Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kurt's first awareness was pain. A thick, blinding ache that pulsed behind his eyes, making his skull feel like it had been cracked open and stitched back together wrong. Then came the cold—the sharp contrast of metal beneath him, pressing against his back, seeping through his skin like ice water creeping into his bones. He tried to move, but the resistance was instant, unforgiving. Something cinched tight against his wrists and ankles, the pressure biting in, unyielding. Panic flared like a matchstrike, bright and instinctive. His breath hitched, coming too fast, too shallow. He yanked at the restraints, a sharp clatter of metal against metal ringing in his ears.

No. No, no, no—

The room was suffocatingly bright, white light glaring down at him, erasing the edges of his vision until all he could see were indistinct shapes bleeding together in a sterile haze. He squeezed his eyes shut against it, against the pain lancing through his skull, against the sick, creeping dread crawling up his throat like bile.

How did I get here? Where is my mother? My father?

The thoughts came in a tangled rush, frantic and half-formed. Had they grown weary of him? Tired of his monstrous face, his inhuman hands? He couldn't blame them—who wouldn’t? Who could love something like him for long?

Something flickered at the edges of his memory, faint and elusive, but before he could chase it, the door hissed open. A figure stepped inside, the movement crisp, deliberate. Kurt tensed, his body going rigid against the table. His breathing stalled. A woman. Tall, severe, her silhouette sharp against the too-bright light. She stared at him like he was something between a burden and an afterthought, like his very presence was an inconvenience she had no choice but to tolerate. Something about the way her gaze swept over him sent a shudder down his spine.

Then, her expression shifted. A flicker of something almost like regret softened the hard angles of her face. A sad smile curled at her lips—small, careful, but unmistakable.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, stepping closer. Her voice was calm, measured, carrying a gentleness that felt at odds with the sterile, electric hum of the room. “I should have gotten here sooner.”

Kurt swallowed, his throat dry, raw. His pulse thundered in his ears, but he forced himself to breathe. To listen.

“Finding you took hours.” She reached for the panel beside him, fingers moving over buttons in a practiced sequence. “Getting in took days.” A sharp click, and the hum around his restraints cut out. The latches hissed, disengaging one by one. His body sagged involuntarily, relief washing over him in a cold, shaking wave.

“But I wasn’t going to leave you here.” She unfastened the restraints at his ankles, her movements precise, almost methodical.

“I wasn’t about to let Hydra turn you into their newest machine.”

The last latch came undone. His body was his own again, unbound, but Kurt only lay there, his breath shallow, his limbs trembling with lingering adrenaline. He turned his head slowly, golden eyes searching her face. The sadness was still there, lurking beneath her calm exterior like a shadow beneath still water.

“W-Wer bist du?” Kurt’s voice was hoarse, uneven. His throat burned from disuse—or panic—he wasn’t sure which. She had seemed so clinical, so detached, but now there was something else in her expression, something almost… familiar.

She frowned slightly. “Mystique.”

The name meant nothing. He searched his mind, clawed desperately through the tangled mess of thoughts that felt just out of reach, but there was nothing. No spark of recognition, no thread to pull. Just an empty, yawning void.

Kurt swallowed hard. His heart pounded in his chest, a slow, creeping dread curling in his stomach. “I—I don’t—” Mystique exhaled sharply, almost like she’d expected this. “Kurt,” she said, softer this time, deliberate. Then she hesitated, as if considering something, before her posture shifted. “You might recognize me better like this.”

Her skin darkened to a deep, inhuman blue, smooth and flawless, strikingly like his own. Her hair bled into a deep, reddish hue, falling sleek around sharp, angular features. Her clothing shifted too—white, form-fitting, with slitted panels of fabric that moved with her. The only detail he truly caught—because it stood out stark against the pale fabric—was the skulls sitting at her waist, gleaming like a silent warning.

Kurt inhaled sharply, a quiet, startled sound. She was… a mutant. Like him. But even like this, even with her strange familiarity, she was still a stranger.

“I—I don’t remember you,” he admitted, hating the way his voice cracked, the way it made him sound lost, weak.

Something flickered across her face—there, then gone. Her golden eyes, so much like his own, searched his face for something he couldn’t give her, and whatever she found made her mouth press into a thin line.

“What’s the last thing you do remember?” she asked.

Kurt hesitated. His mind felt heavy, fogged, as if something was missing—like entire pieces of his life had simply been… lifted. He could remember sitting in the kitchen of their tiny apartment in East Berlin, the evening light filtering through old lace curtains, his mother’s warm hands clasped around his own. His father’s quiet, reassuring voice, heavy with something unspoken. They had told him they were sending him to America.

For—for a better life. A future they couldn’t give him. He had been nervous, but he had trusted them.

Kurt’s breath hitched. He looked up at Mystique, his stomach twisting. “I remember…” His voice was unsteady. “I remember my parents. They—they told me they were sending me away. To America.” His brow furrowed, the pieces not quite fitting together. “I remember home. The streets. The city. My childhood.” His tail curled tightly around his leg, his hands clenched into fists. “But—but nothing after that. I don’t—I don’t understand.”

He looked at her, pleading, desperate for an answer, for something solid in the midst of this dizzying nothingness.

Mystique’s mind worked fast. This—this could be an opportunity. A rare, almost impossible gift wrapped in uncertainty, but one she would not squander. Kurt didn’t remember.

All those years wasted trying to pull him into her world, trying to convince him that she was acting in his best interest, that she could offer him something greater than what Charles Xavier or the fools at the mansion ever could—none of it had worked. But now?

Now he was blank slate. A new beginning. A second chance.

No Xavier. No Brotherhood. No bitterness between them, no old wounds festering like poison between mother and son. Just an open door, one she could step through if she played this right. If she moved carefully.

She schooled her expression into something controlled, a frown of manufactured concern as she met his confused, searching gaze. “Yes, I remember,” she said, her voice softer now, almost hesitant, like she, too, was trying to piece together something uncertain. “Before you joined the Brotherhood, you were only a student at Bayville High School.” She paused, watching his reaction, his quick, shallow breaths, his tail twitching with restless energy. “You’ve been missing, Kurt. Hydra kidnapped you.”

She gestured toward the restraints that had held him down, watching the way his golden eyes flickered toward them, the way his brow furrowed. His mind was working, trying to grasp at something tangible, but he had nothing. No memories to counter her claim. No truth to fight against the lie she was weaving.

His fingers curled weakly against the metal of the operating table. “Kidnapped?” he echoed, the word barely more than breath. His chest rose and fell sharply. “Why?”

Mystique frowned again, keeping her voice low, steady. “They need more mutant soldiers.” It wasn’t a lie.

Mystique moved with practiced efficiency, grabbing Kurt’s hand with a firm but steady grip. “We have to hurry before the other agents come looking for us,” she urged, pulling him upright. He swayed slightly, his limbs unsteady, but he followed without resistance.

She shifted again, her form melting seamlessly back into the cold, clinical scientist she had entered as, before turning her attention to the nearest cabinet. Her hands moved swiftly, pulling open drawers, flipping through files with sharp precision. She barely spared them a glance before grabbing a stack of folders and—more importantly—the small, black watch buried beneath them.

Turning back to Kurt, she pressed the device into his palm. “Here,” she said, adjusting the settings with a flick of her fingers. “This will make you look human so we can get out of here.”

Kurt blinked down at the device, confused, but didn’t resist as she fastened it around his wrist. The moment the clasp clicked shut, a faint electromagnetic shimmer flickered across his body, altering his appearance. Gone was the deep blue of his skin, the pointed edges of his ears. When he lifted his hands, he saw five fingers instead of three. He swallowed hard, his pulse quickening. It felt unnatural—wrong, almost—but if he pushed that thought aside, if he didn’t look too closely, he could pretend. Pretend that this was real. Pretend that this was who he was supposed to be.

Mystique’s voice was gentler now, measured, guiding. “I gave this to you when you first got to the US, before the Brotherhood,” she told him, watching his face carefully. “It’s protected you before. It will protect you now.”

Kurt barely heard her. He was still staring at his hands, at the impossible, human shape of them. 

Mystique’s voice cut through his thoughts. “This isn’t your normal form, Kurt. It’s just a disguise to get us out safely.”

He looked up, and for a second—just a second—he felt something unfamiliar in his chest. Something close to gratitude. He opened his mouth, the words forming on his tongue, but before he could thank her, the door hissed open.

A real scientist stepped in. Kurt barely had time to react before Mystique moved.

With a speed that was almost unnatural, she spun, delivering a sharp, precise roundhouse kick to the woman’s face. There was a sickening crack , and the scientist crumpled to the ground, unconscious before she even hit the floor.

Kurt flinched, his body tensing on instinct, but the moment passed quickly. The scientist wasn’t getting up. He glanced at her, at the way she moved with such certainty, at the way she had neutralized the threat without hesitation. She had saved him. She had given him something precious—the ability to walk freely, even if only for a little while.

—-----------------

Kurt stood in the entryway of the large home, his golden eyes wide as they flitted across the space, taking in every detail. The ceilings stretched high above him, and soft, natural light spilled through tall windows, casting warm streaks across the wooden floors. The brick interior gave the place a rustic, lived-in charm—sturdy, welcoming. There was something safe about it. Something that made the knot of tension in his chest loosen, just a little.

“This place is so… big,” Kurt murmured, his voice laced with quiet awe. He glanced back at the blue-skinned woman who had brought him here, searching her expression. “When did I… Did I live here?”

Mystique nodded. “You were just about to move in.” Her voice was calm, steady, the kind of reassurance he hadn’t realized he needed. “You had been staying on your own at first. When you arrived, I offered you a place here, but you wanted to try making it on your own.” She stepped closer, reaching for the watch on his wrist with slow, deliberate movements. “That’s when I gave you this,” she continued, her fingers grazing the device. “The Brotherhood is a place for mutants, Kurt. A place where you’re safe. Let me show you.”

There was no hesitation in her tone, no trace of uncertainty. He stayed still as she adjusted the watch, listening to the soft click as the settings shifted. A familiar, electromagnetic hum buzzed faintly against his skin, and then—His reflection changed.

His cobalt blue skin faded into a warm olive hue. His indigo hair, was slightly neater, and looked longer, softer. His yellow eyes dimmed to a deep blue, startling in their normalcy.

Kurt turned slowly toward the mirror above the living room cabinet, his breath catching in his throat. This looked like him—but human .

His fingers trembled slightly as they reached up, brushing over the illusionary hair, then trailing down to his jawline. The sight was surreal. Familiar, yet impossibly foreign. For so long, he had avoided mirrors, unwilling to face the features that made him different. But now? Now, he could look. He could see himself without that weight pressing so heavily on his shoulders.

“Wow,” he whispered, barely able to find his voice. His posture shifted without him even realizing, straightening instead of curling inward as he so often did. The simple act made him feel taller—lighter, unburdened. Like he belonged.

Mystique watched him, her sharp gaze softening at his quiet wonder. A small smile threatened to tug at her lips, but there was something else beneath it—a pang of something deeper. He shouldn’t have to hide, she thought. He shouldn’t have to need this. But she knew better than anyone how the world treated people like them. If this illusion brought him even a fleeting moment of peace, she would let him have it.

Kurt exhaled, his fingers carefully brushing the watch’s edge, as if afraid to disturb it, afraid to break the fragile moment. “This is… incredible,” he murmured, the words slipping out with quiet gratitude.

And in that moment, as he turned back to face her, his golden eyes brimming with trust, Mystique knew—she had him.

Chapter Text

Mystique wanted so badly for things to be different this time. She had spent so many years standing on the outside, watching as the world molded Kurt into something not hers . The X-Men had taken him, shaped him, made him see her as nothing but an enemy. His mother. His own mother . And now—fate had handed her a gift. A second chance.

But could she take that risk?

If he regained his memories, all of this could come crashing down in an instant. He’d go back to them. Back to Charles Xavier’s influence. Back to fighting against her . Back to hating her.

The thought made her stomach twist painfully.

But if she could reach him before that happened—if she could make him understand, make him see —maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t leave her again. Maybe he’d finally understand why she had made the choices she had.

A weight settled on her, heavier than any mission she had ever undertaken. I won’t lose him this time.

She didn’t realize how lost in thought she had become until she felt eyes on her.

Kurt was watching her.

He wasn’t the same trembling wreck she had pulled from that Hydra facility—he was still shaken, still processing, but something had changed. His eyes weren’t filled with fear anymore when he looked at her. They were searching. Trusting .

She had saved him. She had been the first face he saw when he woke up in that nightmare, the first voice to comfort him, the first hand to free him from those restraints. And now, as he stood here in the unfamiliar house she had brought him to, grappling with a reflection that wasn’t truly his own, she could feel it—he saw her as his guide. His protector.

The inducer had done its job, making him appear human once more. A kindness, really. A way to shield him from prying eyes, to give him a chance at something better . Yet, even as he stared at his reflection, something in his expression wavered. His tail brushed restlessly against the floor, the only part of him left unchanged.

“Is something wrong?” she asked gently, stepping closer, lowering her voice as if speaking too loud might startle him.

Kurt flinched slightly, as if caught thinking something he shouldn’t. “I’m still getting used to everything,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, hesitant.

Mystique’s heart ached. He’s trying so hard to be strong.

She offered him a warm smile, the kind she rarely allowed herself to show, but for him , for her son , she would. “I understand. Today would be a lot for anyone.”

She reached out then—not sudden, not forceful—just a simple, grounding touch to his shoulder. A silent reassurance. “Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat, and we’ll talk everything through.”

He nodded hesitantly. “Ja, I could eat.”

—----------

Mystique worked methodically in the kitchen, her knife slicing through vegetables with practiced precision, but her thoughts were far more calculated than her motions. Every move, every word she would say had to be measured. She needed to guide Kurt down the right path.

The scent of the roux deepened, rich and warm, curling through the air like an invitation. She heard soft footsteps behind her and glanced toward the doorway.

Kurt stood there, shyly lingering just outside the room, his eyes peeking up at her before flicking toward the pot she was stirring. He didn’t step in fully—still uncertain, still hesitant—but he was curious .

Mystique allowed herself the smallest, knowing smile before turning her attention back to the pot. “It’s almost ready,” she said smoothly, as though this were a perfectly ordinary night, as though she hadn’t just pulled him from the wreckage of Hydra’s grasp. She could feel him relax slightly at that.

When the soup was finished, she ladled it into a bowl with careful precision, placing it at the table alongside a small dish of freshly chopped green onions. “Here,” she said, gesturing for him to sit.

Kurt’s face brightened the second the smell hit him. “Ahh, potato soup! Mein favorite! ” His voice carried a rare, delighted warmth, and for a moment, he forgot himself, eagerly moving forward to sit.

Mystique’s lips curled into something almost affectionate as she slid into the chair across from him. He’s easy to please. Good.

The moment his spoon hit the bowl, Kurt dug in with childlike enthusiasm, eating with a hunger that spoke of both exhaustion and comfort. His tail curled slightly at his side, no longer tense but settling , and Mystique could see it— he was beginning to trust her.

He finished in minutes, licking the edge of his spoon before looking up, shy but hopeful. “Danke,” he said earnestly. “Could I have some more, bitte ?”

Mystique let out a quiet, pleased chuckle. “Of course.”

She refilled his bowl, setting it down before him with the same careful grace as before. But this time, as he lifted his spoon for another eager bite, her expression grew more serious.

She inhaled slowly, folding her hands under her chin, watching him carefully. “Kurt, we need to discuss some things.”

His spoon slowed, but he didn’t stop eating entirely. His golden eyes flicked up to her between bites. “What things?”

Mystique hesitated—just enough to make it seem natural , just enough to let the weight of the conversation settle before she pushed forward. “Do you remember much about your parents?”

His smile returned briefly, soft, genuine. “Ja.” He brightened slightly, as if relieved by the question. “My mother was a seamstress—she was always working on clothing. My father worked late—”

“No.” Mystique’s voice was gentle but firm, shaking her head slowly. “I mean your birth parents.”

Kurt’s spoon stopped midair.

The light in his expression dimmed slightly, uncertainty creeping in at the edges. His fingers toyed with the handle of the spoon, his posture drawing inward. “ Nein ,” he admitted softly after a pause. His voice wasn’t sad, exactly—more… uncertain . “My parents adopted me when I was very young. They never told me where I came from.”

Mystique watched him carefully, tilting her head slightly. They never told him.

She reached forward then, placing her hand lightly over his. The touch was warm, deliberate, maternal. “I can.”

His breath hitched.

She could see it in his face—the hesitation, the fragile hope.

She squeezed his hand gently, her voice dipping into something softer. “Liebling… I am your birth mother. ”

And in the quiet, stunned silence that followed, she knew—she had him exactly where she wanted him.

Chapter Text

Pietro wasn’t built for school—like, at all. Sure, he was smart enough to coast through most classes without really trying, but the glacial pace of lectures? Absolute torture. Sitting still for hours on end? Cruel and unusual punishment. By the time his final class—English, of all things—rolled around, he was about ready to jump out the window. If he had to hear one more word about proper citation, he might actually implode.

He glanced at the clock. 2:45. Fifteen more excruciating minutes.

Buzz. Buzz.

“Thank God, ” he muttered, pulling out the clunky excuse for a phone Mystique had handed him. It wasn’t like he needed the latest model, but come on—this thing barely passed for modern. Whatever. He unlocked the screen and read the message.

“I have someone to introduce you to, be good.”

Oh, great, he thought. Classic Mystique—cryptic and vaguely threatening, as always.

Curiosity piqued, he slipped the phone back into his pocket. Now he really couldn’t focus on anything else. Who was this “someone”? A new recruit? Another pain-in-the-ass mutant to babysit? He sighed, drumming his fingers against the desk. As if sitting through this lecture wasn’t bad enough, now he had to wait to find out what she was scheming.

RIIINNGGG.

“ Fucking finally. ” He didn’t bother hiding the relief on his face as he grabbed his stuff and booked it out of class. Holding back his speed to leave school at a "normal" pace was its own kind of hell, but the second he hit the parking lot, he was gone.

The run home was quick, even by his standards. Before 3:01, he was already at the Brotherhood house. Same old house. Same old brick walls. Same old slightly-overgrown lawn. He paused in front of it for a second. “Yep, looks the same,” he muttered to himself, then headed inside.

The place was weirdly quiet, though he could hear voices coming from the dining area. Mystique and the mystery person, he guessed, rolling his eyes. He strolled toward the sound, his mind already halfway planning his escape if this turned out to be another one of Mystique’s "serious talks."

But when Pietro reached the dining room, he skidded to a halt so fast it was a miracle he didn’t leave scorch marks on the floor.

Because there, sitting at the table like this was a totally normal Tuesday afternoon, was Mystique. And across from her, looking about ten shades of wrecked, was Kurt Wagner .

Pietro blinked. Wait, what?

“Uhhh,” Pietro drawled, leaning against the doorway like he hadn’t just walked into some kind of surreal soap opera. He arched a brow at Mystique, then at Kurt, then back again, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make things uncomfortable before flashing a slow, sharp grin. “So, what’s this? A surprise intervention? ‘Cause, like—if I’d known, I would’ve brought popcorn.”

Mystique barely spared him a glance, her face slipping into that usual unreadable calm. “Oh, you’re home. Kurt, this is Pietro—your friend.”

Friend? Pietro almost snorted. Yeah, okay. Sure. Let’s roll with that.

He tilted his head, fighting back the laugh bubbling in his throat as he let his gaze slide lazily over Kurt. The guy looked wrecked—puffy eyes, runny nose, like someone had wrung him out and left him to dry. And more than that, something was... off. A little too still. A little too careful. Pietro’s instincts prickled.

“Mein friend?” Kurt’s voice was quiet, unsure. Pietro clicked his tongue, expression flickering between amusement and outright suspicion. He shot Mystique a look, the kind that very clearly said, What kind of BS are you pulling now? , but all he got in return was the world’s most unhelpful we’ll talk later expression. Oh, hell no.

He shifted gears effortlessly, flashing Kurt an easy smirk. “Yeah, dude. Your friend ,” he said, leaning into the word just enough to make it obvious he wasn’t buying this whole setup. “You look like you’ve had a day. What’s up? You good?”

Kurt hesitated, offering him this small, hesitant smile—apologetic, almost. His voice trembled slightly as he answered, like he wasn’t sure of his own words. “I’m sorry, mein friend, but… I do not remember much. It seems I am missing time.”

Pietro blinked. Oh, well. That’s just great .

“Missing time?” he echoed, tone all lazy nonchalance even as his mind was already racing through a dozen different possibilities. “Damn. And here I thought I was the one always running too fast to remember shit.”

His gaze flickered to Mystique again, sharper this time. She was absolutely up to something. No way she wasn’t.

“Uh, okay.” Pietro cleared his throat, rocking back on his heels like this whole situation wasn’t weird as hell. “So, like, we talking missing a couple of hours, a couple of days—what’s the damage?”

Before Kurt could answer, Pietro stepped in, too fast, too abrupt, reaching out instinctively—maybe to ruffle his hair, maybe just to break the weird, heavy silence settling in the room. Didn’t matter, the second he got too close, Kurt flinched.

Not a little. A lot. Like Pietro had suddenly pulled a knife on him.

Pietro jerked his hand back immediately. Kurt’s ears flattened slightly, guilt flashing across his face. “Entschuldigung,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I do not mean to upset you. Everything is… overwhelming. I hope you can forgive me.”

Pietro stared at him, stomach twisting in a way he really didn’t like. He exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to keep it light. “Hey,” he said, tone casual, effortless. “No big deal. You’re fine, man.”

—--------------------

Waking up on the operating table had been terrifying enough. The sterile glare of the overhead lights, the sharp bite of restraints that had long since been removed but still lingered in phantom impressions around his wrists—it had been too much, too fast. But now, sitting here at the dining table with Mystique watching him like he was something fragile, something hers , was worse.

His savior —the woman who had freed him from Hydra’s grasp—was now telling him she was his mother . That she had been forced to abandon him. That it had been to save him from someone called Magneto .

His head still ached, a dull, pounding throb behind his eyes that refused to subside. His throat was raw from too many words, too many questions that felt like they unraveled more than they answered. His cheeks burned, stiff from tear tracks long since dried, though he hadn’t bothered to wipe them away anymore.

He needed— Gott , he needed—someone else.

Someone that wasn’t Mystique, with her searching gaze and heavy words and carefully measured reassurances. Someone that didn’t sit across from him and quietly wait for him to believe her.

“No big deal. You’re fine, man.”

The voice was effortless. Light. A welcome contrast to the suffocating weight in the room.

Pietro tilted his head, arms crossed. “So this is where you’ve been hiding all day, huh, Blue?” He exhaled dramatically, shaking his head. “What, you ditchin’ school to have a dramatic identity crisis?”

Kurt startled slightly, ears twitching as he hesitated, caught off guard by how easy Pietro made it sound. How little weight he gave to the mess that had been swallowing him whole all day. His tail flicked, betraying his nerves, his uncertainty. “You… you know I’m blue?”

Pietro’s smirk faltered just a little, his brows lifting.

Kurt was still looking at him, his dark blue eyes wide with something uncertain, something hesitant but expectant , like he was waiting for Pietro to tell him something real. Something solid .

“How much have you forgotten, Blue?” Pietro asked, letting the nickname roll off his tongue with the kind of familiarity that felt like it had been used a thousand times before.

Kurt’s lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to answer, but no words came. The nickname sat there between them, hovering in the air. For a second—just a fraction of a second—something in Kurt’s face shifted. Then, after a moment, that smile broke through—small, a little unsure, but real . “You call me that?”

Pietro, of course, rolled with it like he wasn’t feeling weirdly thrown off by the way Kurt looked at him just now. He shrugged, smirk widening. “Yeah, Blue. What else am I gonna call you? Smurf? Cookie Monster?” He tapped his chin like he was giving it serious thought. “Actually, Furball was on the table, but I figured you deserved some dignity.”

Kurt’s tail flicked again—less uncertain this time, more like he was fighting back a real smile. “Blue,” he echoed under his breath, like he was testing it out. 

Pietro clicked his tongue, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. “Duh. Fits, doesn’t it?” He shot Kurt a lazy grin. “Besides, it’s easier to say than Kurt Wagner, the guy who randomly forgot who I am .”

That actually got a laugh—small, breathy, like Kurt hadn’t meant for it to slip out. His tail curled slightly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

“Danke,” Kurt murmured, voice softer now.

Pietro waved a dismissive hand, like this was nothing, like he wasn’t completely aware of the way Kurt was looking at him right now. “Don’t mention it, Blue.”

His tone was as casual as ever, all smooth confidence, but—there. Just for a second. That flicker of something else in his eyes.

Understanding, maybe. Maybe something Kurt didn’t want to think about too hard. For the first time since waking up in that place, he didn’t feel like a stranger in his own skin. He just felt like… Blue .

Chapter Text

As Kurt spoke softly to Pietro, his voice cautious but opening , Mystique watched them with sharp, assessing eyes. She didn’t miss the silent look Pietro shot her—the unspoken you’re gonna explain this later, that flickered across his expression.

Oh, he’d get his answers. But not now.

Right now, he needed to operate on instinct. Her instincts.

Pietro had always been predictable in that way—he could argue all he wanted, but at the end of the day, he was hers . Trained. Conditioned. She knew exactly how to push him into playing his role, even if he didn’t realize he was playing it. Handing Kurt over to him was the smartest move she could make.

The Brotherhood as a whole was too volatile, too reckless. Lance would pry too much, Todd would blab, Tabitha was never an option, and Fred— well , Freddy had never been delicate with anything. Pietro could handle this. He was the only one with enough responsibility, enough control to play his part right. More than that—Kurt needed an outlet. A lifeline that wasn’t her.

If she pressed too hard, if she pushed him before he was ready, she could lose everything. She had to be patient, had to give him time to settle, to ease into the idea that she was here to help him.

Pietro, with his cocky indifference and sharp-edged humor, would be a perfect counterbalance. He wouldn’t coddle Kurt, wouldn’t smother him in pity or expectation. He’d keep things light, manageable—something Kurt could breathe around.

Mystique pushed herself up from the table, smooth and deliberate. Both boys turned to look at her immediately—Kurt still cautious, Pietro already bracing for whatever she was about to say.

She gestured toward the stairs, her voice clipped, efficient. “The others will be here soon. Pietro, why don’t you show Kurt the guest room?”

Her tone left no room for argument, the look she sent Pietro said everything she couldn’t in front of Kurt. Hide him.

The Brotherhood wasn’t ready for this—not yet. She wasn’t ready for them to complicate this. She had fought too hard to get this far, and she wasn’t about to let a bunch of undisciplined teenagers screw it up.

Pietro met her gaze, his own expression unreadable for a beat. But then, a slow, easy smirk tugged at his lips. A mask .

Yeah. He got the message loud and clear. “C’mon, Blue,” Pietro said, pushing off the doorway with lazy confidence, motioning for Kurt to follow. “Let’s get you set up before the animals get home.”

Kurt hesitated, glancing back at Mystique—searching, uncertain.

She softened her expression just enough, offering him something that almost looked like reassurance. “You’re safe here,” she said simply.

A pause. Then, with quiet reluctance, Kurt nodded and followed Pietro toward the stairs. Mystique watched them go, her expression carefully controlled.

Good.

Let him settle. Let him need her.

She could wait.

—------

Unlike the first floor’s forced normalcy, the second floor was a barely-contained mess—chaotic but lived-in. Graffiti marked doors, abandoned shoes and clothes littered the floor, and the hallway light flickered from an old Lance-related incident. The air carried the scent of old cologne, cheap detergent, and something suspiciously singed—Tabitha’s handiwork, no doubt.

“The mess is normal; you’ll get used to it,” Pietro said breezily, smirking as Kurt grimaced like he’d just stepped onto sacred, cursed ground. The way he was maneuvering around the debris, all careful steps and cautious tail movements, was almost graceful. Almost.

Kurt sighed, shaking his head with this small, almost fond exasperation. “Meine Mutter would never allow such chaos. This is… sehr unordentlich.”

Pietro snorted. “Okay, yeah, whatever that means.”

Kurt blinked at him. “It means—”

Pietro cut him off with a smirk, mimicking Kurt’s serious tone in the most obnoxious way possible. “Zeh-air on-door-lich!” He gestured wildly at the mess, grinning. “Yeah, duh, Blue. It’s a dump. Welcome to the Brotherhood.”

Kurt let out a breathy laugh, tail flicking with what might have been amusement. “It means ‘very messy,’” he clarified, still smiling.

“Yeah, yeah, I figured,” Pietro said, waving a hand like he totally knew that the whole time. “Just checking if that’s what you actually said or if you were secretly insulting our incredible interior decorating skills.”

Kurt huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Nein, I would never.”

“Good,” Pietro said smoothly, throwing him a wink. “Because if you start roasting my house in German, I will start making up my own translations, and I promise they’ll be way worse.”

They reached the staircase to the third floor—his floor, shared only with Mystique—and Pietro tapped the banister as they walked. “This is where the VIPs live,” he declared, tossing Kurt a grin. “Guest room’s at the end of the hall. Mystique’s on the right, I’m on the left. If you ever get lost, just follow the sound of me being awesome.”

He pushed the door open to the guest room, expecting literally nothing to happen—only for Kurt to gasp. Like, an actual, audible gasp.

Pietro frowned. Dude. What?

The room wasn’t even nice. The walls were bare, the bed was big enough to stretch out on, and the only remotely interesting thing was the skylight he used for quick exits.  Kurt looked like he’d just walked into a goddamn palace. Pietro squinted at him, suspicion prickling at the back of his mind.

“Is this… wirklich für mich?” he asked, voice quiet, careful, like he was afraid the answer might be no.

Pietro tilted his head, already smirking. “Okay, Blue, you gotta start leading with the English versions of these little mystery phrases, ‘cause I’m really out here just guessing at this point.”

Kurt hesitated, then translated, “It means… ‘really for me?’”

Pietro snorted. “Well, yeah, unless you think I brought you all the way up here just to crush your dreams,” he said, leaning against the doorframe like he wasn’t watching Kurt’s every move. “Technically, it’s the guest room, but if you’re moving in, congrats—it’s all yours.” Then, with a lazy grin, he added, “Buuut if you wanna see something actually cool, my room’s just down the hall. Killer view, and I don’t even charge admission.”

Kurt didn’t bite, still staring around like the damn walls were painted in gold. Pietro narrowed his eyes slightly, that nagging feeling creeping back in. Something’s not adding up.

Yeah, Kurt was disoriented, that much was obvious. Whatever wiped his memories had clearly rattled him, probably left some residual confusion messing with his head. But that wasn’t what Pietro had seen downstairs.

That deep, aching sadness—the kind that curled in Kurt’s shoulders, sat heavy in his voice—that wasn’t just memory loss. That was something else . Something deeper. Something uniquely Mystique-related.

Pietro huffed quietly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t about to start psychoanalyzing the guy—wasn’t really his thing—but still. Whatever this was, it ran deeper than just waking up with a blank slate. “You should clean up,” He said, cutting through the quiet. “Bathroom’s at the other end of the hall. I’ll grab you some clothes. You’ll fit in a men’s large, right?”

Kurt blinked, like he hadn’t expected that level of casual generosity. “…Ja,” he said, nodding mutely before slipping past him toward the bathroom.

Pietro watched him go, arms crossing over his chest, that weird knot in his stomach twisting tighter.

With a groan, he zipped back to his room, barely stopping himself from tripping over the absolute war zone that was his floor. Clothes everywhere, half-drunk bottles of water, an empty pizza box hanging on for dear life on the edge of his nightstand—yeah, great look.

“Right,” he muttered to himself. “Knew I was forgetting something.”

In under a second, the entire room was spotless. Perks of being the fastest guy alive.

He grabbed an oversized band tee and a pair of gray sweatpants from his dresser, folding them real nice before heading back to the guest room. He wasn’t exactly an expert in making people feel better, but hey, fresh clothes had to be a good start.

Dropping the pile onto the bed, he flopped down next to it, letting his mind race.

Mystique was keeping secrets. Shocking . But this time, it actually mattered. Pietro wasn’t some obedient little lackey who followed orders just because she said so—if she thought she could pull some mystery bullshit without him noticing, she was in for a rude awakening.

Chapter Text

The cold water splashed against Kurt’s face, its icy bite sharp and unforgiving as it trickled down his cheeks. He leaned heavily over the sink, gripping its edges as if the porcelain were the only thing keeping him upright. The chill numbed his skin but did nothing to quiet the storm raging in his chest. His breaths were shallow, uneven, trembling with the weight of everything he didn’t know how to process.

He forced himself to look up, but the reflection in the mirror felt like a stranger. The olive-toned skin, the deep blue eyes—red and puffy from crying—it all looked wrong. This wasn’t him. It was a lie, a mask. The watch on his wrist ticked softly, almost mockingly, as if it could somehow erase what he really was. But it couldn’t hide the truth from himself.

With shaking hands, he cupped the running water, letting it pool in his palms before spilling through his fingers. The rhythm of the droplets was steady, unchanging, a cruel contrast to the chaos in his mind. His thoughts swirled, fragmented and relentless, circling back to the conversation that had unraveled him.

The word mother echoed in his head, sharp and hollow. Mystique’s voice, her confession, her strange mixture of guilt and desperation—it all replayed in agonizing clarity

“ Liebling . I am your birth mother,” Mystique had said, her voice gentle, controlled.

The soup bowl in Kurt’s hands suddenly felt impossibly heavy, his hunger vanishing in an instant. The words barely registered at first, like distant echoes of something too impossible to be real. But when they did, they crashed down like a thunderclap, sharp and inescapable.

“ Was? ” The word tumbled from his lips, barely above a whisper. It wasn’t sharp, wasn’t cold—just small. Fragile. Like saying it too loud might make this whole moment shatter into something even harder to understand.

Mystique’s gaze never wavered. There was no hesitation in her posture, no crack in her expression—only certainty, quiet and steady. When she spoke again, it was measured, careful, a story she had long since prepared.

“We were running from Magneto,” she said, her tone smooth but firm. “A dangerous man. A killer . If he had caught us… if he had caught you —” her lips pressed together briefly before she continued. “He would have taken you. Or worse.”

Kurt’s fingers curled tighter around the edge of the bowl, his breath uneven.

“I did what I had to do,” Mystique went on, unwavering. “We were trapped at the edge of a riverbank. He was gaining on me. I wouldn’t have made it across with you in my arms. So… I let you go. It was the only way to save you.”

The words hung heavy between them, thick as the silence that followed.

Kurt’s stomach twisted violently. His hands trembled as he carefully set the bowl down, unable to hold onto it any longer. Let you go .

The phrase looped in his mind, over and over, twisting into something colder. Something sharper.

The image came unbidden—dark water, rushing and relentless, tearing him from her grasp. A child, small and terrified, drifting further and further away while the only person who should have held him close instead let him disappear.

His voice wavered as he finally spoke. “You… let me go ?”

Mystique’s expression remained composed, but her eyes flickered with something unreadable. She leaned in slightly, the movement deliberate, maternal. “No, Schatz ,” she corrected softly. “I saved you.”

Her words were smooth, confident. A statement, not a plea.

“You must understand,” she continued, her voice dipping just enough to sound sincere without breaking its steadiness. “It was not abandonment. It was protection. I had no other choice.”

But the words, for all their practiced care, felt distant—like they were floating above him, unable to reach the part of him that ached .

His breath hitched, his tail curling around his leg, as if bracing against something unseen.

“ Warum jetzt? ” he murmured, the German slipping out before he could stop it. Why now?

Tears blurred at the edges of his vision, his chest rising and falling with the effort of keeping steady. He wasn’t angry—he wasn’t sure he could be. The weight pressing down on him was something else entirely.

Loss. Not of her, but of the years. The childhood that should have been spent with her, the answers that should have come sooner. The life he should have had.

Mystique watched him carefully, noting every small shift, every trembling breath, every crack in his carefully maintained composure.

She reached across the table, resting a firm, steady hand over his.

“Because, mein Sohn , you have always been mine.” Her voice was quiet, but sure. “And now… I can finally give you the life you deserve .”

“ Don’t .”

The word left Kurt’s lips before he could stop it, quiet but trembling, a threadbare plea more than an accusation.

Mystique stilled.

He wasn’t looking at her anymore, his gaze unfocused, cast downward as if staring at the table might somehow keep the weight pressing on his chest from suffocating him entirely. His hands curled against his lap, fingers gripping at nothing, trying to hold himself together.

“Don’t pretend this is for me.” His voice wavered, a breath away from breaking. “What even is this? Did you save me now just to make yourself feel better?” His throat tightened, the ache behind his eyes growing unbearable. “To soften the blow of abandoning me?”

Mystique didn’t react. Not at first. No sharp retort, no flicker of frustration or offense—just silence, measured and calm. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, controlled.

“I would have saved you a thousand times over.” The words came easily, her conviction unwavering. Too unwavering. Kurt swallowed, his pulse hammering.

Mystique leaned forward slightly, her hands folded on the table, her posture perfectly composed. “Even if you hate me for it, even if you never believe me, I would have done it again and again.” Her golden eyes, so much like his own, held steady. Pinning him.

“Because you are my son.”

The knock on the bathroom door jolted him, snapping him out of the spiral before he even realized how deep he’d sunk. For a second, he just stood there , water dripping from his chin, his breath still uneven. The knock came again—lighter, but somehow louder in the heavy silence.

“Kurt?” Pietro’s voice carried through the door, breezy and casual. “You good in there? You didn’t, like, drown in the sink, did you?”

Kurt blinked, like waking from a trance. Gott. He ran a hand down his face, willing the exhaustion out of his body. “Ja… I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“You sure ? Because, listen, I’m totally prepared to stand here and be annoying until I get proof of life. I excel at being a pain in the ass.”

Kurt let out a breath—half a laugh, small and fleeting. “I said I’m fine, Pietro.”

“Uh-huh. Sounds convincing,” Pietro drawled. But there was something about the way he said it, something in the pause before he spoke again. “Alright, alright. I’ll back off. For now.”

Another tap against the doorframe—not impatient, not pushy. Just there.

“…But, y’know. If you don’t feel like being fine, and you need to talk or whatever? I guess I can make time in my very busy schedule of being the best.”

Kurt hesitated, throat tight, before he managed, “Danke.”

“No problem,” Pietro said, voice slipping into something quieter. Not soft, not serious—but not fake, either. Just… real. “I’ll be around.”

Then his footsteps faded down the hall, each one quieter than the last.

Kurt turned back to the mirror, staring at the stranger looking back at him. He searched for any semblance of himself, any anchor to hold on to, but all he saw was a mask—the mask that hid his pain and the face he could never truly escape.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t sure who he was anymore.

—----

Kurt stepped into the guest room sometime later, spotting Pietro sprawled across the bed like he owned the place. A fresh change of clothes was folded neatly at the foot of the mattress. Mystique, in her infinite wisdom, had told Kurt to trust Pietro, calling them "friends." That word still felt strange, like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit, but everything in his life felt strange now.

Pietro looked up lazily, one arm propped behind his head and a leg dangling off the edge of the bed. He wore a grin that Kurt couldn’t quite decipher—was it genuine, or just part of some act? The faint creak of the mattress filled the quiet as Kurt shut the door behind him.

“Comfortable?” Kurt asked, his tone a mix of amusement and exasperation.

“Oh, super,” Pietro quipped, propping himself up on one elbow. “Gotta make sure the bed’s up to your standards. I’m nothing if not thorough.”

Kurt shook his head, but his lips curved into a faint smile. “Your dedication is… impressive, I suppose.”

“‘Impressive’ is my middle name,” Pietro shot back with a wink. His grin widened when he caught the soft laugh that escaped the other mutant.

Kurt stepped closer, picking up the shirt at Pietro’s side. “Danke,” he said softly, casting him a grateful look.

Pietro waved it off like it was no big deal. Without warning, Kurt started lifting his shirt over his head, only to pause halfway through the motion. His cheeks flushed pink as he turned his back toward Pietro.

“Sorry,” Kurt mumbled, his voice almost too quiet to hear.

“No need to apologize,” Pietro said easily, barely sparing a glance. “We’re both guys, right? Nothing I haven’t seen before.” He shrugged, tone breezy, like this entire conversation was a non-event. By the time he looked back, Kurt had already turned around, new shirt on, still looking way too flustered for something so basic.

Kurt picked up the pants from the bed, his tail flicking behind him in agitation. “Ah… there’s a problem.”

Pietro arched a brow, propping himself up. “Problem? Too fashionable? Not enough sequins? Need some tasteful embroidery?”

Kurt shot him a look, holding up the sweat pants as if the issue should be obvious . “My tail. It won’t fit.”

“Ohhhh,” Pietro said, realization dawning. “Right. That.” He waved a hand. “No big deal—I’ll fix it.”

Kurt’s eyes narrowed with immediate suspicion. “Fix it?” he echoed. “Pietro—these are your pants.”

“Yeah? So?” Pietro swung his legs over the side of the bed, vanishing in a blur before reappearing a second later with a pair of scissors in one hand and a spool of thread in the other. “Ever heard of custom tailoring ?” He snatched the pants from Kurt’s hands before he could argue, flashing a cocky grin. “You are so lucky I’m a man of many talents.”

Kurt opened his mouth to protest—but Pietro was already moving.

In less than a second , he snipped a clean, perfectly-sized hole at the back, then, with a flurry of movement so fast it was nearly invisible, threaded a needle and sewed the entire seam before the scissors even hit the bedspread. A neat, reinforced edge, completely seamless—like the pants had always been made that way.

Kurt blinked. “What.”

Pietro wiggled his fingers, dusting off imaginary debris. “Boom. Professionally done.” He handed the pants back with a dramatic flourish. “I’m that good.”

Kurt took them, inspecting the seam with open disbelief. “You… you sewed this?” He turned them inside out. “ In under a second?! ”

Pietro smirked, tossing the needle onto the bed. “Please. I made my own suit in, like, a quarter of a second. This? Child’s play.”

Kurt just stared at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously talented, yes.”

With an exasperated shake of his head, Kurt changed into the sweats, the hole fitting perfectly around his tail. “Well… danke, I suppose,” he muttered, still inspecting the seam like it might disappear if he looked away.

Pietro smirked, leaning back on the bed with an easy stretch, arms folded behind his head like he had all the time in the world. “Anytime, Blue. My hands? Absolute magic.” His grin was pure self-satisfaction, like he was doing Kurt a favor just by existing.

Kurt rolled his eyes—but his tail flicked, just slightly, a little more relaxed than before.

“Yeah, but you love it,” Pietro teased, throwing in a wink.

They lapsed into a quiet rhythm as Kurt settled on the bed opposite him, the faint creak of the mattress filling the space. Pietro’s gaze lingered on him, unbidden. He studied the way Kurt’s tail curled at his side, the faint tired lines still etched into his face. Whatever Kurt was carrying, it looked heavy—heavy enough to twist something in Pietro’s chest.

He tried not to think too hard about why that was. Eventually, Kurt broke the silence, his voice soft but threaded with quiet curiosity.

“You know,” he mused, head tilting slightly, “I don’t think I’ve met anyone quite like you, Pietro.”

Pietro arched an eyebrow, smirk sliding into place like it had been waiting for this exact moment. “Well, obviously.” He puffed out his chest, laying it on thick with the kind of confidence that made it impossible to tell how much was a joke. “Fastest man alive, razor-sharp wit, devastatingly handsome—a total triple threat.”

Kurt snorted, eyes glinting with amusement, his tail giving an idle flick. “You’re definitely… something. ”

Pietro leaned in slightly, head tilting, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Something good, I hope?” His tone smooth, playful, easy—except for the way the words hung in the air just a second too long, carrying something quieter beneath them.

Kurt hesitated, considering the question longer than Pietro was prepared for, and okay, why was he thinking about it so hard? It was a joke, Blue, just say yes, Pietro, you’re incredible and move on.

Instead of brushing it off, Kurt answered. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted, half-teasing but entirely sincere. “But… you’ve been really nice to me. Kinder than I expected, honestly.”

Pietro blinked.

The knot in his stomach twisted, sharp and immediate, like a tripwire had been triggered before he even knew it was there. Kinder than I expected. As if Pietro being decent was some shocking revelation. Like it was something noteworthy .

His smirk faltered. Just for a second. “Of course I’m nice to you, Blue,” Pietro said—too fast, too breezy, his reflexes kicking in before his brain could. He leaned back again, forcing an easy grin onto his face, playing it cool like none of this got under his skin. “We’re friends.” He shrugged like it was obvious, like it didn’t taste weird in his mouth. “That’s what friends do.”

The word hit wrong . Came out too light. Too casual. Like if he said it the right way, it’d be true .

Kurt huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head before glancing away, and Pietro felt it—the way something in his chest lurched, stupid and uninvited.

Chapter Text

The sound of several loud voices rang out from downstairs—a chaotic mix of shouting, laughing, and stomping feet that made the walls vibrate. Pietro rolled his eyes, Oh, they’re finally home, he thought dryly, resisting the urge to zip downstairs just to lock them out for fun. Not that it would stop them for long, but it might have been worth it just to see the looks on their faces.

It wasn’t like he hated the Brotherhood—well, not all of them. They were more like… family in the loosest, most dysfunctional sense of the word. And like most families, there were moments of bearable camaraderie, and then there were moments where he seriously considered throwing them all out a window.

Toad was… fine. In small doses. They had the same sense of humor, which meant Pietro could tolerate him for at least five-minute increments before the secondhand embarrassment set in. Todd Tolensky was a full-time schemer, a part-time gremlin, and someone who had fully committed to the art of skating through life with the least amount of effort possible. Which, honestly? Kind of impressive. If only he applied that energy to something useful instead of, say, trying to scam vending machines or get rich off clearly illegal side hustles.

There was Freddy. Oh, Freddy.

The human equivalent of a brick wall, both physically and emotionally. He had insecurities for days and the self-awareness of a goldfish. And sure, Pietro could feel bad for him, but Blob had a talent for making everything about himself. The guy took minor inconveniences personally and had a habit of dragging everyone else into his bad moods. Pietro did not do emotional support. Not for himself. Definitely not for Freddy.

Ah, Tabby. The human equivalent of a bottle rocket someone forgot to aim properly.

The Brotherhood’s self-proclaimed bad girl, a one-woman demolition crew who thought chaos was a personality trait. Hey, Pietro could respect a little mayhem—when it had a purpose. But Tabby? She just liked watching things explode, whether it was a building or a social dynamic, and she had exactly zero survival instincts. Which, honestly, was kind of impressive. If she wasn’t blowing something up, she was stirring the pot just to see what would happen, and yeah, Pietro had to admit, sometimes the results were entertaining. Other times? It was just exhausting.

And then? There was Lance. Pietro actually snorted out loud just thinking about him.

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tragically Brooding. Walking cliché. Acting like he was so above everyone else, like the universe had personally wronged him—when, really, he was just another moody, angsty stoner who thought listening to one Nirvana album made him deep. The guy was all attitude, always throwing out fake wisdom like he was some underground philosopher, but Pietro had seen him at his worst. He knew the guy was just as directionless as the rest of them, drifting through life with a joint in one hand and a really bad case of Kitty Pryde in the other.

It was honestly hilarious. One second, Lance was just normal—regular brooding, regular attitude problem—and then boom, switch flipped, and suddenly he was some lovesick idiot with puppy-dog eyes and soft smiles, practically tripping over himself to impress her. Embarrassing. No, worse than that—tragic.

Maybe Pietro just wasn’t built for it—never had been. The whole dating thing? The idea of picking one person and saying, Yeah, I’m gonna chain myself to this mess of emotions and expectations indefinitely —what was the point? Commitment sounded like a slow, painful way to die, and honestly? He had better things to do with his time. A relationship wasn’t just baggage; it was a full-blown security checkpoint—rules, responsibilities, someone else’s feelings to tiptoe around. And for what? A couple of cute moments before it inevitably crashed and burned? No thanks.

