make him angry. "I never noticed you look so much like me." He answers truthfully.
Pietro doesn't seem angry. He even seems mildly amused as he scoffs scornfully. "Yeah. You'd have to be there to see me. And you never bothered to be."
That notion hurts. He regrets not being there for him, he truly does. He chose to put his goal above his family and there was his reward. A hateful, broken son. The future he planned laid in ruins. "I'm sorry."
"Cut that shit out." Pietro grabs the dagger like he wants to throw it but then relaxes his grip. "I don't care for your excuses."
Erik doesn't know what feels worse. That Pietro considered hurting him again - maybe killing him - or that he'd let him. An absolution of sorts. A release from his powerlessness.
Pietro puts the dagger into his bag and checks the remaining contents of it. He does it every few hours. Slowly unpacking everything, checking it and repacking it again.
There isn't much more to do. They mostly stay inside, Pietro ignoring Erik's attempts on conversation. Or sometimes he's angry from them and yells and thows things. Or hurts him. Erik doesn't know what's worse. Or does. It's the silence
He can feel Pietro's glare digging into him. He doesn't try to meet his eyes. "Will we be leaving soon?" He asks instead. A fairly neutral topic. They move constantly.
Pietro spreads out the map on the kitchen table. "I have some friends in Denver. We could ask around."
Erik doubts the truth of that statement. Pietro doesn't have friends. He doubts even that he can stay civil for long enough to make any. In amusement, he thinks as to how his living with the X-Men went. He hated orders. "Denver then. What friends?"
He's expecting another reprimand but Pietro frowns again instead. "Well, not friends. Acquittances, more like. It's........Caliban, maybe some of the Morlocks..." He rubs his head. "The Morlocks might like you. They were always inclined to the Brotherhood." He touches his shoulder, as if remembering.
Caliban, that's a sore topic. But maybe the Morlocks aren't. "Who are they?" Maybe they are friends. That's unexpected.
Pietro tries to seem dismissive. "A bunch of lowlives in the sewers. Sometimes they do some small sabotages but they usually just hide. They're shy."
"Survivors?" Escapees from Trask Industries, maybe.
"Mostly just abandoned kids." Pietro shrugs. But there's a gleam in his eyes of an emotion that Erik can't decipher.
Pietro isn't usually this sharing. "Have you been with them?" He asks carefully. He doesn't know anything about Pietro's life. He never talks about it. He wonders if Magda is still alive, but it only enrages Pietro when he asks about her. He figured out that she must have abandoned him.
"That's none of your business." Pietro snaps. There it is. The peace never lasts long. "Why do you care anyway?"
There isn't much he can tell him. Lies make him angry. Truth makes him angry. Silence makes him angry. "Because I care about you, Pietro. I want to know about you." He decides to be truthful.
Distrust seeps from Pietro's face. "Why? So you can threaten the rest of people I have left? Get them killed too?"
He flinches at the harsh words. "It was never my intention to hurt your friends." Erik tries to defend himself.
Pietro rises to his feet. "But you did it over and over again!" His eyes are blazing with fury, his fists are clenched. "They're dead because of you!"
Erik feels helpless under his accusations. He is right, of course he is. Erik has only hurt those close to him. He braces for a hit.
It doesn't land. "Nothing to say?" Pietro taunts. "You've always been good at speeches, how come you're quiet now?" He still stares daggers at him. Waiting for him to rise to the bait so he's justified in his response.
Erik doesn't have the energy. "There's nothing I can say to justify myself." He says finally. He doesn't look up at Pietro. Any second now. "Only that I'm sorry."
"Sorry." Pietro repeats slowly. "Just that you're fucking sorry."
Erik stays quiet. There's nothing that can justify him
The younger man stays still for a few seconds. "Now you have nothing to say." He snaps, irritated. He takes his jacket. "I need to go out. I don't know when I'll be back."
He doesn't wait for Erik's response. The door slam shut with a loud thud. He does this a lot.
The loneliness is worse than the yelling. The room suddenly feels cold. He feels like he's back in Pentagon again. He pulls the jacket closer around him.
Deep breaths. Breathe in. Breathe out. He's not there anymore. He won't go back again. There's nothing to fear.
It takes hours before Pietro returns. Erik makes dinner in the meantime. A peace offering. Pietro is also much less irritable when he has enough food. He must require more food than others, he's constantly snacking on something. It might become a problem if food becomes scarce.
The door slam when Pietro enters. He doesn't greet him. "What's that supposed to be?" He points at the full plate like it's poisonous.
"Latkas." He watches his face for recognition. Did Magda raise him with their culture?
His expression gives nothing away as he takes one and bites into it. He avoids Erik's eyes.
Erik leaves him the whole plate. He's not hungry, still a bit nauseous from the argument. He's not very hungry nowadays.
Pietro sits down on the kitchen counter. Half of the plate of latkas is already gone. "They're better with sour cream than alone." He says finally. His voice is quieter.
It's an olive branch on his side. Erik smiles gently. "We can get some next time." He remembers eating latkas with his mother in the Warsaw ghetto.
Pietro nods curtly. He doesn't apologize - he never has before. But this is just as good. The fleeting moments of peace are worth everything.
Even bearing Pietro's outbursts is worth it. He can't blame him, it's Erik's fault that he lost so much. He never protected him as he should have. Now he has a chance to, but Pietro won't let him.
He looks at the man again. Pietro must be a bit over fifty but he doesn't look his age. He'd estimate him to be in his mid-twenties. When they first met, he still looked like a teenager. He acted like one too.
The latkas are all gone now. Pietro looks at him again. Erik quickly averts his eyes to not anger him again.
Pietro washes the plate silently and puts it away. "I looked for some accommodations in Denver. We can move in next Wednesday."
Erik nods. "That would be great."
Pietro prepares the bed again and sits down on the floor. He unpacks, checks and repacks the bag again. Everything seems fine.
"Do you need help?" Erik wants to be more useful. He can't do anything without his mutation. He feels fragile.
"No." Pietro doesn't bother to look up from the bag. He's sewing up a hole that he found. "Sleep. It's late."
Erik doesn't argue. He can see that it angers Pietro anyway as he presses his lips into a thin line. Just like Erik has many times before.
"Goodnight." He tells Pietro.
"I told you to sleep, didn't I?" Pietro bites. "Sleep."
Erik closes his eyes. He can still feel Pietro's eyes on him. He doesn't think he'll hit now, not without being provoked. Erik has learned a lot about pain. Pietro doesn't cause it unless he feels attacked. It comforts him a bit. They're not the same.
He can hear Pietro walking around the room. He plays his Walkman again, the same few songs as always. He can hear him unpacking and repacking the bag.
Pietro makes his bed on the floor by Erik's bed. He isn't usually this close. It comforts him. Hearing him breathe reminds him he's not alone.
He pretends to sleep when he feels Pietro's hand take his. He runs cold, always has. It must be his metabolism as well. He can feel a ghost of Pietro's lips on his knuckles. He must be thinking Erik is asleep.
"I'm sorry." Pietro murmurs, barely audible. "I'm trying, I promise." His voice breaks into a sob. He keeps holding his hand.
He wants to rise and comfort him, but he knows it wouldn't end well. So he stays still while Pietro cries. It tears something in his heart apart.
"I'm trying." Pietro whispers again. "I'm sorry." He wipes his tears. "I'm sorry."
There's another touch of lips on his knuckles and then Pietro lets go of his hand. He cries for a long time after that.
Erik stays still. His heart weeps with Pietro.