He wasn’t the settle-down type. Hell, he wasn’t even the stick around long enough to pretend this might be going somewhere type. Keep it light, keep it fun, leave before things get complicated. That was the Maximoff way. And it wasn’t like he was hurting for options—people wanted him, chased him, practically threw themselves at him, and the best part? He barely had to try. So why make it messy? Why let someone think they owned a piece of him when he could have all the fun with none of the strings?

Not that Lance didn’t try to sell him on the whole relationship thing. Pietro could hear his voice in his head now: “Man, you just don’t get it. When you find the right person, it’s everything.”

Pietro rolled his eyes at the thought. Yeah, sure, Lance. Sounds like a total dream. Sign me up. He shook his head slightly, wondering how anyone could believe in something so ridiculous.

Across the room, Kurt’s ears twitched at the sound of voices from downstairs. He perked up slightly, his tail curling as he looked toward the door. “Is that everyone else?” he asked tentatively, his brows furrowed as though he were trying to recall who “everyone else” actually was.

Pietro turned his attention back to Kurt. “Yeah, that’d be the peanut gallery. A real group of winners, let me tell you. You’ve got Toad, Blob, Lance, and Tabby—our very own dysfunctional circus act.”

Kurt’s brow furrowed, his expression hesitant, his tail flicking absently against the sheets. “I… don’t really remember them,” he admitted softly, like the words felt foreign in his mouth, like he wasn’t entirely sure whether he was forgetting or if there was simply nothing there to recall.

Pietro shrugged, leaning back against the headboard like it was no big deal.“Eh, you’re not missing much. Toad’s alright, Blob’s a dumb, Lance is… well, Lance, and Tabby’s just along for the ride. You’ll see soon enough.” His tone was light, dismissive, but there was something about the way Kurt looked at him—curious, tentative, almost hopeful —that made Pietro’s smirk falter for half a second.

“Are they… nice?” Kurt asked, his voice quiet, almost timid, like the answer actually mattered to him.

Pietro huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Nice? Look, Toad’s occasionally decent if he’s not trying to scam you, Blob’s got his moments, and Tabby—she can be nice when she’s in the mood, which isn’t often. Then there’s Lance…” He trailed off, waving a lazy hand in the air. “Let’s just say he’s got the personality of a brick, but hey, maybe you’ll change his mind.”

Kurt nodded slowly, processing the information, his eyes flicking toward the door like he was trying to picture the people on the other side. He hesitated for a moment before murmuring, “They seem… loud.”

Pietro grinned, tilting his head. “That’s putting it mildly, Blue. Loud is basically our default setting around here. You’ll get used to it.”

Something in Kurt’s posture eased—just a fraction—but it was there. Like the idea of getting used to something, anything, was a small relief. Pietro kept his gaze lazy, casual, but still tracked the details: the slight curl of Kurt’s tail, the way his fingers tapped against his leg in that restless, nervous rhythm.

Sitting there, he took it all in—the way Kurt shifted like the room didn’t quite fit, the way his eyes kept flicking toward the door like he was waiting for someone to remind him he wasn’t supposed to be here. It was just observation, nothing more. But the longer he watched, the more obvious it became—just how little Kurt seemed to remember. The hesitations, the uncertain glances, the way he took in everything like it was his first time seeing it. Like he was piecing together a puzzle with half the pieces missing. Pietro wasn’t sure if Kurt even realized how much he gave away, but it was all there, plain as day.

From downstairs, the voices of the Brotherhood grew louder—Lance’s irritated drawl, Toad’s exaggerated cackle, something that sounded like Blob flopping onto a piece of furniture, and Tabby’s unmistakable laugh, sharp and amused, probably egging them on.

Kurt flinched. Barely. Just the faintest stiffening of his shoulders, the smallest twitch of his tail, but Pietro felt it. Without much thought he waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about them,” he said,“If they get too loud, I’ll zip down there and shut them up. Perks of having a speedster around.”

Kurt turned to him, and just like that, the tension in his shoulders eased. His small smile—tentative, careful—grew a fraction wider.  “Danke, Pietro.”

He smirked, leaning back . “Eh, no big deal. I’m just that good.”

Kurt’s smile lingered for another second before he turned back toward the door, lost in thought again. Pietro took the opportunity to study him—purely for information, obviously. The way his tail curled and flicked absentmindedly, the slight crease between his brows, the way his ears twitched like he was listening for something just out of reach. Small details, all adding up to the same conclusion: he didn’t know where he fit.

That was all it was. Just observation. But something about it sat weird in Pietro’s chest—too sharp, too fast. He shoved the feeling aside.

—-------------------

Kurt hated the sudden noise. The loud voices, the stomping, the laughter—it all seemed to press against his skull, making his tension headache throb worse with every passing second. He winced, rubbing his temples as he tried to block it out, but the sound seeped through the walls, impossible to ignore. A small part of him wanted to ask Pietro if he could make them stop—just for a little while—but the thought of meeting the rest of the people in this house felt overwhelming.

He wasn’t ready for introductions, for explanations, for the inevitable questions he didn’t have answers to. The idea alone drained what little energy he had left. Talking to Pietro had been surprisingly easy, but even that had left him feeling worn thin. Right now, all he wanted was to curl up in bed, bury himself under the covers, and sleep until the noise and chaos faded into the background.

But sleep wouldn’t come so easily, not with his mind pulling him in a dozen different directions at once. His tail curled tightly around his leg, a subconscious response to the unease twisting in his chest. He took a slow, shaky breath, trying to ground himself, but his thoughts refused to quiet. He frowned, trying to focus on the thoughts, to pull something concrete from the haze of his fractured mind.

There was a sound. A snicker. Light and quick, as if laughing at a dumb joke, and just as fleeting. It echoed faintly in his mind, distant but oddly comforting. Kurt closed his eyes, trying to latch onto it, but it faded before he could make sense of it.

The familiarity was bittersweet, stirring something deep and melancholy inside him. Remembering pieces of his life felt like standing in front of a shattered mirror, trying to piece together the fragments without cutting himself on the edges.

His chest tightened as the snicker faded into silence, replaced once again by the loud, unrelenting noise from downstairs. The ache in his head deepened, spreading through his body like a weight he couldn’t shrug off. 

The sadness settled in his chest, quiet and persistent, like an old wound that hadn’t healed right. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to remember more or if he was too scared of what he might find. Would those memories bring comfort, or would they only remind him of everything he’d lost? The thought made his tail flick restlessly against the mattress.

Kurt sighed, his shoulders slumping as he looked around the room. The bed looked inviting, soft and warm, but he couldn’t bring himself to relax. His thoughts kept circling back to the laughter, the feeling of familiarity, and the strange melancholy it brought with it. How much of his life had been stolen from him? How much of himself had he lost along the way?

For a moment, he let his eyes drift shut, focusing on the sound of his own breathing to drown out the noise. The faint snicker still echoed in the back of his mind, a whisper of the life he could barely recall. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And in the midst of all the noise and confusion, that small, comforting memory felt like a lifeline.

“I’ll let you get settled in,” Pietro said, pushing off the bed with an easy stretch, arms lifting over his head like he hadn’t spent the last several minutes sitting still —which, honestly, was already impressive for him.

The movement caught Kurt’s attention, his eyes fluttering open, blinking like he was pulling himself out of a daze.

“Nien,” he murmured, voice quiet but firm. “I don’t mind you here.”

Pietro paused, barely half a step toward the door, and glanced back with a smirk. “Yeah, you do, Blue,” he shot back with a short laugh, keeping it light, effortless. “You’re probably all sorts of burnt out. You don’t need me hanging around making it worse. I’ll be across the hall if you need me.”

Kurt hesitated, like he wanted to argue, but his tail flicked against the bed—small, restless. He nodded instead, slow and reluctant.

Pietro turned toward the door, ready to be out before Kurt could hit him with any more of that soft, uncertain please stay energy.

“Uhhh…”

Pietro slowed, one hand on the doorframe, and tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

Kurt shifted, his ears pinning back just slightly before he forced himself to look up. “Could you… get me another blanket?” His cheeks tinted just the faintest shade of pink, like asking for something wasn’t his thing. “This blue blood runs cold,” he added, a weak attempt at a joke, his voice a little too careful, a little too not sure if it would land.

Pietro didn’t miss a beat. His smirk widened, easy, teasing. “Oh, now you need me?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Gonna have to start charging for all these favors, Blue.” He was already gone in a blur before Kurt could answer.

The clean room felt almost alien as Pietro skidded to a stop, the scent of fresh laundry too crisp, the space too still—like it belonged to someone else entirely. His gaze flicked around, landing on his bed, where a fleece throw blanket—blue, soft, way too cozy for something he owned—was neatly folded at the foot of it. He snorted. Figures. It suited Kurt way more than it suited him.

Rolling his eyes at himself, he grabbed what he needed and zipped back to the guest room, already shoving the thought aside.

When he stepped inside, Kurt was sitting up, legs drawn close, tail curling loosely around one. He looked… small. Unsteady.  “Here,” Pietro said, tossing the blanket toward Kurt, who caught it easily.

Kurt’s eyes widened slightly as he unfolded it, running a hand over the fleece like it was something precious. “Danke,” he said quietly, voice full of something too raw, too real. “It’s… warm.”

Pietro flashed a smirk, leaning against the doorframe. “Only the best for you, Blue,”

Kurt glanced down at the blanket, fingers tracing the edge. He hesitated, then finally looked up, eyes unreadable. “You’ve been very kind to me,” he said, soft and certain. “I know I keep saying it, but it means more than I can say.”

Something twisted in Pietro’s stomach. Guilt? No. Shut up .

He forced a shrug, shoving his hands into his pockets. “What can I say? I’m a nice guy. Don’t let the others tell you otherwise.”

Kurt actually chuckled at that, his tail giving the tiniest flick. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Pietro saluted lazily, stepping back. “Alright, this time, I’m really letting you settle in. But if you need anything—and I mean anything—just holler. I’ll be here before you can blink.”

“Danke, Pietro.” Kurt curled up under the blanket, his tail flicking once before settling against the bed, that small, genuine smile still lingering.

Pietro hesitated in the doorway. Just for a second. Longer than he meant to.

“Sleep tight, Blue,” he said, tone easy, before slipping out and shutting the door behind him.

Leaning back against the hallway wall, he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. The whole thing sat oddly in his chest, like he’d just walked into a room and forgotten why he was there.

The hell was that?

Chapter Text

Kurt pulled the blanket snugly around himself, the soft fleece brushing against his fur and enveloping him in a warmth that was almost too much to bear. As he made himself comfortable for bed, he removed his image inducer, setting it aside with a faint click. The weight of everything still pressed heavily on him, but the blanket seemed to soften the blow, a small reminder that, for now, he was safe. He hadn’t realized just how bone-deep his exhaustion ran until he let himself stop, let himself breathe, and finally began to unwind.

His mind raced despite the heaviness in his limbs. He wanted to sort through everything, to replay the events of the day and make sense of it all. But the harder he tried to focus, the more his thoughts slipped away, blurry at the edges. The tension in his chest began to ease, his breathing slowing as the pull of sleep became impossible to resist.

As he drifted off, the sound came to him again: that laugh. It was familiar, comforting, but elusive. He tried to reach for it, to pin it down, but it danced just out of his grasp, like trying to hold sunlight in his hands.

The dream deepened, pulling him into its hazy embrace. The laugh was there, echoing softly, drawing him toward something—or someone—he couldn’t quite see. A figure stood at the edge of his vision, blurry and undefined, but there was a warmth to their presence that Kurt couldn’t ignore. He took a step closer, his tail twitching as if propelled by an instinct he didn’t understand.

“Wer bist du?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

The figure didn’t answer, but the laugh came again, and it filled him with a bittersweet ache. It wasn’t mocking or cruel. It was gentle, kind, and strangely intimate, as if it had been meant for him alone. He wanted to hear more, to feel the weight of its familiarity, but as he reached out, the figure dissolved like mist.

“No, wait!” Kurt called, his voice breaking with desperation, but the warmth faded, and the world around him crumbled into darkness. His eyes snapped open, heart pounding as the remnants of the dream clung to him. The room was dark and still, the faint sounds of the house settling in the distance. He blinked, his breath uneven as he tried to piece together what he’d just experienced. The laugh echoed faintly in his mind, and though it brought a small comfort, it also left him feeling hollow, like something precious had slipped through his fingers.

He shifted under the blanket, its warmth grounding him once again. For a moment, he let his fingers brush over the soft fabric, tracing its edges as his tail curled tightly around his waist. The dream had felt so vivid, so real, but now it was fading, just like the laugh. He frowned, the corners of his mouth tugging downward in frustration.

Before he could dwell on it too long, there was a faint knock at the door.

“Kurt?” Pietro’s voice drifted through the door, light and easy, but there was something quieter beneath it, “You still awake?”

Kurt hesitated, his ears twitching slightly at the sound. “Ja… I am awake,” he admitted, his voice soft, still thick with sleep.

The door creaked open just enough for Pietro to poke his head in, silver hair catching the faint glow from the hallway. “Figured,” he said, offering a small, lopsided grin. “You looked about two seconds from passing out earlier, though. Thought I’d check in.”

His sharp eyes flicked over Kurt, taking in the way he was curled tight beneath the blanket, his tail tucked in close, barely visible. Something in his expression shifted—brief, fleeting—before he leaned casually against the doorframe.

Kurt swallowed, shifting slightly under the covers. “I am… fine,” he murmured, but the hesitation in his voice betrayed him. “Just… tired.”

“Yeah, I hear that,” Pietro said, tilting his head like he was studying him. “I’ll let you sleep in a sec, I just—” He exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, like he was weighing whether or not to say it. “I heard something. Figured I’d make sure you weren’t, like, freaking out.”

Kurt’s tail curled tighter beneath the blanket. His cheeks heated with quiet embarrassment, and his hands fidgeted against the fabric. “I… I did not mean to wake you.”

Pietro’s brow lifted slightly, and then he waved him off, smirk softening at the edges. “You didn’t, Blue. I’m a light sleeper anyway. A stiff breeze wakes me up.”

Still, there was that undercurrent—an unspoken but I heard you lingering in the air.

Kurt looked away, exhaling through his nose. “It… it was just a dream,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Pietro’s smirk faltered for a second, something thoughtful flickering behind his eyes before he masked it with a casual shrug. “Yeah? The sucky kind, I’m guessing.”

Kurt gave a small nod, his hands tightening on the blanket.

Pietro clicked his tongue, shifting against the doorframe. “Well, no offense, but you don’t exactly have the best poker face, so…” His voice was light, teasing, but not unkind. “You sure you’re good?”

Kurt hesitated, meeting his gaze for a long moment before nodding again. “I think so,” he said quietly. “Danke, Pietro.”

Pietro held his gaze for a beat longer before finally pushing off the frame. “Alright,” he said, stretching his arms over his head with a lazy roll of his shoulders. “Get some rest. You look like you need it. And, y’know… if you weren’t good, hypothetically, and you wanted to wake someone up at an ungodly hour, I guess I wouldn’t mind.”

Kurt blinked, surprised by the offer, before the corners of his lips lifted into something small but genuine. “Danke,” he repeated, curling deeper into the blanket.

Pietro just smirked, flipping him a lazy salute before slipping back out into the hallway. He leaned against the wall in the hallway, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled. Kurt had been through hell today—anyone would be shaken up. That much was obvious. Pietro frowned, staring at the floor like it held answers he hadn’t figured out yet.

Kurt had been crying when Pietro first saw him at the table with Mystique. That alone was enough to send an alarm in his brain blaring. Kurt didn’t cry—at least, not in a way that anyone ever saw. Sure, he got worked up, all that exhausting, idealistic X-Men crap, but he wasn’t the kind of guy who fell apart. Not like that. Not in a way that left his voice cracked and his hands trembling against the table.

And then—the way he looked at me. Not just tired. Not just upset. Lost. Like he’d never seen Pietro before in his life.

Pietro exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. That wasn’t normal. That wasn’t something you just forgot. He and Kurt had been fighting for three years. They’d been enemies, rivals, occasional reluctant allies. Pietro had literally been punched in the face by him more times than he could count—and now suddenly, nothing? Not even a flicker of recognition?

Worst of all—he was having nightmares. Pietro had heard him, even through the walls. It wasn’t just tossing and turning—Kurt had sounded distressed, his breathing sharp and uneven, just enough to set something uneasy crawling under Pietro’s skin. His hands curled into fists.

What the hell happened to him?

Kurt wasn’t okay and Pietro hated that he noticed. He shoved off the wall, jaw tightening as he headed toward his room, steps a little too quick, like he could outrun the thoughts circling his head.

—------------------------

Morning came faster than Pietro expected, not that he was surprised. His mind had been busy—turning over Kurt, Mystique, and whatever the hell was going on like pieces of a puzzle that refused to fit. It wasn’t keeping him up or anything, but it was there, lingering in the back of his head, waiting for him to make sense of it. He wanted to corner Mystique and demand some answers, but after he left Kurt’s room, she’d vanished like smoke. Classic Mystique. It was probably intentional, too—she always seemed to know when people wanted to talk to her and made herself scarce at the worst possible moments.

Looping the rest of the Brotherhood in? Yeah, not happening. Mystique’s message had been clear— keep Kurt hidden —and that didn’t just mean from the outside world. As far as the guys knew, the guest room was still collecting dust, and Pietro planned to keep it that way. Blob would either shrug it off or, worse, try to play big brother. Toad would turn it into a joke, and Lance? He’d probably just roll his eyes and remind Pietro it wasn’t his problem. None of them were exactly built for handling delicate situations, and honestly? Explaining it wasn’t worth the headache.

As he yanked on a clean shirt and went through the motions of getting ready for another painfully slow school day, Pietro’s thoughts drifted—unbidden, unwelcome—to the Xavier Institute.

What was going on over there?

He hadn’t really thought about it yesterday, too caught up in the weird, surreal mess of finding Kurt here, at the Brotherhood of all places, sitting at the kitchen table like he belonged. But now, in the quiet of the early morning, it hit him—how long had he even been gone?

Pietro froze mid-brush, his grip on his toothbrush tightening as he stared at his reflection. Had Kurt been missing for days? Weeks? Because that’s what it had to be, right? There was no other reason he’d be here instead of back at the mansion, being spoon-fed his memories by the world’s friendliest cult leader.

And yet… there hadn’t been a single whisper about anyone looking for him. No search parties, no frantic calls, no big dramatic rescue mission storming through Bayville. It was like they hadn’t even noticed he was gone.

No way.

No way they just… let him disappear. Xavier’s whole thing was playing protective dad to his little army of X-Men. If Kurt had been missing, they should’ve been tearing the city apart looking for him.

So why the hell wasn’t anyone here?

Pietro spat out his toothpaste, rinsing his mouth with more force than necessary. Maybe he didn’t know the full story—Mystique was good at keeping people in the dark—but it still pissed him off. Xavier and his crew liked to talk a big game about family and loyalty, didn’t they? So where the hell were they now? The worst part was, he couldn’t know what the X-Men were thinking. Maybe they really were looking for Kurt and hadn’t found anything yet.

Pietro tried to shake it off, running a hand through his hair as he grabbed his bag. It wasn’t his problem, right? He wasn’t the guy who went around worrying about other people’s feelings.

Chapter Text

Scott had never considered himself the most observant guy. Sure, he noticed the important things—mission details, team dynamics, the way Jean’s hair caught the light when she laughed—but the smaller stuff? Not so much. So when Kurt didn’t teleport into his car after school, Scott’s first reaction wasn’t panic. It was confusion.

Kurt always rode home with him. Always. Even when Scott didn’t want him to, even when he angled for a rare moment alone with Jean, Kurt would just teleport into the passenger seat, grinning like he owned the place, rambling about whatever ridiculous thing had happened that day. Sometimes it drove Scott nuts, but deep down, he expected it.

But today there was nothing. No teleportation. No smug, teasing commentary about Scott’s “boring” music. Just silence.

At first, Scott figured Kurt had gotten distracted—maybe caught up in a conversation or hitched a ride with someone else. But the longer he sat there, fingers tapping impatiently against the wheel, the more uneasy he felt. Kurt didn’t just skip their ride home. Not without saying something.

Scott’s grip on the wheel tightened, his knuckles whitening. Something was wrong. He could feel it. Technically, Kurt wasn’t his little brother—they were barely a year apart—but it always felt that way. Kurt had this boundless energy, this need to be moving, talking, existing in Scott’s space, like an annoying but oddly comforting presence. As much as Scott rolled his eyes, as much as he pretended to be exasperated, he never really minded.

Now, that presence was just... gone.

Scott yanked his phone out, thumb hovering over Kurt’s contact before pressing call. The dial tone rang, once, twice—then went to voicemail.

His stomach twisted. That's not normal.

“Hey, Kurt,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “You didn’t catch a ride with someone else, did you? Just... call me back, okay? Let me know where you are.”

He hung up and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, a sick feeling crawling up his spine. He knew what Jean would say—Don’t overthink it, Scott. Give him the benefit of the doubt—but the uneasy churn in his gut wouldn’t go away.

By the time he got back to the mansion, that feeling had solidified into something worse. Dread.

The house was too quiet. Without Kurt’s usual energy filling the halls, it felt wrong. Scott stood in the entryway for a long moment, scanning the space like he half-expected Kurt to teleport in and make a joke at his expense.

Nothing.

His jaw tightened as he stalked into the living room, pacing like a caged animal. Where the hell was he? The memory of Kurt’s stupid, infectious grin flashed in his mind—the way he could make even the most serious moments feel lighter—and suddenly, the idea of losing that was unbearable.

Scott pulled his phone out again, debating calling one more time, when soft footsteps broke through his spiral.

Jean didn’t have to say anything—she never had to say anything. Just one look at his face, and she already knew. “We should talk to the professor,” she said gently, her voice calm but steady.

Scott exhaled sharply, forcing himself to meet her gaze. Jean wasn’t reading his mind—she didn’t need to. She just knew him. “You think I’m overreacting,” he muttered.

Jean shook her head. “No, I don’t,” she said simply. “I think you’re worried, and you have every right to be. But we’re not doing this alone. The professor can help.”

Scott hesitated, his grip tightening around his phone. “I should’ve noticed something sooner,” he admitted, jaw clenching. “Kurt’s always around. And now... nothing. What if—what if something happened because I wasn’t paying attention?”

Jean reached out, resting a hand on his arm. Her touch was warm, grounding. “Scott,” she said softly, “you’re not a mind reader. None of us are—well, except me.” She flashed a teasing smile, trying to coax even the smallest smile from him. “But seriously, you care about him. That’s what matters. We’ll find him, okay?”

Scott wanted to believe her. Wanted to let himself breathe, just for a second. But the weight in his chest wasn’t so easily shaken. “He’s like our little brother,” Scott admitted, the words feeling strange in his mouth, like he wasn’t used to saying them out loud. “Even when he drives me insane, he’s still Kurt. He’s still family.”

Jean’s eyes softened, and she squeezed his arm reassuringly. “I know, we’ll bring him home,” she said with quiet certainty. Scott inhaled deeply, nodding as he shoved his phone back into his pocket. He still felt like he was standing on the edge of something awful, but Jean was right. He wasn’t doing this alone.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Let’s talk to the professor.”

She smiled, giving his arm one last squeeze before leading the way. As they walked, Scott couldn’t shake the feeling that the mansion had never felt colder. The absence of Kurt’s voice, his laughter, his presence—it was suffocating.

Whatever it took, wherever Kurt was—Scott was going to find him. Nothing was going to stop him.

_____

As the sunlight poured in through the windows, Kurt stirred, shifting under the weight of the soft blue blanket wrapped around him. He stretched out his limbs in a lazy, cat-like manner, his tail curling and uncurling behind him as the blanket slipped down his shoulders. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he sat up, taking in the vast, unfamiliar space around him.

The room was expansive, its clean walls and minimal furniture giving it the sterile feel of an empty hotel room. It didn’t feel like his, though he wasn’t sure what a room that felt like “his” would even look like. His gaze wandered over the blank walls, and he tilted his head thoughtfully. Maybe I could get a TV in here, he mused. He made a mental note to ask Pietro about it later.

A dry, unpleasant taste in his mouth pulled him out of bed. He rubbed the sleep from his face as he shuffled toward the bathroom, his legs dragging slightly. The sight of a neatly organized bathroom cabinet surprised him—he’d half expected chaos, given what little he saw of the Brotherhood house so far. Grateful, he found a brand-new toothbrush tucked away inside and quickly set about brushing his teeth.

His sharp canines poked out as he grinned at himself in the mirror, showing off his teeth like he used to as a kid when he wanted to make someone laugh. The fleeting joy chased away some of the unease that had weighed on him the night before. For a moment, the turmoil of the previous day felt distant, like a bad dream he could almost ignore.

But the feeling didn’t last. As he rinsed his mouth and set the toothbrush aside, the realization settled in: he didn’t know what to do now. Should he go look for Mystique? The idea alone made his stomach twist. He didn’t even want to talk to her, not yet, not after—What was he even supposed to say? Hey, yeah, thanks for dropping that life-altering bombshell on me, I never want to speak again, bye.

Yeah. No. Not happening.

Maybe he should find Pietro—assuming the speedster was even home. What time was it, anyway? Kurt made his way back to the guest room, the familiar comfort of the blanket still draped around his shoulders. He picked up the image inducer from the bedside table and strapped it onto his wrist. With a press of a button, the watch hummed softly, and the illusion of his human form engulfed him. The green digital display flashed a bright 11:25 AM.

“Elf Herrgott,” he muttered to himself. He wasn’t the type to sleep in, but he must have been more exhausted than he realized.

He glanced into the hallway, trying to remember which room Pietro had said was his. Was it the right door or the left? Both doors were unmarked and unremarkable, offering no clues. He’d just have to guess.

Kurt hesitated for a moment before heading to the left door. He pushed it open cautiously, peeking inside, and his eyes widened slightly at what he saw.

The room was sparkling clean—an unexpected contrast to what Kurt had imagined. He’d assumed Pietro, with his casual energy and constant movement, would thrive in disaster, but this was the opposite. The floor was spotless, and the bed was neatly made, the sheets perfectly tucked in. A skateboard leaned against the wall near the bed, its design sleek and colorful, and a row of posters adorned one side of the room. They featured bands Kurt didn’t recognize, along with a few abstract images that looked sharp and fast, just like Pietro.

On the far wall, glass doors leading to a small balcony that overlooked the back of the house. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting warm golden streaks across the hardwood floor. 

Kurt stepped inside, his tail twitching slightly beneath the illusion of his human form. The room smelled faintly of something clean and crisp, with a subtle undertone of cologne that lingered just enough to feel personal. He looked around, noting how everything seemed deliberately placed—no clutter, no mess, just a carefully maintained environment that didn’t quite align with the easygoing chaos Pietro projected in his personality.

“Didn’t expect this,” Kurt muttered under his breath, his blue eyes flicking toward the skateboard propped against the wall. It was colorful and well-used, the kind of thing that seemed perfectly Pietro, yet it was juxtaposed against the room’s near-pristine neatness. He let his fingers brush the edge of a poster on the wall, the glossy surface catching the light as he stepped closer to the balcony doors. The sunlight spilling through warmed his face, and for a brief moment, it reminded him of home back in Germany.

He turned and glanced at the neatly made bed. Pietro had invited him in the night before, but now that he wasn’t around, Kurt felt the awkward pang of intruding. It didn’t feel right to make himself too comfortable here, even if Pietro had been nothing but kind to him. Still, the temptation lingered. The bed looked so inviting, its sheets smooth and unwrinkled, and Kurt couldn’t help but fight the urge to sprawl across it in the carefree way Pietro might. He wanted to mimic that casual, effortless demeanor, but it wasn’t in him—not really. Kurt wasn’t great at hiding his feelings, especially when they were as muddled as they were now.

He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, his tail curling tightly behind him as his thoughts wandered. Pietro’s room felt so put together, so carefully curated—it made Kurt feel even more out of place, like he didn’t belong here. But it also made him curious.What kind of person kept a space like this? The room felt like a glimpse into something deeper, a side of Pietro that wasn’t all speed and snark. Kurt wondered if this version of him was something Pietro showed to many people—or if it was something he guarded, letting only a select few get close enough to see.

That thought—of people letting others close, of seeing and being seen—shifted something in Kurt’s mind. It brought him back to the dream, the sound of that laugh breaking through like sunlight through clouds. Warm, light, familiar, yet distant. It tugged at something deep in his chest, a place he hadn’t realized was hollow until now.

Did he have someone out there waiting for him? The idea planted itself firmly in his mind, and the more he thought about it, the more the questions piled up. Who were they? What had they meant to him? Were they still out there, missing him as much as he missed pieces of himself? He closed his eyes, letting the sunlight from the balcony play across his face as he imagined what it might feel like to be someone’s person—to have someone look at him and see more than just his fur, his tail, his otherness.

A small, sick part of him hoped it was true. The idea of being wanted, of being loved, was so intoxicating, so nice that it almost hurt to think about. What if he had someone who’d accepted him, all of him, without hesitation? The possibility filled him with a bittersweet ache, a yearning he didn’t quite know how to hold.

But then another thought crept in, darker and heavier: What if that someone wasn’t waiting for him anymore? What if they’d moved on, believing he was gone for good? Or worse—what if he’d left them behind? The guilt that came with that possibility settled over him like a weight, dragging his tail low against the floor.

His eyes opened, and he glanced back at the image inducer on his wrist. The green glow of its interface reminded him of the mask he wore, the illusion that let him pass for someone ordinary, someone human. The person he’d been in his dream hadn’t felt ordinary, though. They’d felt like him, like the real him, and whoever they were had laughed with him, not at him. 

Kurt sighed, running a hand through his hair as he tried to shake the thoughts from his mind. There were too many questions and not enough answers, and the ache in his chest refused to subside. Maybe Mystique could tell him more. Or maybe Pietro… Pietro had been so kind to him, so unexpectedly thoughtful. The idea of talking to him, of sharing even a small piece of the weight pressing on his chest, felt strangely comforting in a way Kurt wasn’t sure he wanted to unpack.

With a small shake of his head, Kurt stood up, draping the blue blanket neatly over the bed before making his way toward the door. His thoughts were still swirling, but he didn’t have time to sort through them. He reached for the handle but before he could make contact the door swung open, he collided head first with someone.

His head hit the firm surface of Pietro’s chest. A wave of warmth radiated from the taller man, but what struck Kurt most was the scent that enveloped him—the same crisp, clean fragrance that had lingered in the room earlier. It was sharp yet warm, with hints of citrus and lavender mingling with a deeper, woody undertone that gave it an unmistakable richness. The scent was magnetic, wrapping around Kurt like an invisible tether.

“Whoa, Blue,” Pietro said with a chuckle, steadying Kurt with a hand on his shoulder. His usual grin spread across his face, but there was a flicker of something softer in his expression as he looked down at him. His touch was warm, firm but not forceful, and for a moment, Pietro’s thumb brushed against Kurt’s shoulder before he quickly pulled back. “Didn’t realize you were in such a hurry to see me. I mean, I get it—I’m hard to resist—but you could’ve just waited, y’know?”

Kurt flushed immediately, his cheeks heating as he stepped back, his tail twitching nervously. The warmth of Pietro’s hand lingered on his shoulder, making it harder to compose himself. “S-sorry,” he stammered, his voice stumbling over itself as he tried to recover. “I wasn’t… When did you get here?”

Pietro’s smirk widened, his white hair catching the light as he leaned casually against the doorframe. “I think the better question is what are you doing in my room, Blue?”

Kurt didn’t think it was possible for his face to turn any redder, but the question hit him like a tidal wave, and he could feel the heat climbing all the way to the tips of his ears. He stammered incoherently for a moment, his tail curling tightly around his ankle as he realized he’d been caught red-handed.

“I… I was looking for you,” Kurt admitted softly, the words barely audible as his eyes flicked up to meet Pietro’s. Kurts lashes framed his gaze perfectly, and there was something so vulnerable in the way he looked at him. Pietro paused—just for a split second—then kept moving like he hadn’t seen anything at all. “Well, here I am,” he said, slipping back into easy confidence, tone light, effortless. “I run home during lunch. Cafeteria food? Total garbage. No way I’m eating that.” His smirk stayed firmly in place, like nothing had thrown him off, like there was nothing to notice in the first place.

Kurt nodded, though he still looked as though he wanted to disappear into the floor. His hands fidgeted at his sides, his tail flicking anxiously behind him. Pietro couldn’t help but watch the movement for a second too long before snapping his attention back to Kurt’s face.

“So,” Pietro continued, leaning in slightly with that trademark glint in his eye. “You were looking for me, huh? What’s the matter, Blue? Missed me already?”

Kurt shook his head, rubbing his arm almost absently, his tail flicking behind him. “I just…” He exhaled, eyes darting away before forcing himself to meet Pietro’s again. “I didn’t want to talk to Mystique.”

Pietro blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

Kurt must have taken his silence as confusion because he hurried on, voice a little rushed, a little too apologetic. “She hasn’t come to talk to me yet, and I don’t want to go looking for her. I don’t even know what she wants from me.” His hands fidgeted at his sides, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I thought maybe you’d… know what I should do next.”

Pietro studied him, head tilting slightly, that nagging feeling from earlier creeping back in, digging a little deeper. The same one that had been scratching at the edges of his mind since he first saw Kurt at the Brotherhood’s table, red-eyed and rattled, looking like he was waiting for someone to tell him where he was supposed to stand. And now? Now he was looking at Pietro like he was something steady, something safe, like he actually thought Pietro Maximoff was someone to rely on. Cute. Adorable, even. Kurt really had no idea who he was dealing with.

Kurt didn’t trust Mystique. Yeah, okay, fair . Nobody in their right mind would. Mystique was cold , calculated—she only ever looked out for herself. This wasn’t just suspicion though this was hesitation. This was Kurt actively avoiding her.

"Well, can’t say I blame you," Pietro said, crossing his arms. "She’s not exactly known for her heartwarming pep talks." He gave Kurt a once-over, clicking his tongue. "So, what—you figured I’d know what to do? Bold strategy, Blue. But if you’re planning on breaking into my room again, at least have the decency to act guilty about it. Look at you, sitting there all casual—like this isn’t a major breach of trust. I mean, wow. The betrayal."

Kurt blinked, his eyes widening slightly in alarm. “I wasn’t—! I mean, I didn’t—!”

“Relax, Blue,” Pietro cut in with a laugh, holding up his hands like he was surrendering. “I’m messing with you. You’re good.” He smirked, tilting his head. “Honestly, you wanna poke around? Be my guest. Just don’t mess with my system.”

Kurt glanced around, lips twitching like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be amused. “I… didn’t expect it to be so clean,” he admitted, quieter now.

Pietro grinned. “What can I say? I’m a man of mystery.” Then, with a slight shift in tone, he added, “But seriously, Blue. Next time you need something, you don’t have to go sneaking around for it. Just ask. I got you.”

Kurt hesitated, then nodded, his tail curling a little looser behind him. “Danke, Pietro,” he said, softer but sincere.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pietro said, waving him off as he stepped aside. But as Kurt walked past, something weird happened—his brain paused for half a second, catching the faint trace of his cologne mixed with something softer, something him . It wasn’t even anything dramatic, just—there. And for some reason, his brain decided to notice it.

The door clicked shut behind him. Pietro blinked, exhaled, then leaned back against the frame, smirk slipping back into place like he was in on some joke he hadn’t meant to tell.

“Huh,” he muttered to himself. “That was weird.”

Then, because he absolutely refused to think about it any longer, he pushed off the door and moved on like nothing had happened.

—-

Kurt fully intended to go back to his room and stay there. Between the embarrassment of being caught in Pietro’s room and the speedster’s relentless teasing, the idea of hiding under his blanket for the foreseeable future seemed like the only reasonable plan.

The hunger hit him all at once—sharp, insistent, the kind of ache he hadn’t even noticed creeping up on him until now. When had he last really eaten? Yesterday’s soup came to mind, but before that… nothing. His stomach twisted, the empty, hollow feeling turning almost painful. He tried to ignore it, to wait it out, but the more he sat there, the worse it got.

Finally, as another loud, traitorous growl echoed in the silence, Kurt muttered a quiet, defeated, “Traitor.” Clutching his stomach, he sighed and reluctantly turned back toward Pietro’s door.

Standing outside the room, he hesitated, his tail flicking behind him in anxious little swishes that gave away his nerves. The illusion of his human form did nothing to hide the appendage, and he hated how obvious it made him feel. What if Pietro had already sped back to school? What if he’d misread the situation earlier, and Pietro didn’t really want him around? He shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts. He needed to eat. Surely, Pietro wouldn’t mind helping him with that—right?

Summoning his courage, Kurt knocked softly on the door, the sound barely audible in the quiet hallway. A moment later, the door swung open, and there was Pietro, leaning casually against the frame with his signature smirk firmly in place.

“Back so soon, Blue?” Pietro teased, crossing his arms as he looked Kurt up and down. “Can’t get enough of me, huh?”

Kurt shifted awkwardly, his tail curling slightly behind him in a nervous twitch. “Um… do you know where I can get breakfast?” he asked quietly, his accent thickening slightly in his embarrassment.

Pietro laughed, his grin widening. “Breakfast? It’s almost noon, Blue. You’re a little late to the party.” He leaned back, tilting his head toward the staircase. “But hey, I’m not gonna let you starve. Let’s get you something to eat.”

Kurt nodded, relieved. He followed Pietro as he stepped out of his room, the two of them heading toward the stairs.

The second floor was tidier than it had been the night before, and Kurt couldn’t help but glance around in surprise. The abandoned shoes and soda cans were gone, and the hallway felt less like a minefield.

“Noticed, huh?” Pietro said, catching Kurt’s gaze. He shrugged nonchalantly. “I cleaned up this morning. Figured I’d make it a little less ‘death trap’ for you.”

Kurt blinked at him, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That was… thoughtful. Danke.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Pietro quipped, though the teasing edge in his voice was softer than usual.

As they reached the first floor, Pietro motioned toward the kitchen. “Alright, Blue. What are you hungry for?”

Kurt paused, his tail curling behind him as he thought. “I’m… not sure,” he admitted.

Pietro glanced at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall, his mind working at lightning speed. He thought about offering to cook something, but that would eat into his next class period, and there was no way he was risking his perfect attendance record.

“Alright,” Pietro said, leaning back against the counter as he looked at Kurt. “We’ve got two options here: I can whip up something quick and easy, or we can head out and grab food somewhere.”

Kurt tilted his head, his tail flicking lazily behind him as he considered. “Out?”

Pietro hesitated, his easy grin faltering for just a second. Taking Kurt out? Yeah, tempting, but also a massive risk. A risk he wasn’t about to be responsible for. Mystique had given her orders— keep him hidden —and if her plan fell apart, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be his fault.

His stomach twisted at the thought of running into the X-Men. If someone like Cyclops or Jean spotted him? If they recognized him? That wasn’t a mess Pietro wanted any part of. Mystique had dumped this situation in his lap, and he’d play along—to a point—but he wasn’t about to get caught holding the bag if it all went sideways.

“Actually,” Pietro said, leaning back against the counter, flashing his signature grin. “Going out might be a bad idea. It’s way too crowded this time of day. Lucky for you, I happen to be a five-star chef. Let me whip something up for you here instead.”

Kurt blinked at him, his eyes wide with something between surprise and gratitude. His tail flicked once behind him, drawing Pietro’s attention for a split second before he zipped to the fridge. Before Kurt could respond, Pietro reappeared in a blur, his arms full of supplies—eggs, goat cheese, fresh spinach, and a handful of other ingredients that made Kurt tilt his head curiously.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to trouble you,” Kurt said softly, the tips of his ears twitching slightly.

“Trouble? Me? C’mon, Blue,” Pietro quipped, cracking an egg into a bowl with one hand and tossing the shell into the trash with the other. “I don’t even know the meaning of the word.” He shot Kurt a wink, his grin growing wider when he caught the faintest flicker of a smile on Kurt’s face.

“You’re very fast,” Kurt murmured, almost to himself, his tail curling lazily behind him as he leaned against the counter to watch.

“Fastest man alive,” Pietro replied with a dramatic flourish, whisking the eggs with practiced ease. “You’re looking at the guy who once made a three-course meal in under ten minutes. I mean, sure, nobody ate it but me, but it still counts.”

Kurt chuckled softly, the sound light and warm. “I suppose I should be grateful, then. A private chef is a luxury, ja?”

“Damn right it is,” Pietro said, tossing a handful of spinach into the pan with a practiced flick of his wrist. “And since you’re late for breakfast, you’re getting the fanciest one I can throw together before I have to head back to school.”

Kurt tilted his head, his  eyes following Pietro’s every movement. “You’re going back to school?”

“Yup,” Pietro said, flipping the omelet effortlessly. “Can’t keep these perfect grades without showing up, you know. Contrary to popular belief, I am an excellent student.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking up into a small, skeptical smile. “You? Really?”

“Hey!” Pietro placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know I’m an intellectual powerhouse, Blue. Just because I’m ridiculously good-looking doesn’t mean I don’t have brains to back it up.”

Kurt rolled his eyes, but his smile widened, and Pietro caught himself grinning even more as he slid the omelet onto a plate. “Alright, breakfast is served,” he said, setting the plate in front of Kurt with a flourish. “Fancy omelet, courtesy of me. You’re welcome.”

Kurt picked up a fork, hesitating for a moment before taking a bite. His tail flicked behind him as his eyes lit up, and Pietro felt a little swell of pride at the way Kurt’s expression softened.

“This is… really good,” Kurt said, his tone tinged with surprise. “Danke, Pietro.”

“Eh, no big deal,” Pietro said, leaning casually against the counter. “Anything for you, Blue.”

Kurt’s ears twitched at the nickname, and his tail curled slightly as he glanced up at Pietro. “You call me that a lot,” he said, his voice quiet but curious. “Why?”

Pietro smirked, like the answer was obvious. “Because you’re blue,” he said, tone light, teasing. “And it suits you.” Then, with a lazy tilt of his head, he added, “Plus, you’re one of a kind. Like me. Gotta give you a name that fits.”

Kurt flushed slightly, ducking his head as he took another bite. “I… think I like it,” he admitted.

“Good,” Pietro said, his smirk softening. “Because it’s sticking.”

For a moment, the kitchen was quiet, the only sound coming from Kurt as he ate. Pietro  watched with an easy smirk. He wasn’t really the sit around and enjoy the moment type, but hey—this wasn’t bad. Kurt actually looked comfortable for once, tail flicking lazily as he ate, and yeah, maybe that was kind of nice to see. Not that Pietro was about to think too hard about it.

Cooking breakfast wasn’t some huge deal or anything, but still, it was something. And honestly? He’d take the win.

His gaze flicked to the clock, and he let out a casual groan. Right. Reality.

“Alright, Blue,” Pietro drawled, stretching as he pushed off the counter. “Hate to cook and run, but I gotta grab my stuff and head back to school. Gotta keep those perfect grades—genius doesn’t maintain itself.” His smirk sharpened as he made a show of cracking his knuckles. “Tragic, I know.”

Kurt blinked, looking up from his plate mid-bite. “Oh. Uh… danke for breakfast,” he said, his voice soft but sincere. His eyes lingered on Pietro, the gratitude clear even in their brief glance.

“Anytime,” Pietro replied with a grin. He turned and zipped out of the room. 

The quiet that followed Pietro’s departure felt strangely loud. Kurt sat at the table, finishing the last few bites of his omelet, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Pietro’s words still lingered in his mind: “One of a kind, like me. Gotta give you a name that fits.”

The words had seemed casual, tossed out with Pietro’s usual charm, but they stuck with Kurt in a way he didn’t expect. He found himself smiling faintly as he stood and rinsed his plate in the sink, the soft clink of the dish grounding him.

He loved the guest room Mystique had given him—it was bigger than any room he’d ever had. But it was so plain, so empty. The neutral walls and lack of personality left it feeling impersonal, like it wasn’t really his.

Kurt dried his hands and glanced toward the staircase. Pietro’s room, on the other hand, seemed to call to him. It was vibrant and full of life, like its owner. The skateboard, the posters, the way everything seemed carefully chaotic—it felt warm, inviting. And Pietro had said he didn’t mind as long as nothing was moved.

“Just for a little while,” Kurt murmured to himself as he climbed the stairs to the third floor.

He opened the door to Pietro’s room, greeted by the faint clean scent that seemed to cling to the space. His eyes immediately landed on the bed, neatly made except for the blue blanket he’d used the night before. It was crumpled near the foot of the bed, like someone had used it recently. Kurt paused for a moment, his tail flicking thoughtfully behind him.

Strange, he thought, but he didn’t dwell on it.

Instead, his gaze wandered to the shelves along one wall. He stepped closer, his fingers trailing lightly over the spines of the books and comics that lined the shelves. Pietro’s collection was eclectic, ranging from sci-fi novels to graphic novels to books that looked more like they were meant for school than leisure.

Kurt’s eyes lit up as he spotted a familiar title— The Essential Calvin and Hobbes. He chuckled softly, pulling the thick, well-loved collection from the shelf. The corners of the cover were slightly bent, a sign that it had been read and reread many times.

“Of course,” Kurt murmured, flipping it open and scanning the first page. The mischievous grin of Calvin and the wide-eyed expressions of Hobbes made him smile. There was something oddly comforting about it, something that reminded him of simpler times.

The bed seemed to beckon to him, and with a quiet sigh, he walked over and sat down. The mattress was firm but comfortable, and the blue blanket still carried a faint warmth from its recent use. Kurt grabbed the blanket and pulled it around him, settling into the space with ease.

He stretched out, his tail curling loosely at his side as he lay back against the pillows, the Calvin and Hobbes collection balanced on his chest. The sunlight streaming through the balcony doors warmed the room, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Kurt felt a little bit of peace.

As he read, his thoughts occasionally drifted back to Pietro’s words. “One of a kind, like me.” The idea that someone could see him that way, especially someone like Pietro, was… unexpected. It made his chest feel tight, but not in a bad way.

Kurt turned another page, a soft laugh escaping as he read one of Calvin’s ridiculous schemes. The humor eased some of the tension that had been building in him, leaving behind a faint warmth that felt new and unfamiliar.

Maybe he didn’t know where he fit in right now, but here—in this moment—he felt like he belonged.

Chapter Text

Pietro was dying to get home. English class was crawling by at a pace so agonizingly slow it could qualify as torture, the teacher’s monotone droning on about something he had absolutely no interest in. His pencil tapped against the desk—steady, rhythmic, barely enough to keep his brain from short-circuiting out of sheer boredom.

He wasn’t even sure what he was so eager to get back for. Just that the thought of sitting here, wasting another second, was unbearable.

The clock ticked down, each second dragging like it was deliberately testing his patience. By the time the bell rang, Pietro was out of his seat before the sound had fully registered, weaving through the crowd and hitting the streets. His backpack was slung haphazardly over one shoulder, his momentum carrying him forward like stopping wasn’t even an option.

He reached the Brotherhood house in seconds, already bounding up the stairs, taking them two, three at a time. It was instinctive, automatic, like he couldn’t get there fast enough—not that he was thinking about why. When he threw open the door to his room, he stopped short. 

Kurt was sprawled out across his bed like he owned the place, the blue blanket Pietro had tossed him last night wrapped snugly around him. His tail curled lazily beside him, and a half-open Calvin and Hobbes book rested next to his hand. Completely out.

Pietro lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, gaze flicking over the scene with mild amusement. Huh. He should’ve guessed—leave Kurt alone for five minutes, and he’d make himself right at home.

His lips twitched, not quite a smirk, not quite anything. You’re a real piece of work, Blue.

Shaking his head, he pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him without a sound. He slung his bag off his shoulder, setting it down near his desk before unzipping it and pulling out a few crumpled pages of classwork. Not that he cared about actually doing it, but it gave his hands something to do. 

He dropped the papers onto the desk, tapping a pen absently against the edge as he sat down.

Kurt’s eyes fluttered open. “Pietro?” he murmured, voice thick with sleep, groggy and slow.

Pietro glanced over, watching as Kurt blinked at him, still sluggish, confusion knitting his brow. Then he sat up too fast, the blanket slipping from his shoulders, his tail flicking behind him in alarm.

Pietro smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Relax, Blue. You looked like you were about to hibernate or something.”

Kurt blinked rapidly, still shaking off sleep. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, guilt creeping into his voice as he glanced around like he’d just woken up in the wrong universe. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep here. I’ll go—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,”Pietro cut in, lazily flicking a hand like he was swatting away unnecessary stress. “Relax, Blue. You don’t have to go anywhere.”

Kurt hesitated, his gaze flickering up to meet Pietro’s, uncertain, cautious. “I was… in your bed,” he said quietly, like the realization had just hit him, like maybe he was waiting for Pietro to freak out about it.

Pietro barely blinked. “Yeah? And?” He shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s a bed, Blue. Not, like, sacred ground or something. You’re fine.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Pietro interrupted, pushing back from the desk like the conversation was already settled. In one fluid motion, he slid out of the chair, crossing the room with an easy, unbothered stride before flopping down onto the foot of the bed. He stretched out slightly, propping himself up on his elbows as he shot Kurt a look. “Stay. Seriously. I don’t mind.”

Kurt still looked hesitant, his tail curling in slow, uncertain movements around his leg, his fingers twitching slightly against the sheets. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” Pietro said, flashing a smirk “You look comfy. No point in messing that up.”

Kurt’s shoulders finally loosened a fraction, some of the tension easing from his frame, but there was still something cautious in his expression, something unsure. Still, he murmured, “Danke,” his voice softer, a little shy.

“Anytime,” Pietro replied, his tone easy. He shifted his weight, settling in like he had nowhere better to be. His eyes flicked to the comic book resting beside Kurt.

“ Calvin and Hobbes , huh?” he said, nudging the book lightly with the toe of his sneaker, smirk never slipping. “Solid choice. Good taste, Blue.”

Kurt glanced down at the comic, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His tail flicked lazily behind him as he picked up the book, turning it over in his hands. “You’re the one reading it more than me,” he said, holding up the well-worn binding and giving Pietro a teasing look. “So, really, you’re just complimenting yourself.”

Pietro snorted, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the wall.“Damn right I am,” he shot back without missing a beat. “I’ve got fantastic taste in everything —comics, music, fashion…” He spread his arms out in a grand, exaggerated motion, as if presenting himself like some kind of gift to the universe. “You, my friend, are sitting in the presence of greatness. Soak it in.”

Kurt rolled his eyes, but his smile widened, the corners of his mouth curling up. “Ja, ja, I’ll try not to be overwhelmed by the honor,” Kurt said, his voice tinged with amusement.

Pietro grinned, pleased, and nudged the book lightly with his foot again. “See? You’re learning.”

That smile—it wasn’t just a flash of teeth or some polite, practiced curve. It was full, unguarded, the kind that took up Kurt’s whole face, crinkling the corners of his eyes and lighting up his expression.

Something about it felt off —not bad, just… weird. The way Kurt’s whole presence seemed to shift when he smiled like that, like it actually changed the atmosphere of the room. Pietro wasn’t sure what to do with that information, so he didn’t.

Exhaling, he rolled his shoulders, shaking off whatever that was. No point dwelling on it. He reached for his shoes, focusing on something solid. The laces were knotted too tight, and he yanked them loose a little harder than necessary. The soles were wrecked—scuffed, thinning, barely holding together. He let them drop with a loud thud, the sound breaking the quiet.

Kurt glanced up from the comic book, his nose scrunching slightly as his gaze landed on the abused sneakers.

“Those… have seen better days,” Kurt remarked, amusement lacing his voice.

Pietro raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the headboard like he couldn’t care less. “What can I say? They’re loyal. These babies have been with me through thick and thin.”

“Loyal?” Kurt repeated, setting the comic book aside. A teasing smile tugged at his lips. “They look like they’ve been through a war . Or several. I’m surprised they haven’t disintegrated on you yet.”

“Hey, don’t disrespect the kicks,” Pietro shot back, his smirk betraying his amusement. “They’ve got character.”

“They’ve got holes,” Kurt corrected, biting back a laugh. He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on one hand as he studied Pietro with exaggerated scrutiny. “Maybe it’s time for an upgrade, hmm? Something that doesn’t scream, ‘I’m one step away from barefoot.’”

Pietro scoffed, crossing his arms. “Oh, what, you offering to buy me new ones, Blue? Gonna take me shopping like some kind of fashion guru?”

Kurt’s grin turned sly. He didn’t have a dime to his name—not that he could remember, anyway—but that wasn’t going to stop him from dragging Pietro. “Maybe I will. Even a thrifted pair would be an improvement over those.” He motioned toward the sneakers with dramatic disdain.

Pietro huffed, shaking his head. “You’ve got some nerve—sitting here wrapped in my blanket, reading my comic book, and now dragging my shoes through the mud.”

Kurt snickered. “It’s a public service.”

Pietro rolled his eyes but let it slide—mostly because, yeah, okay, maybe they were in rough shape. It wasn’t like he disrespected all his shoes. His real kicks? The ones he actually cared about?

Those were in pristine condition, perfectly lined up in his closet, kept in their boxes, not a single crease in sight. Sure, he could tear through everyday beaters like they were nothing—but no way in hell was he letting even a single wrinkle touch his Jordans.

Kurt’s eyes sparkled with humor as he tilted his head innocently. “Oh, am I overstaying my welcome?”

“You?” Pietro shot back, leaning in just enough to make it personal. “Nah. I like having you here. It’s… nice.”

The words came out a little too smooth, a little too easy, and before he could think twice about it, his smirk sharpened. “But if you’re gonna stick around, no more shoe slander. Deal?” He tilted his head, grin turning just a little too smug. 

Kurt pretended to consider it, tapping his chin with one finger as his tail swished lazily beside him. “Hmm… I’ll think about it,” he teased, his grin softening.

For a moment, the room settled into an easy quiet, the kind that didn’t need filling. The only sound between them was the soft flick of Kurt’s tail against the bed, rhythmic and absentminded. Pietro leaned back, letting his gaze drift to the ceiling, but his eyes kept flicking sideways—just a glance, just to check.

Kurt broke the silence first, voice light with amusement. “Y’know, for someone who claims to be the ‘fastest man alive,’ you’re surprisingly slow at replacing those shoes.”

Pietro barked out a laugh, genuine and easy, shaking his head. “Okay, okay, I’ll give you that one, Blue,” he admitted, flashing a grin. “But don’t push your luck, or I might start charging for premium lounging space.”

Kurt hummed, stretching out against the headboard like he belonged there, the corners of his mouth tugging up in a smirk. “Fair enough,” he mused. “But if I’m paying rent, you have to promise to buy yourself some new shoes.”

Pietro scoffed, kicking at the air in mock offense. “Oh, so now you’ve got conditions? Unbelievable.” Kurt just chuckled, low and content, like the conversation had already gone his way. Pietro shook his head, his smirk still in place—but something about the warmth settling in his chest threw him off, a little too steady, a little too deep.

The playful back-and-forth should’ve been enough to keep things light. But then—out of nowhere—his own brain decided to ambush him.

Lance’s voice, smug as ever, echoed in his head: “Man, you just don’t get it. When you find the right person, it’s everything.”

Pietro visibly recoiled, like his own thoughts had just sucker-punched him.

What the hell?

His gaze flicked back to Kurt—relaxed, still chuckling, golden eyes catching the dim light just right. Pietro frowned. Where the fuck did that come from?

Nope. Absolutely not. He shut that thought down immediately.

Fuck you, Lance. Keep your rom-com bullshit out of my head.

Pietro exhaled slowly, letting his gaze drift, absently tracing the uneven lines of the ceiling as his thoughts meandered—lazy, unfocused, but still circling back to things he wasn’t in the mood to deal with. His fingers tapped idly against his knee, his usual sharp energy dulled into something more aimless. He wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. Just… sitting here. 

He let his head fall back against the wall, smirk tugging at his lips more out of habit than anything else. But the feeling in his chest— weird, off, something he couldn’t quite place —didn’t totally fade. His mind kept running, looping over things he didn’t need to be thinking about, until the unmistakable sound of Kurt’s stomach growling yanked him back to the present.

Pietro blinked, then let out a sharp, barking laugh, the tension inside him finally breaking.

“Oh my god, Blue,” he wheezed, grinning as Kurt buried his face in his hands. “You tryna start an earthquake in here?”

Kurt groaned dramatically. “I guess it’s time for dinner,” he mumbled, voice muffled against his palm, before peeking up with a sheepish, reluctant smile

Pietro’s smirk came back full force as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Dinner? Blue, it’s 3:15. What are you, a senior citizen? Should I start calling you Grandpa Wagner?”

Kurt chuckled softly, though there was a faint bitterness behind the sound. “It’s like midnight in Germany, so I’m allowed to be hungry,” he protested, though his smile didn’t fully reach his eyes.

Pietro opened his mouth to fire back a witty retort, something about weird German mealtimes, but the words caught in his throat when he noticed the look on Kurt’s face. There was something bittersweet in his expression, like the joke had tugged at a thread that unraveled something deeper, something heavier.

Kurt’s thoughts churned as he stared down at the blanket draped across his lap, fingers absently tracing the fabric. Time felt slippery, stretched thin, with barely anything solid to hold onto. He wasn’t even sure when he was supposed to be hungry. Did he have a normal meal schedule? Had he adjusted to a new time zone? Mystique had said he’d been on his own for a while. Did that mean he had somewhere else before this? Another place, another routine—something familiar that wasn’t this ?

“How long do you think you’ve been in the U.S.?” Pietro asked, his voice quieter now, the usual teasing edge gone.

Kurt blinked, caught off guard. “A little while, I think? I’m not sure…” His brow furrowed as he sifted through his fragmented memory, frustration tightening his features.“I keep trying to think back, but it’s like… there’s nothing there.”

Pietro felt his stomach twist.

The nervous flick of Kurt’s tail beneath the blanket didn’t go unnoticed, nor did the faint tremble in his voice. Pietro knew he was on thin ice—one wrong move, and this whole setup Mystique had dumped on him could fall apart. And if it did? That was on him . He wasn’t about to be the reason her plan went up in flames.

Whatever weird, fragile balance they had going here, he had to keep it steady. Keep Kurt from asking too many questions, from remembering the wrong thing at the wrong time. This wasn’t about him —it was about not screwing up what Mystique had trusted him to handle.

Kurt let out a slow breath. “How long have I been here?” His voice was hesitant now, softer, uncertain in a way Pietro wasn’t used to. “Would you even know that? I mean, Mystique said we were friends, but…” His fingers curled slightly in the fabric of the blanket. “I don’t even know how long I’ve known you.”

Pietro swallowed hard. His usual smirk—his shield, his armor—was nowhere to be found. “Kurt…” He hesitated, just for a second. Then, quieter, almost apologetic— “I’ve known you for, like, three years.”

Kurt stilled. His tail, his hands, his breath—everything just… stopped. “Three years?” he echoed, voice barely more than a whisper.

Pietro nodded, shifting slightly where he sat, his expression caught somewhere between guilt and hesitation. “Yeah. We go to Bayville High together. Mystique’s the principal there, so she’s got pull. She, uh, got you excused on a medical emergency, so no one’s gonna be asking questions about you missing school.” It was a lie. He had no clue what the school thought about Kurt’s absence—he hadn’t exactly been checking in. Mystique probably had it covered or maybe Xavier. Someone, at least. Either way, no one had come knocking yet, and that was good enough for him.

Kurt’s brows knit together, his grip tightening slightly on the blanket as he absorbed the words. “Three years,” he repeated, his voice quiet but laced with disbelief. “I’ve been here that long… and I don’t remember any of it?”

Pietro exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. Yeah, Blue. And if you did? You wouldn’t be here right now.

But he didn’t say that.

Instead, he just sat there, watching as the weight of it all settled into Kurt’s expression, his blue eyes dark with something unsettled. Pietro could see the cracks forming in his usual composure, the way he was grasping at something that wasn’t there. It was kind of uncomfortable to watch—like standing too close to a conversation he wasn’t supposed to hear. He wasn’t great at dealing with this kind of thing, and honestly? He didn’t want to be.

“Did I… have other friends? Was there someone waiting for me? A family? A…” His voice trailed off, his throat tightening around the unspoken words.

Pietro caught the frustration in Kurt’s voice, the way his expression wavered between confusion and something heavier. It was a mess, and honestly? He wasn’t sure what to do with it. Saying something felt pointless—nothing he could offer would actually fix anything.

And then there was the bigger problem. If Kurt ever got his memories back, he’d realize Pietro hadn’t exactly been his friend. He’d remember that the Brotherhood and the X-Men weren’t just on opposite sides—they were enemies.

Would he still look at Pietro the same way? Would he even want to?

He dodged the question, instead focusing on reassurance. “Whatever happened before… it doesn’t matter. You’ve got me. I’ve got your back, okay? Mystique too I guess”

Kurt nodded—slow, uncertain—but Pietro could see it in his face. That wasn’t the answer he wanted. It wasn’t really an answer at all. Yeah, sure, Pietro was nice—but he wasn’t enough. The only other person Kurt had here was Mystique.

Kurt’s tail twitched under the blanket, curling in on itself like he was turning something over in his head. Then, after a beat—quiet, but firm—he murmured, “Danke.” A pause. His gaze flicked away. “But I don’t trust Mystique.”

Pietro didn’t even try to hide his scoff. “Yeah, well. Join the club.”

Kurt looked at him, surprised—like he hadn’t expected Pietro to say it outright. Pietro leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, keeping his voice low, steady, careful.

“Look, I get it,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “She’s not exactly easy to trust. She lies. She manipulates. She acts like she’s doing you a favor when she’s really just moving pieces on the board.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “But I’m not her. And I meant what I said—you’ve got me, okay?

Kurt looked at him, his eyes had unshed tears that threatened to spill over at any moment. His tail flicked behind him, a nervous, almost involuntary motion, and his hands clutched the blanket like it was his only anchor. “Danke,” he murmured, his voice so quiet it was almost swallowed by the air between them.

Pietro’s frown was brief, barely there, as he watched Kurt—clearly lost in his own head, expression clouded with uncertainty. It was weird seeing him like this, all quiet and unsettled, and Pietro wasn’t sure he liked it.

Leaning back slightly, he gave Kurt some space, but his gaze lingered, casual, unreadable. “Anytime, Blue,” he said, smirking just enough to make it seem natural, though it didn’t quite land the way it should.

Inside, Pietro’s thoughts churned, fast and restless. What the hell is Mystique hiding?

She knew more. She always knew more than she let on. And if she was keeping her mouth shut, it meant she had a plan—one that probably didn’t involve Pietro running his mouth and blowing everything up. 

What are the rules here? If he was hiding Kurt for her, did that mean he had to play along? Pretend like nothing was missing? Like the X-Men didn’t exist? Was that the line? The moment he crossed it, did all of this—whatever this was—crumble?

His fingers twitched against his knee, resisting the urge to fidget, to move, to do something instead of just sitting here with a head full of questions and no damn answers.

How much could he actually say without risking everything? Without shattering the fragile, uneasy trust between them? 

He didn’t want to deal with this—Kurt looking all lost and hollow, like something was missing. It was off, unsettling in a way Pietro couldn’t quite place, and honestly? He’d rather not see it again. The guy looked better when he was smiling, relaxed, not stuck in whatever spiral his brain was dragging him through.

That was the goal, then. Keep things easy, keep things light—whatever it took to avoid this look coming back.

“You should get some food, okay? The rest of the Brotherhood’s gonna be here soon, and you probably don’t want them prying, so it’s better to avoid them for now,” Pietro said softly, his usual energy replaced with an unfamiliar gentleness as he moved to stand.

Kurt’s lips trembled, his emotions pressing in like a weight he couldn’t shake. He wanted to eat, really—but his appetite had vanished beneath the storm in his mind, swallowed up by the unease curling in his chest. The thought of the Brotherhood—loud, unpredictable, nosy—only made it worse, made him feel more out of place, more disconnected from everything around him.

He glanced up at Pietro, searching for something—anything—that made sense. Pietro’s expression flickered, his usual easy smirk absent, replaced by something Kurt couldn’t quite name. And then, before he could stop it, before he even realized it was happening—his tears spilled over, slow and silent, tracing warm paths down his cheeks.

“Okay… Danke,” he whispered, barely audible.

Pietro stilled for a split second, caught off guard—because, yeah, he hadn’t been ready for this. He’d seen Kurt laugh, roll his eyes, get flustered when teased—but this quiet, unraveling sadness? That was new. And it wasn’t something he could just joke away.

His jaw tightened, something unreadable flickering in his chest—annoying, persistent, but not enough to rattle him.

“Hey…” His voice came out a little softer than usual, not exactly careful, but not dismissive either. Without thinking too hard about it, he crouched down, leveling his gaze with Kurt’s.

For once, he didn’t have a quip ready. Didn’t try to brush it off. Because whatever this was, it wasn’t just going to disappear if he ignored it.

Pietro—without hesitation, without thinking—moved. His hand lifted, slow but sure, and wiped away the tears trailing down Kurt’s cheek. His fingers brushed against what looked like smooth skin—warm, solid—but the second he made contact, he felt it. Soft fur, damp and real, a stark contrast to the illusion wrapped around Kurt like a second skin. The sensation sent a jolt through him—unexpected, fleeting, gentle—and his breath hitched before he could stop it. “It’s okay, Blue,” he murmured, voice steady. “You’re not alone in this, alright? I’m here.”

Kurt sniffled, his wide, glistening eyes locking onto Pietro’s, something raw and unspoken tightening the air between them. His tears shimmered faintly in the dim light, and Pietro—stupidly, recklessly—let himself notice the details. The way Kurt’s lips parted, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. The way even now, even like this, Kurt was—

Nope. Not finishing that thought.

Pietro exhaled sharply, forcing his usual smirk back onto his face like it could reset the moment, keep things from spiraling into unknown territory.

“I’m sorry,” Kurt whispered, his voice trembling like he was trying to hold himself together but was seconds away from breaking. “I don’t mean to—”

“Stop,” Pietro interrupted gently, shaking his head. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, okay?” His voice softened even more as he added, “You’re allowed to feel however you’re feeling. No one’s judging you—not me, not anyone.”

Kurt let out a shaky breath, nodding slightly, though uncertainty lingered in his expression. Pietro’s hand moved to his shoulder, a grounding gesture meant to remind Kurt that he wasn’t alone.

“Look,” Pietro said, voice low. “I’ll grab you some food, and if you want, I’ll bring it back here so you don’t have to deal with anyone else. Sound good?” 

Kurt hesitated, his tail curling slightly under the blanket, his fingers tightening in the fabric like he was still debating whether or not to let himself need the help. But after a moment, he nodded. “Ja… Danke, Pietro.” Soft. Barely above a whisper.

The way Kurt said his name—quiet, careful—made something tighten in Pietro’s chest. Not in a weird way, just… it didn’t sit right. He swallowed it down, shaking it off.

He forced a small smile, nothing like his usual cocky smirk—just enough to keep things steady. “Good. Just sit tight, alright?” His voice came out lighter than he felt. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

As he stood, he hesitated for a second, eyes flicking back to Kurt. Wrapped up in that blanket, looking small and lost, like he was waiting for something to go wrong. Pietro clenched his jaw.

He doesn’t deserve this. None of it.

Kurt should be cracking dumb jokes, flashing that too-bright smile, not sitting there like the world was caving in around him. Not looking at him like that.

The image of Kurt’s face—too raw, too uncertain—stuck in Pietro’s head as he turned for the door, the weight of it lingering longer than he wanted it to.

Not my problem, a part of him wanted to argue. Except, Mystique had dropped him here, and now he was Pietro’s problem. And if this whole thing fell apart? That was on him. Pietro exhaled sharply, pushing forward. Food. Comfort. Something to keep Kurt from spiraling any further. He didn’t know how to fix this. Didn’t even know where to start.

But leaving him to figure it out alone?

Yeah. That wasn’t happening.

Chapter Text

Pietro stood in front of the fridge, gripping the door like it had personally wronged him, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. What the hell was he supposed to make for the weepy blue elf upstairs?

It had to be something good—something comforting but not pathetic. Kurt deserved better than some half-assed boxed mac and cheese or, God forbid, whatever sketchy, freezer-burned nightmare was shoved in the back of the freezer. No, it had to be solid —filling, warm, maybe even a little fancy. Something that, at least for a few minutes, would make the guy forget he was one wrong thought away from falling apart.

His eyes flicked over the shelves, immediately dismissing anything that fell under Brotherhood cuisine (which was mostly just expired condiments and questionable leftovers), before they landed on his stash. The good stuff. Fresh pasta.

Pietro exhaled sharply through his nose. Of course it had to be that. The one meal he’d actually been looking forward to—the thing he kept hidden so Toad wouldn’t inhale it like some kind of food-motivated Roomba. His dinner. Gone.

His fingers tightened around the package for half a second, like he was considering his options. He didn’t have to like it, but whatever—Kurt could have it. It’d do more for him than it would for Pietro anyway.

“Carbonara it is,” he muttered, pulling the pasta out along with a few other ingredients: eggs, guanciale, and Parmigiano Reggiano . He snickered as he placed the items on the counter. “God, that sounds so pretentious,” he said under his breath, rolling his eyes. Fucking Italians.

The truth was, the Brotherhood house wouldn’t have had any of these ingredients if it weren’t for Pietro’s picky, borderline pretentious food habits. The guys would live off frozen pizzas and gas station snacks if left to their own devices. But Pietro? He liked to cook. Sue me, he thought with a shrug. Not that he’d admit it out loud—it wasn’t exactly Brotherhood behavior to have a working knowledge of Italian cuisine.

As he got to work, he made quick time with the prep. The pasta went into the boiling water, the salted steam rising in soft plumes as Pietro set his focus on the guanciale. He sliced the cured meat into small batons, smirking faintly as he thought about Kurt upstairs. Blue probably doesn’t even know what guanciale is, Pietro mused. Hope he doesn’t call it bacon. That’d hurt.

He tossed the guanciale into a hot pan, the fat rendering out as the pieces sizzled and crisped to perfection. The smell filled the kitchen, rich and smoky, and Pietro couldn’t help but think it was perfect for someone like Kurt—simple, comforting, but still a little elevated.

The sauce came next, a mixture of eggs and Parmigiano whipped together into a creamy golden base. Pietro paid careful attention, keeping the bowl at the ready so the eggs wouldn’t scramble when they hit the hot pasta. This wasn’t a time to rush—not like most things in his life. He wanted to get this right.

He pulled the pasta out of the pot, tossing it directly into the pan with the guanciale, letting the starch from the water create a silky sauce. The scent of it filled the air, and Pietro couldn’t help but feel a little proud. He worked quickly but carefully, tossing the noodles in the sauce and adding the perfect amount of freshly grated cheese.

Pietro plated the carbonara on one of the good plates—the ones he hid in the upper cabinets so no one else could ruin them. Toad and Blob wouldn’t know fine china from a frisbee, and Pietro wasn’t about to risk it. He wiped the edge of the plate with a cloth, making sure everything looked perfect.

Stepping back, he let himself take in his work. The creamy, golden pasta swirled neatly on the plate, flecks of crispy guanciale glistening on top. It wasn’t just food; it was care, effort, and maybe a little bit of affection he wasn’t ready to name.

As he grabbed a fork and napkin to bring upstairs, Pietro huffed out a quiet breath, shaking his head. Since when do you care this much?

The thought sat uncomfortably in the back of his mind, but then the image of Kurt’s tired, red-rimmed eyes flashed through his head, and—yeah. Whatever. Not worth thinking about.

His grip tightened slightly around the plate. Fine. Whatever. If making sure Kurt had something decent to eat meant he was getting soft, then so be it. Not like he was about to lose sleep over it.

—--

As soon as Pietro left the room, the silence became deafening. Kurt felt his thoughts begin to spiral, consuming him like a tidal wave he couldn’t swim against. His sense of self seemed to collapse in on itself, Pietro’s words echoing in his head like a haunting refrain: “I’ve known you for, like, three years.”

Three years.

Who even was he?

He tried to reach for something—anything—to hold onto, some anchor in the emptiness, but there was nothing. Just a vast, consuming void where his memories should be. The harder he searched, the more hollow he felt, like trying to grasp smoke only to watch it slip through his fingers.

Tears pricked his eyes as the weight of it all pressed down, crushing and unbearable. His chest tightened, breaths coming faster, shallower, until they hitched entirely. His fingers curled into the fleece blanket, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him from unraveling. Then the first sob broke free, sharp and unbidden, cracking the fragile control he had left.

He curled in on himself, knees drawn tight, the blanket wrapped around him like armor against the storm raging in his mind. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks, soaking into the fabric beneath him.

Why can’t I remember?
Who was I?
Who am I now?
Does anyone even care that I’m gone?

The questions came like a flood, relentless and cruel, hammering against his skull until his whole body shook. His lungs burned with every uneven gasp, panic pressing against his ribs like a vice. He was drowning—lost in grief, in confusion, in the crushing weight of not knowing who he was.

Then came the headache.

A dull throb at first, deep behind his eyes, but it grew fast—spreading like fire, sharp and relentless. His vision swam, the room tilting as the pain tore through the haze of panic. It felt like his skull was splitting in two, each pulse of agony cutting through the spiral, grounding him in something tangible, something real.

His sobs quieted, though his chest still heaved, the ache in his head too consuming to ignore. He barely registered the sound of the door creaking open, but when he did, his watery eyes darted toward it.

Pietro stood there, a proud grin on his face, holding a steaming plate. “Alright, Blue,” he announced, light and teasing. “I’ve got carbonara, fresh and fancy, so you better be ready to—”

He stopped mid-sentence.

The grin faded. Pietro’s gaze swept over Kurt—curled up, tear-streaked, clutching the blanket in a white-knuckled grip. The teasing edge in his voice vanished, replaced by something quieter, something careful. “Kurt?” His tone was softer now, threaded with concern. He stepped closer, setting the plate gently on the nightstand. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

Kurt sniffled, his breaths still uneven as he wiped at his eyes with trembling hands. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I just… I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t remember anything, Pietro. Nothing makes sense, and it… it hurts.”

Pietro’s chest ached at the raw emotion in Kurt’s voice. He didn’t know what to say—how could he fix something so massive, so intangible? All he knew was that he couldn’t stand to see Kurt like this.

“Hey, hey,” Pietro said softly, his tone a rare mixture of care and urgency as he sat down on the edge of the bed beside Kurt. The mattress dipped under his weight, but he kept his movements slow and deliberate, not wanting to startle him. He placed a hand on Kurt’s shoulder, the touch both grounding and gentle. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You don’t have to figure everything out right now, alright? Just breathe. One thing at a time.”

Kurt’s eyes, still shimmering with tears, flicked up to meet Pietro’s. The vulnerability in that gaze hit Pietro like a freight train, leaving him momentarily speechless. He wanted to say something more, something comforting, but his body moved before his brain could catch up.

Before he could stop himself, before he could think, he smoothed back Kurt’s messy bangs, tucking them behind his ear like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“There,” Pietro murmured, voice lower now, steadier. “Now I can see you.” Kurt blinked, caught somewhere between startled and something deeper—something Pietro didn’t want to put a name to. His tail flicked under the blanket, slower now, hesitant instead of anxious.

“…Danke,” Kurt whispered, voice still shaky but real, sincere. A faint flush crept up his cheeks—just a little, just enough to notice.

Pietro’s lips twitched, something softer tugging at the edges of his usual smirk before he could stop it. “Anytime, Blue,” he said, his voice coming out warmer than intended. Steady. Like this wasn’t throwing him off at all.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Pietro’s hand lingered a second too long before he finally pulled it back, letting it drop to his side. He forced himself to look away, rolling his shoulders like he could shake off the weird weight of the moment.

When the hell did I start handling people this gently?

Kurt sniffled softly, his fingers tightening slightly around the blanket as he glanced down at the nightstand where the plate of food Pietro had brought sat. “You… didn’t have to do all this,” he said quietly, his voice filled with something Pietro couldn’t quite place—gratitude, maybe, or disbelief.

“Sure I did,” Pietro said, leaning back slightly but still keeping close. “You gotta eat, and honestly? It’s a great excuse to show off my cooking skills.”

Kurt let out a faint laugh, the sound shaky but genuine. “I guess I should be grateful you’re so... ‘skilled,’” he said, his tone light, but his gaze lingered on Pietro a moment too long, something unspoken flickering in his eyes.

Pietro chuckled, grabbing the discarded plate with an easy smirk. “Damn right you should. Go on, eat before it gets cold.”

Kurt sat up, still a little shaky, and Pietro—without thinking—steadied the plate as he lowered it onto his lap. His fingers barely brushed Kurt’s before he pulled back, already leaning away like it was nothing.

The pasta glistened under the mid day sunlight, and Kurt just stared at it, wide-eyed like he’d never seen real food before. Pietro arched a brow, amused. “What, never had a meal that wasn’t cafeteria slop before?”

Kurt ignored him, twirling a forkful of pasta and bringing it to his lips. Pietro didn’t realize he was watching until it was too late—his gaze trailing, tracking the whole movement. The slow parting of Kurt’s lips, the way his lashes flickered as he took the bite, the quiet hum of appreciation that slipped out—

Pietro blinked.

Kurt let out a soft, breathy sound—barely there, completely unintentional, but Pietro felt it like a punch to the gut. His smirk faltered, his brain stalling out for a full second.

Did he just—?

His eyes snapped to Kurt’s mouth before he could stop himself, catching the way his lips glistened faintly after the bite, the slight movement of his jaw as he chewed, slow and unbothered. It was stupid—so stupid—how distracting it was.

Nope. Absolutely not.

He tore his gaze away, fixing it somewhere—anywhere—other than Kurt, running a hand through his hair like that would somehow reset his brain. The hell was that?

“This is… amazing,” Kurt murmured, still caught up in the food like it was the only thing that mattered. Then he glanced up, eyes warm, completely oblivious. “You really made this for me?”

Pietro cleared his throat, forcing his usual smirk back into place. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it, Blue,” he said, tone easy, like his brain hadn’t just short-circuited five seconds ago. “I don’t make five-star meals for just anyone.”

Kurt smiled, easy and warm, and something in Pietro’s chest twitched — which was stupid, by the way, completely irrelevant. His tail flicked lazily under the blanket, and Pietro had the sudden, ridiculous urge to leave the room before his brain did something annoying.

“Danke,” Kurt murmured, taking another bite. Pietro didn’t mean to watch, but then Kurt’s lips curved around the fork, and—yeah, okay, that was definitely his cue to look literally anywhere else.

Alright, Maximoff. Get it together.

Dragging a hand down his face, he exhaled slowly, forcing his thoughts not to spiral. It was just food. Just a guy eating food.

A really cute guy.

Who made noises like that when he ate—NOPE. Nope. Absolutely not. That was a whole entire road he was not about to speed down.

“You okay, Pietro?” Kurt asked, head tilting slightly, voice light but genuinely curious.

Pietro cleared his throat, straightening like that would somehow help. “Huh? Oh—yeah, obviously,” he said quickly, the words coming out a little too fast, a little too casual. He recovered quickly, forcing his usual cocky grin, even if it wobbled slightly at the edges. “Just, uh—trying to figure out if I should be concerned or impressed. You’re looking at that plate like it’s about to propose.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow, his smile softening as he watched Pietro. For all his usual confidence, all his effortless charm, something about him in this moment felt different—like, for once, he hadn’t quite managed to keep up the act. Maybe it was the way he’d hesitated just a second too long before looking away, or the way the usual cocky energy in his voice had been missing when he’d spoken. Whatever it was, it didn’t quite fit the fast-talking speedster he’d come to know.

Kurt wouldn’t have noticed—if he hadn’t seen the way Pietro had looked at him earlier, right after he’d broken down.

He hadn’t expected anything from him—just silence, or maybe an awkward joke to deflect, but instead… Pietro had been gentle. Steady. Nothing flashy, nothing exaggerated, just there. His touch, his voice, the way he’d soothed him—it had been so different from what Kurt had expected that now, in the quiet aftermath, he couldn’t stop wondering if he was overthinking it.

Kurt took another bite of pasta, savoring the warmth, but his mind kept drifting. He didn’t have all his memories, but even with the gaps, he wasn’t blind. He could feel something there, like an unspoken thread tying them together—the way Pietro looked at him when he thought Kurt wasn’t paying attention, the moments where his usual confidence stumbled just enough to be noticeable, the way he hovered just a little longer than he needed to.

And then there was how he felt. Every teasing comment, every smirk—it all made something tighten in his chest in a way he wasn’t sure he knew how to process.

Maybe he was just reading too much into it. Maybe Pietro really had played it cool up until now, and he was the one making this into something bigger than it was. But still… that moment stuck with him. The warmth in Pietro’s voice. The way his touch had been so careful. It felt safe. And yet, Kurt couldn’t shake the question lingering in the back of his mind—was it just because he was lost, because Pietro pitied him? Or was it something more?

“Pietro,” Kurt said suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet.

Pietro blinked, startled out of whatever internal debate he was having. “Yeah?” he asked, his tone a little too casual, like he was bracing for whatever was coming.

“Danke,” Kurt said, his voice earnest as he looked up at him. “For this—for everything.”

Pietro hesitated, his smirk softening into something gentler. “Anytime, Blue,” he said, his tone low but steady.

Kurt nodded, returning his attention to the plate in his lap. For now, he let himself focus on the moment—the food, the quiet companionship, and the faint but undeniable connection that hung in the air between them.

Meanwhile, Pietro leaned against the headboard, his gaze flicking back to Kurt every few seconds despite himself. He couldn’t shake the way Kurt’s eyes had looked just now—so open, so full of something Pietro couldn’t quite pin down.

Pietro sank onto the edge of the bed watching as Kurt finished off the last few bites of carbonara with a single-minded focus that was honestly kind of impressive. His grin tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it—small, satisfied, something warm curling beneath his ribs as Kurt set the now-empty plate on the nightstand with a soft sigh, his tail flicking lazily beneath the blanket.

Kurt flopped back onto the bed, stretching his limbs with a low, contented groan that made Pietro’s chest tighten unexpectedly. Kurt yawned, his exhaustion creeping in faster than he’d expected. He tugged the blanket tighter around himself, cocooning in its warmth, but there was an unmistakable restlessness in the way his fingers fiddled with the strap of the watch on his wrist.

The image inducer pressed uncomfortably into his skin, its weight foreign and clunky. Kurt wasn’t used to wearing a watch, let alone one this heavy, but the thought of taking it off—of revealing himself fully—made his stomach twist. His eyes darted toward Pietro, gauging his reaction before making a decision.

Would he care? Kurt wondered, his tail curling slightly beneath the blanket. Would it spook him? Or would he…

The comfort of Pietro’s room, the warmth of the blanket, and the lingering taste of the carbonara gave Kurt a sense of safety. In that moment, he decided that he trusted Pietro. With a quiet, almost nervous sigh, Kurt reached for the watch. The faint buzz of the image inducer powering down filled the room, and when it faded, his natural form emerged—blue fur, pointed ears, golden yellow eyes that now met Pietro’s icy blues with a tentative gaze.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Kurt tried not to dwell on the way his stomach fluttered under Pietro’s watchful gaze. Instead, he curled up tighter, tail wrapping protectively around his legs as he adjusted himself, resting his head against the pillow. His movements were slow, easy, like he belonged there.

Like he trusted this space.

Pietro, meanwhile, did not belong in this moment. Pietro’s brain took a hard left into what the hell is happening territory.

It wasn’t like he’d never seen Kurt’s natural form before—of course he had. A hundred times, mid-fight, all sharp angles and quick movements. But this? This was different.

Up close, with Kurt completely relaxed, stretched out on his bed like he had zero plans to move? Yeah, okay. Objectively speaking, the guy looked good. The soft sheen of his fur under the light, the effortless way his tail curled against the blanket, those stupidly bright golden eyes—whatever. It was just a fact. Not something to think about.

Pietro exhaled sharply through his nose, shoving the thought aside before it could go anywhere. Instead, he let out an easy laugh, leaning back on his hands. “Making yourself a permanent fixture here, huh?” His smirk was mostly intact, but it wobbled slightly at the edges. 

Kurt’s ears twitched, and he gave Pietro a small, tired smile. “Maybe,” he murmured, his voice soft and a little drowsy.

Pietro chuckled, but it was more reflex than anything. He sat down fully next to Kurt, feeling the warmth radiating off him as he curled up tighter, practically tucked into Pietro’s side. His breathing had started to even out, exhaustion finally winning, and for some reason, Pietro kept watching.

“Get some rest, Blue,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Kurt let out a soft hum in response, already half-asleep. Pietro exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to shake off whatever weird weight had settled over him.

The soft rise and fall of Kurt’s chest, the way his tail flicked lazily even in sleep, the way the blue blanket blended into his fur—it was easy to look at. Too easy. Pietro didn’t even realize he was still staring until his own thoughts caught up with him.

What are you doing?

Kurt, curled up and completely out, had this weirdly calming effect—his breathing slow and steady, like he belonged here, like this wasn’t weird at all. Pietro exhaled, stretching out on the bed beside him, careful not to jostle him. He hadn’t realized how wiped he was until now, exhaustion creeping in like it had just been waiting for him to stop moving.

For a second, he considered slipping under the blanket. It was his, after all. And the bed was warm. Comfortable. But as he glanced at Kurt—his tail twitching faintly, his expression slack with sleep—Pietro hesitated. What if I wake him? The guy looked peaceful for once, and disturbing that didn’t seem worth it.

Instead, he shifted onto his side, propping his head up with one hand, his gaze idly lingering. His thoughts, usually running at a hundred miles an hour, slowed down to something quieter, steadier. He found himself matching his breathing to Kurt’s without meaning to, like it had just happened on its own.

His eyes flicked to the blanket draped loosely around Kurt. His blanket. That should’ve been an opening for some smug comment, something to file away for later teasing, but instead, it just sat there, leaving this weird, quiet warmth in its place.

Pietro huffed softly, shifting again to get comfortable. His fingers twitched—an almost reflexive urge to fix something, adjust the blanket, push a stray strand of hair out of Kurt’s face—but he held back, not entirely sure why he wanted to in the first place.

His eyelids grew heavier, the steady presence of Kurt beside him making the whole room feel still in a way he wasn’t used to. Pietro let his eyes slip shut, exhaling as the quiet settled over him.

Chapter Text

Pietro never bothered with alarms—he didn’t need them. His body always knew when to wake up, a perk of being a speedster, he guessed. So it didn’t surprise him when his eyes fluttered open just as the first rays of dawn began streaming through the large window behind him. The soft, golden light bathed the room in a quiet warmth, highlighting the edges of the scattered items and casting gentle shadows on the walls.

Still groggy, Pietro rubbed a hand over his face, already gearing up to stretch, roll out of bed, and get on with his day. But as he shifted, something tugged him back—firm, warm, soft in a way that definitely wasn’t his blanket.

His half-awake brain stalled for a second, then caught up.

Kurt’s tail.

Pietro’s gaze flicked down, tracing the length of it back to its owner, and— huh .

Kurt was pressed against him, head snug against his chest, breathing slow and steady like this was just a thing they did now . His arm had landed lazily across Pietro’s side, his furred fingers twitching slightly in sleep, and that damn tail was still wrapped around his waist like it had claimed the spot overnight.

The blue blanket that had been covering him at some point? Kicked off, now a crumpled heap tangled around their legs. Instead, it was just Kurt , his fur soft against Pietro’s shirt, his body radiating warmth, his hair lightly brushing Pietro’s jaw with every breath.

Pietro blinked. 

He exhaled through his nose, not hating it, but definitely making a mental note of just how comfortable Kurt had gotten here. The guy was wrapped around him like this was normal, like they hadn’t fallen asleep on opposite sides of the bed. One brow arched as Pietro took in the scene. If he was the kind of guy to overthink things, this might be something to unpack. But instead, he just smirked faintly, shaking his head.

“Bold move,” Pietro muttered under his breath, smirk lazy, smug, entirely self-satisfied. Because, yeah—this was definitely a choice.

Kurt’s tail had wrapped around him, not just resting nearby, not just draped over him in some half-conscious sprawl, but curled firm around his waist like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

Pietro stared at the ceiling, fighting the urge to laugh. Oh, this is rich.

Then, just as he was settling into the sheer absurdity of the situation, the tail’s grip tightened. Subtle, a reflex maybe, but enough to make his breath hitch—just for a second, just enough for his brain to acknowledge the way the smaller mutant stirred against him.

Kurt shifted slightly, his arm slung lazily over Pietro’s side, his furred fingers twitching in his sleep. His lips parted with a quiet sigh, tail giving another unconscious flick. The soft rhythm of his breathing pressed warm against Pietro’s chest, slow, steady, completely at ease.

Then the sound started.

Low, quiet, a faint vibration against Pietro’s ribs. Not a hum, not a breath—deeper, more felt than heard.

Pietro blinked.

Is he—?

A slow, rhythmic purr rumbled through Kurt’s chest, sinking beneath Pietro’s skin like a quiet, impossible current. He froze, every thought slamming to a halt. His body had already registered the sensation before his brain could catch up, the soft tremor threading into his bones, radiating warmth in a way that felt dangerously natural.

His fingers curled slightly against the sheets. He focused on anything else—the way sunlight bled pale gold through the curtains, the distant hum of cars outside, the faint creak of the house settling. None of it cut through the fact that Kurt, entirely unconscious, was purring against him.

His tail had slackened, no longer gripping Pietro so much as resting there, a tether he hadn’t bothered to let go. The arm draped over his side, the steady weight of him against Pietro’s chest—he’d folded into him without hesitation, as if this had always been a thing. As if Pietro was something solid, something worth keeping close.

The thought sent a sharp, amused huff past Pietro’s lips.

He barely moved, just enough to test something, shifting slightly beneath Kurt’s weight, pressing a little closer in return. No reaction. Kurt’s tail flicked lazily, adjusting itself like it needed to stay anchored, his body sinking deeper into the warmth, into him.

Pietro’s smirk deepened.

“Well, well, well,” he muttered, dragging a slow hand down his face, still watching Kurt with a mix of exasperation and mild, reluctant amusement. “Didn’t peg you for the clingy type, Blue.”

Kurt’s purring didn’t waver. He sighed softly, pressing in further, blissfully unaware of the situation he’d create.

Pietro exhaled through his nose, shaking his head before finally settling back against the pillow. His arm, relaxed but deliberate, slid around Kurt’s waist, fingers ghosting lightly over his back before resting in place. No hesitation, no second-guessing—just simple, casual acceptance.

“Damn you, Blue,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath, letting his eyes slip shut.

He’d deal with whatever this was later.

—-----------------------

Kurt never liked mornings. Sure, he wasn’t one to sleep until noon, but waking up early was basically torture in his book. The grogginess, the sunlight, the stiff limbs—it was all a necessary evil to get through. He groaned softly, moving his hands to rub his eyes, only to find he couldn’t.

His breath hitched.

For a split second, cold panic surged through him, sharp and instinctive, his mind yanking him back to the sterile, blinding white of the Hydra lab. The straps biting into his wrists, the feeling of being held down, trapped, helpless— No, no, no—

But then, warmth.

The pressure on his arm wasn’t metal—it was something solid but gentle, something human. His sluggish mind clawed its way back to the present as he blinked away the last remnants of sleep, forcing his breath to slow. The room was dim, the early dawn light filtering through the curtains, the air still and quiet. And beside him, tangled in the blankets, was Pietro.

The tension in Kurt’s chest loosened, the last ghost of panic fading as he took in the sight. Pietro’s white hair caught the soft morning light, almost glowing against the pillow. His face was completely relaxed, unguarded in a way Kurt had never seen, the usual sharp edges of his smirk smoothed into something peaceful. He looked… different like this. Softer .

His attention flickered downward, and that’s when it hit him—how close they were. His breath caught as he realized his body was pressed snugly against Pietro’s side, legs tangled together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Heat crept up his neck, a startled jolt running through him as he tried to move—only to find himself effectively pinned in place.

Pietro’s arm was draped around him, firm but loose, an unconscious hold that somehow still had Kurt completely stuck. His grip was strong—Pietro was strong, something Kurt had never really noticed before and now it was impossible to ignore.

His stomach twisted at the realization, an unfamiliar, almost irritating awareness settling in. How had he ended up like this? More importantly—why wasn’t he moving?

Then he felt it. His tail.

Wrapped tightly around Pietro’s waist, curled instinctively like it had decided all on its own that this was a perfectly acceptable way to sleep. His ears flattened in horror. Traitor. He swallowed hard, willing it to let go, to move, to do literally anything that didn’t make this more humiliating, but it stayed stubbornly in place.

Scheiße.

Kurt exhaled slowly, forcing himself to think. This wasn’t a big deal. It was just a weird sleeping position. That was all. No reason to panic. No reason to feel… whatever this was. Still, he hesitated. Because, well. It wasn’t uncomfortable.

But that wasn’t the point. With careful precision, he tried to pry himself free without waking Pietro, ignoring the way his heart was pounding in a way that had nothing to do with panic.

He glanced back up at Pietro’s sleeping face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble that hinted at an uncharacteristic ruggedness. His eyes dipped lower, catching the subtle rise and fall of Pietro’s chest, the way his shirt clung to his toned form. Kurt’s face burned hotter as he noticed the faint tension in Pietro’s arms, even in sleep, and the way his grip felt so natural, so secure.

Stop it, Kurt scolded himself, trying to rein in his spiraling thoughts. It was hard to ignore the fluttering in his stomach, the way his chest ached with something he didn’t quite understand. Being this close to Pietro was… overwhelming, in every possible way.

He shifted slightly, testing the limits of Pietro’s grip again, but it didn’t budge. Instead, Pietro let out a soft sigh in his sleep, his hold tightening ever so slightly. The sound sent a shiver down Kurt’s spine, his tail twitching instinctively before curling even tighter around Pietro’s waist.

What is wrong with me? Kurt thought, burying his face in the pillow to hide his growing embarrassment. He was trapped—physically, emotionally, utterly trapped in this moment, with no way out except to wait for Pietro to wake up. And honestly? A small, shameful part of him didn’t want to leave.

For now, Kurt decided, he wouldn’t move. Just until Pietro woke up. Just until he could figure out what to do next. That was all. At least, that’s what he told himself as he lay there, completely still, the weight of Pietro’s arms draped securely around him.

But as the minutes passed, tangled in the warmth of Pietro’s embrace, Kurt found his resolve softening. The passing of time felt slower here, each second stretching into something softer, gentler, and somehow infinite. His tail, still coiled snugly around Pietro’s waist, gave a faint twitch, almost as if it, too, had found a sense of comfort in this closeness. 

Kurt let out a slow, measured breath, his golden eyes flickering shut for a brief second before snapping open again. This was… comfortable. That was all. Just comfortable. A perfectly normal reaction to being held after what had been a long, exhausting stretch of days. Nothing more. Nothing strange.

But still, the warmth of Pietro’s body seeped into his own, steady and solid, his arm draped around Kurt’s back with an ease that felt almost natural. Kurt swallowed hard, resisting the impulse to settle further into it. His cheek rested lightly against Pietro’s chest, and for a fleeting moment, he was aware of the slow, even rhythm of his breathing—steady, unhurried..

He bit the inside of his cheek, telling himself to move, to shift away before his body could start registering this as something it liked. But the thought barely gained traction before Pietro stirred slightly, his grip instinctively tightening, holding Kurt a fraction closer.

Kurt tensed, his tail twitching. Right. Moving wasn’t an option yet. He exhaled sharply through his nose, ears flicking back in quiet exasperation. Fine. He’d just wait for Pietro to wake up and pretend this never happened.

Before he could stop himself, Kurt shifted slightly, his cheek pressing just a little closer against Pietro’s chest. It wasn’t intentional—at least, that’s what he told himself—but the fabric of Pietro’s shirt was soft, worn in a way that spoke of frequent use, and it carried the faint scent of him—clean, sharp, and something else beneath it, something distinctly Pietro. 

The soft, rhythmic sound of Pietro’s heartbeat thrummed in Kurt’s ears, lulling him into a deeper sense of calm. He hadn’t felt this safe, this… cherished, in as long as he could remember. It was a warmth that settled deep in his chest, quieting the storm of thoughts and worries that had plagued him since he’d woken up in the Brotherhood house.

Kurt’s breathing slowed, his body growing heavier as exhaustion pulled him under. He let out a small, content sigh, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles as he drifted closer to sleep. His fingers curled slightly against Pietro’s shirt, clutching it as though afraid the moment might slip away if he let go.

The golden morning light streaming through the window bathed them both in a soft glow, and as Kurt’s consciousness began to fade, he allowed himself one last thought: This feels right.

Within moments, his breathing evened out, his body fully relaxing against Pietro’s. The gentle purrs that had been rumbling earlier softly reemerged in his chest. 

—---

Pietro’s eyes snapped open, body tensing as he scanned the room, brain kicking into gear way later than it should have. His gaze landed on the clock perched on his nightstand, the red digits practically mocking him. 7:25.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered, panic flickering through him. Five minutes. He had five minutes before the first bell rang. Normally, oversleeping wasn’t a big deal—he could be out the door and at school before most people even finished brushing their teeth. No problem.

But this time was different—because he wasn’t alone.

Kurt, still sound asleep, breathing soft and steady, tail draped aroFund Pietro’s waist like it belonged there. Peaceful, unguarded, completely unaware of the situation he’d created.

Pietro smirked, tilting his head slightly as he took in the scene. Well, well, aren’t we cozy, Blue?

His first instinct should’ve been to untangle himself, zip out of bed, and get to school before the second hand even ticked forward. But then a thought hit him—if he left now, Kurt would wake up to a cold, empty bed.

That mental image sat weird in his chest. Sad, golden eyes, confused expression, tail flicking restlessly in search of something that wasn’t there anymore.

Pietro let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand down his face. Damn it.

What was worse—waking Kurt up and dealing with whatever awkward, wide-eyed reaction was definitely coming, or leaving him behind to wake up alone, tail still curled around someone who wasn’t there anymore?

His smirk faltered, just slightly. 

“Well, Blue,” he murmured, more to himself than anything, “looks like you’ve got me stuck.” He ran a hand down his face, half amused, half resigned.

The answer was obvious, though. Awkward conversation? Not exactly his favorite way to start the day. But leaving Kurt to wake up alone, maybe thinking Pietro bailed because he didn’t care—or worse, because he didn’t want to be here?

Yeah, that didn’t sit right.

With a sigh, Pietro shifted slightly, careful not to jostle him too much. “Hey, Blue,” he said, voice dropping into something softer, something easy. His hand found Kurt’s shoulder, giving it a slow, deliberate squeeze. “Gotta wake up, man. I gotta head out, but…” He hesitated, just for a second, then pushed past it. “Didn’t wanna leave you hanging.”

Kurt stirred, a quiet hum escaping him as he blinked up at Pietro, golden eyes still hazy with sleep.

“…Pietro?” he mumbled, voice rough and thick in a way that definitely wasn’t helping Pietro’s situation.

Pietro smirked, tilting his head. “Morning, sunshine,” he drawled, thumb absently brushing over Kurt’s shoulder. “Hate to break up this little cuddle session, but I’ve got places to be. Tragic, I know.”

Kurt’s gaze flicked downward, taking in the situation—their ridiculous proximity, the way his tail was still wrapped snug around Pietro’s waist. His cheeks flushed deep blue, and he pulled away quickly, untangling himself like he’d just realized what he was doing. “I… I didn’t mean to…” he stammered, voice shaky with embarrassment.

Pietro just smirked, propping himself up on one elbow like this was no big deal. “Relax, Blue,” he drawled, letting the tease settle in his tone. “Didn’t hear me complaining, did you?”

Kurt blinked, flustered, eyes darting between him and the bed like he was still processing. His tail flicked once behind him, a nervous tell he couldn’t quite hide. “Oh. Well…” His voice dipped, barely above a whisper. His gaze flickered up, hesitant, lingering. “Danke.”

Pietro’s grin sharpened. “For what? The five-star sleeping arrangements, or the free cuddles?”

Kurt huffed out something between a laugh and a breath, shaking his head, but his eyes stayed soft. “I… liked it,” he admitted, quieter this time.

The words landed, and for half a second, Pietro’s brain just— stalled .

“Any—” he started, but the sentence never made it out. He blinked down at Kurt, gears grinding to a halt as he processed what he’d just heard.

Did he just say he liked it? Like, actually liked it?

His usual sharp reflexes failed him completely, his brain tripping over itself as something warm and annoyingly noticeable curled in his chest.

Alright, calm down, Maximoff. He’s just being nice. Don’t read into it. Don’t—

His eyes flicked back to Kurt.

The faint flush on his cheeks, the way his tail flicked—nervous, unsure—but still loosely curled around his own leg instead of pulling away entirely. Those wide, open, earnest golden eyes watching him like he was waiting for a response.

Okay, well, now I have to read into it.

Pietro swallowed, throat suddenly dry. His smirk returned—maybe a little too sharp, a little too covering up whatever the hell this feeling was —but it was there.

“Anytime,” he managed, voice a little rougher than intended. He cleared his throat, rolling his shoulders back, like shaking off whatever this was would reset his system.

“Uh, I mean, yeah,” he added, slipping back into familiar territory, smirk falling into place like nothing was throwing him off. “You’re, like, weirdly good at the whole cuddle thing, Blue. Way better than my blanket.”

He shot Kurt a teasing grin, using bravado like a shield, because what the hell else was he supposed to do with this?

Kurt’s lips quirked into a small smile, his ears twitching faintly at the compliment. “Danke… I think,” he said, voice still soft but laced with quiet amusement.

Pietro caught that smile, felt something in his chest skip in response, and immediately looked away , pretending he suddenly had a very intense interest in getting ready.

“Anyway,” he said, standing up way too fast and slinging his bag over his shoulder like it was a lifeline. “I should, uh, probably get going. First bell’s about to ring, and, y’know, perfect attendance and all that.”

Before Kurt could even blink, Pietro was gone—a blur of movement rustling the blanket as he bolted across the room, grabbing fresh clothes, swapping them out in a blink, and running a hand through his hair, all before his next breath. When he reappeared—fully dressed, bag slung over one shoulder like it was no big deal —he smirked like he hadn’t just sprinted away from his own feelings.

Kurt blinked, his tail curling slightly as he watched him, amusement flickering in his golden eyes. “Okay. Be safe,” he said softly, genuine in a way that made something shift in Pietro’s chest.

For half a second, he hesitated. The simplicity of the words shouldn’t have done anything, but it did. His usual smirk softened into something quieter. “Always,” he said, voice a little lower, a little steadier.

Then he was gone , disappearing out the door in a blur of speed. But even as he ran, the image of Kurt’s sleepy smile lingered in his head, stubborn and warm, refusing to be shaken loose.

—---

Kurt let out a shaky breath, his whole body going warm with embarrassment. The events of the morning replayed in his mind on an endless loop, and he groaned softly, burying his face in his hands.

Gott… he thought, I actually told him I liked it. His tail flicked wildly behind him, a telltale sign of his flustered state. What possessed him to say that? The words had slipped out before he could stop them, and now he couldn’t stop imagining Pietro’s reaction—his smirk, the soft way he’d said “Anytime,” and that teasing comment about being better than his blanket.

Kurt’s face burned as the blush deepened, spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. He groaned again, flopping back onto the bed as if the mattress could somehow swallow him whole and save him from his own embarrassment. His golden eyes darted to the pillow Pietro had been using earlier. It was slightly dented from where Pietro’s head had rested, and without thinking, Kurt reached for it. He pulled it close, burying his face in the fabric.

The faint scent of Pietro lingered on the pillowcase—clean and sharp with just a hint of his intoxicating cologne. It was overwhelming in the best way, and Kurt’s blush somehow managed to deepen. His tail curled tightly around his leg as he hugged the pillow to his chest, the warmth in his cheeks spreading to his ears.

Why does he have to smell so good? Kurt thought, his stomach flipping as he inhaled the familiar scent again. He hated how much it made him want to stay curled up here, surrounded by the faint remnants of Pietro’s presence.

It wasn’t just the scent that had him so flustered—it was everything. The way Pietro had held him so securely, like he belonged there. The way his icy blue eyes had softened when he looked at him, as if Kurt was something precious.

Kurt’s heart thudded loudly in his chest as he squeezed the pillow tighter. He didn’t know what to make of it, didn’t know what any of it meant. Was this normal for Pietro? Did he treat everyone this way? Or was there something different about how he acted around Kurt?

The thought made Kurt’s stomach twist in ways he couldn’t quite name. He wanted to believe there was something special about it, that Pietro didn’t hold just anyone like that. A tiny voice in the back of his mind whispered doubts, reminding him that he didn’t even know who he really was right now. How could he expect anything more?

Still, Kurt couldn’t stop the small, hopeful flutter in his chest. He pressed his face into the pillow again, letting himself savor the lingering scent for just a little longer. He would never admit it out loud, but being in Pietro’s room, wrapped in his blanket, surrounded by the traces of him—it felt safe. I’ll just stay like this for a minute, he told himself, though he had no intention of letting the pillow go anytime soon.

As the minutes ticked by, another thought crept into his mind. If he was already wrapped in the remnants of Pietro—the blanket, the pillow, the very air of the room—then maybe... maybe he could lean into it just a little more. The idea made his cheeks flush a deep crimson, but he shook his head quickly, trying to convince himself it was purely practical. Just borrowing clothes, he reasoned, sitting up and glancing toward the dresser. Nothing weird about it.

Stretching his limbs, Kurt got up and padded over to the bathroom, his tail flicking nervously behind him. He splashed cold water on his face, the chill briefly grounding him as he stared at his reflection. His golden eyes stared back, wide and slightly uncertain, but beneath the nerves, there was a flicker of something else—something uncharacteristically bold.

His face grew warm as he thought about what he was about to do, and the blush deepened further when he realized how much he didn’t hate the idea. “Gott…” he muttered under his breath, brushing his teeth quickly to distract himself from his spiraling thoughts.

When Kurt returned to Pietro’s room, he hesitated for a moment in the doorway, his eyes darting toward the dresser. He fiddled with the hem of the oversized band tee he was already wearing, his tail curling slightly behind him. Just borrowing clothes, he reminded himself again, but his heart still thudded loudly in his chest as he stepped forward.

The dresser was just as neat as he’d noticed before, each drawer a picture of uncharacteristic organization. Kurt reached for the first shirt on the top of the pile, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric. He glanced over his shoulder instinctively, his ears twitching at the silence of the room. It’s fine, he thought, he won’t mind… right?

His fingers trembled slightly as he grabbed the hem of the oversized band tee he’d been wearing, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. The cool air brushed against his skin, sending a shiver down his spine. Quickly, he reached for the waistband of the borrowed sweats, tugging them off and tossing them into the laundry hamper with the shirt.

Kurt’s golden eyes darted around the room, half-expecting Pietro to walk in at any moment. The thought made his chest tighten, his tail curling slightly around one leg as he hurried to pull on the fresh shirt. The fabric, soft and oversized, slipped over his fur and fell well past his hips, almost swallowing him whole.

The hem brushed against his thighs, and the loose sleeves hung baggy around his arms, leaving him swimming in the shirt’s sheer size. He glanced down at himself, his tail flicking as he adjusted the fabric, a small, bashful smile tugging at his lips. How does he even wear this? 

His gaze flicked to the mirror on the wall, and he paused, taking in the sight. The shirt completely dwarfed his smaller frame, but it smelled like Pietro—clean, sharp, and faintly warm. That familiar scent wrapped around him like a second layer of comfort. He glanced down at himself realizing then he was still in his boxers. 

With a soft sigh, he padded back toward the dresser, his tail swishing lazily behind him. He tugged open the bottom drawer where Pietro kept his pants, taking in the neatly folded stacks. The memory flashed in his mind—Pietro cutting a hole in his other borrowed pair of pants just to make room for his tail. The thought made Kurt flush, his ears heating as he recalled the teasing remarks and Pietro’s confident grin.

He reached out to grab a pair but hesitated, his hand hovering above the fabric. Do I really want to ruin another pair of his pants? he thought, biting his lip. The pants would need another hole, and he didn’t feel right cutting into Pietro’s clothes. Especially not while he wasn’t here to offer—or make another cheeky comment about how “Blue was raiding his wardrobe again.”

His tail flicked nervously, and Kurt glanced down at his legs, noting how the oversized shirt completely covered his boxers. The hem fell just above his knees, leaving little chance of anything being visible. Would it be so bad if I just… stayed like this?

Kurt glanced toward the mirror, taking in his reflection. He shifted slightly, his tail curling behind him as he fidgeted with the hem of the shirt. It wasn’t like he was planning on leaving Pietro’s room anytime soon, and the shirt alone already felt like it was swallowing him whole.

“Better this than ruining more of his clothes,” he muttered to himself, his voice soft but resolute.

With the decision made, Kurt let the drawer slide shut and walked back toward the bed. The warmth of the fleece blanket called to him, and he couldn’t help but feel a small wave of relief at having avoided the awkwardness of explaining another pair of altered pants to Pietro later.

He sat back down on the edge of the bed, he smoothed the shirt over his thighs, the fabric was soft against his skin, and the faint scent of Pietro’s cologne only added to the comfort. Kurt let out a small sigh, curling his tail around himself as he leaned back against the pillows.

It’s fine, he told himself, settling in. No one’s going to see me like this anyway.

Chapter Text

Pietro drummed his fingers against the edge of his desk, knee bouncing restlessly under the table as the teacher droned on about God knows what . His focus had checked out ten minutes ago—probably somewhere back in the hallway, gearing up to bolt the second the bell rang.

Lunch period was creeping closer, but there was zero chance he was sticking around for whatever half-assed slop the cafeteria was serving today. Yesterday, he’d completely forgotten to feed himself after making lunch for Kurt, and his stomach had growled so loud in his next class that even the teacher had paused and given him a look.

The vending machine junk he’d inhaled between periods barely did the trick and this morning? He hadn’t even grabbed breakfast before flying out the door. The entire morning had dragged, each second stretching unbearably as Pietro mulled over what to make for lunch. He couldn’t just slap something together—not when Kurt deserved better.

After running through his options (and using half of history class to doodle ingredient lists in the margins of his notes), he settled on something simple but solid: Creamy Dill Pork Tenderloin with Couscous & Green Beans.

If he timed it right, he could cook the tenderloin, get the couscous going, and handle the green beans all at the same time. Twenty minutes, tops. That left him plenty of time to sit down, eat, and—

… whatever .

Pietro scowled, shaking off the thought before it could take shape.

The bell finally rang, snapping him out of his thoughts. Pietro bolted out of his seat before anyone else had even unzipped their backpacks. He didn’t bother stopping by his locker, didn’t even pretend like he had any intention of spending his lunch period at school. His plan was set—the only thing left to do was execute.

—-----------------

Standing back, Pietro admired his handiwork. Grabbing both plates in hand, Pietro left the kitchen, the dirty dishes piled haphazardly in the sink. Who cared about cleanup when he had someone waiting upstairs? Bounding up the stairs two at a time, he felt his pulse quicken—not from the movement, but from the thought of seeing Kurt’s face when he walked in with lunch. That little flick of his tail, the way his eyes lit up when he wasn’t expecting something good?

Yeah. Totally worth it.

He pushed the door to his room open with his shoulder, his grin widening as his eyes fell on the blue elf lounging on the bed. Kurt was propped up against the headboard, the familiar blue fleece blanket draped over his lap. His golden eyes flicked up in surprise at the sudden entrance, his tail curling slightly under the blanket.

“Alright, Blue,” Pietro said, his voice brimming with excitement as he strode into the room, his usual confident energy lighting up the space. “Get ready to have your mind blown.”

Kurt blinked, sitting up a little straighter as Pietro set the plates down on the nightstand. His devilish grin quickly turned curious—then amused—as his gaze landed on the oversized shirt Kurt was wearing.

“Wait a second,” Pietro drawled, tilting his head as his smirk widened. “Are you wearing my gym shirt?”

Kurt’s face turned an instant, fiery red. His hands gripped the edges of the fleece blanket, pulling it closer to his lap as if it could somehow shield him from Pietro’s teasing gaze. “When did you get home?” he blurted out, his tone slightly higher than usual—a feeble attempt to deflect the question.

Pietro raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he leaned lazily against the bed. “Oh no, don’t change the subject, Blue,” he teased, his voice dripping with mock accusation. “First, you raid my closet, and now you’re stealing my gym clothes? What’s next, my socks?” He laughed, sharp and amused, his icy blue eyes glinting with delight.

Kurt’s tail twitched beneath the blanket, an unconscious giveaway of just how flustered he was. He looked away, ears flattening slightly. “I—I just needed something to wear,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t think you’d mind…”

“Mind? Nah.” Pietro smirked, pushing off the bed frame and moving in closer, settling beside him with easy confidence. “But let me guess—you picked the biggest shirt you could find, didn’t you?” He gestured toward the oversized tee practically swallowing Kurt whole. “That thing’s supposed to be baggy on me, and you’re, what—five-seven?” He snickered, eyes flicking over Kurt’s rumpled appearance with obvious amusement. “Congrats, Blue. I think my shirt just turned into a dress on you.”

Kurt’s blush deepened as his golden eyes flickered up to meet Pietro’s, only to dart away again. “I didn’t mean to…” he started, trailing off as his tail curled tighter around his leg.

“Oh, relax ,” Pietro drawled, leaning back like he had all the time in the world, smirk tilting into something just on the edge of playful danger. “I think it’s cute. Really.” His eyes flicked over Kurt again, deliberate, assessing. “But if you’d asked, I might’ve picked something else for you. Maybe one of my tighter shirts. Just to see how it’d look.”

Kurt’s head snapped toward him so fast Pietro had to bite back a laugh. “W-what?”

“You heard me,” Pietro said with a wink, his teasing tone impossible to miss. “I bet you’d look good in one of those—something more, I dunno, fitted. Show off those shoulders of yours.” He gestured vaguely, as though it were the most casual comment in the world.

Kurt’s tail flicked in alarm, and he quickly tightened his grip on the blanket, pulling it closer to his lap. “I’m fine with this one!” he squeaked, his voice higher than usual as he tried desperately to steer the conversation away from his clothing—or lack thereof.

Pietro chuckled, leaning closer again. “Sure, sure,” he said, his icy blue eyes gleaming with mischief. “But I gotta admit, Blue, you pull off my clothes pretty well. You might as well just move into my closet at this point.”

Kurt buried his face in his hands, groaning softly as he muttered something in German under his breath—something Pietro couldn’t quite catch but that sounded suspiciously like a flustered protest. Pietro laughed, the sound warm and genuine as he reached out to ruffle Kurt’s hair. “Alright, I’ll back off—for now,” he said, his smirk returning. “But don’t think I didn’t notice you dodging the sock question. That’s next, isn’t it?”

Kurt let out a soft, exasperated laugh, finally lowering his hands to glare halfheartedly at Pietro. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, his tone tinged with reluctant fondness.

“And you love it,” Pietro shot back, his grin widening as he winked at him again before turning his attention to the plates on the nightstand.

“Dig in, Blue,” Pietro said, handing Kurt a plate before grabbing his own and sitting back down beside him. His tone was casual, but the soft smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed the satisfaction bubbling under the surface.“Fair warning, though—if you keep stealing my clothes, I might start tagging them with ‘Property of Pietro’ just to see if you still wear them.”

Kurt’s soft laugh filled the room, a sound so genuine that it momentarily made Pietro’s chest ache. “I’d wear it just to spite you,” he quipped, his tail flicking lazily beneath the blanket as he settled the plate on his lap.

Pietro chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re getting bold, Blue,” he teased, but the warmth in his voice made it clear he didn’t mind.

As Kurt took his first bite, his entire expression shifted. His golden eyes widened, lighting up with delight, and a small, involuntary sound of approval escaped his lips. Pietro leaned back slightly, watching as Kurt seemed to melt into the bed, his body relaxing as the creamy sauce and tender pork worked their magic.

“This is… incredible,” Kurt murmured between bites, eyes wide with genuine awe. “How do you cook like this?”

Pietro smirked, leaning back against the chair, looking very pleased with himself. “What, surprised I’ve got skills?” He shrugged, “What can I say? I’m fast at everything—including picking up talent.”

He shot Kurt a wink, watching with amusement as the other mutant’s tail flicked behind him. “Careful, Blue. Keep looking at me like that, and I might start thinking you’re impressed. ”

Kurt snorted softly, his laughter muffled by the next bite of food. His tail twitched happily behind him, peeking out from under the blanket as he savored the flavors. “If you’re not careful, I might never leave,” he joked, his words light but carrying a hint of truth.

Pietro’s smirk faltered for a split second before he quickly covered it, picking at his food to distract himself from the strange flutter in his chest. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” he said quietly, his voice almost too soft to hear.

Kurt, seemingly oblivious to the weight of Pietro’s words, stayed focused on his meal, completely absorbed in it. A streak of sauce lingered at the corner of his mouth, catching Pietro’s attention before he could stop himself.

His gaze lingered, a fraction too long. Stop staring, Maximoff.

Tearing his eyes away, he dropped his focus to his own plate, suddenly way more interested in stabbing his food than actually eating it. His hunger took a backseat to the weird, restless energy buzzing under his skin.

“You’re not eating?” Kurt asked, his voice gentle but tinged with concern.

Pietro glanced up, his smirk returning, though it lacked its usual cocky edge. “Oh, I’m eating,” he said, shoving a forkful of couscous into his mouth as if to prove a point. “Just don’t want you thinking I’m showing off.”

Kurt chuckled, “If this is you not showing off, I’d hate to see what happens if you actually try.”

Pietro laughed, the sound easing some of the tension in his chest. “Careful, Blue. Flattery’ll get you everywhere,” he said, his tone teasing but his eyes soft as they lingered on Kurt.

Kurt smiled, his golden eyes meeting Pietro’s for a fleeting moment before flicking back to his plate. He took another bite, tail flicking lazily behind him, completely at ease. Comfortable. Like sitting here in Pietro’s room, eating Pietro’s cooking, was the most natural thing in the world.

Pietro’s smirk twitched, something unreadable settling in his chest.

As Kurt finished the last bite, he leaned back against the headboard, a content sigh escaping him. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything this good,” he admitted, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush. “Danke, Pietro.”

Pietro leaned back against the bed, keeping it casual, like the compliment didn’t do anything to him. “Anytime, Blue,” he said smoothly, though his voice came out a little softer than usual. But then he glanced over—and that was his first mistake.

Because there it was. That damn streak of sauce, still clinging to the corner of Kurt’s lips, making them glossy, distracting, ridiculously unfair. Pietro’s smirk wavered for half a second, and what the hell was he thinking?

With zero hesitation, he shoved another forkful of food into his mouth. Nope. Not happening. Not thinking about it. Except now all his brain wanted to do was make connections it absolutely shouldn’t—like how his cooking tasted, and how it would taste on Kurt’s—

No. Nope.

His hand twitched against his thigh, fingers itching to reach over, to wipe it away, to just fix the damn problem so he could stop noticing it. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away. But his gaze kept dragging back, drawn to the way Kurt sat there, oblivious, looking so damn pleased with himself, tail flicking lazily, golden eyes still warm from the meal.

“Uh… Blue,” Pietro started, then immediately regretted it when his voice cracked. He coughed, clearing his throat, and tried again. Get it together. His hand moved before his brain could catch up, gesturing vaguely toward his own mouth. “You, uh… you’ve got a little—”

Kurt blinked, confusion flickering across his face before realization hit. His blush deepened instantly. “Oh,” he mumbled, quickly reaching up to swipe at his lips.

Pietro sighed through his nose, shaking his head. “Hold on,” he muttered, setting his plate down beside him. Before he could think too hard about it, he leaned in, thumb brushing against Kurt’s bottom lip, swiping away the sauce with an ease that didn’t match the sudden spike in his pulse.

“There,” he murmured, voice lower now, quieter. The moment settled between them, thick with something unspoken.

Kurt’s breath hitched. His ears twitched faintly, tail curling around his leg as his eyes darted away, cheeks somehow turning even darker. “…Danke,” he mumbled, voice small, hesitant.

Pietro chuckled, leaning back again like it was nothing, like his heart wasn’t hammering against his ribs. “No problem,” he said, shaking off whatever that had been. His hand still tingled where it had touched Kurt’s lips.

The silence between them was electric, not awkward but charged with an unspoken tension neither of them dared address. Kurt’s tail flicked nervously behind him, while Pietro kept his eyes on the discarded plates placed on the bed. Despite his best efforts, his thoughts kept wandering to the softness of Kurt’s lips and the way they glistened moments earlier.

Pietro stood and grabbed both plates, stacking them and setting them aside with a casual air. As he turned back to the bed, his trademark smirk slid back into place, his mischievous energy bubbling to the surface.

“So,” he started, his tone light and teasing as he walked back toward the bed, “where’d you find my gym shirt? Pretty sure I thought I lost that thing. Haven’t been to the gym in, like, a week.”

Kurt blinked, his golden eyes darting to Pietro before quickly glancing away, his cheeks flushing an unmistakable red. “I, uh… I found it in your dresser,” he admitted, his voice soft and slightly defensive. “It was on the top, so I assumed it was okay to borrow…”

Pietro chuckled, dropping down beside Kurt with a lazy sort of ease, his smirk widening as he leaned in just enough to make it personal. “Relax, Blue. Seriously. It’s not a big deal. Looks better on you anyway,” he said, his eyes gleaming with pure mischief. Then, like he’d just had the most brilliant idea, his smirk sharpened. “But that does make me wonder…”

Kurt, already wary, tilted his head, tail twitching slightly. “Wonder about what?” he asked, cautious, his blush darkening under Pietro’s undeniably devious gaze.

Pietro’s grin turned wicked. “What pants are you wearing?”

Kurt froze like he’d been hit with a stun gun. His tail coiled tighter around his leg as his blush spread—cheeks, ears, the whole package—while his hands gripped the edge of the fleece blanket like it might save him from this conversation. “I… uh… well…” he stammered, his voice barely more than a breath.

“Ohhh,” Pietro drawled, leaning back with the kind of satisfaction only a true menace could possess. He crossed his arms, one brow quirking up as he tilted his head. “Blue. Don’t tell me you’re not wearing any pants.”

“I—” Kurt’s voice cracked as he tried to defend himself, his tail started flicking wildly under the blanket. “I-I didn’t want to ruin another pair!” he blurted out, his hands tightening their hold on the blanket. “Your pants don’t fit with my tail, and I didn’t want to cut another hole—”

Pietro burst out laughing, the sound loud and unabashed as he reached for the edge of the blanket. “Alright, alright, let’s see the damage then,” he teased, tugging gently at the fabric. “C’mon, no need to hide.”

Kurt’s eyes widened in panic, and he was faster than Pietro expected. He yanked the blanket back, clutching it firmly against his lap with both hands. “Nein!” he exclaimed, his voice high-pitched with embarrassment. “You are not looking!”

Pietro couldn’t stop laughing, his shoulders shaking as he leaned back, hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, chill, Blue,” he gasped between chuckles, struggling to catch his breath. “I was just messing with you.”

Kurt groaned, ears still burning as he pointedly avoided Pietro’s gaze. “You’re the worst,” he muttered, voice half a grumble, half a sigh. Despite his best efforts, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips—small, reluctant, but unmistakably there.

Pietro caught it instantly, his smirk softening just a fraction. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, tilting his head, his tone just a little too smug. “But admit it—you’d be bored without me.”

Kurt shook his head, his tail flicking beneath the blanket as he finally met Pietro’s gaze. “You are… absolutely insufferable,” he said, but the warmth in his voice betrayed him. There was no real bite, just exasperation wrapped in something dangerously close to fondness.

“And yet,” Pietro drawled, inching closer with a knowing smirk, “here you are. Sitting in my room, wearing my shirt, hiding under my blanket.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Almost like you don’t wanna leave.”

Kurt’s blush darkened instantly, spreading all the way to the tips of his ears. He gripped the blanket tighter, like maybe if he held on hard enough, it would swallow him whole. “I—I’m just comfortable,” he mumbled, his tail giving him away with a nervous flick.

“Comfortable, huh?” Pietro echoed, his voice dipping lower—not quite teasing now, but something softer, something quieter. His smirk lingered, but there was something gentler underneath it. “Well, good. Stay as long as you want, Blue.” He paused, just long enough for the words to settle between them. “My room looks better with you in it anyway.”

Kurt’s golden eyes widened slightly at the words, his ears twitching as if they couldn’t believe what they’d heard. His tail gave a small flick before curling around his leg. “Danke…” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze firmly fixed on the floor.

Pietro chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned back against the bedpost. “You gotta stop thanking me, man,” he said, grinning. “I think I’ve heard ‘danke’ more times in the past few days than I’ve heard my own name.”

Kurt glanced up at that, his lips twitching into a small, nervous smile. “Well, you keep doing things worth thanking you for,” he said, his tone soft but earnest.

“Yeah, well,” Pietro said, his grin widening as he ran a hand through his white hair. “It’s really not a big deal. If anything, I should be thanking you for being such good company.”

Kurt blinked, caught off guard by the compliment. “M-me? Good company?” he stammered, his tail flicking wildly beneath the blanket. “I don’t think I’ve done much…”

Pietro huffed a laugh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “C’mon, Blue. You think I’d let you stick around if you were bad company?”

“I… guess not?” he said, voice uncertain but touched with warmth. His ears twitched, and he peeked up at Pietro, something hesitant but hopeful in his expression. “You’re sure I’m not just… in the way?”

Pietro rolled his eyes, but there was no bite to it. “Yeah, because I just love wasting my time on people I don’t wanna be around,” he said dryly. Then, softer, “You’re fine, Blue. Better than fine.”

Kurt’s breath hitched—so quick Pietro almost missed it—but then he nodded, a small, shy smile tugging at his lips. “Okay,” he murmured. “Danke.”

Pietro stood, his tone light but sincere as he spoke. “Anytime.” His sharp blue eyes flicked around the room, searching for his school bag.

Kurt watched him, his heart sinking just a little as the realization set in—Pietro was leaving.

Pietro snapped his fingers as if remembering something, then shook his head. “Right—left my bag downstairs,” he muttered. Instead, he grabbed the plates from the nightstand, balancing them effortlessly in one hand. He turned back toward Kurt, offering him one of those soft, unguarded smiles that made Kurt’s chest ache. “I gotta get going, Blue. Lunch is almost over, and I can’t be skipping classes for you.”

Kurt bit his lip, holding back the urge to ask Pietro to stay. The words lingered on the tip of his tongue, but they never came out. Instead, he just nodded, forcing a small smile as Pietro headed toward the door.

“See ya later,” Pietro said and in a blur of motion he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him, quiet but final, leaving the room feeling just a little emptier.

Kurt sank back into the bed, his tail curling around his leg as he buried his face in his hands. His cheeks burned, and his mind was racing, replaying every word, every look, every touch from the past twenty minutes.

Had Pietro been flirting with him? Was he just imagining it? God, he didn’t even know anymore. Pietro was... Pietro—confident, charming, and kind in a way that made it hard to tell what was real and what was just... him. Maybe he was like this with everyone. Maybe this was just how he treated people he cared about. The thought sent a pang through Kurt’s chest, his stomach twisting uncomfortably.

He groaned softly, letting his hands fall to his sides as he stared up at the ceiling. Was there someone else? Someone Pietro had cooked for, smiled at, teased like this? Kurt hated feeling like this—unsure, insecure, desperate for something he wasn’t even sure he deserved. But when he thought about the way Pietro had looked at him, the way his smirk softened into something almost shy, the way he’d said, “I mean it,” like it was just for him... Kurt couldn’t help but hope.

His fingers traced the hem of the oversized shirt he was wearing, the soft fabric a constant reminder of how close they’d been. He closed his eyes, his face flushing as he remembered the way Pietro had touched his lips earlier, his thumb brushing away the sauce with a care that felt far too intimate to be casual.

“I’m being ridiculous,” Kurt whispered to himself, his voice barely audible. Even as he said it, even as he tried to convince himself that this was all in his head, he couldn’t stop the longing that settled deep in his heart. He sighed, curling up on the bed as he pulled the blue fleece blanket over himself. The scent of Pietro lingered faintly in the fabric, and Kurt found himself clutching it tightly, as if it could somehow fill the void that Pietro’s absence left behind.

Chapter Text

Pietro spent the rest of the school day trying not to think about how much he wanted to get home. His mind wandered, though, back to the hallway where Lance and Toad had cornered him earlier. He’d barely been back two minutes when he ran into them—loud, brash, and immediately prying into his absence.

“Yo, Speedy!” Toad had called, his Brooklyn accent cutting through the din of the hallway. “Where the hell you been, man? Thought you got abducted or somethin’.”

Pietro rolled his eyes, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder. “Yeah, Toad, I got beamed up by aliens. Real tragic. They didn’t even let me drive the spaceship.”

Lance snorted, leaning against a locker with the kind of casual slouch that meant he wasn’t planning on letting this go anytime soon. “You joke, but you’ve been gone for, what, days? Without a word? What the hell, Maximoff? You ditching us?”

Pietro smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Aw, Lance. I didn’t know you cared.”

Lance raised a brow. “I don’t.”

“Uh-huh.” Pietro tilted his head, still playing at casual. “Well, don’t get your pretty little head all worried—I’ve just been… busy.”

Lance hummed, unimpressed. “Right. Busy. ” His sharp gaze flickered over Pietro, assessing, already seeing too much. Lance had a way of doing that, and Pietro hated it. That look, the one that said I know you’re full of shit, but I don’t know why yet .

Toad, oblivious as always to the unspoken tension between the two, grinned and crossed his arms. “Man, you’re actin’ all weird. Didja meet someone or somethin’? Oh! ” His face lit up with realization, and he nudged Lance with his elbow. “Hey, you think it’s got somethin’ to do with Blue?”

Pietro stiffened, smirk faltering as he turned sharply to Toad. What the hell did you just call him?

The thought flared up instinctively, quick and possessive, before he could stop it. But—no. That was stupid. Blue wasn’t some rare, one-of-a-kind nickname. Anyone could come up with that. Hell, Toad had known Kurt longer than him. It wasn’t like Pietro had any claim over it.

Still, the way the word sat in Toad’s mouth made something in Pietro’s chest tighten. He pushed it down— because seriously, what? —and forced his usual disinterested drawl. “What?”

“You know—Kurt,” Toad clarified, his grin widening. “Haven’t seen him around lately. Wonder where he ran off to. I mean, not that I’m complainin’ or nothin’, but it’s weird, right?”

His tone was casual, but Pietro knew better. Toad wasn’t just making conversation—he was suspicious. Of course he was.

Pietro had let his mind slip, had let himself forget that just because he hadn’t noticed Kurt’s absence before the guy landed in his arms, wide-eyed and amnesiac, didn’t mean no one else had. The X-Men had to have noticed that much was obvious. But now he had to wonder—who else? What other prying eyes were looking, asking questions? 

Pietro rolled his eyes, forcing out a scoff. “Why would I care if the blue-furred freak isn’t around?”

Toad just shrugged, unfazed. “I dunno, man. He hasn’t been around for a while, and now you’re bailing on us?” His smirk sharpened as he tilted his head. “Kinda seems like a pattern.”

Pietro’s jaw tightened.

Toad flicked a bit of lint off his sleeve, his grin widening. “So what’s got you on the run dude?”

Pietro snorted, all mock amusement as he leaned in, tapping the side of Toad’s head. “Like I owe you an answer. How ‘bout you put those two brain cells to work on minding your own business?”

Toad scoffed, swatting his hand away. “Real cute, Speedy.” But before he could fire back, Lance cut in, arms still crossed, his gaze sharp. “You can dodge all you want, but we’re gonna figure it out eventually.”

Pietro just shrugged, already turning away. “Go for it. If wasting your time’s the goal, be my guest.”

He didn’t wait for their responses, zipping off to his next class before Lance could press further or Toad could make another careless comment. 

_______

Lance frowned, arms crossing over his chest as he watched Pietro disappear. “What the hell’s his deal?” he muttered, irritation creeping into his voice.

Toad shrugged. “Dunno, man. He’s been flakin’ the past few days, but that ain’t exactly news.” He stretched lazily, looking thoroughly unbothered. “Pietro does what he wants. Always has.”

Lance wasn’t convinced. “It’s not just that,” he said, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen him at lunch. Haven’t caught him ditching in his usual spots. It’s like he’s not just skipping us, he’s skipping everything.”

Toad snorted. “You’re thinkin’ way too hard about this, dude.”

Lance rolled his eyes but let it drop. Instead, his attention flicked back to something else Toad had mentioned earlier. “Alright, whatever. But since we’re talkin’ about people disappearin’—Kurt. What’s up with that?” He shrugged. “Not that I was close with the guy or anything, but it’s weird, right?”

Toad nodded, his smirk lazy, but there was something else behind it—something quieter. “Yeah, normally if it was X-Men business, he’d be back in a few days, maybe a week tops. But it’s been way longer. Kinda weird.”

Lance caught the slight shift in his expression—the way his grin didn’t quite reach his eyes. He tilted his head. “You good, man?”

Toad let out a laugh, waving him off. “Psh, it ain’t that deep. I mean, the X-Men don’t seem to be runnin’ around like their heads are on fire, so it can’t be that bad, right?”

Lance gave Toad a look—the kind that said, Cut the crap. Be real with me, man.

Toad exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders, his eyes darting around the empty hall like he didn’t want to admit what he was about to say. “I dunno, man,” he muttered, voice quieter now. “I guess I’ve just been hopin’ if I don’t think about it… he’ll show back up.”

Lance nodded. Yeah. Figured. Toad wasn’t worried about Pietro because, deep down, he was already preoccupied with someone else.

After a beat, Toad cleared his throat, forcing a smirk back onto his face like that moment of honesty hadn’t just happened. “So, uh… Kitty ain’t said nothin’?”

Lance shrugged. “Nah. She doesn’t really talk about the X-Men much unless she’s complaining about ‘em. Y’know—like bein’ pissed at your sister. One second it’s, ‘Ugh, Scott is so annoying, ’ next it’s, ‘Jean’s a total control freak.’” He smirked slightly. “Honestly, if she was worried about Kurt, she’d probably just be bitchin’ about it to me instead of actually sayin’ anything useful.”

Toad laughed at that, sharp and amused. “Strong words, man, when she’s got you by the collar like a damn dog.”

Lance rolled his eyes but didn’t bother denying it. “Yeah, yeah. Keep talkin’, Tolansky. Like you wouldn’t be waggin’ your tail if some cute girl actually gave you the time of day.”

Toad snorted, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Tch, please. Ain’t nobody puttin’ me on a leash.” But there was a glint of humor in his eyes, his smirk still lingering. “I’ve still got my pride, man.”

Lance shot him a glare. “Watch it,” he growled, his tone low, warning, but lacking any real heat. “At least I don’t stink like a dispensary dumpster fire.”

Toad grinned, completely unfazed. “Oh yeah? Least I own it, man. Meanwhile, you turn into a damn Hallmark card every time someone so much as mentions Kitty. What’s next, Lance? Carvin’ her name into a tree? Doodlin’ little hearts in your history notes?” He cackled, miming scribbling in the air.

Lance exhaled sharply, his fists clenching at his sides. “Wow. Real original, Todd,” he deadpanned. “Keep runnin’ that mouth, and maybe one day someone’ll actually care what you have to say.”

Toad grinned like he’d been waiting for that exact reaction. “Aw, c’mon, Lance, don’t be mad ‘cause I call it like I see it,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “You’re a sap, man—everyone knows it. Can’t even yell at me right without Kitty poppin’ into that thick skull of yours.”

Lance groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was holding back from saying something he’d regret. “Whatever, man. I’m not wasting any more time on your crap,” he muttered, turning on his heel and stomping off down the hall.

Toad cupped his hands around his mouth. “Run away, lover boy! Maybe Kitty’ll patch up your bruised ego while you’re at it!” He cackled to himself as Lance disappeared around the corner, shaking his head.

—-------

Pietro zipped out of the classroom, a blur of motion and energy, he darted through the hallways and out the school doors, the weight of the day melted away with each step. Kurt was waiting, and Pietro couldn’t stop the small flutter of excitement in his chest at the thought.

As he sped through the courtyard, his gaze flicked toward the school windows, catching sight of Lance and Toad still hanging around the lockers. Lance, as expected, was slouched against one, arms crossed, probably brooding over something meaningless—because when wasn’t he? Meanwhile, Toad was hunched over his backpack, that signature, up-to-no-good grin plastered across his face, undoubtedly digging for supplies for whatever ridiculous prank he had brewing. Perched on top of the lockers like she belonged there, was Tabitha. She was idly twirling a gum wrapper between her fingers, legs swinging lazily as she smirked down at whatever Toad was planning, probably egging him on just to see what would happen. Blob was nowhere to be seen, and Pietro silently thanked whatever stroke of luck had kept him out of sight.

A smirk tugged at Pietro’s lips as he slowed just enough to make exaggerated, cartoonish faces at them from a safe distance. He stuck out his tongue, crossing his eyes in an over-the-top expression of mockery, knowing full well they wouldn’t catch him. He needed the small laugh, especially after the weird tension earlier in the day.

If he was lucky, they’d drag their feet on the way home. Maybe stop for snacks, get caught up in their usual petty arguments, or just generally take their sweet time. He needed as much uninterrupted time with Kurt as possible before the rest of the Brotherhood came barging in with their noise and their questions.

Not that it even mattered—Lance was probably driving them all back in his Jeep. Which meant no real delays, no excuses to stall. Just a straight shot home with the rest of those idiots packed into the car, bringing their chaos right to his doorstep. Great.

His thoughts churned as he ran, flipping through excuses and deflections like a deck of cards, searching for the one that would get him out of this unscathed. It’s not like he could be honest — Yeah, guys, Mystique dropped Kurt on me, said something cryptic about keeping him hidden, then peaced out like that was totally normal. No, I don’t know why. No, I don’t know what I’m actually supposed to be doing with him. No, I don’t even know if she’s coming back.

Yeah. That would not go over well.

Nah, he’d have to lie because the alternative—the real truth—wasn’t just bad, it was complicated. He’d have to tell them everything. That Kurt wasn’t just missing—he was gone in a way none of them would know how to handle. That he didn’t remember the X-Men, the Brotherhood, his life here in Bayville—any of it. That the guy wasn’t lost somewhere out there—he was right here, sitting in Pietro’s room, staring at the world like a stranger.

They’d overwhelm him. With their questions, their expectations, their pit and Pietro didn’t know why, but the thought of that—of Kurt looking at them with that same lost expression, of them treating him like some broken puzzle they needed to fix—made something twist in his chest.

No. He wasn’t letting them do that to him. Not now. Not yet.

—----

Kurt didn’t have much to do in Pietro’s room. He tried his best to pass the time, flipping through several books—some well-worn novels, a few comics, and even a random cookbook that had been shoved onto one of the lower shelves. None of them could hold his attention for long. The room was filled with little glimpses of Pietro’s personality, but without Pietro himself, everything felt… empty.

The day felt unbearably long, each minute dragging on without Pietro’s energy filling the space. Kurt checked the clock on the nightstand for what felt like the hundredth time—it was 3:01. He sighed, leaning back on the bed, wondering if Pietro would be back soon. As if on cue, the door creaked open, and there he was standing in the doorway with that ever-present, cocky grin.

“I’m back, Blue,” Pietro said, his voice light and casual, but with a warmth that made Kurt’s chest flutter.

“You’re back earlier than I thought,” Kurt said softly, his voice steady but with a slight waver that betrayed how much he’d missed Pietro’s presence.

“Couldn’t stay away,” Pietro said with a wink, setting his bag down in the corner of the room. “Besides, what kind of host would I be if I left my guest bored out of his mind all day?”

Kurt chuckled, his tail curling around his leg as he glanced away. “I wasn’t bored,” he lied, though his attempt to sound convincing was half-hearted at best.

“Oh, really?” Pietro smirked, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “So you didn’t try to use my skateboard and almost bust your ass?”

Kurt’s eyes widened, and he looked up sharply. “How—? You weren’t even here!” he stammered, his face burning with embarrassment.

Pietro shrugged, his smirk widening. “Call it a lucky guess,” he teased, pushing off the wall and walking closer. “Figured you’d get curious. That, and you’ve got guilt written all over your face.”

Kurt huffed, his lips quirking into a reluctant smile. “Maybe I did… try it,” he admitted, his voice barely above a mumble. “But I didn’t break anything.”

“Not yet,” Pietro quipped, plopping down onto the bed beside him. “But you’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

Kurt let out a soft huff before rolling his eyes. “Well,” Pietro said with a playful grin. “You gonna tell me how else you passed the time? Or should I guess?”

Kurt flopped backward onto the bed with a quiet sigh. “Didn’t do much,” he said. “Read some stuff, went out on the balcony, watched the clouds…” He trailed off for a moment before pushing himself back up, giving Pietro a puzzled look.

“Okay, but—why is your only furniture out there a bean bag?”

Pietro smirked, leaning back on his elbows like the question didn’t deserve a serious answer. “Because I’m a man of taste, obviously.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “A bean bag is ‘taste’?”

“Damn right,” Pietro said, completely unbothered, stretching out on the bed. “I mostly go out there to smoke anyway. I wanna sit somewhere comfortable.”

Kurt blinked at him, incredulous. “You smoke? Like… cigarettes?”

Pietro took one look at his face and lost it, laughing so hard he actually had to sit up. “No, dummy. Dabs . ”

Kurt’s confused expression only deepened. “You… what ?”

Pietro groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah, I dunno why I thought you’d know what that means.” He shook his head, still grinning.

Kurt sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “Whatever. Just… as long as it’s not cigarettes.”

“Aww, you worried about my health, Blue?” Pietro teased, still laughing. Kurt gave him a look that made it very clear the answer was obvious. Pietro was still grinning, but something in Kurt’s expression made him pause—just for a second. He wasn’t joking. This wasn’t just some casual don’t do dumb things kind of concern.

Kurt poked him in the shoulder, insistent. “I’m serious. No cigarettes.” Pietro smirked. “Wow, bossy. Since when were you in charge here, Blue?” Kurt rolled his eyes, but the glare he shot Pietro was real.

Pietro held his hands up in surrender, still amused but taking the concern a little more seriously now. “Alright, alright. No cigarettes. Wouldn’t wanna disappoint you or whatever.” Kurt huffed—not actually mad, but watching him like he was making sure the promise would stick.

Pietro chuckled, stretching before hopping off the bed. “Tell you what—I’ll make it up to you.” Kurt raised an eyebrow, but before he could ask what that meant, Pietro was already moving.

“Watch this,” he said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. He tapped on what looked like an ordinary panel near the door that Kurt had assumed was for the AC. A soft hum filled the room as hidden mechanics whirred to life. Part of the wall across from the bed split open, seamlessly revealing a massive TV.

Kurt’s golden eyes went wide, awe flickering across his face. “Wow…” he muttered, barely above a whisper.  

Pietro smirked, clearly enjoying the reaction. "Not bad, huh? But keep it under wraps, Blue. If the other guys find out about the kind of setup I’ve got up here, they’ll never leave me alone."

Kurt chuckled softly, his tail flicking lazily as he continued to stare at the enormous screen. "I can see why. I didn’t even know something like this could fit in here."

"Perks of being team leader," Pietro said, his tone casual but tinged with a faint hint of pride. Still, the thought of his looming conversation with the rest of the Brotherhood dampened his mood for a brief moment. He shook it off quickly, heading over to the nightstand and pulling a sleek remote from one of the drawers.

He tossed the remote onto the bed beside Kurt, flashing him a grin. "Go ahead. Pick something. You’ve got full control."

Kurt hesitated, his fingers brushing against the remote as he glanced at Pietro. "Really? I can choose anything?"

"Anything," Pietro said, flopping down on the bed next to him. "But just a warning—if you pick something lame, I might have to revoke your privileges."

Kurt laughed, his expression lighting up in a way that made Pietro’s chest ache. He looked down at the remote, scrolling through the endless options on the screen. "You’ve got everything on here," Kurt said, his voice filled with genuine wonder. "I don’t even know where to start."

Pietro leaned back against the headboard, watching Kurt with a fond smile. "Take your time, Blue. We’ve got all day."

The weight of his words lingered for a moment, and Pietro realized how weirdly natural it felt to have Kurt here. He wasn’t usually big on sharing—his hidden TV, the fancy setup, all of it was his. But with Kurt, it didn’t feel like a big deal. Maybe even kinda nice. He liked seeing that look of surprise on Kurt’s face, liked making things easy for him.

Kurt eventually settled on a show, his tail curling loosely around his leg as he settled back into the bed. Pietro couldn’t help but notice how small Kurt looked, especially in the oversized shirt that hung loosely on his frame. 

“Good choice,” Pietro said, nodding toward the screen, his smirk lazy but approving. “Guess I don’t have to revoke your TV privileges after all.”

Kurt rolled his eyes, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, but the small twitch of his lips gave him away.

"And yet," Pietro drawled, smirking as he leaned in just a little, "here you are—my room, my shirt, my blanket, my TV. You moving in, Blue?"

Kurt’s blush darkened instantly, ears burning as he ducked his head, pretending to be absorbed in the show. “Maybe I am,” he murmured, so soft that Pietro almost missed it.

The words caught Pietro off guard, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure how to respond. Instead of teasing, he just leaned back further into the pillows, a rare, genuine smile spreading across his face. "Well, you know," he said lightly, his tone softer now. "I don’t mind."

Kurt blinked at him, his golden eyes wide with a mix of surprise and something else Pietro couldn’t quite place. “You… don’t mind?” he asked, his voice hesitant, almost disbelieving.

Pietro shrugged, trying to play it cool even as his chest tightened at the sight of Kurt looking so unsure of himself. “Yeah, Blue,” he said, his smirk returning but gentler this time. “I mean, you’re here, aren’t you? You’re comfy. I’m comfy. Why mess with a good thing?”

Kurt’s ears twitched faintly, and his tail flicked once under the blanket. “I… I guess,” he murmured, still looking at Pietro like he was trying to figure him out. 

Pietro leaned back on his hands, his smirk growing as he noticed Kurt’s sudden shyness. “C’mon, Blue,” he teased lightly, his tone playful but not unkind. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m not that much of a jerk.”

Kurt’s lips quirked into a small smile despite himself. “It’s not that,” he said softly, glancing back at Pietro with a look that made something twist uncomfortably in the speedster’s chest. “It’s just… I don’t know. I guess I’m not used to this.”

“To what?” Pietro asked, tilting his head, his smirk softening into something more genuine.

“This.” Kurt gestured vaguely to the space around them, then back at Pietro. “Being here. Being with someone who… doesn’t mind me.”

Pietro’s smirk faltered, caught off guard by how quietly Kurt said it—like it was just a fact, not something he expected sympathy for. A flicker of irritation stirred in the back of his mind, not quite anger, but close. Who the hell made him feel like that? His fingers twitched at his sides before he forced them to still, exhaling through his nose.

Joking it off was the easy move, but when he met Kurt’s gaze—hesitant, like he half-expected Pietro to take it back—something in his throat tightened.

“Look, Kurt, I—” he started, his voice quieter than usual, uncharacteristically careful.

"You don’t understand,” Kurt cut him off, his voice quiet but unsteady, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to say the words or swallow them back down. His gaze dropped to his lap, fingers twisting in the blanket, his tail curling tight around his leg like he could physically hold himself together. “Every time I look in the mirror, I—” He stopped abruptly, his jaw tightening, his breath hitching like he’d just run into a wall he hadn’t meant to build.

Pietro leaned forward slightly, his smirk completely gone now. “Kurt…” he said softly, his voice careful, unsure.

Kurt exhaled a shaky breath, then let out a laugh—small, brittle, like he wasn’t sure if it belonged to humor or something more painful. “Do you know what it’s like to hate yourself?” His voice wasn’t angry, just tired, worn down at the edges. His fingers flexed against the blanket before balling into fists. “To look at your own reflection and feel… repulsed?” The last word barely made it out, cracking under the weight of it. He swallowed hard, like that might make the lump in his throat go away, but his breathing still hitched unevenly.

“I can’t even remember who I was,” he admitted, voice thick with frustration, “but the one thing that always comes back—the one thing I can’t escape—is this… this monster I see in the mirror.” His hands moved suddenly, gesturing to himself, the motion sharp, almost defensive. His shoulders hunched as his words spilled out in a rush, like he was afraid of holding them in. “The fur, the tail, the eyes—everything about me screams wrong.”

Pietro’s chest tightened, a lump forming in his throat as he watched Kurt unravel before him. “You’re not—”

“Don’t say I’m not a monster,” Kurt snapped, but the anger didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was too thin, too fragile, cracking at the edges before it could fully take shape. His voice wavered, rising in frustration, in something that wasn’t quite a shout but still felt like it was tearing out of him. “Because I feel like one. Every single day.” He laughed. A short, hollow thing, nothing real behind it.

"You know the worst part?" His voice dropped lower, rougher now, like the words were dragging something out of him he didn’t have the strength to hold back. His lips twitched, but it wasn’t a smile—just a flicker of something brittle, a defense that crumbled before it could fully form. His eyes, though—his eyes were sharp, glassy, filled with something darker, something clawing its way to the surface.

"There were nights I thought about making it easy for everyone." The words were stark, too blunt, like he wasn’t even aware of how much weight they carried. "Just… walking out and never coming back. Or maybe finding the highest rooftop I could and seeing if I could really land on my feet."

His breath hitched slightly, and he forced out a short, humorless laugh. "Wouldn’t that be something? Just gone, like I was never even here. Like I never existed in the first place."

The words hit like a gut punch, the weight of them pressing into the space between them, heavy and suffocating. Pietro felt his stomach drop, a sharp, cold knot of something uneasy twisting inside him. Kurt looked like he wanted to take it back, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud—but it was already there, hanging between them like something neither of them could ignore.

I—I didn’t mean to—” Kurt’s voice wavered, fragile, like glass already splintering under pressure.

"Easy for who?" Pietro cut in, the sharp edge in his voice making Kurt flinch. His pulse was racing, his thoughts tangled, but that—that was too much. His fingers twitched like he wanted to grab Kurt by the shoulders and shake him. "What the hell, Blue? You think that would’ve made things easier? For who? Because it sure as hell wouldn’t be for me."

His breath came out sharp, too fast, too unsteady. "I’d notice. I’d know." His throat felt tight, the words sticking like something he didn’t want to say, but he forced them out anyway. "So don’t—don’t ever say that shit again."

Kurt stiffened, breath stalling in his throat—but then the fight just… drained out of him. His fingers curled into Pietro’s shirt, gripping tight, like he was afraid to let go. And then, finally, the dam broke. A quiet, broken sob tore free, muffled against Pietro’s shoulder as his whole body trembled under the weight of everything he’d been holding back.

Pietro just held on. Tight. Like it was the only thing that mattered. The TV hummed low in the background, casting flickering shadows across the walls, but neither of them noticed. The world outside didn’t exist. Not right now. All Pietro knew was this—he was never letting Kurt feel this alone again. Not if he had anything to do with it.

Chapter Text

Pietro wanted to hold on, to ground Kurt in something solid, something real—because the way he was shaking, the way his breath hitched like he was barely holding himself together, scared the hell out of him. Kurt was practically curled into him, head pressed against his chest, and Pietro couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat still for this long, but moving didn’t even cross his mind.

Kurt trembled, his body wracked with quiet, aching sobs, and Pietro could feel every single one of them. His hand moved instinctively, rubbing slow, steady circles into his back—because what else could he do? Words felt useless, empty. What the hell was he supposed to say to fix something this big?

His chest tightened with every broken breath Kurt took, something raw and unfamiliar settling deep in his ribs. A small, useless part of him wanted to cry too, because— how? How could someone like Kurt—someone who always found a way to laugh, to smile, to make things lighter—be carrying this ? The thought twisted in Pietro’s stomach like a vice, sharp and suffocating.

They stayed like that, wrapped in silence, as Kurt’s sobs slowly faded, his small frame still trembling in Pietro’s arms. Kurt finally pulled back, hesitant and unsure. Red-rimmed, swollen golden eyes flickered up to meet Pietros, only to dart away just as quickly, shame carving itself into every line of Kurt’s face.

“I—I’m sorry,” Kurt rasped, voice raw from crying. He scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand. “I didn’t mean to… to fall apart like that. I shouldn’t have—”

“Stop.” Pietro’s voice was firm but soft, steady enough to cut through Kurt’s spiraling guilt. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Kurt’s hand, gently guiding it away from his face. Without hesitation, his touch shifted, fingers tilting Kurt’s chin up just enough to meet his gaze, to make sure he was really listening. “Don’t apologize. Not for this.”

Kurt’s lip trembled, his breath unsteady, like he was on the verge of breaking all over again. “But I—I just dumped all of that on you,” he whispered, guilt weighing heavy in his voice. “I’m such a mess. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. With me.”

“Don’t.” Pietro’s voice dropped, quieter now, but firm. Dead serious in a way he rarely ever was. His fingers curled slightly against Kurt’s jaw, not holding, just steadying, grounding. “Don’t say stuff like that, Blue.” His throat felt tight, but he pushed past it, his grip shifting as he let go, his hands falling to his sides—but his eyes stayed locked on Kurt’s. “Look at me.”

Kurt hesitated, his gaze flickering to the side, shame weighing heavy in the way his shoulders curled inward. For a moment, it seemed like he wouldn’t do it—like the words had hit too close, too sharp, cutting at something raw inside him. But then, slowly, hesitantly, his golden eyes lifted, locking onto Pietro’s.

Pietro exhaled, something in his chest loosening, if only slightly. “You think I shouldn’t have to deal with this? With you? That you—what—don’t deserve to take up space? That you don’t—” He broke off, his jaw clenching, frustration curling under his skin, but not at Kurt—never at Kurt. At whatever had made him believe that his existence was some kind of mistake.

“You don’t get to say that, alright?” Pietro pressed on, his voice a little rough now, like the words were scraping their way out of him. “You don’t get to talk like you don’t deserve to be here. Like you don’t matter.” He swallowed hard. “Because you do. More than you know.”

Kurt’s breath hitched, something breaking across his face, and Pietro felt his own chest tighten in response.

“You think I wouldn’t notice if you were gone?” Pietro asked, voice low but unwavering. “You think the world would just—what—keep spinning like nothing happened?” He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “It wouldn’t. I wouldn’t.” His lips pressed together for a second, something unspoken burning at the back of his throat. “You—you make things better, Blue. You make people better. You make me—” He cut himself off again, his own heartbeat deafening in his ears, but he didn’t look away.

Kurt was staring at him now, wide-eyed, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Like he wanted to, but didn’t know how.

Pietro took a slow breath, steadying himself, trying to push past the way his own emotions were clawing at his ribs. “I know things are messed up. I know you feel lost, and I know—” He exhaled sharply. “I know it’s hard to believe people when they say this kinda stuff. But I need you to believe me.” His hand shifted slightly, moving to Kurt’s wrist, a quiet, deliberate touch. “You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever. You hear me?”

Kurt swallowed, hard, his throat bobbing, his lip trembling slightly.

Pietro’s grip stayed firm. “You belong here, Blue,” he said, softer now, but just as fierce. “And I’m not gonna let you forget that.”

Kurt could hear it in his voice, feel it in the way his fingers curled around his wrist like he was afraid to let go. It wasn’t empty reassurance, wasn’t some shallow attempt at comfort just to make him stop crying. It was real. And God, that was almost worse.

His shoulders shook—not with sobs this time, not quite, but with the overwhelming weight of being told, so bluntly, that he mattered. That he was worth something. That Pietro had thought about what it would mean if he wasn’t here, and hadn’t liked it. Had hated it.

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut, his throat bobbing as he fought to swallow past the lump forming there, but it was useless. He could already feel the sting creeping up behind his eyes, that telltale pressure of tears threatening to spill over, and this time, it wasn’t from pain. It wasn’t from shame.

It was because someone had seen him.

His whole body felt unsteady, pulled in too many directions at once, but the tension in his shoulders began to ease, little by little, like something inside him had finally stopped bracing for impact. Pietro’s grip was still there, warm and steady, grounding him, and instead of pulling away, Kurt found himself leaning into it.

He opened his eyes, looking up at Pietro through the blur of unshed tears, his vision swimming just a little. His lips parted, searching for words, for something, anything, that could come close to expressing what was lodged so painfully in his chest, but all he could manage was a whisper, raw and unsteady.

“Danke.”

Pietro’s gaze flicked to Kurt’s tear-soaked collar, the damp fabric clinging to his skin, and something in his chest twisted—tight, unbearable, the kind of feeling he didn’t know what to do with. He shoved it down, pushing past the ache, and exhaled softly. His grip on Kurt’s wrist loosened, fingers trailing lightly as he slowly pulled away, careful, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if letting go was the right thing to do but knew he had to anyway.

“Anytime,” he murmured. Pietro hesitated for half a second longer, then forced himself to move. He could feel the dampness of Kurt’s tears clinging to his own shirt, cold against his skin, which meant Kurt’s was probably worse. His heart protested—every instinct screamed at him to stay, to keep holding him, to promise in every way he could that he wasn’t going anywhere—but he ignored it. Instead, he pushed himself to his feet, crossing the room in quick, efficient strides.

His hands moved without thinking, pulling open the dresser and grabbing two of his shirts.

Pietro turned back, holding the shirt out, his usual sharp edges softened by something quieter, something unspoken. “Here,” he said, like it was nothing, like handing Kurt a clean shirt was just a casual thing and not a quiet reassurance, not a silent promise that he had him, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Kurt hesitated for just a moment before reaching out, fingers brushing against the fabric, his grip careful, like he was still steadying himself. His tail flicked under the blanket, restless, and for a brief second—a single, fleeting moment—a small, warm smile flickered across his face. Grateful. Soft. Like sunlight breaking through a storm.

Then it was gone, and Pietro hated how much he wanted to see it again. “What’s wrong?” He asked, one brow lifting, the corner of his mouth twitching just enough to hint at teasing, but not quite committing.

Kurt’s ears flattened, his hands tightening around the fabric in his lap. “I—I’m still not wearing any pants,” he muttered, tugging at the hem of the oversized gym shirt swallowing his frame, his voice barely above a breath.

Pietro blinked, gaze flicking down, then back up—only to be met with Kurt’s deepening blush, his golden eyes darting away like he suddenly wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

“Oh. Right.” Pietro rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly very aware of the fact that he’d been so caught up in everything else that he forgot about that particular detail.

His brain stalled for half a second, short-circuiting just a little—because, honestly? Kurt looked adorable like that. Small. Drowned in fabric. Practically pocket-sized. The thought nearly escaped his mouth before he caught himself, biting his tongue so hard it almost hurt.

Instead, he cleared his throat and smirked, defaulting to casual like it wasn’t completely not casual. “No big deal. I’ll turn around. Take your time.”

Kurt murmured a quiet Danke and carefully slipped the fresh shirt over his head, keeping the fleece blanket securely in place over his lap. His tail twitched beneath it, brushing lightly against the bed as he adjusted the fabric.

A beat passed, and then—hesitant, still tinged with embarrassment—Kurt spoke. “Uh… can I also get some pants?”

Pietro chuckled softly, the sound breaking the tension just enough to make Kurt’s shoulders drop a fraction. “Yeah, yeah, hang on,” he said, turning to the hamper and pulling out the pair of sweatpants from yesterday.“Here,” he said, tossing them onto the bed.

“I’d get you a fresh pair, but I’d rather not cut up another one of my pants,” he added with a smirk, crossing his arms as he leaned against the dresser. “We’ll go shopping tomorrow. Get you some new clothes. Something that actually fits.”

Kurt looked up, blinking, his tail curling slightly at the suggestion. “Shopping?”

Pietro shrugged, a grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah, shopping. Don’t look so surprised, Blue. I've got money.”

Kurt huffed a quiet laugh, the corners of his lips twitching in what might have been another smile. “Danke,” he said softly, the sincerity in his voice striking a chord in Pietro.

Pietro turned his back again, giving Kurt space to pull on the pants. He focused on the TV instead, which was still playing some sitcom neither of them had been paying attention to. “Okay, I’m done,” Kurt said softly after a moment.

When Pietro turned back around, his gaze barely had time to land on Kurt before the smaller mutant let out a soft, horrified gasp.

“I—I’m so sorry,” Kurt stammered, golden eyes fixed on the tear-streaked fabric of Pietro’s shirt. “I didn’t realize how much I—”

“Relax, Blue,” Pietro interrupted, tone light, easy, completely unbothered. “It’s just a shirt. You’re fine.”

To prove his point, he grabbed the hem and pulled it off in one smooth motion—quick, casual. None of that stopped Kurt’s breath from hitching slightly as his gaze landed on Pietro’s lean, toned frame.

The soft glow of the bedside lamp traced along the sharp lines of his muscles, catching on the faint sheen of dampness on his skin, and Gott help him , Kurt could not stop looking. His cheeks burned, his ears twitched, and his tail coiled so tightly beneath the blanket it might as well have been tying itself in knots.

And then—because the universe clearly hated him—Pietro used the discarded shirt to wipe at his stomach, dragging the fabric absently across his skin with the kind of casual ease that somehow made him even more distracting.

Kurt’s eyes darted downward before he could stop them, lingering far too long. Stop staring. Stop staring. Stop staring.

His ears twitched like Pietro might actually hear his mortification screaming through his brain. It’s just a shirt. People change shirts all the time! This is not a big deal! But no matter how much he tried to convince himself, his brain refused to cooperate.

Every movement—every flex of muscle—felt unfair . And then there was the shirt itself, still damp with tears, clinging to Pietro’s skin as he wiped it across his stomach.

Those are my tears.

Kurt swallowed hard, somehow making everything worse . His gaze shot to the TV, the dresser, the floor—anywhere but Pietro.

Mercifully, Pietro tossed the damp shirt into the hamper and pulled on a fresh one with the same effortless ease, breaking the spell Kurt hadn’t even realized he was under. “Good as new,” he said, tugging the hem into place, his voice just a little too amused.

Kurt’s stomach twisted as sharp blue eyes flicked back to him—catching the way his own gaze darted away a second too quickly, the faint pink dusting his cheeks.

Gott, he noticed.

His blush deepened as Pietro’s grin turned knowing, too entertained for Kurt’s peace of mind. This is so embarrassing. He’s going to think I’m weird. Why am I like this? His fingers fidgeted with the hem of the oversized shirt, scraping against the fabric like it might somehow ground him. It’s not my fault, he tried to reason, but his racing heart said otherwise. He’s just so at ease, like none of this even bothers him. And—and he looks… No. Stop that. That’s not the point! His tail betrayed him completely, curling even tighter beneath the blanket.

But what if it is the point?

The thought sent his stomach flipping wildly, panic clawing at the edges of his mind. Nein. Don’t go there. He’s your friend… right? His grip on the fabric tightened. You’ll ruin everything if you keep thinking like this.

“Blue?” Kurt flinched, eyes snapping up to meet Pietro’s far-too-pleased expression. He knew . He absolutely knew.

Kurt forced a nervous smile, his tail flicking in agitation. “Ja, um… good as new,” he echoed awkwardly, his accent thickening slightly in his flustered state. He tried to hold eye contact, but the heat creeping up his neck was too much, and he quickly looked away, heart pounding in his chest.

—---

Pietro bit back a grin. Stepping closer, he adjusted the blanket around Kurt’s legs in what was totally just a casual gesture. “You’re looking kinda chilly there,” he said smoothly, basking in Kurt’s flustered state.

“Danke,” Kurt mumbled, voice barely above a whisper, his blush refusing to fade. Pietro lingered a beat longer, just to see if Kurt would fluster even more, before finally stepping back. As he turned away, he let out a quiet breath, raking a hand through his hair grin forming before he could stop it. You’re having way too much fun with this , he thought.

The sound of the Brotherhood stomping into the house shattered the moment. Doors slammed, voices boomed, and heavy footsteps echoed through the walls, breaking the fragile calm in the room.

Pietro groaned internally, the grin fading.

“They’re home,” Kurt mumbled, his voice quiet and tired, his eyes flickering toward the door for only a moment before returning to the blanket in his lap. He didn’t look surprised or even particularly interested. The noise was just part of the chaos that came with the Brotherhood house—background noise to an already overwhelming day.

“Yeah,” Pietro said, his voice quieter than usual. He forced a smile, but his mind was already racing.

Lance was already suspicious—that much was obvious. Toad, meanwhile, seemed more interested in needling him than actually getting answers, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t paying attention. And sooner or later, one of them would say something to Tabitha, and then she’d be on his case too.

Pietro exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. Great. Fantastic. Just what I needed.

Downstairs, the noise escalated—raised voices overlapping, footsteps stomping across the floor, and then— boom. Tabitha’s unmistakable laugh rang out a second later, sharp and delighted, like she was already having the time of her life watching whatever chaos she’d just caused unfold.

Pietro dragged a hand down his face. He really didn’t want to leave Kurt—not after the day they’d had—but he didn’t have a choice. If he didn’t at least try to figure out how close Lance and Toad were to putting things together, he’d have way bigger problems on his hands sooner rather than later.

“Listen, Blue,” Pietro said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. His voice was calm but carried a hint of something heavier—guilt, maybe. “I gotta go downstairs for a bit.”

Kurt tilted his head slightly, his tail twitching once under the blanket. “Because of them?” he asked softly, his voice worn, almost too tired to rise above a whisper.

Pietro nodded, glancing toward the door. “Yeah. I need to make sure they don’t get curious. If they come up here…” He trailed off, shrugging. “It’s just better if they don’t.”

Kurt studied him for a long moment, his golden eyes steady but duller than usual, as though the weight of the day had drained him completely. His tail flicked again, a subtle, restless movement that didn’t match the resignation in his voice when he finally spoke. “I get it,” he murmured, looking back down at his lap. “It’s okay. You should go.”

Pietro blinked, caught off guard by how quietly Kurt had agreed. There was no hesitation, no protest—just quiet acceptance, like he’d expected it.

“You’re sure?” Pietro asked, leaning forward slightly, trying to gauge the emotions hidden behind Kurt’s calm exterior.

Kurt nodded, his long fingers absently brushing the edge of the blanket. “Ja,” he said simply, though his tone was heavy with exhaustion. “It’s fine. I’m not… ready to meet anyone yet anyway.” His voice wavered on the last word, but he steadied himself quickly, glancing up at Pietro with a faint, tired smile. “So… it’s better if you go.”

Pietro let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “You’re sure?”

Kurt nodded again, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. “I’m sure.”

Relief flooded through Pietro, though it was tinged with guilt. “Thanks, Blue,” he said softly, his tone more subdued now. “And… I’m sorry. For leaving you up here alone. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I know,” Kurt replied, his voice quieter now, his gaze dropping back to the blanket. “I’ll be fine.”

Pietro hesitated, his heart tugging uncomfortably as he stood. He forced a smirk onto his face, trying to lighten the moment. “You’d better be. Don’t go sneaking out or anything while I’m gone.”

Kurt gave a soft huff of laughter, the sound faint and fleeting. “I won’t.”

“Good,” Pietro said, heading for the door. He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “And, hey… if anything happens, just call for me, alright? I’ll be back in a flash.”

Kurt nodded, his tail curling slightly under the blanket. “Danke, Pietro,” he murmured, his voice as soft and tired as his expression. Pietro gave him a two-fingered salute before stepping out, closing the door with a quiet click.

________

Lance was sprawled on the couch, lazily flipping through TV channels, the remote dangling loosely in his hand. He caught the faint creak of the stairs and glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Pietro descending.

“Well, well, well” Lance drawled, not bothering to sit up. “Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence.”

Pietro barely spared him a glance as he hit the last step, already smirking. “You missed me that much, Alvers? I didn’t realize I had fans waiting.”

Before Lance could fire back, Tabitha strolled in from the kitchen, looking smug as hell and holding up a very cute tumbler—pastel-colored, covered in little stars, the kind that definitely did not belong in the Brotherhood house.

“Check this out,” she announced, spinning it in her hands like it was a prized possession. “Isn’t it adorable?” She took a deliberate sip from the straw, raising an eyebrow at the group like she dared them to question her.

Lance squinted. “Where the hell did you even get that?”

Tabitha grinned. “Diner down the street. Someone left it unattended. Which, y’know, tragic for them. Great for me.”

Pietro snorted, crossing his arms. “You are such a klepto.”

Tabitha gasped, placing a hand over her chest in mock offense. “Excuse you, I’m a liberator of unattended goods.”

Lance shook his head, muttering, “Unbelievable,” From the other room, Toad perked up, his head popping around the doorway like a nosy little goblin. His grin stretched wide as he sauntered into the living room, hands stuffed deep in the oversized pockets of his hoodie.

“Speedy finally rolls in, huh? Thought maybe you ran outta juice or somethin’. You sure you’re still the fastest guy in town?”

“Faster than you could dream of,” Pietro shot back, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, already smirking. He gave Toad a once-over. “What’s your excuse, Froggy? Too much TV rot your brain, or were you just born this annoying?”

Toad clutched his chest dramatically, staggering back onto the armrest of the couch. “Ouch, Speedy! That’s cold, man! I was just worried about ya. Thought maybe you ditched us to go hang out with the X-dorks.”

Lance snorted softly but didn’t look up from the TV. “Yeah, ‘cause Pietro’s the team spirit type.” Then, after a pause, his eyes flicked up, narrowing slightly. “You gonna keep dodgin’ us, though, Speedy?”

Tabitha now lounging in the armchair with her tumbler, raised an eyebrow at that. She didn’t say anything, just tilted her head slightly, watching Pietro like she was waiting to see how he squirmed his way out of this one.

Pietro pushed off the wall with an easy shrug. “Is it really dodging if you guys could never keep up in the first place?” He smirked, letting the words hang for a beat before adding, “Like I said—if you wanna waste your time prying into my very exciting absence, be my guest.”

Tabitha just smirked, tilting her head like she was enjoying the show. “Ohhh, were these two pressing you earlier, Tro?” she drawled, her tone dripping with fake sympathy. “Aww, you guys care so much.” Her grin widened, all mischief and mockery, eyes flicking between Lance and Toad like she was waiting for one of them to take the bait.

Toad scoffed, rolling his eyes before lazily tossing a finger in Lance’s direction. “Big guy over here’s the sentimental one,” he said, his smirk sharp. “I don’t care what Speedy’s doin’—I just wanna know why he’s hiding it.” His gaze slid back to Pietro, sharp and knowing. “Mr. Look at Me usually can’t shut up about whatever dumb thing he’s up to, but now? Suddenly all mysterious?” He clicked his tongue. “Real suspicious, man.”

Pietro scoffed, arms crossing as he shot Toad a dry look. “Toad, I literally stole your dabs last week, and you didn’t even notice. Pretty sure you’re not aware enough to know what’s suspicious.”

Toad’s eyes narrowed, his posture straightening slightly. “Wait—what?”

Pietro smirked, tilting his head. “Yeah, exactly.”

Tabitha laughed, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. “He’s got you there, Toddy. You’re not exactly the king of awareness.” She grinned, spinning her tumbler in her hands. “I took, like, three joints from you this week. Easiest thing ever.”

Toad’s head snapped toward her. “You what?”

Lance smirked, barely looking up from the TV. “Oh, please. I’ve been taking one a week off you since, like, Sophomore year.”

Toad’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious?!”

Lance shrugged. “Not my fault you’re an easy target, man.”

Toad let out the longest, most put-upon sigh, dragging both hands down his face like he was physically in pain. “I swear to fuck , I hate all you goddamn parasites,” he groaned. “Hands off my shit! I ain't sharin’ nothin’ ever again.”

Tabitha took a slow sip from her tumbler, looking entirely unbothered. “Yeah, yeah. You said that last time, Toddy.”

Lance smirked. “And the time before that.”

Pietro clapped a hand on Toad’s shoulder, grinning. “C’mon, look at it this way—you’re really bringin’ people together here. Real community spirit , man.”

Toad slapped his hand away so hard it nearly made a sound. “Go choke, Maximoff.”

Tabitha giggled, voice all mock sweetness. “Aww, don’t be like that, Toddy. You know we love you.”

Pietro and Lance both shot her a flat look, not even trying to pretend they agreed.

Toad looked just as unimpressed, deadpan as he jabbed a finger at her. “No. You love jackin’ my shit.” His glare swept over the rest of them. “All of you.”

Pietro smirked, completely unrepentant. “I mean… yeah. Obviously.”

Toad let out a sharp, exasperated breath and yanked a joint from his pocket, flicking his lighter open with a snap. “Man, fuck y’all.” He lit up, took a long drag, and stomped outside without another word.

Pietro laughed before draping himself lazily over the back of the couch behind Lance. “So you’re the one all pressed about me, big guy?”

Tabitha snickered, kicking her feet up again. “Aww, Lance being a big softie? Who’s shocked?” She shot him a wicked grin, eyes glinting. “I mean, we all see how soft you are for that Kitty.”

Lance’s jaw locked, but before he could cut that off, Tabitha pounced, leaning in like a predator that just scented blood. “Lancey baby,” she cooed, all syrupy mock affection, “what’s got you so fixated on Pietro’s absence, huh? You feeling lonely? Needin’ a boyfriend now?”

Lance’s eye twitched so hard it was a miracle he didn’t combust on the spot. “Tabby, I swear to God , I am never driving your ass home again. Walk yourself home, bitch.”

Tabitha cackled, tipping her head back like she’d just been handed the funniest joke of the century as Lance shoved off the couch, muttering murderous things under his breath as he stomped toward his room.

“Worth it,” she called after him, still grinning as she took another sip from her stolen tumbler.

Pietro stretched, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he watched Lance storm off. His smirk sharpened, lazy and self-satisfied. “Damn, Tabby. You wiped him out for me.” He let out a mock sigh, tilting his head. “Didn’t even have to lift a finger.”

Tabitha turned that smirk right back on him, but hers was sharper, wilder—like she was two seconds from setting something on fire just to see what would happen.

“Oh, honey,” she purred.

Something about it made Pietro’s spine stiffen, but he wasn’t about to let her know that. Tabitha was like a shark—except worse, because she wasn’t just smelling blood, she liked to poke at the wound to see how deep it went.

“You really think you can fool me?” she teased, moving to stand as her grin stretched wide like she already knew the answer. “Please. I know you’re up to something for Mystique.”

Pietro arched an eyebrow, feigning boredom. “And that’s different from what I usually do… how?”

Tabitha hummed, tilting her head like she was considering it, before suddenly leaning in, voice dropping to something low and conspiratorial. “See, that’s the thing, Speedy. Normally, you act like it’s your game. Like you’re running the show, playing it your way. Loud about it. Big moves, big talk, big show-off bullshit.”

She stepped back, tossing her hands in the air with a dramatic twirl. “But now? Now you’re shifty. Now you’re hiding. Even Toad clocked it.” She let that hang in the air for a second, grin widening as she moved in closer to him, finger pointed right at his chest, her energy practically crackling.

“Which means this one’s big. And I really wanna know why.”

Pietro just snorted, arms crossing. “Yeah? What if I don’t feel like telling you?”

Tabitha grinned, wide and reckless. “Oh, you don’t have to tell me a thing,” she said, flicking his nose with her finger before sauntering toward the door, her movements light, effortless, untouchable. “I’m gonna find out soon enough, Tro.”

She shot him a wink over her shoulder, her laugh bright and a little too delighted .

“Can’t wait to see this blow up.”

Chapter Text

Pietro hit the stairs too fast, barely registering the way they creaked under his weight. His pulse was kicking up hard, his hands flexing at his sides, itching for something to do, something to hold onto—something that wasn’t the frustration clawing at the edges of his thoughts. He didn’t like this. Any of it.

Tabitha wasn’t just suspicious—she was enjoying herself. That was the worst part. She had that look, sharp and amused, the one that meant she wasn’t just guessing anymore. She was putting things together, pressing buttons just to see what would happen, testing the waters like she already knew they were dangerous but wanted to see how far she could push before something cracked.

She thought this was a game. If she kept pushing—if she got too close, too soon—she wasn’t the one who would get hurt. She wouldn’t be the one left reeling when everything went sideways and Pietro wasn’t going to let that happen. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair as he reached the top of the stairs, forcing himself to keep moving. He needed to stay ahead of this, to get his footing before someone else knocked it out from under him. He didn’t have all the pieces, and he was running out of time to fake it like he did.

His thoughts flickered back to Kurt. To the way he had clung to him, hands gripping like Pietro was the only solid thing left in a world that had betrayed him. The way his voice had cracked under the weight of all that self-loathing, raw and practiced at the same time, like it wasn’t new, just another weight he had carried for too long.

Pietro’s fingers curled into a fist.

Who did this? How did Kurt lose his memories? How did he end up like this—so lost, so broken, so convinced that just existing was unbearable?

More than that, what the hell was Pietro supposed to do about it? Because winging it wasn’t going to work forever. Tabitha was already circling, and sooner or later, Lance and Toad would be piling on again.

Maybe it was time to stop guessing. Maybe he should just ask Kurt.

The thought settled, cold and steady in his chest, as he reached his bedroom door. He exhaled, steadying himself before turning the handle. Pietro pushed the door open quietly, his sharp eyes immediately locking onto Kurt’s figure sprawled out on his bed. The soft glow from the TV flickered across the room, casting shifting shadows along the walls. Kurt’s tail curling lazily over the side, flicking occasionally in time with whatever was playing on the screen.

The sight brought a flicker of relief to Pietro’s chest—he’s still here. Still safe.

Kurt didn’t flinch at the sound of the door opening, just turned his head slightly, golden eyes flickering up to meet Pietro’s. The tired smile that touched his lips was small, barely there, but it was something.

Pietro had already reached for the blue metal water bottle in his bag before making his way over to the bed, the ice inside clinking softly as he tossed it from one hand to the other. He held it up now like a peace offering, his usual smirk sliding into place. “Thought you might need this,” he said, voice light but edged with something quieter—something careful.

Kurt blinked at him, then at the bottle, before slowly pushing himself up onto his elbows. His movements were sluggish, exhaustion evident in the way his shoulders slumped and his tail curled back toward him protectively. “Danke,” he murmured, taking the bottle with both hands, his fingers brushing against the cool metal before twisting the cap open. He took a slow sip, his throat bobbing as he drank, before exhaling a quiet sigh.

Pietro didn’t say anything at first, just sat on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees as he watched Kurt for a long moment. Everything in the room felt settled—but Pietro knew better. His fingers drummed lightly against the mattress, mind still turning over everything that had happened today, everything he still didn’t know. 

Pietro took a breath, bracing himself as he leaned back slightly, his voice uncharacteristically serious when he finally spoke. “Hey, Blue.” Kurt glanced at him, tilting his head slightly at the shift in Pietro’s tone.

“We…” Pietro started, then stopped, his usual confidence faltering for just a second. He exhaled sharply, steeling himself before trying again. “We need to talk.”

Kurt blinked, his ears twitching slightly, the subtle movement betraying his unease. His expression shifted—apprehensive, guarded—but he didn’t immediately retreat, didn’t try to deflect. “About what?”

“About… what happened.” He forced the words out carefully, watching Kurt’s reaction. “Before you got here. I need to know, Blue.” His voice was steady, but there was something in it—something raw, something urgent—that he couldn’t quite suppress. “I know you’ve been through hell, and I don’t wanna push you, but… I gotta understand. Why Mystique brought you here. Why you’re—”

He stopped himself, jaw clenching as he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply through his nose. Why you’re like this. He couldn’t say it. Not when Kurt already looked like he might fold in on himself at any second.

“I just… I need to know, alright?”

Kurt’s tail twitched, curling slightly under the blanket, his grip tightening around the water bottle. He didn’t answer right away. The weight of Pietro’s words—of the question—settled heavy between them, stretching the silence until it almost felt unbearable.

When he finally looked up, his golden eyes were shadowed, tired. “I’ll tell you,” he murmured.

Pietro let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders easing just slightly. “Alright, Blue,” he said, voice softer now, more careful. “Whenever you’re ready,” he added, because for once, he wasn’t going to push.

Kurt’s lips wrapped around the rim of the bottle, and he took a slow sip of water. The cool liquid helped wash away the bitter taste lingering at the back of his throat, but it did nothing to soothe the hollow ache in his chest. Kurt’s eyes flickered to the TV, not really seeing it, just needing something else to focus on as he spoke. “The last thing I remember before I woke up in that place…” He trailed off, fingers clenching around the metal bottle like it was the only thing grounding him. “It was my mother’s voice, telling me to be safe in America. Her eyes… they were so sad.” His voice cracked slightly, and he quickly took another sip of water, as if that might somehow steady him.

Pietro’s chest tightened. He didn’t know much about Kurt’s parents, but the mention of them—paired with the quiet devastation in Kurt’s tone—made something deep inside him ache.

Kurt exhaled shakily, his golden eyes distant, unfocused. “I remember her. I remember home. I remember my whole life in Germany” His voice turned bitter, sharp at the edges, like it was cutting him up just to say it. “I remember sitting at the table, them telling me I was leaving for a better life in the U.S. I was nervous, but they told me I’d be okay.” His grip tightened around the bottle until his knuckles turned pale. “Everything after that is just… gone,” Kurt continued, his voice trembling a little. “It’s like there’s this blank spot in my head,”

His breath hitched slightly, and when he spoke again, the words came slower, heavier. 

“When I woke up I couldn’t see anything at first—just light .” His face twisted like the memory itself hurt. “Blinding, white light, and my head—Gott, my head.” He squeezed his eyes shut, fingers pressing against his temple as if trying to chase away the phantom pain. “It felt like it was splitting open. Like something had been ripped out of me.”

Pietro swallowed, his hands curling into fists against his thighs.

“I tried to move. To grab my head— something , anything to stop the pain—but…” Kurt let out a hollow, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I couldn’t. I was strapped down.” His tail flicked sharply, betraying the lingering panic under his otherwise flat tone. “Metal latches. Every time I pulled against them my wrists ached.” He finally looked at Pietro, and there was something dark in his golden eyes now, something raw and unfiltered.

“For a second, I thought— this is it. This is where they sent me.” His lips curled, voice thick with resentment, self-loathing. “My parents got sick of me or tired of looking at me and this was where they dumped me.”

Pietro’s throat felt tight, but he forced himself to keep his expression neutral, to not let the rage bubbling under his skin show. This wasn’t about him. This was Kurt—tired, drained, spilling something he probably never meant to say aloud.

He exhaled slowly, making sure his voice was steady when he finally spoke.

“You know that’s not true, right?” His words were careful but firm, sharp enough to cut through the quiet. “That they didn’t just—Give up on you?”

Kurt didn’t answer immediately. His eyes dropped back to the bottle in his hands, his fingers tracing the condensation forming along the metal. He looked uncertain, like he wanted to believe Pietro but couldn’t quite bring himself to say it out loud.

Pietro leaned in slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “Because if you don’t know that,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, “I’ll remind you as many times as it takes.”

Kurt exhaled shakily “Yeah, I know,” he murmured, voice flat, hollow. “But for a second… I thought that’s what it was. That they’d finally had enough.”

His tail flicked sharply beneath the blanket, a restless, agitated movement. “I couldn’t even teleport,” he admitted, voice raw with something dangerously close to fear. “I tried. I—I tried so hard to get out of there, to do something—but it was useless. I think it was the electric field that wasn’t letting me teleport.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “It was terrifying.”

Pietro clenched his jaw. Terrifying didn’t even begin to cover it. Kurt inhaled slowly, steadying himself. “Then… she walked in.” Pietro didn’t have to ask who she was.

“She looked like a scientist at first. Just another person in a lab coat, probably coming to take notes on whatever they’d done to me.” Kurt let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “I thought— great. This is it. I’m about to be experimented on. ”

Pietro’s hands curled into fists, his nails pressing into his palms.

“But then she changed,” Kurt continued, his voice dipping lower, like part of him still couldn’t believe it. “Her whole form shifted, and suddenly, she wasn’t some scientist. She was blue. Like me.” He looked up at Pietro then, golden eyes searching. “She told me she was there to save me.”

Pietro didn’t react, didn’t move. He just watched.

“She explained that I was in a Hydra lab.” Kurt shook his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Not that I know what that means.”

The words landed with a dull weight between them, sinking deep, but Kurt didn’t stop there. His gaze flickered between Pietro’s face and the bed, uncertain, hesitant—like he was still debating whether to say the next part aloud.

“She said they were going to turn me into a mutant weapon.” His fingers curled slightly into the fabric of the blanket, his tail flicking once beneath it. “That she had to get me out before it was too late.”

Pietro felt his stomach drop .

A cold wave of dread washed over him, spreading through his veins like ice. A Hydra lab. Weaponized mutants. God. Maybe I don’t want to hear the rest of this.

“And then she said…” Kurt hesitated, voice wavering. Pietro leaned in slightly. “She said what, Blue?” Kurt exhaled, slow and heavy. “She said that I was just a student before I joined the brotherhood.”

Pietro stilled. The words sat there, hollow and wrong, rattling around in his skull like loose screws in a machine that had already been set in motion. Kurt had never been in the Brotherhood. Not once. Not for a second. He was an X-Man. Had always been. 

So why the hell would Mystique—

This wasn’t a mistake. This wasn’t some weird misunderstanding or some messed-up memory glitch that would sort itself out if they just waited long enough. Mystique had put that idea in his head on purpose—had twisted the truth into something Kurt could hold onto, something small, simple, easy to swallow.

If she’d pulled Kurt from that lab, it was because she wanted him for something. She had plans for him. Pietro didn’t say any of that. Not yet, because right now, Kurt looked so small, so exhausted, his golden eyes welling up with tears as his voice grew smaller and smaller.

“I think she was lying,” Kurt whispered, the words fragile, breaking.

Pietro swallowed hard.

“But she said… she said that I was safe here. That the brotherhood was where I belong.”

Pietro watched as Kurt blinked rapidly, struggling to keep the tears from falling. His hands trembled as he lifted the bottle to his lips, taking another slow sip—just something to do , something to distract from the fact that the ground had been ripped out from under him.

“She didn’t tell me a lot when she brought me here,” Kurt admitted, his voice quieter now, like he was afraid that speaking too loudly would make everything too real . “But when we got to the house…”

He let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “She made me German potato soup .”

Pietro blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. “Uh… what?”

Kurt huffed another humorless laugh, his golden eyes flickering with something unreadable. “I have no idea how she knew it was my favorite.” His voice was thick, wavering at the edges. “But it made me think of home. Just for a moment.” He exhaled sharply, his tail flicking against the blankets in a restless motion. “It almost made me believe her.”

Pietro didn’t miss the way Kurt’s breathing hitched slightly, how his grip on the bottle had tightened.

“She told me some things,” Kurt continued, but his voice was strained now, ragged, like he was fighting to hold himself together. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his golden eyes darting toward Pietro—checking, measuring , like he was trying to decide if he could say more.

Pietro saw it. That hesitation. That split second where Kurt almost let the truth slip out. That this—the mess, the confusion, the emotional wreckage—wasn’t just about the lab. He exhaled sharply and gripped the bottle tighter, like holding onto something solid might steady him. “She told me she’s my mother.” The words landed like a slow drop, quiet but irreversible, unraveling between them in the heavy stillness that followed.

Pietro barely breathed, his mind racing to piece it together. The lies about the Brotherhood, the half-truths about his past—this wasn’t just about keeping Kurt safe. Mystique hadn’t pulled him out of that lab to rescue him. She had brought him here to keep him, to mold him into something she could claim, something she could use. His jaw clenched, but he kept his expression neutral, unwilling to let his anger slip through the cracks. Kurt was watching him, raw and uncertain, waiting to see if this revelation would change something.

Pietro exhaled slowly, steadying himself. “Blue,” he said carefully, voice quieter now, more sure. “Whatever she told you, whatever she’s trying to make you believe… you don’t have to figure it out right now.” Kurt’s gaze flickered up, searching, lost, and Pietro felt it settle deep in his chest—Mystique had thrown him into the deep end. Now, somehow, Pietro had to make sure he didn’t drown.

“I’m trying to remember,” Kurt said suddenly, voice shifting, redirecting. “Trying to get back what I lost.” Pietro didn’t call him out on the obvious dodge because Kurt’s voice still sounded broken .

“It’s all just… blank.” Kurt’s hands flexed slightly around the water bottle, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “I couldn’t believe it when you told me we’ve known each other for three years.” He looked at Pietro again, searching his face, trying to piece something together that wasn’t there anymore. “Three years, Pietro. That means I’ve lost at least that much.”

Pietro felt something sharp lodge itself in his chest. He wasn’t sure when exactly Kurt first moved here, but it couldn’t have been that long before they met. He still remembered those early days at Bayville High—how Kurt had been the new exchange student, fresh off the plane from Germany, still adjusting to everything. Pietro had only transferred in after that, a few months later at most. 

Kurt’s tail curled tight against his side, like he was trying to make himself smaller. “I keep thinking… will I even get it back?” He let out a breath—uneven, heavy. “Whatever they did to me in that lab… was it permanent?” His voice cracked slightly, betraying the deep, gnawing fear he was trying to hold back.

Kurt exhaled shakily and leaned back against the wall, the weight of everything pressing down on him. Holding himself up was just too much. His limbs felt heavy, drained—not just physically, but entirely , like exhaustion had settled into the very core of him.

“I’ve been having dreams,” he murmured suddenly, the words slipping out like they had been waiting for the right moment. His breath hitching slightly. “I don’t know if they’re just dreams or if they’re…” He swallowed hard, gaze flickering toward Pietro, uncertain. “If they’re memories.”

Pietro stayed quiet, giving him space to keep going.

“They don’t make sense,” Kurt continued, his voice low, cautious. “Sometimes they’re just flashes—places I can’t fully see, voices I don’t know. Sometimes” He let out a soft shaky breath “sometimes they feel real, like I’m reliving something I’ve already lived.” His tail flicked against the mattress, restless. “Like my mind is trying to guide me somewhere, but I don’t know where.”

“I… I think I might’ve left someone behind,” he admitted, his voice barely audible, almost like saying it out loud made it more real. “Someone important.”

Pietro sat up a little straighter, icy blue eyes locked onto Kurt, sharp and focused. He didn’t say anything yet, just listened.

“I don’t remember them,” Kurt continued, voice raw with frustration. “Not really. But…” He swallowed hard, his cheeks flushing slightly as if embarrassed. “I hear their laugh in my dreams.”

The silence that followed felt fragile, like a thread stretched too thin. Kurt’s chest ached, torn between hope and the fear that hope was dangerous. That it would only lead to disappointment.

“It’s stupid,” he muttered, shaking his head, his tone laced with something bitter and self-defensive. “It’s probably nothing.”

“It’s not stupid,” Pietro said quickly, his voice softer than before, but firm. Unshakable. “If it matters to you, it’s not stupid.”

Kurt wanted to believe him, wanted to cling to the reassurance, but doubt was a steady, familiar weight in his mind.

“This… person you dream about,” Pietro said, watching him carefully, his usual smirk nowhere to be found. “Do you remember anything else? A name? A face?”

Kurt blinked, brow furrowing slightly as he searched his own mind for something—anything—solid to grasp onto. But there was nothing. Just an empty void where memories should have been.

“No,” he admitted softly, shaking his head. “Just… their laugh.” His fingers fidgeted with the bottle again, restless. “It’s warm, I think. Familiar. Like…” He hesitated, trying to grasp the right words before finally whispering, “Like sunlight.”

His lips quirked slightly into something small, wistful, and sad, before he shrugged, his gaze dropping to his lap. “But that’s it. It’s nothing.”

Pietro’s chest tightened again, an ache settling under his ribs. He forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Doesn’t sound like nothing to me,” he said, voice light but careful.

Kurt glanced up at him, golden eyes flickering with something—gratitude, maybe, or just relief that Pietro wasn’t laughing at him. “Thanks,” he murmured, his lips twitching into the faintest ghost of a smile.

His expression shifted, his hands gripping the bottle a little tighter. “I’m scared,” Kurt admitted, voice barely above a whisper. Pietro straightened slightly, his brows knitting together. “Of what?”

Kurt exhaled slowly, his tail curling tighter against his leg. “That at any moment, the dreams will turn bad,” he confessed. “That they’ll show me something I don’t want to see.” His voice wavered slightly, raw with unspoken fear.

The what if hung in the air, unspoken but suffocating. What if I remember what they did to me? What if I had something good, something important—and I lost it? What if I see something I can’t take back?

Pietro didn’t know what to say to that, but then—Kurt’s shoulders eased, just slightly, like he’d remembered something that mattered.

“…But it didn’t happen last night,” he admitted, voice quieter, steadier. “When I slept here. In your room.”

The words landed with more weight than either of them expected.

Pietro blinked, caught off guard. “…Yeah?”

Kurt nodded once, his fingers still wrapped around the bottle, but looser now. His tail flicked, a soft movement instead of a tense one. “I don’t know why,” he said, voice distant, thoughtful. “But for the first time since I woke up… I actually slept.”

Pietro watched the way Kurt seemed to be processing that, trying to make sense of something he didn’t quite understand.

Kurt let out an exhausted sigh, tipping his head back against the wall, his golden eyes tracing the ceiling as if searching for something—an answer, a distraction, anything to pull him away from the weight pressing down on him. After a moment, he lowered his gaze back to Pietro, and it was clear—he was done. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore.

Pietro saw it instantly, the way Kurt’s exhaustion wasn’t just physical but emotional, settling deep into his bones. “You don’t have to go through all of this tonight, okay?” Pietro said, his voice softer now, careful. “No pressure. We can circle back whenever you’re ready.”

He flashed a small, lopsided smile, trying to keep things light—trying to ease the tension that had settled between them. “It’s not a big deal. You can rest. No one’s rushing you.”

Kurt blinked at him, as if the words took a second to sink in. His golden eyes softened, something unspoken flickering across his face—relief. He’d been bracing for Pietro to expect more from him, to push, and instead, Pietro had done the opposite.

“Really?” Kurt asked quietly, voice tinged with something almost disbelieving.

Pietro met his gaze without hesitation, his smirk gentler this time, more honest.

“Yeah, Blue,” he said. “You’ve been through enough for one night. You don’t have to push yourself anymore.”

Kurt nodded slowly, “Danke,” he murmured, the gratitude in his tone unmistakable.

Pietro waved a hand dismissively, though his chest ached at the sight of Kurt’s exhaustion. “Don’t mention it,” he said lightly. “You should get some sleep, Blue. I can see how much this is dragging you down.”

Kurt nodded faintly, already halfway to sleep. His golden eyes drooped as he blinked sluggishly against the pull of exhaustion, his body curling instinctively tighter into the fleece blanket wrapped around him. Pietro caught the way his nose scrunched just slightly, how his ears twitched faintly, how his lashes fluttered against his cheeks in slow, uneven blinks.

It was such a simple thing, yet somehow, it made Pietro’s chest tighten in a way he couldn’t quite explain. He frowned, shifting slightly where he sat, like he could shake the feeling off. Since when did he start caring this much? Since when did someone else’s problems hit him like this—get under his skin, make him think twice, make him stay?

What the hell happened to him?

He turned his attention to the bed, arching a brow when he realized Kurt was still on top of the comforter, curled up in that blue fleece like it was the only thing keeping him together. Pietro huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head.

“Ya know,” he teased, tilting his head, “it’s called a bed for a reason. Pretty sure it works better if you’re actually under the covers.”

Kurt let out a tiny, tired huff of laughter, but didn’t move.

Pietro smirked, watching the way Kurt’s tail twitched once, lazily, before curling closer against his side. “Guess you’re a lost cause,” he murmured, walking toward the closet.

Sliding open the closet door, Pietro rifled through the stack of extra bedding, fingers brushing over different fabrics until they landed on something soft— perfect . He pulled out a white fleece blanket, shaking it out before turning back to the bed.

His smirk faltered slightly when he saw Kurt again.

Curled up on top of the comforter, wrapped snugly in the blue fleece like it was armor, he looked small. Too small. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavily over him, his body unconsciously shrinking in on itself, like maybe if he made himself small enough, he wouldn’t have to carry so much anymore.

Pietro swallowed, something unfamiliar twisting in his chest. Don’t think about it. Just move.

He approached quietly, unfolding the blanket as he walked, his usual light-footed grace making his movements near soundless. When he reached the bed, he draped it over Kurt carefully, making sure it covered him fully, tucking the edges just enough so it wouldn’t slip.

“There,” he murmured. “You’re all set.”

Kurt’s ears twitched faintly at the sound of his voice, and he let out a barely audible noise, something between a sigh and a murmur. Pietro paused, leaning in slightly.

“What was that?” he asked, voice low, softer than usual.

“…Danke,” Kurt mumbled again, slurred with exhaustion, his golden eyes fluttering open just 

Kurt barely managed to mumble a quiet, “Danke,” before his eyes slipped shut again, his tail flicking lightly beneath the blankets like it was sealing the thought.

Pietro snorted softly, shaking his head. “Yeah, no problem, Blue,” he muttered, more to himself than anything. He leaned back, stretching his arms over his head, watching as Kurt burrowed deeper into the warmth. Completely knocked out, tail still twitching like it had something to say. Pietro smirked. “Real high-maintenance, aren’t you?” he mused, voice light, amused—but yeah, okay, maybe a little fond. “Goodnight, Blue,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible.

Kurt didn’t respond, already lost to sleep, his breathing slow and steady. Pietro lingered for a moment, watching him settle, before finally turning toward the door.

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality.

Pietro hesitated, his back pressing against the wood as he let out a slow, unsteady breath. His head tipped back, thudding lightly against the surface, hands curling into loose fists at his sides. His body felt like it should be moving— had to be moving—but for once, he was stuck.

With a sigh, he slid down until he was sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest. He rested his arms on them, staring ahead, but not really seeing anything. His mind was moving at a thousand miles an hour, looping through everything that had happened tonight, everything Kurt had said, and no matter how fast Pietro’s thoughts spun, none of it made sense.

What the hell am I doing?

He ran a hand through his hair, gripping at the strands before letting go, frustration curling tight in his chest. He was supposed to be good at this. Quick on his feet, sharp with answers. Always ready to pivot, to adjust.

So why the hell did he feel so stuck?

Pietro exhaled sharply, letting his head drop back against the door again, eyes closing as his thoughts swarmed. Leaving now, putting distance between himself and the room where Kurt was sleeping, felt impossible.

So he stayed.

“Just a few minutes,” he murmured to himself, barely above a whisper. “I’ll just sit here for a little while.”

The house had finally settled, the earlier chaos faded into uneasy stillness. Even the usual distant hum of the Brotherhood’s antics had gone quiet. It was just him now, alone in the dim hallway, keeping watch like some kind of self-appointed guard dog.

—------- 

Pietro wasn’t about to risk making things weird—not after they’d woken up tangled together that morning, Kurt’s tail wrapped around his waist, his head tucked against Pietro’s chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. The guy clearly hadn’t meant to do it, and Pietro wasn’t about to put them in the same position again.

Still, the idea of leaving Kurt alone in the room didn’t sit right either. Pietro let out a quiet sigh and pulled out the desk chair, dropping into it with far less grace than usual. Crossing his arms and leaning back, he propped his feet up on the desk, tilting his head against the chair. “Guess this is my new bed,” he muttered, not entirely bothered by the thought. As the minutes ticked by, the tension in his body began to ease, and the steady sound of Kurt’s breathing in the background was—annoyingly—kind of nice.

The next morning, Pietro woke with a groan, a sharp crick in his neck reminding him just how bad of an idea it was to sleep in a chair. “Maybe the floor would’ve been a better option,” he muttered, rubbing the sore spot as he stood and stretched.

The sunlight poured into the room, golden rays warming the air and giving the space a soft, serene glow. Pietro yawned, running a hand through his white hair and wincing slightly at the faint oily texture. Shower. Definitely need a shower, he thought, grabbing a towel and his keys as he made his way to the bathroom down the hall. 

Before leaving, he locked the door behind him, ensuring Kurt would stay safe in the meantime.

The bathroom was quiet, the distant noises of the house muffled as Pietro turned on the shower. The spray of warm water hit the tiles with a rhythmic hiss, and he adjusted the temperature until steam began to curl around him, fogging the mirror. Stepping under the stream, Pietro let out a low sigh, tilting his head back as the water cascaded over him.

The tension in his neck and shoulders began to ease, the ache from sleeping in the desk chair slowly melting away under the steady warmth. He pressed his palms against the wall, his head dipping as he closed his eyes and let the water rush over him.

It was the first time in days he’d allowed himself even a sliver of peace. No frantic questions, no guilt gnawing at his chest, no racing thoughts trying to figure out what Mystique’s game was or how he was supposed to keep Kurt safe. Just the soothing rhythm of the water and the faint, steady pulse of his heartbeat.

Pietro dragged a hand through his hair, feeling the silky strands slip between his fingers as the water washed away the faint oily texture. This is nice, he thought, a small, tired smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

For a few fleeting minutes, he let himself just be. No worries, no responsibilities, no secrets weighing him down—just the quiet hum of the shower and the gentle heat soaking into his skin.

As he reached for the soap, Pietro’s thoughts sharpened—staying ahead of Mystique, keeping Kurt safe. She’d already set the board, already made her moves, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d lose. Kurt would lose.

His grip tightened, jaw clenching as he scrubbed his arms harder than necessary. Whatever Mystique had planned, he wasn’t letting it happen. Not when Kurt was already trusting him. Stay ahead. Stay sharp. If Mystique wanted to play games, fine. But she wasn’t the only one who knew how to win.

Pietro leaned his forehead against the cool tile for a moment, the warmth of the water contrasting with the weight in his chest. After a beat, he straightened up, dragging his hands down his face before rinsing off. The shower couldn’t solve everything, but at least it left him feeling a little lighter, a little more capable of facing the day.

By the time he stepped out, towel slung around his waist, he felt lighter—like something heavy had finally eased off his shoulders. His muscles were loose, his hair soft and clean, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he could breathe again.

—-------

Kurt stirred at the soft click of the door, his golden eyes blinking open sleepily as he pushed himself up slightly on his elbows. “Pietro?” he murmured, his voice heavy with sleep.

The sound made Pietro pause in the doorway, glancing toward the bed. A self-assured smirk tugged at his lips as the memory of Kurt checking him out last time resurfaced. Oh, this is gonna be fun, he thought, the idea of teasing the smaller mutant too tempting to pass up.

“Morning, Blue,” Pietro said casually, his tone light as he sauntered into the room. He grabbed some boxers and a pair of loose gray sweatpants from the dresser and slipped them on under the towel, tugging the waistband into place before letting the towel drop to the floor.

As if on cue, Kurt sat up a little more, his golden eyes widening slightly as he caught sight of Pietro’s bare chest. His gaze lingered for a moment before darting away, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks.

Pietro took his time drying off, wiping the dampness from his chest and abs with slow, deliberate movements. He could feel Kurt’s gaze flickering toward him, and his smirk deepened. “Didn’t get much sleep?” Pietro asked casually, as if the way he was parading around wasn’t completely intentional.

“I… uh… slept fine,” Kurt mumbled, his voice faltering slightly as he tried to focus on anything but Pietro.

Pietro chuckled softly, tossing the towel aside before running his hands through his damp hair, ruffling it just enough to make the strands fall messily across his forehead. “That’s good,” he said, his tone far too innocent as he finally grabbed a shirt.

But even as he pulled the shirt over his head, Pietro couldn’t resist one last glance at Kurt. The smaller mutant’s face was bright red, his eyes fixed firmly on the bed as if looking anywhere else might cause him to combust.

“Enjoying the show, Blue?” Pietro teased, his smirk practically glowing with smugness as he tugged the shirt down and turned to face Kurt fully.

Kurt’s ears twitched, and he pulled the blanket up slightly to cover the lower half of his face, his voice muffled as he stammered, “I-I wasn’t—! I mean, I didn’t—!”

Pietro laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Relax,” he said, grabbing the water bottle from his desk and taking a sip. “I’m just messing with you.”

Kurt peeked over the edge of the blanket, his cheeks still flushed but his lips twitching into a small, bashful smile. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered, though there was no real malice in his tone.

Pietro’s smirk softened slightly, and he plopped down into the desk chair, spinning it to face Kurt. “Yeah, maybe,” he said with a shrug. “But admit it—you’d miss me if I wasn’t.”

Pietro leaned back in his chair, his smirk lingering as he watched Kurt slowly settle back into the bed, the faint blush still dusting his cheeks. Man, he’s way too easy to fluster, Pietro thought, amused, as he spun lazily in his chair.

Then his gaze drifted toward the faint rays of sunlight spilling through the window, and an idea clicked into place. Saturday. His grin widened as he remembered the promise he’d made to Kurt earlier in the week.

“Oh yeah,” he said aloud, sitting up straighter as excitement began to bubble in his chest. “We’ve got plans today, Blue.”

Kurt blinked, tilting his head curiously. “Plans?” he asked, his voice still soft and a little groggy.

“Yep,” Pietro replied, his grin almost mischievous now. “Remember? I promised I’d take you shopping. New wardrobe, tail-friendly modifications—the works. We’re gonna get you decked out, man.”

Kurt’s eyes widened slightly, and he sat up fully, the blanket falling from his shoulders. “Shopping?” he repeated, his tone equal parts nervous and intrigued. “I… I don’t know, Pietro. That sounds like a lot of attention…”

“Relax,” Pietro said, waving a hand dismissively. “That’s what the image inducer’s for. Besides, you need clothes that actually fit, Blue. You can’t live in my shirts forever.” He gestured to the shirt Kurt was currently wearing—a faded, loose black shirt that looked like it had seen better days.

Kurt hesitated, glancing down at the shirt and fidgeting slightly. “I guess you’re right,” he admitted softly, though there was still a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“Of course I’m right,” Pietro said, spinning his chair back to face his desk. He grabbed his phone and began scrolling, already planning out the day in his head.

Oh yeah, he thought, his grin growing as his imagination started running wild. The possibilities were endless, and the thought of getting to dress Kurt up like his personal mannequin sent a spark of excitement through him.

“Okay, so here’s the plan,” Pietro said, spinning his chair back around to face Kurt. “We hit up a couple of stores downtown, grab some basics, and then start branching out. Trust me, by the end of the day, you’re gonna look like you just walked out of a fashion catalog.”

Kurt’s ears twitched nervously, and he tilted his head. “I don’t… really know much about fashion,” he admitted.

“Don’t worry about it,” Pietro said, standing and stretching. “That’s where I come in. You’ve got me, and I’ve got taste.” He smirked, gesturing to himself dramatically. “You’re in good hands, Blue.”

Kurt couldn’t help but chuckle softly at Pietro’s theatrics, though the sound was light and hesitant. “If you say so,” he said, his tail flicking slightly behind him.

“I do say so,” Pietro replied confidently, clapping his hands together. “Alright, finish waking up, and then we’re heading out. It’s makeover time.”

Kurt gave a small nod, his lips curving into a shy smile as he adjusted the blanket around himself. Despite his nerves, there was a tiny flicker of excitement in his golden eyes—an eagerness to see what Pietro had in store for him.

Pietro, for his part, couldn’t wait to show him.

Chapter Text

Pietro tapped his fingers rhythmically against his phone, scrolling through store listings as he planned their little day trip. The mall in Bayville had been his first thought—it was convenient, big, and had everything they’d need. But he’d discarded the idea almost immediately.

The idea of running into an X-Man didn’t make Pietro panic—if anything, he hoped they found Kurt. They were the better option, right? A stable home, people who actually knew how to handle this kind of thing. But the thought of Xavier waltzing in, all-knowing and self-righteous, acting like he was the only one who got a say? That burned . Because he was the one holding Kurt together. He was the one making sure Kurt didn’t completely fall apart. And Xavier? Xavier would take one look, decide what was “best,” and expect everyone else to just go along with it.

Pietro could already hear it. You’re confused, Kurt. You don’t know what you’re saying. Come back with us, where you’re safe.

The idea of losing him—of that warm, nervous smile vanishing from his life, of this strange, fragile thing between them being snuffed out—sent a pang of something sharp through Pietro’s chest. Xavier would probably call it for the best , Pietro thought bitterly, jaw tightening.

Pietro exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his grip on the phone to loosen before he crushed it in his palm. He knew what Xavier thought of mutants like him. Not the neat, well-adjusted ones that fit into his little dream of peaceful co-existence. Not the ones who came from good homes—middle-class stability, stable family units, a moral compass that pointed just right—all hand-picked to be the shining examples of mutantkind.

No, the ones like Pietro, the ones who used their powers to survive, to carve out some kind of life for themselves without a safety net? They were the lost causes. The Brotherhood. The troublemakers. The ones who never got a second chance because, to Xavier, they were already a lost investment.

Pietro scoffed, shaking his head. Xavier loved to talk about helping mutants, but what he really meant was helping the ones who made him look good. He didn’t want the kids who grew up scrambling for scraps, fighting just to stay on their feet. He wanted the ones who already had their shit together, the ones who could play nice with humans, the ones who wouldn’t embarrass him.

Maybe that was why he never gave a damn about Pietro, Lance, Toad, or Tabby. Maybe that was why he looked at Wanda like she was a tragedy instead of a person, why he never fought to save her, never even tried because she wasn’t fixable, she was just too much work. At the end of the day, it was easier to let Magneto deal with her than to actually help her.

God, just the thought of Xavier pretending to care about Wanda made Pietro’s skin crawl. He and Magneto were the same—both of them full of shit, acting like they cared about mutants when really, they only cared about the ones they could control. 

Magneto wanted Pietro to be a soldier. Xavier wanted mutants who could be his spokespeople. Neither of them actually gave a damn about the kids who didn’t fit.

Kurt was useful to Xavier. He was one of the good ones. He had a place in Xavier’s system, a role to play. Even now, even with his memory shattered and his mind frayed at the edges, Xavier wouldn’t hesitate to dig his claws into him, to pluck out the pieces that made him useful and discard the rest. 

That’s what Xavier did. He picked what was worth saving.

It wouldn’t be about helping him, not really. It wouldn’t be about fixing anything, not in a way that mattered. It would be about making sure Kurt remembered his duty. It would be about making sure he went back to where he belonged. Pietro tightened his grip on his phone again, his free hand curling into a fist at his side. He didn’t care if Xavier thought he was a criminal for keeping Kurt here. He didn’t care if Mystique thought this was just another mission, another ploy in the bigger game she was playing.  He sure as hell didn’t care what Magneto would think if he knew.

If Xavier came looking, if he tried to play the mentor, tried to talk his way into Kurt’s head with that fake, patient understanding? Pietro would burn that bridge without a second thought.

Focus, he told himself. Relax. Think about Kurt.

Pietro exhaled sharply, forcing his mind away from the tangled mess of resentment coiling in his chest and back to the task at hand. Shopping. Clothes. A normal day. That’s what this was supposed to be. Not another mental tug-of-war between his two least favorite megalomaniacs. Not another reminder that no matter where he went, who he tried to be, someone was always waiting to twist him into whatever they needed.

No. Screw that. Today was about Kurt .

With a flick of his thumb, he scrolled through his phone again, landing on something promising—a shopping center a few towns over. Some fancy outdoor spot with landscaped sidewalks, park benches, and an alarming number of overpriced coffee shops. A “lifestyle center” , apparently.

Pietro smirked, his sarcasm bubbling up like a reflex. How very sophisticated of us. He could already picture it—him and Kurt, casually sipping lattes, pretending they had even an ounce of class as they strolled through high-end boutiques like they belonged there. The mental image was ridiculous enough to make him chuckle softly.

Still, as much as he wanted to mock the whole thing, the plan was solid. The place was upscale but not suffocating, packed enough that they’d blend in but not so crowded that Pietro would want to claw his way out of it in five minutes. Most importantly, it was far enough from Bayville to lower the risk of running into any inconveniently familiar faces.

No nosy X-Men. No Mystique. No Brotherhood idiots asking questions.

Kurt, with no memories of his time in the U.S., wouldn’t even notice they’d gone out of their way. Wouldn’t wonder why Pietro hadn’t just taken him to the nearest Walmart to pick up a pack of cheap t-shirts and call it a day. Wouldn’t ask why Pietro had picked somewhere safe .

Yeah. Perfect.

He leaned back against the headboard, locking his phone screen with a satisfied click. No explanations needed. Just a simple day out. Just one easy thing he could give Kurt without all the complications, without all the noise.

His smirk softened as his thoughts lingered on the elf. There was still so much he didn’t understand about him—what had really gone down between him and Mystique, what pieces of himself he might never get back, what he wanted now that the life he’d known had been ripped away from him. But Pietro wasn’t thinking about the long term. He wasn’t thinking about futures or consequences or what any of this meant .

Right now, all he cared about was making things a little easier for Kurt. Giving him one good day. One breath of air before the weight of it all came crashing back down.

_____

Kurt had decided to shower as well; the oiliness in his normally velvety fuzz was impossible to ignore. The slick feeling made his skin crawl, and as he thought about it, he realized with mild disgust that he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d showered. He shook the thought away as he stepped into the bathroom, determined to fix it.

Unlike most people, showering wasn’t a simple task for Kurt. His entire body needed attention, from his head to his tail, which meant carefully working shampoo through every inch of his blue fur. It was awkward at first—he’d learned the hard way how easy it was to miss spots—but over time, he’d figured out how to use his tail to help reach the areas his hands couldn’t. It was still a chore, but one he’d gotten used to.

As he stepped into the shower, the warm water cascaded over him, flattening his fur and soothing the tension in his muscles. He closed his eyes, letting the heat seep into his skin, and for a moment, he wanted to stay there forever, enveloped in the comfort of the steam and the soft patter of water. But he knew he couldn’t linger too long—he didn’t want to keep Pietro waiting.

Kurt methodically worked shampoo through his fur, the repetitive motions grounding him as he   scrubbed away the grime. By the time he rinsed off, he felt lighter, the sticky oiliness replaced with the familiar softness of his clean fur. He fought the urge to shake himself off like a dog—though the mental image made him smile faintly—and instead grabbed a towel, wiping himself down as thoroughly as he could before wrapping it snugly around his waist.

When Kurt walked back into the room, towel wrapped around his waist, Pietro glanced up—*not* because he was waiting or anything, just because movement caught his eye.  

Kurt’s fur was still damp, the water darkening the deep blue in patches, smoothing down over the lean cut of his shoulders. His collarbones stood out a little more than usual, framed by the slicked-down fur clinging to them. Pietro’s gaze flicked over him, noting the way a stray droplet trailed down his chest before disappearing beneath the towel.  

Huh.  

Kurt padded toward the bed, completely oblivious, digging through the pile of clothes Pietro had left out for him. Pietro stretched lazily against the headboard, watching without much urgency. Yeah, alright, Blue cleans up nice. Good for him. 

Kurt tugged a shirt over his head, the fabric briefly catching on his shoulders before settling into place. Pietro huffed quietly, shaking his head. The guy didn’t even try, and somehow, he still managed to look like he stepped out of a magazine spread. Unfair, really.  

“You’re real quiet,” Kurt remarked, golden eyes flicking toward him. “Everything okay?”  

Pietro smirked, waving a dismissive hand. “Yeah, just mentally planning our shopping route. Gotta make sure we hit the good stores.” Kurt nodded, apparently satisfied, while Pietro shifted, rolling out his shoulders. 

When Kurt finally turned back to him, fully dressed and giving him an expectant look, Pietro managed to pull himself together. He stood, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the restless energy buzzing through him.

“You ready, Blue?” he asked, his smirk back in place—mostly.

Kurt glanced around, his eyes searching the room until they landed on his image inducer. He picked it up, fastening it around his wrist before pressing the button. The device hummed softly as it flickered to life, masking his appearance. Satisfied, he finally met Pietro’s gaze.

“Ready,” he said softly, his tail flicking behind him as he stepped toward the door.

“Great,” Pietro said, already heading out.

_____

Saturday mornings in the Brotherhood house were rare moments of peace for Pietro. The place was blissfully empty—no Lance brooding, no Toad cracking jokes, no Blob stomping around, and, most importantly, no Tabitha lounging across the couch, tossing explosives for fun and making herself everyone’s problem. Just him and Kurt. Pietro had deliberately chosen today for their outing, knowing Kurt could navigate the house freely without being found out.

Today wasn’t just about shopping—it was about giving Kurt something he deserved. Something good.

“Alright, Blue, here’s how this works,” he said, his tone light but firm. “Wrap your tail around my waist and hold on tight. Like, really tight. Got it?”

Kurt blinked at him, his golden eyes wide with a mix of confusion and apprehension. “Uh… why?” he asked, his tail twitching uncertainly.

Pietro leaned in slightly, his smirk softening into something more reassuring. “Because,” he said simply, gently guiding Kurt’s hands to grip his shoulders, “if you don’t, you’re gonna feel like you’re flying through a hurricane. Trust me, it’s not fun.”

Still hesitant, Kurt nodded and wrapped his tail securely around Pietro’s waist. Pietro glanced down at the coil of blue fur, suppressing the flicker of warmth in his chest at the trust the gesture implied. He placed one hand on Kurt’s back and the other on the back of his head, angling Kurt’s gaze downward.

“This part’s important,” Pietro said, his voice quieter now. “Keep your head down. It’s to prevent whiplash.” He flashed a quick smile, his sharp blue eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. “And, you know, to make sure your pretty face stays intact.”

Kurt huffed softly, his cheeks faintly tinged with pink. “I’ll… take your word for it,” he mumbled, his grip tightening slightly.

“Good choice,” Pietro replied, his smirk widening. 

The world blurred around them as Pietro surged forward, the familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through him as he moved. He loved this feeling—the wind whipping against his face, the ground flying beneath his feet, the sheer exhilaration of being untouchable. Normally, traveling at this speed was about the thrill, about pushing his limits and leaving the rest of the world in his dust.

But this time, it wasn’t just about the speed. It was about Kurt.

Pietro adjusted his pace carefully, ensuring the g-forces wouldn’t be too much for the smaller mutant to handle. He could feel the faint tremor of Kurt’s grip on his shoulders, the way his tail tightened instinctively every time they shifted direction. Pietro was built for this kind of movement—his body could handle the pressure, the turns, the sheer velocity—but Kurt? He wasn’t.

Gotta keep this quick, Pietro thought, glancing briefly at the blur of trees and buildings flying past them. The faster I get us there, the less he has to endure.

When they finally stopped, Pietro skidded to a halt in an open alley near the shopping center. The world snapped back into focus, the blur of motion replaced by the steady hum of life in the town. Pietro instinctively checked his phone, grinning when he saw the time unchanged. Perfect.

Next to him, Kurt stumbled slightly, his knees wobbling as he tried to find his footing. Pietro’s smirk faded as he reached out, steadying the other mutant with a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, you good?” Pietro asked, his usual cocky edge gone, replaced with something quieter. More serious.

Kurt gave a weak nod, but his tail betrayed him, twitching tight around Pietro’s waist before slowly unwinding. “Ja… I think so,” he murmured, voice still a little shaky. He pressed a hand to his forehead, blinking like he was trying to get his brain to catch up. “That… was fast.”

Pietro huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well, speed’s kinda my whole deal,” he said, watching him closely. Kurt’s breathing was evening out, but there was still that slight unfocused haze in his eyes, the kind that said his stomach hadn’t fully caught up yet. “You need a sec?”

Kurt shook his head, “Nein, I’ll be fine,” he said, though there was still a waver in his voice, like his body wasn’t fully convinced.

Pietro arched an eyebrow but didn’t call him on it. “Sure, if you say so,” he said, stepping back and shoving his hands into his pockets. “For what it’s worth, you handled it better than most. Usually, they’re puking by now.”

Kurt let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking his head. “That… is not reassuring.”

Pietro grinned. “Oh, it wasn’t supposed to be.”

Kurt shot him a look—equal parts exasperated and amused. “You should try teleporting with me sometime. See how you like it.”

Pietro arched an eyebrow, intrigued. “Teleporting, huh? Please. Pretty sure I can handle whatever you’ve got, Blue.”

Kurt’s smirk widened slightly, something knowing flickering in his golden eyes. “You might want to reconsider,” he said, tilting his head. “It’s not exactly… smooth.”

“Oh, come on,” Pietro scoffed, crossing his arms. “How bad could it be?”

Kurt hummed, his tone turning almost playful. “Well,” he started, dragging it out just enough to make Pietro suspicious, “I don’t just vanish into thin air. My powers pull me through another dimension. That’s why it smells like sulfur—it’s the atmosphere of the place I go through.”

Pietro blinked. “Wait, what?” He stared, momentarily caught off guard. “You’re telling me you disappear into some freaky sulfur dimension every time you teleport?”

“Ja,” Kurt said with a casual shrug, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “It only takes a second, but… it’s disorienting. Especially for people who aren’t used to it.” He gave Pietro a pointed look. “You think your speed is bad? Try getting ripped in and out of another reality.”

Pietro stared at him for a beat, expression torn between disbelief and amusement. “Okay, that’s… actually kinda insane,” he admitted, lips twitching. Then, a slow smirk crept back onto his face. “Still think I could handle it, though.”

Kurt rolled his eyes, though there was a teasing glint in them. “We’ll see,” he said, voice light but daring.

“Challenge accepted,” Pietro shot back, smirk widening.

As they stepped out of the alley and into the bustling shopping center, Pietro cast a quick glance at Kurt, making sure the smaller mutant had fully shaken off the effects of the ride. The brief conversation had clearly helped, as Kurt seemed steadier now, his tail swaying lightly behind him as he walked.

He’s tougher than he looks, Pietro thought, his smirk softening slightly. Still, maybe I’ll take it easy on the speed next time. Don’t want him passing out before we even hit the first store.

Pietro strolled into the store like he owned the place, his eyes lighting up at the racks of dark, graphic-heavy clothing. The walls were lined with band tees, abstract prints, and distressed denim, all bathed in moody lighting that screamed too cool to care.

“Alright, Blue,” Pietro said, already flipping through a rack of oversized jackets. “Time to embrace your inner tortured artist.”

Kurt chuckled, trailing behind him. “I didn’t know I had one.”

“You do now.” Pietro grinned, rifling through a row of graphic tees, inspecting designs with a critical eye.

As Pietro moved ahead, Kurt’s gaze landed on a particular shirt—a black tee, slightly oversized, with a distressed star outlined in barbed wire. Beneath it, faint, cryptic text was scrawled in jagged letters, faded enough to add to the mystery. Something about it clicked. He reached for it, holding it up as he turned toward Pietro.

“What about this one?” he asked, his tone casual, but there was something almost tentative in the way he showed it.

Pietro stopped what he was doing, glancing over at the shirt before smirking. “Oh, look at you,” he teased, stepping closer. “Blue’s making choices. I’m so proud.”

Kurt rolled his eyes but didn’t lower the shirt. “I just thought it looked… interesting.”

Pietro snorted. “Interesting? Blue, that’s what people say when they see modern art and don’t wanna admit they don’t get it.” He tilted his head, finally actually assessing the shirt on Kurt instead of just lining up a flirty remark. “See, this says ‘I only speak in cryptic one-liners and probably have a tragic past’. If you really wanna sell it, just throw in some brooding stares and occasional existential sighing.” He paused, then added with a wicked grin, “Maybe lean against doorways a lot, stare into the distance like you’re carrying the weight of the world. Y’know, real Lance energy.”

Kurt tilted his head. “I do not understand.”

Pietro sighed theatrically, gesturing vaguely. “It’s fine, Blue, just—if you ever find yourself crossing your arms, leaning against a wall, and muttering ‘whatever, man’ at people? Run. You’ve been infected.”

Kurt gave Pietro an exasperated look before draping the shirt over his arm.

“Oh, we’re getting somewhere,” Pietro said, grinning as he reached over and tossed another shirt on top of it—a deep gray tee with an abstract, smeared design. “And since you’re on a roll, let’s keep the good decisions coming. At this rate, you might just walk outta here looking almost as good as me.”

Kurt snorted, shaking his head but not arguing. As they moved further through the store, another design caught his eye—a fragmented, double-exposure print of a face with a neon green splash over the eyes. He picked it up, tilting his head thoughtfully. “This one’s… different.”

Pietro leaned in, close enough that Kurt could feel his presence. “See? I knew you had taste,” he said, his voice dipping into something teasing. “That’s got that whole ‘enigmatic lead singer of a band that never does interviews’ vibe.”

Kurt shot him a look. “That’s very specific.”

Pietro shrugged, unabashed. “I know what I’m about.” He grabbed a few more shirts with similar aesthetics and tossed them onto Kurt’s growing pile. “Trust me, you’ll look amazing in these.”

By the time they reached the jeans, Pietro was in his element, flipping through styles at lightning speed. Kurt, however, hesitated as his gaze landed on the tighter cuts. He picked up a pair of black skinny jeans, held them at arm’s length, and immediately put them back. “Nein. Absolutely not.”

Pietro glanced over and burst out laughing. “Not a fan of the painted-on look?”

Kurt shot him a flat stare. “I don’t need to cut off circulation in my legs to look good.”

“Fair point,” Pietro said, grabbing a pair of wide-legged jeans instead. “How about these? Loose, comfortable, and they let you keep all your limbs intact.”

Kurt took them, giving a small nod of approval. “These might work.”

A few minutes later, Pietro lounged against the wall outside the dressing rooms, scrolling through his phone. “You still alive in there, or am I gonna have to bust in and save you from the horrors of fashion?”

Kurt rolled his eyes but stepped out. The wide-legged jeans sat comfortably on his frame, and he’d paired them with the barbed-wire star tee. His tail, usually an issue with pants, was completely hidden, wrapped around his waist with no awkward bulging in the fabric.

Pietro’s smirk faltered for half a second before snapping back into place. He let out a low whistle. “Damn, Blue. Didn’t realize I was building you a whole aesthetic.”

Kurt glanced down at himself, adjusting the hem of the shirt. “It’s… nice,” he admitted, his ears twitching slightly. “I like how it fits.”

“Oh, I bet you do,” Pietro teased, stepping forward as if inspecting his work. “You look like someone who could ghost a whole room and still have people talking about you. Very mysterious.”

Kurt rolled his eyes but couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at his lips. “Danke.”

Pietro clapped his hands together. “Alright, try the rest. I need to make sure my masterpiece is complete.”

As Kurt disappeared back inside, Pietro leaned against the wall, his smirk softening. Watching Kurt get comfortable in his own skin— and in these clothes—was turning out to be the best part of the whole day.

Pietro dragged Kurt into the next store without warning, grinning as they crossed the threshold into an entirely different world. Warm lighting, neatly folded displays, and a faint scent of cedarwood and linen filled the air. The racks were lined with tailored pieces, soft knitwear, and elegant neutrals—a stark contrast to their last stop.

“This is… different,” Kurt muttered, his tail flicking as he glanced around.

“Exactly,” Pietro said, already rifling through the racks with the enthusiasm of a personal stylist on commission. “We nailed brooding rockstar. Now, let’s see what happens when we make you look like you own a secret bookstore, sip overpriced espresso, and silently judge people’s reading choices.”

Kurt huffed a quiet laugh. “I think you’re enjoying this a little too much.”

“Oh, no doubt,” Pietro said, smirking as he plucked a crisp white button-up from the rack. “This? Classic. Versatile. Makes you look like you have your life together—even if you absolutely don’t.”

Kurt raised a brow. “It’s a shirt, Pietro.”

“It’s the shirt,” Pietro corrected, flipping it over his arm with far more flair than necessary before grabbing a soft green knitted sweater vest. Kurt tilted his head. “It doesn’t even have sleeves.”

“That’s the point, Blue,” Pietro said, smirking. “You throw this over the shirt, and suddenly, you look like you’re about to break someone’s heart in an indie film.”

Before Kurt could argue, Pietro tossed in a pair of relaxed brown trousers and pushed him toward the dressing rooms. “Go. I need to see this vision realized.”

Minutes later, when Kurt stepped out, Pietro actually stopped talking for a moment. The soft tones framed his features perfectly, the relaxed fit looking effortlessly put together.

“Well?” Kurt asked, adjusting the sweater vest. “Do I look ridiculous?”

Pietro blinked before smirking. “Ridiculous? Blue, you look like you just walked out of an old bookshop where the owner already knows your name and sets aside the best finds for you.”

Kurt groaned, rubbing his temples. “Why do I even ask?”

“Because you love my expert opinions,” Pietro shot back smoothly, circling him to admire the look. “You actually look…” He trailed off for a second before grinning. “Like someone people want to talk to. Approachable but still a little out of reach.”

Kurt shook his head, but his ears twitched in amusement. “I don’t know about all that, but… it’s comfortable.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Pietro clapped his hands together. “Alright, we’re getting this.”

Kurt opened his mouth to argue but shut it just as quickly. He was actually starting to enjoy this—really enjoy it.

By the time they left the store, Pietro was beaming. “Blue, we just built you an entire wardrobe, and you didn’t even hate it. I’m calling this a win.”

Kurt shook his head but smiled. “I suppose it wasn’t so bad.”

“Oh, don’t play coy,” Pietro teased, nudging him. “You liked watching me work my magic.”

Kurt laughed, shaking his head as they walked out into the evening air. Yeah, maybe he did.

The day blurred by in a rhythm so easy it almost felt like a game—store after store blending together in a colorful, overstimulating haze. Not that it ever slowed Pietro down. He darted between racks like he had a personal vendetta against inefficiency, snatching up clothes with the kind of effortless precision that suggested he knew exactly what worked, whether Kurt believed him or not. And that was half the fun, wasn’t it? No pressure, no expectations—just Pietro in his element, delighting in his self-appointed role as Kurt’s personal stylist, delivering dramatic fashion critiques like he was on some high-speed makeover show.

By the time they hit a more laid-back spot, filled with ridiculously soft hoodies, slouchy sweats, and those dangerously comfortable knit joggers, Pietro had already decided this was an “essential stop.” Kurt had given him a look, skeptical as ever, but Pietro had waved a hand dismissively. “Style isn’t just about looking good, Blue. It’s about looking good even when you’re doing nothing.” Which, let’s be real, was just an excuse to make Kurt try on sweaters that looked stupidly cozy—oversized, warm, the kind of thing that made you want to sink into a couch and forget about the world for a while. And okay, maybe there was something oddly satisfying about seeing Kurt’s expression shift, the wary hesitation melting into something almost content as he ran his fingers over the soft fabric, as he slipped into something that felt more like home than performance.

Then came the practical stuff. The boring stuff. Socks, boxers, multipacks of plain tees. Pietro had barely looked twice at any of it, too busy making Kurt hold up different sneaker options like it was life or death. “You need variety, Blue,” he’d declared, with all the authority of someone who definitely had too many shoes. He held up a classic white pair in one hand, a pair of black-and-red Jordans in the other. “One for the understated flex, one for the ‘Yeah, I have taste and I want you to know it’ statement.”

By the time they hit the last store, the weight of the day was finally settling in—not exhaustion, not really, just that pleasant sort of heaviness that comes from doing something easy, something good. The weirdest part? Kurt had fallen into the pace of it all. Like he’d stopped overthinking, stopped second-guessing, just let himself be in it—Pietro’s energy, his ridiculous commentary, the effortless way he could turn anything into a performance.

And maybe that’s why, when they finally stepped out onto the sidewalk, Kurt didn’t seem overwhelmed by the sheer number of bags in his hands. He wasn’t focused on how much Pietro had spent, or whether he deserved any of it. Instead, he just looked... at ease. Settled in a way that Pietro wasn’t used to seeing. Like, for once, he wasn’t bracing himself for the next hit.

_____

Pietro decided against running them home with all their bags. As fast as he was, even he didn’t feel like juggling half a dozen shopping bags through the city. Instead, he hailed a taxi. Sitting in the backseat, the ride was unusually quiet.

Kurt sat beside him, absently fiddling with the handle of one of the bags, his tail curling and uncurling against the seat. The quiet hum of the car and the weight of the day wrapped around him like a soft blanket—pleasant, grounding.

When the car finally pulled up in front of the house, Pietro was the first out, stretching his arms overhead like he’d just run a marathon. "Alright, Blue, time to haul the goods."

Kurt huffed a quiet laugh, stepping onto the pavement as the cool evening air brushed against his skin. He adjusted his grip on the bags, but before he could get a proper hold of everything, Pietro was already grabbing most of them in one swoop.

“Pietro—”

“I’ve literally outrun explosions. A few bags? Barely an inconvenience.” Pietro smirked, effortlessly shifting the weight between his arms.

Kurt shook his head, amusement flickering across his face. “You make everything sound so dramatic.”

“That’s because I am dramatic,” Pietro shot back, already heading for the door. “Now hurry up before I start charging you for my elite delivery services.”

Kurt chuckled under his breath, following after him. The warmth of the house was a welcome contrast to the chill outside, and with the door shutting behind them, it felt like the final step in settling in after the long day

“Alright, Blue,” Pietro said as they reached the guest room. “Let me get all this sorted. No need for you to stress about it.”

Kurt set the remaining bags on the bed, watching as Pietro moved through the motions with practiced ease—hanging shirts, folding sweatpants, lining up sneakers at the bottom of the closet like he had done this a hundred times before. The efficiency was almost distracting, but Kurt’s stomach still twisted at the sight of it.

“You don’t have to do all that,” he said softly, even as he made no move to stop him.

“I’m already doing it,” Pietro replied with a smirk. “Besides, if I left it to you, it’d all end up in a pile.”

Kurt rolled his eyes, but his tail twitched, betraying his unease. Pietro didn’t seem to notice—too busy shoving receipts and tags into one of the empty shopping bags as he tidied up.

Then one of them slipped loose.

The crumpled paper fluttered to the floor, landing right by Kurt’s foot. Instinctively, he bent down to pick it up. His eyes skimmed over the neatly printed numbers—and everything inside him lurched.

The total was staggering.

His breath hitched, his fingers tightening around the flimsy slip of paper. His heart pounded against his ribs as his tail snapped taut, coiling around his leg. This couldn’t be right. This was… This was too much.

“You… you spent this much?” His voice was barely above a whisper, but there was something raw in it—disbelief, panic, guilt, all twisting together. He could barely get the words out, like saying them aloud would make the number even worse. “On me?”

Pietro turned, leaning against the doorframe with casual ease. “Clothes aren’t cheap.”

Kurt barely heard him. His vision tunneled in on the paper, his breathing picking up. His hands felt clammy, his grip unsteady.

“This isn’t just ‘not cheap,’” he said, voice tight, breath quick. How had he let this happen? His tail flicked wildly, restless with anxiety. “I didn’t even think about it. I just—I just went along with everything like it was nothing. I should’ve stopped you! I—”

“Blue,” Pietro interrupted, stepping forward and plucking the receipt from his hands in one quick motion. Crumpling it without hesitation. “Relax. It’s not a big deal.”

Kurt flinched, his ears twitching back. “It is a big deal,” he insisted, his voice breaking slightly. “I—I can’t repay you! I didn’t even think —”

“Stop.” Pietro’s voice was firm but not unkind. Not harsh, not impatient—just steady. A counterweight to the storm building inside Kurt’s chest.

Kurt swallowed hard, his tail still curling in tight, but Pietro didn’t let the silence stretch long enough for him to spiral further.

“I didn’t do this so you’d pay me back,” Pietro said simply. “You needed clothes. End of story.”

Kurt’s brow furrowed, conflict clear in his golden eyes. “But it’s so much. It doesn’t feel right.”

“You’re overthinking it,” Pietro said, his voice shifting into something softer. Something reassuring. “You’ve been through a lot, Blue. Let someone else take care of you for once.”

Kurt’s breathing slowed, the tension in his shoulders loosening bit by bit. His tail uncoiled from around his ankle, though it still twitched anxiously. He stared at Pietro, searching his expression for something—a catch, an expectation, anything that might explain why Pietro had done all this.

But there was nothing there. No pressure, no strings attached. Just… Pietro being Pietro.

“…Danke,” Kurt murmured, the gratitude quiet but real.

“Don’t mention it,” Pietro said, flashing him a quick grin like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just pulled Kurt back from a full-blown panic. “Now, come on. Let’s chill out for a bit—how about a movie in my room? Your pick.”

Kurt blinked, caught off guard by the casual offer. “…Really?”

“Yeah, really,” Pietro said, already heading for the door like it wasn’t even a question. “You’ve got the snacks, I’ve got the TV—seems fair.”

Kurt hesitated, but only for a second. The weight of the receipt, the overwhelming guilt—it was still there, lingering. But Pietro had made it feel… lighter. Manageable.

A faint smile crept onto Kurt’s face as he followed. He still didn’t fully understand why Pietro had done so much for him. But for now, he let himself lean into it, just a little.

Maybe that was enough.

Chapter Text

The night had settled into something easy, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel weird or forced. The TV flickered, throwing shifting light across the room, but whatever movie they’d put on had long since become background noise.

Pietro was lounging against the headboard, blanket draped loosely over his legs, arm resting along the back of the bed—just because. No reason. Definitely not because Kurt had ended up slumped against him somewhere along the way, head tipped just below his shoulder, out cold.

He glanced down, taking in the relaxed set of Kurt’s features, the way his hair had flopped into his face, tail flicking once before going still. Usually, the guy had all this nervous energy— shoulders just a little too tense—but now? He looked completely out.

Pietro smirked faintly. Well, at least someone was getting some decent sleep.

He shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket over Kurt’s shoulder—purely practical, no deeper meaning—and let his head rest back against the headboard. Whatever. It wasn’t a big deal. Just some shut-eye. Just a regular, normal night.

His eyes drifted closed, the hum of the TV fading into white noise as sleep tugged him under.

Man, he better not drool on me.

—----

Pietro woke up to a dull ache in his neck and the kind of cozy warmth that made going back to sleep seem like a good idea—except something was definitely pressing against his side. He blinked, groggy, rubbing at his eyes as last night’s details stubbornly refused to fall into place.

As his vision cleared, he glanced down—and paused.

Kurt was sprawled across his lap.

His head rested just above Pietro’s hip, one arm tucked close to his chest, the other draped lazily over Pietro’s leg. His tail—because of course it had to be the tail—was looped loosely around Pietro’s thigh, coiled like it had decided, even in sleep, that this was a good place to be.

Pietro exhaled through his nose, lips twitching. Alright. Not what he was expecting, but not exactly a problem either.

Careful not to jostle Kurt too much, he leaned back against the headboard, adjusting just enough to get comfortable without disturbing the absurd tangle of limbs and tail. He really wasn’t in a rush to move—not with the way Kurt’s fur caught the soft morning light, gold-edged where the blanket had slipped down. His breathing was slow, steady, completely at ease.

It was... nice.

Not that Pietro was going to unpack whatever that meant.

He tilted his head, watching Kurt shift slightly in his sleep, tail giving the tiniest flick before settling again. Pietro’s chest did a weird little thing he chose to ignore.

Okay. Maybe he’d sit here just a little longer.

His fingers moved before his brain caught up, brushing a stray strand of Kurt’s hair out of his face. Without really thinking about it, he let his hand linger, gently running his fingers through it in slow, soothing motions.

The response was instant. A low, quiet sound rumbled from Kurt’s chest—faint at first, then unmistakable. Pietro stiffened. No way.

He blinked, stunned for all of two seconds before his lips curled into a smirk. Oh, this was golden. “Again? Really?” he murmured, voice low and teasing. “You’re like a cat, I swear.”

Kurt shifted slightly, nuzzling against Pietro’s leg as the soft, rhythmic purring continued. Pietro let out a quiet, breathy laugh, fingers still combing through Kurt’s hair—because, really, why stop now? It wasn’t like anyone was here to see it.

The thought lingered at the edge of his mind, low and steady. Mystique’s son. Not that it changed anything right now, not in this moment, but it was a reminder—one he couldn’t afford to forget. Whatever this was, however easy it felt, he was going to have to watch himself.

The moment lingered, stretched out too long, and Pietro knew he was in trouble.

What had only felt like minutes had really been nearly an hour. The silence had been nice—comfortable. Just the soft sound of their breathing, the occasional rustle of fabric, the steady warmth of Kurt pressed against him. Pietro hadn't moved. He hadn’t wanted to.

Then, a quiet shift. A sleepy murmur.

“Pietro?”

Pietro’s smirk widened as he glanced down. Huh. Guess I’m on his mind even when he sleeps. Not exactly surprising.

“Morning, Blue,” he drawled, voice teasing but easy. “Sleep well?” He tapped a lazy rhythm against the blanket, eyes glinting. “Guess this means we’re gonna have to redo movie night, huh?”

Kurt let out a sleepy chuckle, his lips curving into a small smile. “Ja, I suppose so,” he said softly, his voice still tinged with drowsiness. He stretched his limbs, his tail curling lazily behind him as a yawn escaped. “I don’t even remember how far we got.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Pietro said with a shrug. “We’ll call it a trial run. Next time, we’ll actually make it to the end… maybe.” Kurt smiled again, shaking his head slightly as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “You’re terrible at sticking to plans, aren’t you?”

“Me?” Pietro said, feigning offense. “I’m the king of plans. You’re just bad at staying awake.”

Kurt chuckled softly, stretching his arms above his head, the movement easy, unhurried. The whole room felt still in a way Pietro didn’t usually get—no chaos, no noise, just quiet, simple peace. I could get used to this, he thought, letting himself sink into the calm. For once, there was no rush, no need to be anywhere else. Just a morning that didn’t demand anything from him. And yeah, he didn’t mind that one bit.

The two mutants got ready for the day at an unhurried pace. Pietro didn’t have anything planned—it was Sunday, after all, the one day he allowed himself to slow down and mourn the end of his reprieve from school. Sundays were lazy, but they also came with that looming dread of Monday, a reminder that being a senior meant focusing on things Pietro didn’t care about. College applications, future plans—none of it seemed to fit him, no matter how much Mystique scolded him for his lack of direction.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have the grades or the test scores; Pietro was sharp, quick in every sense of the word. But college? It felt suffocating. Another box he’d have to cram himself into, and Pietro hated the idea of being tied down. What would I even do there? he thought, pulling on a hoodie as his mind wandered. Mystique could yell all she wanted—Pietro had always been good at tuning her out.

Except now, things weren’t so clear.

Kurt had him thinking about things he usually didn’t bother with—plans, futures, where he’d end up in a year, in five. The guy had a path, options. College, maybe. Something solid, something real. Pietro didn’t. He never had. And yet, the idea of Kurt moving forward while he stayed stuck felt… off.

He glanced over at Kurt getting up and ready to head to the bathroom. Whatever happens next, Pietro thought, shifting lazily in his seat, I kinda wanna see where he ends up.

Pietro pushed the thoughts aside. He still had plenty of time before he needed to worry about Kurt going anywhere. Besides, Kurt was a year younger, and the idea of taking a gap year to bother him sounded way more appealing than staying stuck in Bayville. The idea of lingering at that high school after graduation was disgusting, but taking a gap year purely to annoy Kurt? Now that had potential. He figured he’d cross that bridge when he got to it, but for now, he had plenty of time to make Blue’s life interesting.

For now, he focused on the moment. Kurt walked back into the room, wearing one of the sweatpants they’d bought yesterday and a graphic tee that Pietro had picked out for him. The outfit suited him, Pietro thought, though he kept that thought to himself. What caught his attention more was the way Kurt fidgeted with the image inducer in his hands, pressing buttons and turning the dial with an almost absent-minded focus.

“What’re you doing, Blue?” Pietro asked, his voice teasing as he leaned back on his bed. “Trying to break it even more?”

Kurt looked up at him, a faint crease of concern between his brows. “I don’t think it’s working right,” he said, holding the device up as if showing it would explain everything.

Pietro raised an eyebrow, his mind flickering back to the previous day. He remembered how Kurt had spilled his drink while eating, and for a brief moment, the image inducer had flickered at the edges, distorting before snapping back into place. “You think it’s from yesterday?” Pietro asked, tilting his head.

“Probably,” Kurt said with a small nod, though he didn’t seem too upset about it. Instead, he placed the inducer back on the nightstand with a resigned shrug. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t really mind.”

Pietro watched him for a moment, filing the issue away in the back of his mind. I’ll take a look at it later, he decided, though he didn’t say anything aloud. If the thing wasn’t working right, he’d figure out how to fix it. Kurt might not have minded, but Pietro wasn’t about to let the one thing keeping Kurt safe when they went out fail him.

Instead, he shifted gears. “Alright, enough about that. Let’s figure out breakfast,” he said, hopping off the bed with an exaggerated stretch. “Though heads up—it’s gonna have to be eaten up here. The rest of the guys are back, and you know how they are.”

Kurt smiled faintly, nodding in agreement. “Ja, that’s probably for the best.”

Pietro grinned. “Good. Let’s raid the kitchen before they devour everything. I’ll even let you pick the cereal—unless it’s the boring stuff, in which case, I’m vetoing it.”

Kurt chuckled softly, his tail flicking behind him as he followed Pietro out of the room. For now, the image inducer could wait, and so could the thoughts about the future. It was Sunday, after all—a day for lazy mornings, simple breakfasts, and moments that felt just a little lighter.

—---------

Despite Pietro’s plans for a lazy Sunday, the universe clearly had other things in store. As he stepped out of his room, empty bowls in hand, Mystique appeared at the top of the stairs, her sharp, assessing gaze locking onto him immediately. Pietro tensed on instinct.

“How’s our guest doing?” she asked, voice edged with urgency.

Pietro exhaled through his nose, barely keeping his irritation in check. He wasn’t about to let her steer the conversation before he got what he needed. “Are you finally gonna explain yourself?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, tone deceptively casual. “Because I’m getting real tired of filling in the blanks on my own.”

Mystique’s expression barely shifted, but Pietro caught the flicker of something behind her eyes. “What do you want to know?” she asked, carefully measured, as if she hadn’t already guessed.

Pietro scoffed, shaking his head. “Let’s start with the obvious. What do you want from him? Because I can’t keep pretending I know where this is going.” He crossed his arms, fingers drumming against his bicep. “You keeping him here to rebuild the Brotherhood? Or is this just about you?”

Mystique let out a sharp breath, one that made Pietro pause. It wasn’t frustration, not entirely—it was something heavier, something restrained. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter. “I saved him,” she said. “From a Hydra lab.”

Pietro nodded, unsurprised. “I know.” That got her. The slight widening of her eyes, the shift in her stance—Pietro had seen Mystique hide every emotion under the sun, but she wasn’t expecting that.

Her gaze sharpened, calculating. “What else did he tell you?”

Pietro shrugged, but the look he gave her wasn’t careless. It was controlled, deliberate. “Enough,” he said smoothly, watching her closely. How much does she know? How much more do I know than her?

Mystique’s scowl deepened, her eyes narrowing like she was debating whether or not to tell him. Then, with a sharp sigh, she relented. “He was there for eight days,” she said, voice tight, controlled—but underneath it, there was something raw, something dangerously close to fury. “I managed to get my hands on some of the files, but they weren’t complete. I don’t know everything they did to him. Just pieces.”

Pietro didn’t react, keeping his expression unreadable, but his fingers twitched slightly against his arm.

Mystique’s gaze flickered, distant, like she was sifting through what she’d read. “They tortured him,” she continued, quieter now, but no less venomous. “Some of it was physical, but the real damage? That was chemical. Repeated hormone flooding. They tried to turn him—strip away his control, his inhibitions. Break him down, make him something they could use.”

Pietro’s stomach twisted, but he didn’t let it show. Had it worked? The thought sat heavy in his chest. He already knew what came next.

Mystique inhaled sharply, fingers curling into a fist. “The files cut off after a certain point, but I know enough. They erased him because he was ready for the next step. They’d finally broken him down enough . ”

She went silent for a beat, the weight of it pressing between them, thick and suffocating.

Then—unexpectedly—she smiled.

It wasn’t relief, not even close. It was sharp, almost manic, flickering with something dark and unhinged. “But here’s the part they didn’t want me to see,” she said, her voice dropping lower. “During one of those days—before they wiped him—he broke containment.” Her eyes gleamed, bright with something dangerous. “And he attacked the agents.”

Pietro stiffened slightly.

Mystique tilted her head, studying him like she was waiting to see how he’d react before delivering the final blow. Then she said, with slow, deliberate satisfaction—

“He killed fourteen of them.”

Mystique’s grin widened just slightly, sharp as a blade. “Whatever they did to him, whatever they thought they made him into—” her eyes gleamed, vicious and cold “—they lost control of it.”

Pietro swallowed. Fourteen people.

Poor, broken, constantly distressed Kurt had killed fourteen people. The number stuck in his head, repeating, circling like a vulture. They must have really fucked him up . It wasn’t just the memory wipe—his mind had already been shattered before they erased him. How much of what was left was him? How much of Kurt was real, and how much was just the animal Hydra had tried to tame?

Mystique’s smile was unsettling, too sharp, too pleased. She looked proud. Proud that her son had been turned into something that could do this. That made Pietro’s stomach twist.

Not because he blamed Kurt. Hell, if anything, there was a part of him—small but insistent—that was also brimming with pride. That was glad those bastards didn’t get away with what they did. Pride didn’t outweigh concern and right now, concern was winning.

Finally, he asked, “Is he still dangerous?”

Mystique’s expression shifted, her manic satisfaction cooling into something more controlled—more frustrated . “I don’t know,” she admitted, her lips pressing into a thin line. “The files weren’t complete. I don’t know what the next steps were supposed to be. I just know I pulled him out before Hydra could go further.”

Pietro exhaled sharply, shifting gears. “You’re hiding him from the X-Men.” It wasn’t a question. “But they’re looking. They have to be.” His eyes narrowed. “You know that.”

Mystique sighed, her sharp edges smoothing into something more controlled. “Of course I know,” she said, exasperation creeping into her voice. “I’ve been keeping them off his trail, feeding them just enough to lead them in the wrong direction—but it won’t last forever. The X-Men won’t stop looking.” Her jaw tightened. “At most, I’ve bought myself another month before they realize they’re being led in circles. Before they close in and try to take him.”

She looked at Pietro then, gaze steady, calculating. “You have to make him trust you.”

Pietro scoffed. “He already does.”

Mystique’s lips curled slightly. Perfect. That was exactly what she wanted to hear. Her speedster had done his job well.

“The others—do they know?” she asked, tilting her head.

Pietro shook his head.

Her satisfaction deepened. Even better. Keeping Kurt isolated was crucial, but now she had to integrate him—slowly, carefully. If she played this right, if they gave him just enough time to settle, then when the Brotherhood came in, when Lance, Tabitha, Toad, and Freddy were introduced, it would feel natural. It would feel like home.

By the time the month was up, Kurt wouldn’t want to leave. Because this? This would be all he knew. “You can’t tell him about the X-Men,” she said firmly. “Not yet. Make sure everyone keeps their mouths shut, Pietro. This has to stay contained.”

Pietro nodded, but his expression darkened slightly. “They’re circling,” he warned. “They’re already suspicious. No matter how much I dodge, they’re gonna keep digging for answers.”

Mystique’s eyes narrowed, the tension in her shoulders returning.“Then keep them at bay, Pietro,” she said, her voice low and deliberate. “Just a little longer.”

They couldn’t know. Not yet.

Pietro crossed his arms, already running through the mental math of how long he could realistically keep dodging. “And what if they come knocking anyway?” he asked, voice sharp. “What if they get too close?”

Mystique’s gaze locked onto his, piercing, unshaken. “Then you handle it,” she said simply. “Kurt is your responsibility now, Pietro. You’re the reason he’s comfortable here. You keep him safe. You keep him in line.” She took a step closer, voice lowering. “If the X-Men get to him too soon, if they plant doubt before he’s truly settled here, before he understands where he belongs—” She exhaled, slow and measured. “Then everything I’ve worked for falls apart.”

Pietro scoffed, but there was no real bite behind it. “Great,” he muttered. “No pressure or anything.” Mystique’s lips curled, something between approval and warning. “I know you can handle it.” 

Pietro rolled his eyes, but deep down, he knew she was right. Like it or not, this was his problem now. Mystique had given the orders, but the weight of it? That rested squarely on him.
—----

Mystique turned on her heel, leaving Pietro with his orders. He knew what needed to be done—now it was her turn. Keeping the X-Men away, keeping them blind to what had really happened to Kurt.

She had been watching the lab since the moment she pulled him out, lingering in the shadows, waiting for the inevitable. Sure enough, Wolverine had come sniffing around, instincts sharp as ever, leading him dangerously close. But Mystique was ready. She lured him away with precision, strategically placing traces of Kurt’s scent—fur snagged on metal, a faint trail leading just far enough to send him in the wrong direction. It bought her time, time she desperately needed.

When she returned to the lab, the world seemed to shift in her favor. It was gone. Erased. Gutted of its data, its experiments, its very purpose. Most of the equipment had vanished, the records scrubbed, the entire operation wiped clean, as if it had never existed at all.

Perfect.

There was nothing left for the X-Men to find. No evidence, no breadcrumbs leading them back to the truth. They would be chasing ghosts, digging through Hydra’s hidden facilities for scraps of information—places so well-buried it would take weeks, if not longer, to uncover anything useful.

By then, her claws would be sunk too deep into Kurt for it to matter. And if, somehow, things didn’t go as planned—if outside forces closed in sooner than expected—she had contingencies. Carefully laid fail-safes, options she hoped she wouldn’t have to use. But Mystique was nothing if not prepared. The whole situation left her thrumming with emotion—pride, rage, something dangerously close to love.

She was going to get her son back. She was going to keep him away from the X-Men, no matter what. And more than that—she was going to have something greater on her side.

A weapon.

One that had already proven itself, taking down more than a dozen specially trained Hydra agents. She wasn’t blind to what they had done to him. What she knew, at least, was awful. They had flooded his system with epinephrine and testosterone, forcing his body into prolonged distress, breaking him down, reshaping him into something feral. Something dangerous.

It was monstrous.

Yet, it had made him more useful than she had ever imagined. She wished she knew more, but the files had gaps, glaring omissions that felt intentional. Precautions, no doubt, to keep prying eyes from seeing too much. They had wiped his mind, but what else had they buried? 

She had no idea what truly happened when Kurt entered that state—the one that turned him into a killer. But she knew it came at a cost.

Every note, every report hinted at something unforeseen, something Hydra hadn’t accounted for.

But none of them said what.
—-------

As Pietro returned to his room, he paused in the doorway, his gaze falling on Kurt lounging comfortably on the bed. His tail flicked lazily at the edge of the mattress, his expression relaxed, unbothered, completely absorbed in whatever was playing on the TV.

It was such a stark contrast to the storm in Pietro’s mind that it almost made him dizzy.

His conversation with Mystique replayed itself in his head, every word settling into place, sharp and deliberate. She had given him clear orders—make Kurt trust him, keep him contained, make sure no one else got too close. But more than that, she had opened up, given him details about what Hydra had done to Kurt. Not everything—never everything—but enough. Enough that Pietro could piece together the bigger picture.

This was never just about getting her son back.

It was about keeping a weapon.

Mystique didn’t just want to protect Kurt—she wanted to shape him, make sure that when he finally understood what had been done to him, he wouldn’t run. That he wouldn’t turn to the X-Men for answers. That he would stay because by the time they found anything useful, it would already be too late.

Pietro exhaled slowly, forcing his expression back into something easy, something unreadable.

Kurt had no idea and if Pietro did his job right, he never would.

“Pietro?”

Kurt’s voice cut through the noise in his head, gentle, unassuming. Pietro blinked, snapping back to the present as Kurt shifted slightly, patting the spot beside him. “Come on, relax a bit. There’s room for you,” he said with a small smile, completely unaware of the weight Pietro was carrying.

For a second, Pietro hesitated, still caught between Mystique’s cold calculations and the warmth in front of him. Kurt didn’t look like someone burdened by the past, didn’t feel like someone haunted by what had been done to him. He looked… happy . Blissfully unaware of the storm raging just outside his door.

Maybe—for now—that was enough.

With an exhale, Pietro let himself move, flopping onto the bed with an exaggerated sigh. “You better not have picked something terrible while I was gone, Blue,” he muttered, smirking just enough to make it seem effortless. He’d deal with everything else later.

Before long, lunchtime rolled around, and Kurt casually mentioned pizza. Pietro didn’t argue—pizza was an easy win—and quickly ordered delivery to the house. As they waited, the atmosphere stayed light, filled with laughter and jokes about the ridiculous show playing on the TV. For a while, it felt like nothing else mattered.

The ease shattered the moment a knock came at Pietro’s door. The sound made both mutants freeze, and Kurt’s ears twitched slightly as his tail stilled mid-flick.

“Next time you order food, pick it up yourself,” Lance’s voice called, carrying its usual edge of irritation.

Pietro rolled his eyes, already moving to answer, but instinct told him he needed to tell Kurt to hide. He had to keep him hidden—Mystique had made that clear. His mouth was already half-open to say something when he glanced back and realized… he didn’t have to.

Kurt was already stiff, golden eyes flickering toward the door, his whole posture drawn tight with hesitation. He didn’t want to meet anyone new—Pietro could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, his tail curled slightly around his leg like he was instinctively making himself smaller.

And then, without a word, Kurt made the choice. He slipped off the bed and disappeared behind the closet door, moving quiet and quick, like he had always known that was the safest option.

Pietro exhaled, shaking his head as he turned back toward the door. Yeah. That made things easier. He pulled the door open. “Relax, dude. You sound bitter,” he muttered, grabbing for the pizza box without hesitation.

Lance didn’t let go. His eyes flicked over Pietro, scanning him with an intensity Pietro didn’t like. “What’s going on with you, man?” he asked, voice low but edged with something too close to concern. “You’re giving me nothing. Is it because of Mystique? She was here earlier—did she talk to you?”

Pietro snorted, keeping his grip on the box casual. “Wow, can’t a guy just be tired?” He rolled his shoulders like he couldn’t be bothered. “You’re acting like I’m having some existential crisis or whatever.”

Lance didn’t look convinced. “Yeah, well, you’re never tired.”

Pietro forced a smirk, taking advantage of Lance’s loosened grip to yank the pizza box free. “Maybe I’m just bored of your face.”

Lance was still watching him, still skeptical, but it wasn’t until he brought up Mystique that Pietro’s smirk faltered—just a fraction, just long enough for Lance to catch it.

“She was here, right?” Lance pressed, crossing his arms. “What’d she want?”

Pietro’s fingers tightened subtly around the box, but his expression smoothed back into something unreadable. “Nothing worth talking about,” he said, his tone clipped.

Lance’s brow furrowed. “Seriously, dude.”

“I said don’t worry about it.” This time, his voice was sharper, final.

Lance stared him down for another second, but eventually, he scoffed, shaking his head as he stepped back. “Whatever,” he muttered, turning away.

Pietro shut the door before Lance could change his mind, locking it behind him. He stood there for a beat, listening to Lance’s footsteps fade down the hall before exhaling slowly.

“Kurt,” Pietro called quietly, turning toward the closet. The door creaked open, and Kurt stepped out cautiously, his tail uncurling as he looked at Pietro with a faintly worried expression.

“Is everything alright?” Kurt asked softly.

Pietro forced a smirk, holding up the pizza box. “Yeah, just Lance being nosy, as usual. Nothing I can’t handle.” He motioned toward the bed. “Come on, let’s eat before it gets cold.”

Kurt hesitated, studying him for a moment longer, but eventually nodded and followed Pietro back to the bed. 

—--------------

Lance made his way back downstairs, jaw tight, mind buzzing with frustration. The whole interaction with Pietro had left him completely unsatisfied. Something was off —he was sure of it—but Pietro’s walls were up, and Lance had no idea how to get past them.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Toad wandered out of the kitchen, a half-empty bag of chips in hand. He took one look at Lance’s face and snorted. “Man, you still on this whole ‘something’s wrong with Pietro’ thing?” he asked, popping a chip into his mouth.

Before Lance could answer, Tabitha strolled in, smirking like she had been waiting for an opportunity to stir the pot. “Aww, Lancey,” she cooed, tilting her head dramatically. “Still worried about your boyfriend?”

Lance scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Real funny, Boom Boom.” But this time, he didn’t storm off—he just leveled her with a look. “You’re suspicious too, don’t act like you’re not,” he said, arms crossing over his chest. “That’s why you’re trying so hard to get under my skin.”

Tabitha’s smirk twitched slightly, but she just shrugged, tossing a stolen chip into her mouth as if she hadn’t been called out. “Maybe,” she said lightly. “But that just means I’ve got better instincts than you, doesn’t it?”

Lance exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “I don’t care what your instincts are. I just know Pietro’s hiding something.”

Toad grinned, crunching loudly on another chip. “Oh, well duh . It’s Pietro. That’s, like, his whole thing.”

“I don’t know,” Lance admitted, running a hand through his hair. “But Mystique was here earlier, and it’s got him even more on edge.”

Tabitha’s eyes lit up with amusement. “Ohh, the ring leader made an appearance?” she mused, crossing her arms with an eager smirk. “Now that’s interesting.” She tilted her head, watching Lance closely. “So what, you think our little speedster’s running errands for Mommy Dearest?”

Toad snorted. “Uh, yeah? Obviously. Anyone with eyes could see that.”

Tabitha grinned. “Well, then. Sounds like we should definitely do some snooping.”

Toad’s face split into a mischievous grin as he clapped his hands together. “Now we’re talking! We could totally check his room while he’s distracted. I mean, come on—he’s being all weird and secretive. We have to know what’s up.”

Tabitha nodded, already warming up to the idea. “Exactly. And if the door’s locked?” She shrugged, voice light. “I could just blow up the knob. Boom. Instant answers.”

Lance groaned, already regretting this conversation. “No. We’re not blowing up Pietro’s door.”

Tabitha scoffed, throwing her hands up. “Ugh, you’re so lame.”

“Yeah, dude,” Toad chimed in, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s not that serious. What’s the worst we’re gonna find? Some super important Hydra files? Maybe some old mission details? We’d know about that stuff eventually .”

Tabitha rolled her eyes dramatically. “Waiting is even more lame.”

Lance exhaled sharply, crossing his arms. “Look, I know something’s up, but if we break in, Pietro’s gonna know immediately—and then he’s gonna take it out on us .”

Tabitha smirked. “Oh no,” she mocked, hand on her chest. “You’re scared of Pietro’s wrath ?”

Lance shot her a glare. “I just don’t feel like getting into a war with him today, okay?”

Toad groaned, stuffing another chip into his mouth. “Fine, fine . We won’t blow up the door.” His grin turned sly. “But, like… snooping’s still on the table, right?”

Lance sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. This was going to be a headache.

—---

The rest of the afternoon passed in an easy, comfortable rhythm—TV playing in the background, half-finished slices of pizza between them, the occasional conversation breaking through the quiet. Nothing deep, nothing heavy, just existing . Kurt sprawled lazily on the bed, tail flicking absentmindedly, while Pietro stretched out on the floor, one arm tucked behind his head as he half-watched whatever mindless show was on.

Eventually, though, the pizza was gone, and the room smelled faintly of cardboard and melted cheese. Pietro let out a sigh, reaching for the now-empty pizza box, folding it in half with a crack before pushing himself up off the floor.

“Gonna toss this,” he said, grabbing the trash bag from his room.

Kurt barely looked up from the TV, nodding in acknowledgment. “Alright.”

Pietro was out the door, making his way down the stairs and through the hall toward the kitchen’s side exit. The kitchen was dimly lit, the soft hum of the microwave filling the space. Lance was already there, leaning against the counter, arms crossed as he watched the timer tick down. He didn’t say anything at first—just made a low, acknowledging noise in his throat, like he’d been expecting Pietro to show up sooner or later.

Pietro didn’t bite. Instead, he made a beeline for the side door, stepping outside into the cool night air. He tossed the trash into the bin with a sharp flick of his wrist, letting the lid slam shut before exhaling slowly, rolling out his shoulders. Just had to keep things casual. Control the conversation before Lance started digging again.

Upstairs, at the top of the second-floor landing, Tabitha crouched low, ears pricked for the sound of the door closing. The moment it clicked shut, she grinned and bolted down the hall, slipping into Toad’s room without bothering to knock.

“Get up,” she whispered, grabbing his arm and dragging him halfway off the bed.

Toad groaned, blinking blearily. “What—dude, what?”

Tabitha’s grin widened. “We’ve got a golden opportunity, Froggy. Pietro just left. We’ve got time to snoop.”

Toad rubbed at his eyes, but he was already grinning, his usual mischief kicking in. “Oh hell yeah,” he muttered, scrambling up to his feet. “Bout time we got some answers.”

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Pietro reentered, shaking off the slight chill from outside. He barely made it two steps in before Lance pushed off the counter, cutting straight to the point.

“You know whatever Mystique’s got you doing is messing with you,” Lance said, his voice calm but pointed.

Pietro sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t in the mood for this, but there was no dodging Lance when he got like this. “It doesn’t matter,” Pietro muttered. “Just mind your own business, and you’ll know soon enough.”

Lance frowned, arms crossing tighter over his chest. “That’s a dumbass answer. If we’re gonna find out eventually, why not just tell me now?”

Upstairs, Tabitha and Toad moved fast, keeping to the shadows of the hall as they approached Pietro’s door. Toad’s steps were a little staggered, but he was just as eager, practically vibrating with excitement behind Tabitha. They were only a few feet away.

Pietro’s jaw clenched, his patience thinning. “You have no idea how much bigger than you this is,” he bit out.

Lance didn’t even get the chance to open his mouth before a creak echoed from above.

Pietro’s head snapped up, instincts firing before his mind could catch up. In a blink, he was gone.

The wind hit Tabitha before she even saw him move. One second she was reaching for the doorknob—the next, her wrist was caught in a vice-like grip, the force of it making her stumble back.

The sharp, sudden grasp was tight. Too tight.

She blinked, looking up—and Pietro was staring her down, eyes cold as ice.

“Something I can help you with, Tabitha ?”

Chapter Text

Tabitha hesitated for just a second before attempting to yank her wrist free, but Pietro’s grip didn’t budge. He wasn’t just holding her in place—he was rooted, an unshakable wall of cold fury, his fingers pressing firm against her skin.

Still, she smirked up at him, unbothered. “Yeah, actually,” she drawled, tilting her head. “What’s got you hiding this much, Speedy?”

Behind her, Toad snickered. “Man, you’re getting real defensive,” he mused, hands shoved into his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels.

Before he could say anything else, Pietro’s icy glare cut straight through him. The amusement drained from Toad’s face in an instant. His mouth snapped shut, and he took a slow step back, suddenly a lot less eager to push his luck.

Tabitha used the distraction to yank at her wrist again, but instead of letting go, Pietro’s grip tightened.

He stepped forward. The air between them went razor-sharp, tension crackling in the space where Pietro’s usual cocky amusement should have been. Instead, his expression was flat. Unreadable. His eyes bore into hers, hard and unyielding.

“It’s none of your fucking business,” he said, voice low, clipped, and laced with warning. Then, leaning in just enough to make sure she felt it, he added, “Stay the fuck out of my room.”

Pietro dropped her wrist the second he heard Lance’s footsteps reaching the top of the stairs. He didn’t turn to look, already anticipating the inevitable—

“What the hell happened?” Lance demanded, his tone sharp with irritation.

Pietro finally glanced over, shooting him a look that said stay the fuck out of it.

Lance wasn’t impressed. He scowled, arms crossing over his chest. “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” he snapped. “Something’s wrong with you. You’re never wound this tight. One minute we’re talking, and the next you’re gone.”

Pietro exhaled, forcing his shoulders to loosen, letting the easy smirk slide back into place. With a casual flick of his wrist, he gestured to Tabitha. “Well, our favorite klepto was getting too close to what’s mine,” he said smoothly, any previous tension pushed aside in favor of lazy amusement.

Tabitha rubbed at her wrist, rolling her eyes. “Yours? Possessive much?”

Pietro’s smirk didn’t waver. “I just like to keep my shit where I left it.” He cocked his head, tone light but deliberate. “Just making sure I’m not getting played. Wouldn’t wanna end up like Tolanksy, would I?” His icy gaze flicked toward Toad, smirk still sharp.

Toad barked out a laugh, already taking a step back. “Fuck no, man. I’m out.”

Pietro snorted, watching him retreat.

Lance scoffed, shaking his head, frustration clear in the tight set of his jaw. “None of this is normal, Pietro,” he said, voice edged with something between irritation and concern. “You really expect me to believe Tabitha and Toad snooping has you this wound up?”

He took a step closer, eyes narrowing as he scanned Pietro’s face like he was trying to peel back the layers, trying to see what Pietro was refusing to say. “Man, the tension is rolling off you in waves,” he muttered. “Even for you.”

Pietro rolled his shoulders like he could shake it off, like he hadn’t already let too much slip. His smirk was back in place, but there was something off about it—too controlled, too deliberate.

Lance didn’t buy it. “What’s going on?” he pressed, voice dropping just slightly, no longer just suspicious but genuinely trying to understand. “You’ve been acting like this for days. Distracted. Jumpy. And now you’re one second away from snapping the second someone gets too close to your room?” His eyes flickered to Tabitha, then back to Pietro. “This isn’t just you getting territorial. Something’s wrong.”

Pietro barked out a laugh, sharp and amused. “Oh, that’s rich, Lance. Since when did you start watching me this closely?” He threw up his hands, his smirk widening as he leaned in just slightly, all easy arrogance. “I mean, really—tracking my mood, my tension levels? What’s next, man? Gonna start keeping a journal? ‘Day five, Pietro seemed particularly broody today…’” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock pity. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re in love with me.”

His smirk widened, eyebrows wiggling as he really piled it on. “You could’ve just said something, y’know. Saved yourself all this stress.”

Tabitha snorted before she could stop herself, her laughter cutting through the tension. “Yeah, Lancey,” she teased, grinning as she leaned into it. “There’s plenty of Pietro to love.”

Her tone was mocking, playful, but her eyes were locked on Pietro. She saw what he was doing. This was what he wanted—to derail the conversation, knock them off track before they could circle back to the real issue.

But Lance didn’t take the bait.

“Fuck off,” he snapped, his voice flat and unamused. “I’m serious.”

“Aww, that’s cute,” Pietro drawled, tilting his head with an exaggerated smirk. “Lance, you using your big kid voice? Gonna tell me off?” He placed a mocking hand over his chest, feigning offense. “Should I be scared? Is this the part where you finally put me in my place?”

Lance’s jaw tightened, but Pietro didn’t give him the chance to cut in. His smirk sharpened as he stepped forward, all easy confidence, eyes glinting. “I told you to mind your own business,” he said, voice dropping just enough to be a warning. “But if you wanna keep pushing? Be my guest.” He leaned in slightly, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Just don’t cry when you don’t like what you find.”

Tabitha let out a low whistle, rocking back on her heels. “Damn, Lance. He’s really trying to scare you off.” She shot Lance a sidelong glance, smirking. “You gonna let him talk to you like that?”

Lance didn’t so much as blink. His stare remained locked on Pietro, unmoving, unimpressed. “You really think you’re that good at shutting me up?”

Pietro rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue. “Oh, I know I am.”

Tabitha was loving this. She could barely keep the grin off her face as she watched the tension coil tighter between them, practically vibrating in the air. She had seen Pietro and Lance go at it before—mocking, shoving, biting remarks that escalated into full-on fights that left bruises and broken furniture in their wake. Usually Pietro was quick to take the bait, just as eager to throw down as Lance was.

But this time?

Pietro was tense, his body tight even as his smirk stayed lazy, his posture all false ease. He was holding something back. Tabitha’s grin widened, eyes glinting with mischief. Oh, this could get ugly. 

“Oh, Tro,” she purred, stepping in just close enough to tip the balance. “Don’t be shy now. Show us what you’ve got.”

She flexed her fingers, and the first set of orbs crackled to life in her palms, glowing like tiny, eager stars. Then she let them loose, scattering them with a careless flick of her wrist, a dozen sparks of pure chaos blinking to life around them.

Pietro didn’t hesitate.

Before they could even hit the floor, he was there, scooping them up mid-air, hurling them back without so much as a pause. Boom—boom—boom. The explosions lit up the hallway in rapid succession, sending smoke curling into the air, the heat licking at his heels as he twisted out of the way.

Lance cursed, staggering back. Tabitha just laughed, eyes flashing, already priming another round.

Pietro threw his arms out, his grin stretching wide, something wild sparking in his chest. This was it. This was what he’d been waiting for.

“Let’s fucking go, Boom Boom!” he howled, his voice bursting with manic delight.

Tabitha’s grin sharpened, and before the echo of his words had even faded, she was already moving, already launching into the next attack.

“Thought you’d never ask,” she crowed, hands blazing. With a snap of her fingers, the air detonated—not neat little bursts, but a cascade of erratic, chaotic explosions, splintering off like fireworks.

Too much. Too fast.

And Pietro—too busy enjoying himself—was a fraction too slow.

The shockwave hit his side first, a blast knocking his balance just enough to make him miscalculate—and the next explosion clipped him, sharp and scorching. Pain bloomed, fast and white-hot. Another hit, this time across his shoulder, the force sending him skidding backwards, sneakers squealing against the floor as heat singed through his hoodie.

He coughed, smoke stinging the back of his throat, the scent of burnt fabric curling in the air.

God, he was grinning.

Tabitha’s wild laughter rang through the space. “Damn, Speedy! Thought you were supposed to be fast!”

Pietro wiped the back of his hand across his face, smearing soot, and shot her a look that was all teeth. “You ever think maybe I just like a little danger, babe?”

She whooped, winding up for another round. “Oh, you’re about to get plenty of it!”

The next set of bombs came faster, wilder, scattered with zero precision, zero restraint. Tabitha wasn’t playing smart anymore—she was playing reckless. 

He could feel it now, deep in his chest—not just speed, not just instinct, but the rush. The kind that made his breath quicken, made his nerves spark like live wires. The kind that had nothing to do with winning and everything to do with feeling alive.

She wasn’t trying to outthink him. She was trying to drown him.

He surged forward, faster now, cutting through the mayhem, dodging one explosion, taking the brunt of another—sharp heat grazing his ribs, the burn of it singing through his hoodie. Didn’t matter. His body barely registered the sting because the thrill outweighed it.

Keeping her at bay wasn’t the goal anymore. This? This was fun.

Tabitha caught the look in his eyes—a flash of pure exhilaration, something electric and hungry—and let out a breathless, almost delighted laugh.

“Oh, you’re feelin’ it now, huh?”

Pietro grinned wide, eyes glinting with something almost manic.

“Boom Boom, you have no fucking idea.”

Tabitha had maybe a split second to process what was happening before Pietro was there, close enough to feel the static crackling off her skin—before he grabbed her.

One hand latched onto her wrist, the other seized the back of her shirt, and then he was spinning, dragging her with him, using her own momentum against her.

“—Oh, SHI—” Tabitha barely had time to yelp before Pietro let go, launching her toward the stairs.

She landed hard, skidding to a messy stop right at the top step—Lance was still reeling from dodging some of her stray explosions and she crashed straight into him, sending them both sprawling in a tangled mess of limbs.

Pietro took a long, slow breath, rolling his shoulders. He was still buzzing. His hoodie was burned at the sleeve, his side ached from the hit, but he was thrumming with energy, alive in a way he hadn’t felt in weeks.

“Whew,” he exhaled, shaking soot from his hair. “That was real fun, guys, really—but I gotta get to bed.” He stretched, flashing a lazy smirk. “Gotta keep this skin perfect, y’know? Beauty sleep’s a must.”

Tabitha groaned from where she was half-pinned under Lance. “You suck.”

“I thrive, babe.”

Tabitha let out an annoyed grunt, pushing off of Lance as he cursed under his breath, but Pietro was already slipping away, stepping back toward his room. He shot them one last cocky grin as they got up before disappearing inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

—-------------

The walls still felt like they were shaking.

Even with the fight over, the air held onto the echoes—the deep, gut-punching reverberations of explosions, the sharp, quick-fire exchanges of laughter, taunts thrown like punches.

Kurt had pressed himself small, curled up tight on the bed, fingers twisted in the fabric of the blanket like he could anchor himself there, like he could hold himself together even as the world outside fractured into chaos. Every crack of sound had sent a jolt through him, his muscles tensing instinctively, his tail coiled tight around his legs, breath coming too short, too fast.

Even now, the fight was still fresh in his mind.

Not the violence. Not the danger. Pietro.

The way his voice had cut through the noise, full of breathless exhilaration—sharp laughter and wild, taunting delight, a thrill Kurt had never heard from him before. The way he had called for more, demanded more. The way he'd sounded almost… hungry for it.

Kurt had never thought of Pietro as calm, but he had always assumed—hoped, maybe—that beneath all the posturing, the sarcasm, the attitude, there was someone steady. Someone who understood control.

But out there? In that fight?

That hadn’t been control. That had been something else. Something reckless. Something raw. Something that made Kurt wonder—had he ever really known Pietro at all?

Had it all been an act? Had the real Pietro been just outside, laughing through the carnage, letting himself fully unravel in the chaos?

The door swung open too fast, too sudden. Kurt flinched. Pietro stepped inside and let out a breath—sharp and uneven, head tilting back as he ran both hands through his hair, fingers digging in hard, like he was trying to physically scrape the tension from his skull.

His pulse was still too fast.

His whole body thrummed with residual energy, the high of the fight not quite burned out, his movements just a little too sharp, his breathing not quite steady.

Kurt could still hear the fight in him. Not in the room. Not in the quiet. But in the way he held himself, in the way his hands flexed at his sides like they still wanted something to do, in the way his smirk hadn’t fully settled into its usual lazy place, still edged with something sharp, something that had felt realer than anything else tonight.

Kurt swallowed, the knot in his throat tight, as he took Pietro in properly—the singed edges of his hoodie, the streaks of soot against pale skin, the slight stiffness in the way he shifted, the faint, barely-there tension in his jaw that meant he was hurt.

It hit him all at once.

Pietro had been out there. Out there where things had exploded. Where things had sounded serious. Where he had laughed like it had been the best damn thing in the world—but what if it hadn’t been?

Kurt’s voice came small, tight, barely held together.

“W—what happened?”

Pietro stilled. The residual heat in his chest twisted into something colder at the look on Kurt’s face—wide-eyed, damp, trembling.

Kurt was scared. Not of the fight. Of him.

Pietro’s whole body locked up, mind stalling out for just a fraction of a second—long enough for the realization to hit hard. Hard enough to sink in.

He’d screwed up.

He’d been so caught up in the rush of it—the heat, the fight, the thrill surging in his chest like a second heartbeat—that he hadn’t stopped to think. Not once. Not about how it would sound from inside his room. Not about how the chaos outside—the shouting, the explosions, the sheer joy in his voice—might land differently to someone already unsteady.

He’d been too busy keeping everyone else out, keeping control, keeping things together. He hadn’t thought once about keeping Kurt safe from the fallout. Now Kurt was looking at him like he didn’t know who he was.

"Shit," Pietro muttered under his breath, inhaling sharply, trying to push down the way his stomach dropped, twisted, clenched into something too close to regret. He forced his face into something easy, smooth, something that would fix this, something that would take that look off Kurt’s face.

"It was just an argument," he said, voice slipping into something light, casual, harmless, even though nothing about this felt harmless. "Nothing really."

He moved before thinking—a step forward, a hand lifting, a joke at the ready, something, anything—but the second he did, Kurt flinched.

Pietro froze. Something yanked inside his chest, hard, sharp, like a hook catching flesh and pulling.

No, no, no.

His hands clenched at his sides, fingers twitching with the instinct to fix it, to close the space, to smooth it over with some lazy grin, some quick excuse, some bullshit deflection—but none of that would work. Not this time. Not when Kurt was already pulling away from him, curling in on himself like Pietro was something to brace against.

The part of him that functioned on instinct, the part that answered to orders, the part that knew exactly what Mystique would say if she saw this happening—it kicked in first. Fix it. Get him back in line. He can’t slip. If you lose him now, the whole damn thing falls apart.

But there was something else, too. Something that had nothing to do with Mystique’s plan and everything to do with the fact that Kurt was shaking.

That he’d done this.

That he could lose him.

Not as part of the mission. Not as a moving piece in some long-game strategy. But as Kurt. As the one person in this entire damn house who looked at him and didn’t just see a Maximoff, or a problem to manage, or a headache waiting to happen.

That part of him, the one he hadn’t planned for, the one he hadn’t realized was even there until this exact second—that part wanted to fix this.

Kurt had never seen this side of him before—not really. Not like this. The thrill in Pietro’s voice, razor-sharp and electric, still echoed between them. "Let’s fucking go, Boom Boom!"

Then—the explosion. The chaos. The laughter, like it was all just a game to him.

But Kurt had heard more than that. He had heard the impact, the force of bodies colliding, of bones hitting the floor, of victory bleeding into something sharper, meaner, something not meant for play. It hadn’t been just the noise of a fight—it had been the way Pietro had sounded.

The ease of it. The comfort. As if violence was a rhythm he could move to without missing a beat. Like he had been meant for it. Built for it.

For the first time, Kurt was looking at him like he didn’t know him at all. A tight, sick sort of feeling crawled up his throat, curling in his ribs.

Had he ever really known Pietro?

The Pietro he had come to trust—the one who made him feel safe, steady, grounded even in the middle of everything—that Pietro hadn’t been outside. That Pietro hadn’t been laughing, breathless and exhilarated, as the world cracked apart in bursts of smoke and fire.

That Pietro wasn’t here, standing in front of him, streaked with soot, breathing too fast, electric in a way that felt too sharp, too raw.

That Pietro…Had that Pietro ever existed?

Pietro swallowed, throat tight. “Blue—”

Silence stretched between them, thick and fragile, ready to crack.

"Blue, come on," Pietro tried, voice thin, too sharp around the edges. "I swear it was nothing. They're fine."

Kurt wasn’t hearing him. Not really. His wide, golden eyes were locked onto Pietro’s face, searching for something—an answer, an excuse, a way to make sense of what he’d heard. And Pietro—Pietro wasn’t used to being looked at like that, not from Kurt.

Like he was dangerous.

Something cold settled under his ribs, spreading fast. He swallowed hard, but it didn’t go away, didn’t loosen the knot forming in his throat. His heartbeat picked up, sharp and uneven, and it had nothing to do with adrenaline this time.

Kurt had never looked at him like this before. Never doubted him like this before. He wanted to say more, to fix this before it cracked any further, but before he could open his mouth, Kurt whispered,

"Do I even know you?"

Pietro felt the floor drop out from under him. His body moved before his brain did, stepping forward, reaching for something he wasn’t even sure how to hold onto.

"Of course you do, Blue," he said, and God, why did that come out so frantic? His lopsided grin felt wrong on his face, too shaky, too forced, and he knew—he knew—it wasn’t reaching his eyes. "I mean, come on, I'm right here."

The tension in the room was strangling him.

Kurt just shook his head, blinking rapidly, his eyes damp and shimmering in the dim light. Pietro could see the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers curled into the fabric of his own sleeves like he was holding himself together by force alone. Pietro could see it—the effort, the fight, the way Kurt was pressing in on himself like he had to keep something from breaking loose.

Then, softly, voice barely above a breath—like it hurt to say:

"Did you hurt them?"

Pietro flinched.

It wasn’t just the words. It was the way they landed. A dull, heavy weight sinking into his chest, pressing down hard, twisting deeper the longer the silence stretched between them.

The question wasn’t just a question. It was an accusation.

Maybe that was fair. It was deserved. Kurt had every reason to ask, to look at him like that, like he didn’t know who he was anymore.

But still.

"No," Pietro said, too quickly, shaking his head hard, words tripping over each other in his rush to get them out. "No, of course not, Kurt, they're okay, I promise."

Kurt wasn’t answering. His jaw clenched, his ears twitched, and his tail curled tighter around himself like a shield. His shoulders rose and fell with uneven breaths, and then, like something fragile, something breaking—

"I... I trusted you..."

It was barely more than a breath, but it shattered something in Pietro’s chest.

Kurt sucked in a sharp, shuddering inhale, his whole body drawn tight, and then—hesitant, trembling, voice brittle at the edges—

"W-would... would you hurt me?"

Pietro let out a breathless laugh—weak, barely there. "Blue—" His voice cracked. He swallowed, hard, eyes burning. "I could never hurt you."

The words came out wrong—not because they weren’t true, but because they didn’t sound strong enough. They didn’t feel like enough.

Kurt still wasn’t looking at him like he fully believed it.

Pietro felt something shift, something crack open in a way he wasn’t prepared for. His whole chest felt too tight, his thoughts spiraling too fast, and what the fuck was happening to him?

Since when did he care this much? Since when was he this emotionally involved?

But none of that mattered—not when Kurt was still looking at him like that. Like he wasn’t sure who Pietro really was anymore.

Pietro sucked in a breath, ran a hand over his face, and tried again. Tried to fix it.

"Look, I—I didn’t mean to scare you," he said, voice rough, unsteady. "That’s just how we are. Me, Tabby, Lance, Toad, Freddy—we’re reckless, yeah, but it’s never serious. We don’t hold grudges, we don’t—" He stopped, shaking his head, forcing himself to keep talking, to push through it. "We fight like that all the time. It’s how we—" He hesitated, realizing too late he wasn’t even sure how to finish that sentence.

How we what? How we are? How we show we care? How we keep from thinking too hard about anything that actually matters?

Kurt finally blinked, finally looked at him like he wanted to believe it. Like what Pietro was saying made sense. For a second, it almost felt like the tension in the room was thinning, loosening, like the worst of this was behind them.

Then Kurt swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Was that the real you?"

Pietros throat went dry. His stomach twisted. His hands clenched at his sides, fingers twitching with the urge to do something, to fix this, to make that look on Kurt’s face go away.

How was he supposed to answer that?

Because—yeah.

To some extent, it was. That thrill, that rush, the way his pulse had sung with every explosion, every near miss—he had lived in that moment, in the recklessness, the rush, the high of it. He had felt alive. And if it had been because of anything else—anyone else—he wouldn’t have regretted a damn thing.

"Kurt," he started, but his voice barely worked. He swallowed, tried again. "Come on, Blue, you know me."

Kurt’s ears flicked back, his tail curling tighter around himself, and it hit Pietro harder than it should have. "I don’t think I do," Kurt whispered.

Pietro’s stomach dropped. God, it was different this time. This wasn’t Kurt just doubting him. This wasn’t just hurt feelings or an argument he could fix with some dumb joke or an easy excuse.

This was Kurt looking at him and seeing someone else entirely. "You’re not—" Kurt’s breath shuddered, his fingers gripping his sleeves. "You’re not who I thought you were."

Pietro shook his head hard, his hands twitching at his sides, useless. "Kurt, you don’t mean that."

But Kurt didn’t answer right away. That silence was worse than anything.

Then, finally—finally—Kurt’s shoulders sagged. Something resigned settled over his face.

"I don’t think I can do this right now," Kurt murmured.

Pietro barely had time to process it before Kurt’s voice broke, just a little—just enough to cut straight through him.

“Just—” Kurt’s breath hitched. His fingers twisted into the fabric of his sleeves, like he didn’t want to say it, like saying it would make it real. “Can you leave?”

Pietro flinched and for a second—just a second—he almost said no.

He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t just walk out of this room and pretend this wasn’t happening. Pretend he hadn’t just watched the trust he thought he’d built crumble right in front of him.

But Kurt was still waiting for an answer. Still wouldn’t look at him.

Pietro sucked in a breath, sharp and shallow, forcing down the way his throat tightened, forcing down the burning behind his eyes, forcing down everything threatening to crack him wide open.

Couldn’t let Kurt see. Couldn’t let him know. So instead—he laughed. Breathy, weak, completely hollow.

“Yeah,” Pietro muttered, running a hand through his hair like this was nothing, like his entire chest wasn’t caving in on itself. “Yeah, I get it.”

He took a step back, forced his usual smirk onto his face, but it felt wrong, too thin, too shaky.

"Didn’t mean to rattle you so bad, Blue," he added, his voice low, not quite steady. “Guess that’s on me.”

Kurt’s ears flicked at the words, but he still didn’t look up.

That was it. That was all Pietro could take.

His feet were moving before he could think—turning, pushing through the door, getting out before he did something pathetic.

Chapter Text

The hallway walls were too close, the air too thick, pressing in on him from all sides, crushing, suffocating, like a vice tightening around his ribs with each shallow breath. His pulse pounded—sharp, erratic, a relentless drumbeat rattling through his skull, hammering against his chest, reverberating in his fingertips. His skin felt like it was on fire, every nerve raw and exposed, every sensation magnified to an unbearable degree.

He could feel the tears brimming his eyes, hot and unwelcome, but it didn’t slow him down. Nothing could.

Down the hall—fast.

Down the stairs—faster.

His feet barely touched the ground, his momentum too forceful, too reckless to control. He caught a glimpse of movement—Toad, startled, jerking back just in time to avoid being bowled over. Someone shouted his name, the syllables lost in the chaos, blurred into meaninglessness. He didn’t know who it was. Didn’t care.

The door. The only thing between him and escape.

His hands hit it first, shoving hard, flinging it open with too much force, the hinges groaning in protest

The second his foot hit the pavement, he was nothing but a blur, a streak of silver cutting through the night, tearing across the pavement like a ghost trying to outrun its own shadow. The Brotherhood house disappeared behind him in an instant, swallowed by the darkness, reduced to a memory he didn’t have the capacity to hold onto. He pushed harder, faster, until the wind against his face was a brutal, lashing force, until his lungs burned with the effort, until the world around him blurred into nothing but streaks of color and sound, distorted and meaningless.

Eventually, the world stopped moving. Or maybe he did. He collapsed in a blur of silver and ash, lungs heaving, the taste of salt and regret burning the back of his throat. The only thing louder than the wind was the silence that followed.

______

Toad stumbled back, arms flailing as Pietro shot past like a bullet, the front door slamming so hard behind him it rattled the frame and made the windows twitch in their panes.

“Holy shit,” he choked out, eyes wide. “He—dude just launched himself like the house was gonna blow or somethin’.”

Tabitha was already halfway turned toward the stairwell, brows drawn tight. She didn’t move yet, but her gaze was sharp, scanning the third-floor landing like she expected it to start leaking smoke. “What the hell was that?” she muttered, mostly to herself—but loud enough for the room to catch it.

Toad blinked, still trying to process. “You think… that had to do with the fight?” he asked, hesitant, like even he didn’t buy it. “I mean—he won, right? Didn’t look hurt…”

“No,” Tabitha said, firmer now. “He won. Was smug as hell about it, threw out some cocky line—and then just ducked straight back into his room like nothing happened.” She flicked her hand toward the door, eyes narrowing. “That? That wasn’t someone losing it. That was someone pretending they didn’t just break.”

Lance appeared in the kitchen doorway, silhouetted in the microwave’s pale blue glow. He didn’t say anything at first—just stared at the door like it had personally offended him. His jaw was tight, unreadable.

“Whatever happened,” he said finally, “it’s not about the fight. It’s in that room.”

The living room went still—no snark, no movement, just the sound of the door creaking faintly on its hinges, like it hadn’t decided whether it should’ve let Pietro go at all.

Tabitha shifted, her weight already angling toward the stairs. “Alright,” she said quietly, like the decision had made itself. “I’m going up.”

Toad blinked at her. “Wait, what? You just got chucked into a wall, remember?”

“Lance barely counts as a wall,” she shot back, already heading for the stairs. “Besides—don’t pretend like you’re not dying to know what’s up there.”

Toad held up both hands, mock-offended. “Hey, I thrive on snooping. I’m just saying—maybe wait ‘til he’s not one hair-trigger away from throwing you off the balcony.”

Tabitha didn’t stop. Her boots hit each step with purpose, every thunk a warning and a dare.

Lance followed without a word, his expression locked-down and unreadable, eyes stormy.

Toad lingered for just a second, glancing back at the front door. It was still ajar, creaking slightly in the silence, like it wanted to whisper secrets it didn’t understand.

He shifted, tongue clicking lightly against his teeth. “…This is gonna be a whole thing , isn’t it,” he muttered to no one, and vaulted after them.

They hesitated outside Pietro’s door—not because they were scared of him, exactly. If anything, Tabitha looked ready to throw herself into it again, just on principle. But something had shifted. The air leaking from the crack beneath the door felt off —too still, too sharp, like it had been holding its breath right alongside them.

It wasn’t just a door anymore. It was the edge of something. A line Pietro had drawn in the sand—and then bolted across like the floor was catching fire.

Tabitha glanced at the knob, then at the guys. “Well?” she said, folding her arms. “Guess this means we’re definitely going in.”

Toad shifted uncomfortably, glancing back down the hall like maybe Pietro would reappear if he just stared hard enough. “Y’know, he did say, and I quote, ‘stay the fuck out of my room.’ So, like… maybe we don’t?”

Tabitha rolled her eyes. “Aw, come on, Todd. You scared he’s gonna pop out of the wall and yell at you?

“I’m just saying,” Toad said, licking his lips nervously, “people who run that fast don’t leave normal behind. Whatever’s in there freaked him out. I’m not tryna meet it.”

Lance let out a slow breath, jaw tight. “You didn’t hear what he said to me earlier. ‘You have no idea how much bigger than you this is.’” His voice dropped, shoulders squaring like the weight of that line hadn’t left him. “We’re about to find out what it is.”

Toad’s arms crossed defensively. “Look, I’m just saying—if that room explodes or turns into some portal to hell or whatever, I want it on record that I was the voice of caution here.”

“Duly noted,” Tabitha muttered, stepping forward anyway.

Lance didn’t stop her, but his hand came to rest on the doorframe like he needed one more second. One more breath.

“Alright,” he said, voice low. “Let’s see what he’s been hiding.”

The knob turned. The door creaked.

They leaned in—and the room looked back.

Silent. Still. Wrong.

Lance blinked, pushing the door the rest of the way open with a frown tugging at the edge of his mouth.

Shockingly clean, by Brotherhood standards. The desk was cluttered but not chaotic—just the usual sprawl of notebooks, loose pens, and a half-empty water bottle. A hoodie hung from the back of the chair, laundry basket full but not overflowing, and a pair of sneakers kicked halfway under the bed like someone had taken them off in a hurry but hadn’t cared enough to fix it.

The bed was a mess—blankets twisted, half-kicked off, one pillow buried beneath the heap—but not in a way that screamed danger. No broken furniture. No chains bolted to the floor. No ominous glow from under the dresser.

Lance stood there like he was waiting for something to explode. Like maybe this was a trap that hadn’t triggered yet. “Seriously?” he muttered, voice dropping as his brows pulled together. “This is what he was guarding like it was nuclear? I’ve seen Freddy’s sock drawer look more suspicious.”

Toad edged further in, eyes darting around, arms still half-crossed like he was holding onto the idea of not being here. “Looks like a room,” he said, voice matching Lance’s hush. “Just… a room. So what the hell made him bolt like he saw a ghost?”

Tabitha opened her mouth—some half-formed joke already on her tongue—but then—The blankets moved.

All three of them froze like they’d stepped on a landmine.

No one breathed.

“…Pietro?”

The voice was small. Frayed at the edges. Not the rasp of sleep, but something thinner—something barely stitched together.The kind of voice that tried to sound normal and didn’t come close.

The lump under the blankets stirred again.

Slower this time. Hesitant. Movement came like a question, uncertain and reluctant, as if it had been forgotten somewhere deep in the body.

Kurt sat up.

His eyes were swollen, rimmed in red, the skin beneath them bruised with exhaustion. Not the kind sleep cured—this was the kind that hollowed you out. In the dim light, his face looked washed-out, barely there, like he’d been drained and stitched back together wrong.

He was wrapped tight in one of Pietro’s blankets, cocooned so completely it was hard to tell where the fabric ended and he began. Curled in on himself, brittle and still, like moving might break something. Like maybe the blanket was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

His gaze lifted.

Golden eyes locked on them. Wide. Glassy. Caught in that split-second between fear and flight. He blinked once. Then again. Slow. Uncertain. Like he was seeing ghosts. Or strangers who might still be monsters.

It was if he didn’t know whether he was safe—or if this was the part where everything shattered again.

The moment—whatever fragile illusion had been holding it all together—cracked right down the middle.

“Kurt?!”

Toad’s voice cracked the silence—too loud, too sudden, laced with a kind of startled relief that didn’t belong in a room this fragile. It hit the air sharp, jagged, like a glass dropped on tile.

Kurt flinched— hard . The sound seemed to go straight through him, like it had struck bone.

His eyes blew wide, pupils pinprick sharp, panic surging to the surface so fast it erased everything else. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

He just moved.

The air folded in on itself. Smoke hit hard, sulfur curling sharp in the back of their throats.

When it cleared—Just an empty bed. Wrinkled blankets. Cooling sheets.

“Dude,” Toad breathed, stumbling backward a half-step. “Dude, what the fuck— ”

He spun, eyes wide, looking between the now-empty blankets and the others like someone was supposed to explain it. “That was Kurt. That was Kurt. Why did he run from me?!”

“Why was he here?” Lance shot back, still standing in the doorway, voice sharp with disbelief. “In Pietro’s room—?”

“I told you!” Toad jabbed a finger toward him, frantic now. “Remember? At school? I said it as a joke—how Blue disappears and suddenly Speedy starts acting all twitchy, bailing on everything’—and he—” He pointed to the empty bed. “—was right fucking here?!”

“He called for Pietro,” Lance said, voice flattening. “He wasn’t just hiding here. He thought Pietro was coming back.”

There was a pause. A long, stunned silence. Tabitha exhaled a single, disbelieving laugh.

“No way,” she said, looking from the doorway to the bed like the image couldn’t quite land. “This was about Blue?” She ran a hand through her hair, half-laughing again, this time sharper. “God, this is the last thing I thought we’d find. I thought maybe he stole a file, or a secret fling, or I don’t know—Mystique blackmail. But Kurt?”

Lance’s jaw clenched. “He told me to mind my business,” he muttered. “‘You’ll get your answers soon enough.’”

Toad was still staring at the air where Kurt had vanished, voice quieter now. “That wasn’t just some secret. That felt personal.”

Tabitha scoffed, arms crossing. “Or it’s just another Mystique thing. Isn’t that what we thought this was? Some covert mission? File, blackmail, leverage—whatever.”

Toad snapped his head toward her. “No. No way. This—this wasn’t Mystique.” His hands flicked toward the blankets like they could back him up. “What the hell would she even want with Kurt?”

Tabitha frowned, the edge of her confidence softening. “I mean… I don’t know. But she always wants something.”

“He’s been missing for weeks ,” Lance said, shaking his head. “I don’t know how long he’s been here—but Pietro knew. He’s been covering something, that’s for sure.”

Tabitha crossed her arms, still staring at the blankets like they might rearrange themselves into something that made sense. “Okay, but like—what now? We just... wait?”

Lance let out a breath, dragging a hand through his hair, pulse still pounding in his ears. “Pietro’s gone. Who knows when he’s coming back—and when he does? He’s not gonna want to talk. ”

He looked toward the spot where Kurt had vanished, jaw tight. “Kurt’s the only one left with answers.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

“We have to find him.”

Toad, still blinking at the spot where Kurt had vanished, threw his hands up with a dry snort. “Yeah, great. I’m like brimming with ideas,” he said, sarcastic enough to strip paint off the walls. “Should we try the teleporter aisle at Walmart or—”

Lance turned to him, half-expecting. “Your stupid joke was right before.”

Toad blinked. “Wait, what ?”

Tabitha looked between them, then barked a short laugh, incredulous. “Hold on. Hold on. Toad’s our voice of reason now?!”

Toad threw his hands up again, full-body exasperation. “Okay—first of all, rude. Second of all? Yeah, actually, I do have a guess.”

That got their attention. Tabitha tilted her head, brows lifting. Lance crossed his arms, waiting.

“If Kurt’s been crashing here this whole time,” Toad said, motioning vaguely down the hall, “like—not just a night or two, I mean actually staying —then he was probably in the guest room before Pietro started hoarding him.”

That stopped Tabitha mid-scoff.

She blinked. “Wait. Yeah. That... actually makes sense.”

Lance frowned. “Guest room’s barely been touched since Wanda bailed.”

“Exactly,” Toad said, a little more urgency now. “If Pietro brought him here weeks ago, that’s where he’d stash him first. He only moved him to his own room once people started snooping.”

Tabitha ran a hand through her hair, pacing a step. “Okay, but if he’s been here that long… why didn’t he just bamf back to the mansion?”

Lance shook his head, brow furrowing. “Yeah. He could’ve left. No locks, no chains—he’s not trapped here.”

Toad’s mouth opened, then closed again. His voice came out a little quieter. “So... he chose to stay.”

No one said anything at first.

The silence stretched, thick and uncertain, like they were all waiting for someone else to make the call.

Lance turned, already moving. “Should’ve checked it days ago” his voice tinged with irritation. 

They followed without argument.

The hallway stretched out in front of them, quiet and narrow, like it had been holding its breath along with the rest of the house. Their footsteps fell heavy against the floorboards as they moved—cautious, slow, the weight of everything they didn’t know pressing closer with every step.

Lance reached the guest room first. The door stood ajar, just enough for shadows to bleed out into the hallway, long and soft-edged like they’d been waiting for someone to find them. He hesitated for only a second—then pushed it open.

The room met him in silence.

Dim light filtered through the curtains in wan streaks, brushing faint gold against the bed. It caught on the soft curve of the blanket—pulled tight, perfectly still. A scene that looked too neat. Too undisturbed.

For one breath, it looked empty.

“There,” Toad whispered, voice barely more than breath.

And suddenly it was obvious. There, pressed low into the mattress, folded in on himself like he was trying to disappear into the fabric, Kurt lay beneath the covers. His body small. Still. But not peaceful.

His tail betrayed him—tensed and trembling, the spaded tip curled hard and sharp over the edge of the blanket like it didn’t know how to lie.

Tabitha took half a step forward—but didn’t get farther. Neither did Toad.

Lance was already moving.

He crossed the room in three strides, barely aware of the breath locked in his throat or the way his pulse stuttered as his eyes adjusted to the dim. He could see him now—really see him. Kurt, curled so tight it hurt to look at. Hands clenched in the blanket. Shoulders rigid. Eyes wide and shining beneath the edge of the cover, locked somewhere past panic.

Lance barely had time to register the movement—a sharp, wild jerk of Kurt’s tail, a violent thrash of muscle beneath him—before everything around him collapsed inward.

The room vanished, his stomach plummeting as the world twisted and folded inside out, reality warping in on itself so violently that for half a second there was nothing—no weight, no air, no sound—just suffocating darkness, thick and absolute, pressing into his ribs, his skull, his bones.

Everything slammed back in at once.

The wind roared past his ears, deafening, a violent rush of air slamming against him as they plummeted, weightless and uncontrolled, faster than his mind could process, too fast to grasp, too fast to stop. Lance barely processed the gut-wrenching drop, the weightlessness that clung to his ribs, the way his skin prickled from the cold air tearing past him—because he wasn’t alone.

Kurt was thrashing, his body twisting violently, muscles coiled tight as his teeth bared in a feral snarl, wild-eyed and lunging with raw, desperate instinct.

Lance felt the snap of fangs just shy of his face, the air crackling from how close they came to his skin. Kurt wasn’t trying to escape anymore—he was trying to bite .

But Lance’s grip never faltered, not through the teleport, not through the stomach-churning weightlessness of being ripped through dimensions, not even as every nerve in his body screamed in protest, his muscles locking up from the sheer force of it all, his breath catching in his throat as the world twisted and reformed around him in an instant that felt like an eternity. 

His mind reeled, struggling to make sense of it, but still, his fingers stayed clenched tight around Kurt’s tail, refusing to let go, even as Kurt lashed out, desperate and unhinged, fighting like a cornered animal, his hands scraping against Lance’s jacket, legs kicking wildly, breath coming in harsh, frantic bursts. The raw panic in Kurt’s glowing eyes made it terrifyingly clear—he wasn’t thinking, he wasn’t planning, he was just trying to get away.

He didn’t dare look down, didn’t dare let go, didn’t dare think about the moment of impact, because whether they hit the ground or not, Lance was taking Kurt with him.

BAMF

The darkness swallowed them whole. Then—They were falling. Again.

This time, Lance knew—this wasn’t just blind panic, wasn’t just instinct taking over. This was calculated. Deliberate. Kurt wasn’t running anymore; he was fighting. He was using the teleport, not as an escape, but as a weapon, a last-ditch effort to throw Lance off, to send him spiraling into open air, to rip him free by force. If Kurt thought that was going to work—he was dead fucking wrong.

Kurt lunged again, twisting violently, a snarl tearing from his throat as his fangs snapped dangerously close, missing only because Lance jerked his head back at the last second. Too close. The sound of teeth clashing together sent a primal jolt of adrenaline down his spine, but Lance didn’t loosen his grip—not for a second. Kurt was writhing in his hold, a blur of fur and muscle and desperation, his fangs snapping dangerously close, each lunge more frantic than the last, his entire body twisting and jerking in a wild, unrelenting effort to throw Lance off.

BAMF

They spun as they fell, locked in freefall like eagles mid-strike, limbs tangled, breath stolen by gravity’s pull. The wind howled past them, pressure building in Lance’s ears, but he didn’t loosen his grip. Not for a second. Kurt was snarling beneath him, furious and wild, but Lance clung like a vice.

This was backfiring—Kurt realized it too late.

Lance wasn’t letting go.

Another teleport—he was going to try it again—

But Lance moved first.

With a guttural shout, he jerked them midair, using the momentum to twist their trajectory. His arm locked around Kurt’s wrist, yanking it back, and in one smooth, brutal motion, Lance threw his weight forward, bracing his knee and slamming it down hard into Kurt’s shoulder—pinning it flat across his shoulder blades.

BAMF

They hit the floor like stones dropped from the sky. The guest room snapped back into focus around them—wooden boards slamming into ribs, smoke curling through the air, the sting of sulfur sharp in their throats. They tumbled, tangled and disoriented, until Lance managed to wrench control back with brute force.

By the time they skidded to a halt, Lance had him.

Kurt was face-down beneath him, body twisting, tail flailing in sharp, erratic bursts. But Lance had his right arm pinned behind his back, his right knee driven firmly between Kurt’s shoulder blades, his full weight bracing him down. He hooked one ankle behind Kurt’s tail, locking it to the floor.

“GET OVER HERE AND HELP ME PIN HIM!” Lance shouted, breath ragged, voice tearing from his throat as he fought to keep Kurt down. He glanced up just long enough to register the stunned faces in the room.

Tabitha froze mid-step, eyes wide, pulse hammering in her throat. “Okay, what the actual —”

“NOW!” Lance barked, yanking Kurt’s arm up hard. Kurt let out a sharp hiss, teeth bared, eyes blazing—pure fury burning through the panic.

Toad ducked fast, instincts slamming into overdrive. He dove low and to the side, skidding into position beside Lance, throwing his weight over Kurt’s legs. They kicked violently, sharp and fast, but Toad held on, breath tearing through his chest.

Tabitha circled in from the left, but barely made it a step before Kurt twisted violently beneath them, his spine arching up in a whipcord jolt, his fangs snapped toward her ankle, fast and vicious.

“Shit—!” She stumbled back, just outside his reach, heart slamming into her ribs.

For a second, hovering in the space between fight and what the fuck am I fighting , eyes locked on the thing snarling beneath Lance’s knee.“ TABITHA! ” Lance barked, voice cracking with strain. “ Now! ”

She swore under her breath, kicked into motion again, and dropped to her knees, grabbing Kurt’s left wrist just as it swung wide. Her knee landed next to Lance’s, digging into the small of Kurt’s back for leverage.

Toad grit his teeth, adjusting his grip. “Dude— hold still! ” he gasped, voice high, lungs heaving. His arms were wrapped awkwardly around Kurt’s calves, full body anchoring them to the floor.

But Kurt didn’t stop.

He fought .

Every inch of him bucked and twisted, his muscles coiled and wild, like he was made of nothing but instinct and panic. His teeth snapped open, open, open again—jaws clashing in blind defense, his eyes wide and glassy, glowing like they were lit from the inside out. A ragged, animal sound ripped from his throat—raw, broken, somewhere between a scream and a growl, more wild than human.

“What the fuck happened?!” Tabitha shouted over the noise, struggling to keep his arm from breaking free. “Where the hell did you go?!”

“ Seriously! ” Toad yelled, eyes wide, sweat running down his temple.“What is this?! This is not Kurt—I’ve never seen him like this! What happened to him?!”

Lance grit his teeth, trying to keep his grip steady as Kurt bucked again beneath him. 

 “I don’t know! I grabbed his tail, he freaked—next thing I know, bamf , we’re falling out of the sky!”

“Oh, great!” Tabitha snapped. “So you tried to tackle him and unlocked murder mode ! That’s amazing! ”

Toad flinched, voice defensive and cracking. “He’s scared! We scared him, okay?! He’s not trying to kill anyone! He’s—he’s not like that!”

Lance’s eyes shot up, dark and furious. “He tried to bite my face off!” he shouted. “He’s not like that? He teleported midair to drop me! That wasn’t running—that was a goddamn tactic!”

Toad went pale. That one hit deep. “I—okay—okay, but that doesn’t mean he’s just gone ,” he said, breath catching. “Something happened. This isn’t him. Something— broke him.”

“Yeah?” Tabitha bit out, sweat glinting at her temple. “Cool. Great. So what the fuck are we supposed to do until Pietro shows up? Hope he doesn’t bite through one of us first? ”

All three of them fell quiet for a half-second, panting, sweating, still pressing down hard on the struggling, snarling mess beneath them.

Toad let out a wheezing breath. “No fuckin’ clue. But Speedy’s definitely gonna kill us.”

Tabitha groaned, eyes squeezing shut, her forehead dropping against the back of her hand like she was trying to press the moment out of existence. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. ”

Pietro had told them— explicitly —to stay out of it. That they'd get answers when the time was right. That it wasn’t their business. They’d laughed, rolled their eyes, pushed anyway.

Now here they were. Kneeling on the floor, holding down the one thing he’d been guarding like a secret with teeth. A secret wrapped in blankets, shaped like a boy, with bones full of panic and breath that hitched like it hurt to exist.

And Pietro was nowhere in sight.

Toad shifted, breath hitching, eyes flicking to the door like Pietro might blast through it at any second. “We’re so screwed,” he muttered, voice low and tight. “Like... nest-poked, hornet-in-the-face screwed. ”

Kurt twisted violently beneath them, another snarl ripping out of his throat, feral and wet. His legs kicked hard, slamming against Toad’s grip, shoulders jerking like he was willing to dislocate something— anything —to get free. It wasn’t coordinated anymore. It was chaos. His tail whipped blindly beneath Lance, pinned and flailing, teeth snapping toward the air like the room itself was attacking him.

His breathing changed.

Short. Sharp. Too fast. Like his lungs couldn’t figure out how to pull air anymore.

Toad’s rambling stalled. His arms didn’t let up, but his expression shifted—something cracked in his voice,“Guys— guys —wait,” he said, a thread of panic cutting through the sarcasm, through the noise. “Listen. His breathing. Something’s wrong.”

Lance didn’t glance up. “No shit something’s wrong,” he gritted, trying to keep Kurt’s wrist twisted and pinned without snapping bone. “You noticed the part where he tried to kill me, right? He’s not exactly meditating.”

“No—I mean listen!” Toad barked. “He’s not trying to hurt us anymore. He’s—he’s freaking out. That’s not rage. That’s a panic attack.”

Tabitha swore again, louder this time, the kind of curse that scraped raw.  “You sure?! He just went for my ankle like it owed him money!”

Kurt let out a sound then—a sound that didn’t belong in a fight. Not a growl. Not a snarl. A choked-off, high-pitched sound that cracked apart mid-breath.

His breathing was too shallow. Too fast. His back arched hard beneath them, spine lifting off the floor like he could escape gravity itself, eyes blown wide, mouth open in a gasp that couldn’t find air.

“I’m telling you—holding him down’s making it worse!” Toad said, panic lacing every word now. “He’s gonna hyperventilate!”

“Oh great ,” Lance snapped, voice cracking with exhaustion. “So let’s let him go, that way he can finally finish the part where he bites my face off! Fantastic plan!”

Tabitha gritted her teeth, Kurt’s arm still locked beneath her grip. “The guy needs a fucking sedative .”

Toad let out a laugh—ugly, humorless. “Cool. Anyone got a tranq gun in their back pocket? Maybe some emergency Xanax? ‘Cause I’ve got nothing.”

Kurt sucked in another breath—and it hitched. A wild, broken noise clawed out of his throat and his legs kicked hard again before buckling under Toad’s weight.

“Shit— Kurt! ” Toad flinched, trying not to loosen his grip but his voice cracked, high and raw. “This is bad. This is seriously, seriously bad.”

They all looked down at him, the wild blur of him,still writhing, still snarling, but less like a threat and more like a drowning man. His chest was heaving too fast, his eyes weren’t tracking, and his mouth was open in jagged, broken rhythm—like his lungs were trying to run even if the rest of him couldn’t.

We need Pietro,” Tabitha muttered, biting her lip, breath catching in her throat.

Kurt’s chest seized.

Toad’s head snapped up. “Wait—did you hear that?”

Lance frowned. “What?”

“Say it again,” Toad said quickly, sharper now. “Say his name again.”

“We need Pietro,” Tabitha repeated, slower this time, like she was testing a theory she didn’t want to believe.

Kurt froze. Just for a second.

His body gave a twitch—like something in him jolted—then stopped moving. The writhing paused. His eyes flickered, unfocused and wild, but the snapping of his teeth stopped. Barely, but it stopped. Lance felt it. The shift. The pressure under his hands eased, the fight in Kurt’s muscles slipping—only slightly, only for a breath—but it was there.

He leaned in without thinking. “Hey—hey, it’s alright,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “Pietro’s gonna come back, okay? He’s on his way. Just hang on. You don’t have to—freak out, or whatever. Pietro’s gonna fix it.”

No answer. But Kurt’s chest stuttered—then slowed. Still shallow. Still too fast. But the gasping eased. His tail gave a single, twitching flick under Lance’s leg.

Toad stared. “What the hell.”

Tabitha’s voice was quiet now. “Is that... actually working?”

Lance didn’t stop.“He’s coming back,” he repeated, firmer this time. “You’re safe. You’re not gonna fall. Pietro’s gonna be here.”

Toad’s voice came out small. “Why the hell is that helping?”

No one answered.

Kurt didn’t snap again. Didn’t teleport. But he didn’t calm, either. He just froze—rigid beneath their hands, teeth still bared, eyes glassy and unfocused—but everything in him was listening now. Every nerve tuned to one word.

Pietro.

“Seriously,” Toad said again, softer this time, like he was afraid to break whatever fragile thread had just caught hold. “Why is Pietro’s name the only thing getting through to him?”

Still, no one spoke.

Tabitha shifted slightly, her grip tightening around Kurt’s wrist. “This doesn’t make sense,” she murmured, barely audible. “They never even liked each other.”

Lance’s jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter. It’s working.”

Kurt didn’t speak, didn’t blink. But he stayed still.

Not relaxed—just held. Like something inside him was straining to stay coiled. Whatever flicker of calm had touched him—whatever faint, invisible thread had reached through the chaos and pulled him back—snapped.

His body convulsed, sudden and sharp. A full-body jolt like something inside him had shattered loose.

Lance’s grip slipped for half a heartbeat.

“Shit—move!” Tabitha barked, breath catching as she lunged to catch his wrist before it twisted free. Her fingers caught it mid-flail, pinning it back down with effort that shook through her shoulders.

Toad’s balance broke. He scrambled, arms locking tighter around Kurt’s legs as they kicked hard beneath him. “Whoa—shit! Hold him—hold him, he’s going again!”

Kurt let out a ragged, animal sound—half-snarl, half-sob—and arched beneath them, the fight rushing back into his limbs all at once.

Lance cursed through his teeth, muscles screaming. “We had him! What the hell was that?!”

Toad’s voice came high, tight. “I don’t know—I don’t know! It was like he heard something! Then it just—snapped!”

“Yeah, well, snap him back,” Tabitha growled, sweat dripping from her temple as she wrestled his wrist back down. “Because I’m two seconds from breaking something if he doesn’t stop flailing.”

Kurt’s breath hitched—another wild, too-sharp inhale—and his spine arched again, fighting gravity like it was something personal.

Toad’s eyes flicked back to his face. “Say it again,” he gasped. “Say his name. Try it again!”

“Pietro,” Tabitha said, fast, like throwing a rope into water. “Pietro. You hear me?”

Kurt bucked. Snarled. The snap in his movements faltered for a split second—just long enough for Lance to dig back in, wresting his arm back under control.

“Pietro’s coming,” Lance said, low, sharp, like a warning or a promise. “So don’t make us explain this shit when he does.”

“Maybe we should text Pietro?” Tabitha suggested “Just—call him— something— ”

“Oh, yeah, great idea!” Lance said. “Let’s call the guy whose one rule we just shattered and let him know we’ve got his feral blue secret pinned to the floor! ”

“He’s gonna kill us anyway! ” Toad shot back, gritting his teeth as Kurt’s legs kicked again. “I’d rather get yelled at than mauled! ”

“He’s gonna vaporize us if he finds out through a text! ”

“I’d prefer a text!” Toad yelled. “Maybe he won’t go straight to murder if he’s holding his phone! ”

“Oh my god! ” Lance growled, digging his knee harder between Kurt’s shoulder blades. “ Shut up! Both of you! This is not the time to argue about how we die! ”

Kurt cried out. But it wasn’t a snarl this time, it wasn’t rage, it was shattered . A sound that cracked, hoarse and choked and pleading , like it had been torn from somewhere buried too deep for words. A single, jagged name clung to the breath that broke through him.

“ Pietro! ”

All three of them froze—like the sound itself had struck them clean through.

Lance felt the tremor beneath his hands, a sharp convulsion—not aggressive, not wild—just raw , a body trying and failing to hold itself together.

A sharp exhale rattled out of Kurt—then another. Gasping. Too fast. Too tight. Then the shaking started.

Lance stiffened. His knee dug in harder on reflex, but the resistance was gone.

Beneath them, Kurt was trembling. Not bucking. Not biting. Just… breaking .

Tabitha’s fingers twitched where they held his wrist, sudden tension making her flinch.

Toad leaned forward, hesitated—then angled his head, just enough to see Kurt’s face through the curtain of hair and panic.

His breath caught in his throat. “He’s—he’s crying.” He whispered, like saying it too loud might make it worse.

Not just misty-eyed, not just blinking hard. Real tears. Thick and silent, cutting jagged lines down the curve of Kurt’s face. They trailed along his temple, down his jaw, disappearing into the mess of hair and sweat and trembling fur. His mouth was open like he wanted to scream, but couldn’t. His chest jerked in shallow bursts, each one caught halfway to collapse. He wasn’t trying to get away anymore.

He was losing it .

The guilt hit like whiplash.

Toad pulled back slightly, arms still locked around Kurt’s legs but his grip gone slack. “We—what the hell are we doing?” he breathed, voice breaking as it hit the air. “He’s not attacking. He’s not—he’s crying . Guys—what if we hurt him?”

. Tabitha didn’t answer right away. She was still staring down at the wrist in her grip like it had turned to glass. “I didn’t mean to—” Her voice broke off. She swallowed hard, forced it back down. “We were just trying to keep him from bamfing again.”

“Yeah, well congrats ,” Toad hissed, panic rising fast and messy in his throat. “Now he’s crying and we’re the assholes holding him down .”

Lance stayed quiet, jaw clenched tight. He hadn’t let go, not entirely, but the pressure in his arms had softened—like his body didn’t know which instinct to follow anymore. His voice, when it came, was a whisper, low and grim. “We didn’t mean for this.”

“No one ever means to break something,” Tabitha muttered, her eyes still locked on Kurt’s tear-streaked face.

Kurt let out another breath then—a wrecked, trembling hiccup of sound. Barely audible. But it hit like a punch to the chest.

Toad winced. “Guys—maybe we should—”

CREAK

The sound split the air like a faultline cracking open.

 Long. Low.

The drawn-out groan of the front door swinging on its hinges, wood creaking like it knew it was too late to take any of it back.

Three heads snapped toward the hallway like they’d been shot.

Lance didn’t breathe. His entire frame locked, muscles straining tight like a faultline under pressure. Tabitha went statue-still, mid-motion, her fingers curled halfway into Kurt’s sleeve and not moving. Toad flinched—visibly. His hands tightened without meaning to, his eyes wide, fixed on the doorway like it had teeth.

Kurt was still crying.

Still shaking, still pinned beneath their hands like an injured thing, breath coming in wrecked little bursts, tears soaking into the floorboards beneath his face. His voice had already broken. He’d already called for him.

They—they—were the reason why.

None of them spoke. None of them could. The horror didn’t hit all at once—it bled in, slow and sick, inch by inch, like water creeping under a locked door.

The footsteps that followed only made it worse.

Slow at first. Measured. Coming up the stairs like a countdown in human form—one step, then another, then another, climbing toward them with awful inevitability.

Toad had gone sheet-white. “That’s him,” he whispered, like saying it out loud might somehow keep it from being true.

“Pietro—”

The name cracked out of Kurt like a wound being torn open. Desperate. Gasping. It shattered whatever thread of composure they had left.

The footsteps halted mid-step. The silence thickened.

Air displaced. Floorboards shuddered. The room jolted with the snap of wind and velocity. And before any of them could blink—

Pietro was in the doorway.

Everything went silent.

He stepped into the room like a blade sliding from its sheath—silent, sharp, unavoidable.

Kurt. Face pressed to the floor. Arms twisted behind him like a threat. Shoulders trembling. Breath ragged. Not just cornered— caged. He wasn’t looking at them. He was looking past them. At him.

This wasn’t just fear. This wasn’t just panic. This was the lab. This was Hydra. This was everything Mystique hadn’t wanted to say out loud—everything she’d tried to gloss over with phrases like hormone flooding and erased inhibition and he was ready for the next step.

This—this was what that step looked like.

Kurt was trembling.

Not just his hands—all of him. Shoulders hitching with every breath like they were too small to carry the weight of it. His body curled inward, caught somewhere between collapse and recoil, shaking so hard it seemed like his bones had forgotten how to hold shape. Tears tracked silently down his face, constant and unchecked, vanishing into the soft fur like they’d been falling for hours.

There was no awareness in his posture. No present tense.

Just the echo of commands he no longer understood, still rattling through his nerves like a broadcast no one had turned off. His limbs held tight to poses he hadn’t chosen—obedience without an order, fear without a threat. His breath stuttered in broken cycles, chest hitching against the weight of a voice that wasn’t here but somehow still louder than everything else in the room.

Break him down, make him something they could use. Mystique’s voice rang sharp in his skull. He hadn’t even asked her to clarify. He’d already known.

And Hydra had. Until he snapped.

Fourteen dead . The number thudded behind Pietro’s eyes like a pulse.

Mystique had said it with a grin. Whatever they did to him, whatever they thought they made him into—they lost control of it. She’d said it like that was the win. Not that he survived. Not that he came back. But that they lost control.

Now that broken weapon was Pietro’s to fix.

“Kurt is your responsibility now,” Mystique had told him, voice cold and clear. “You keep him safe. You keep him in line.”

It felt like a bomb strapped to his chest.

This wasn’t safe. This wasn’t controlled. This wasn’t Kurt having a bad day. This was him— programmed to fracture, and triggered, the only thing Pietro had told everyone not to touch.

He left for twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes.

And now Kurt was on the floor, pinned like an animal, choking on air, crying, surrounded by people who didn’t understand what they’d touched. Who thought he was dangerous now, but didn’t know the worst of it. Didn’t know what was still buried under the surface.

“You can’t tell him about the X-Men.” “You keep them at bay, Pietro.” “This has to stay contained.”

It wasn’t.

Pietro had said it himself: They’re circling.

And now—they’d touched it. They’d gone in his room, cracked open the thing he’d been holding together with care and caffeine and denial, and now they were scrambling to stop something they never should’ve provoked.

He should’ve known.

He did know.

And still, he left, because Kurt had asked.

Pietro didn’t speak. In half a heartbeat, he was across the room—and with one hard, wordless shove, he slammed Tabitha back off of Kurt.

“Hey—!” she yelped, stumbling onto her hands with wide, stunned eyes. “What the fu—?!”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Pietro dropped to his knees beside Kurt before her voice even registered. His hands moved fast—hovering first, then sliding in carefully on the floor next to Kurt’s chest, not touching yet, just close enough for Kurt to feel him there.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, soft—so soft it didn’t belong in this room. “I’m here. Blue. Look at me.”

Kurt’s breath hitched again, chin tilted up from the floor, mouth half-open in a sob he couldn’t finish. His eyes—wide, wet, panicked—darted up, and the second they landed on Pietro, something cracked.

The fight didn’t vanish. It just… paused. Like something inside him had been waiting for this shape to appear, this voice, this anchor.

“You’re here,” Pietro said again, slower this time. “You’re not there. You’re with me. I’ve got you.”

Lance blinked hard, still crouched, still gripping Kurt’s wrists like he didn’t know if he should let go. “What—what the hell are you—?”

Pietro didn’t look at him. “Let go of him.” The words were ice. No volume. Just lethal calm.

Lance hesitated. “I—I wasn’t trying to hurt him, I just—”

Pietro’s head snapped toward him, His eyes were glacial—cut-glass blue with none of the usual gleam. Just frost. Just fury held so tight it looked like stillness.“I said let go.”

Lance obeyed—because there was no other choice. He peeled his fingers away slowly, like he was disarming a bomb, like any sudden move might set something off. His hands hovered in midair for a second too long before he finally backed off, palms open, breath caught.

Toad edged back next, instinct pulling him before thought could. He slid off Kurt’s legs in silence, eyes wide, throat bobbing around a sound he didn’t make. His posture was loose but wary, like prey trying not to draw attention.

Tabitha didn’t move. She hadn’t said a word since hitting the floor. Her hands braced against the wood, her eyes locked on the scene like she was watching something she wasn’t supposed to see. 

Kurt didn’t move, not yet. His whole body was locked in a breathless kind of stillness, like any wrong sound might shatter him again. But his gaze—his gaze was fixed on Pietro, like nothing else in the room even existed.

Pietro’s hands hovered once more, slow and deliberate, then moved in to touch—so gently it didn’t look real. One palm to Kurt’s shoulder, featherlight. The other cradling the air beside his jaw, not quite touching, like he was holding the shape of Kurt’s face without daring to press his fingers in. Like the gesture itself was sacred.

“You’re safe,” Pietro said, barely above a whisper. “You’re not there. You’re here. You’re safe, Blue.” 

Kurt let out a breath—broken, dragging, but no longer trapped. Just a release. Like something inside his chest had finally loosened its grip.

Behind them, the others didn’t move.

Lance stayed frozen where he’d crouched, breath caught somewhere between his ribs. Tabitha’s hands dug into the floor, her knuckles pale, fingers splayed for balance she didn’t need but suddenly couldn’t do without. Toad had half-shifted into a crouch and stayed there, like movement might make this worse.

Pietro still hadn’t looked at them. Still hadn’t spoken to them.

They’d expected him to explode. To rage. To rip into them for breaking into his room, for manhandling the boy he’d been hiding, for touching something that clearly wasn’t theirs to touch. They’d braced for speed and fury, for screaming and threats and shoving hands that didn’t stop at just getting people out of the way.

But this wasn’t rage. This was exclusion.

Pietro’s whole world had narrowed to the boy trembling on the floor. That was it. That was all.

What they were seeing now wasn’t Pietro being angry. It was Pietro being gentle. Deliberate. Present.

Unrecognizable.

His voice was soft. His face unreadable. His hands—steady. Too steady. Not like someone reining in rage, but someone who didn’t even see them. Who had locked the rest of the world out the second he stepped into the room.

The most unnerving part?

Kurt was calming down.

Not because they’d let go. Not because the danger had passed. But because Pietro was here. Pietro was the one anchoring him—like he’d done this before, like he knew exactly how to hold a broken thing without cutting himself on the edges and none of them—not one—had ever seen him like this.

Chapter Text

The room was too quiet, like even the air didn’t want to make a sound. Dust floated through a single shaft of hallway light, catching in the stillness between Pietro’s fingers and Kurt’s jaw—suspended just inches away, trembling slightly, like he hadn’t decided if he was going to make contact or just let the moment drift past him entirely.

Carefully Pietro let his hand settle, the edge of his palm brushing just beneath Kurt’s jaw. The contact was light, steady, a quiet tether in the silence that didn’t ask anything of him, didn’t push—just anchored. 

Kurt’s eyes snapped open like something surfacing too fast, pulled from a place that hadn’t let go yet. They were glassy, wide, the gold dulled and rimmed with confusion, still caught somewhere far beneath the surface. There was something struggling its way forward, fighting through the fog—slow, sharp, and unmistakably painful.

He flinched as the world seemed to slam back into place all at once. He moved without thinking, scrambling upright in a sudden burst of motion, every limb tense, like his body hadn’t gotten the message that the fight was over. His tail lashed through the air before coiling tight against his side, his frame hunched in instinctive defense.

His breath caught—high, tight. His gaze didn’t stop on Pietro. It darted past him, sweeping fast over Toad,Tabitha, and Lance.

Recognition flickered and shifted across his face, the way a broken film reel might stutter through memories—first fear, then something harder to place. A guarded kind of disbelief and beneath it all, something jagged. 

His jaw locked tight.

When his eyes finally dropped back to Pietro’s, the rest of him seemed to freeze. His breathing hitched, just slightly.

“Can I still trust you?”

It came out hoarse. Raw and fractured at the edges, like it had scraped its way out through a throat that wasn’t sure it should speak. He sounded like he wanted the answer to be yes—he needed it to be—but couldn’t risk believing it until he heard it spoken out loud.

Pietro laughed.

It slipped out, nervous and brittle, a poor imitation of ease, and it snagged hard on the silence that followed. His mouth twitched into that familiar crooked smile—tilted, slanted, a little too sharp around the edges. If he just grinned hard enough, it wouldn’t show how much that question had gutted him.

“Of course you can trust me, Blue,” he said, the words tripping over themselves, low and desperate, not smooth like usual, not buffered by sarcasm. “I—I’m sorry.”

He exhaled, the breath shaky but reined in, and his eyes dropped for half a second. He couldn’t quite meet Kurt’s gaze.

“I shouldn’t’ve left. I know I scared you, and that’s—that’s on me. But that’s not me, okay?” His gaze lifted. “I’m not a stranger. I didn’t just—change while you weren’t looking.”

Pietro’s hands opened helplessly at his sides, palms up, like he was offering something he didn’t know how to name. “I’m still the guy who’s too loud in the morning and leaves his socks everywhere and forgets to eat breakfast but remembers to make you lunch. The guy who makes fun of you for eating messy and won’t shut up when he’s nervous and can’t go five minutes without saying something obnoxious just to hear the sound of his own voice.”

He shrugged, smile flickering. “That’s me. I’m annoying as hell, but I’m still me.” His voice softened. “I would never hurt you, Blue. I mean it. Never.”

Kurt let out a trembling exhale—barely a sound, more the echo of a breath held too long. His fingers twitched, curling into his palms. His eyes were watery, brimming with unshed tears again, and this time it wasn’t fear behind them. One hiccuping sob broke past his lips—sharp, involuntary—and he staggered forward before he could talk himself out of it.

Pietro caught him. Arms wrapped around Kurt’s trembling frame softly, like this was the moment he’d been silently waiting for without admitting it to himself. One hand rose gently, cradling the back of Kurt’s head as he buried his face against Pietro’s shoulder, breath shuddering through silent, uneven sobs. His tail curled around Pietro’s leg in a slow, hesitant loop—reflexive, searching. Even now, his body was reaching out, trying to find something solid.

“Shhh,” Pietro whispered, steady and low, voice threading through the quiet like it could hold the room together. “It’s okay. You’re alright, Blue. I’ve got you. You’re safe now. Nothing’s gonna happen to you. Just breathe.”

His thumb moved in small circles under Kurt’s ribs, grounding. “Just breathe with me, okay?” Softer now, as if even the air between them had to stay undisturbed. “In and out. Right here. You’re not alone. I’m not going anywhere.”

The room behind them stayed frozen.

Tabitha’s hand hovered in the air like she’d meant to stop something but no longer remembered what. Lance stood rigid, he’d been holding his breath and had only just remembered how to let it go. Toad’s eyes were wide and damp, lips parted in a soundless whisper: Holy shit.

Kurt’s voice cracked out against the side of Pietro’s neck—barely a sound, more pressure than volume, something torn loose and too sharp to keep inside.

“I was so scared—”

The words collapsed on themselves. His breath hitched, jagged, and his whole body jolted like something had broken loose beneath his ribs. His fists twisted into Pietro’s shirt, clinging with a desperate strength that left the fabric stretched and wrinkled between his hands.

“I couldn’t—I couldn’t breathe—” The sentence buckled under another sob, voice shredding apart. “I thought—I thought I was gonna die—”

Pietro held him tighter. One arm swept across Kurt’s shoulders, the other braced low at his back, closing every inch of space between them. His voice came rough with feeling, but steady as iron.

“You’re not,” he murmured. “You’re not. I’ve got you, Blue. I’ve got you.”

Kurt shook against him, breath unraveling in shallow, broken waves. His sobs weren’t loud—just raw. Stripped bare. Grief tangled with panic, memory, and something older than either of them had words for. It poured out of him in fragments.

“They… they grabbed me,” he choked, voice half-muffled where it pressed into Pietro’s shoulder. “I didn’t know who they were—couldn’t think—couldn’t see—”

“I know.” Pietro’s voice was quieter now, closer. He held him as if he could shield him from the memory itself. “It’s over. You’re safe. They’re not going to touch you again. I won’t let them.”

His fingers slipped through Kurt’s hair, brushing back sweat-damp strands in slow, gentle passes. The hand at the base of his neck moved in quiet circles, grounding him with every touch—soft, steady, impossibly careful. He was holding something that had already splintered too many times, and still mattered more than anything else in the world.

Toad was the first one to move. He looked to Lance, searching for something—confirmation, maybe, or a reason not to believe what was in front of him. If no one said it out loud, if no one named it, then maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe his brain had just cracked under pressure and conjured the whole thing in vivid, surreal detail. A stress dream. A hallucination. Anything easier than this.

Pietro was holding Kurt as if nothing else existed. As if this fragile, quiet collapse was the only thing that mattered. His hands were steady. His voice stayed low. That usual kinetic current—the energy that always had somewhere to go, somewhere to burn—had gone still. 

Lance stood frozen. Not just shaken—rattled. His posture had stiffened, but his weight shifted like he was fighting the urge to step back. Something deep inside him was twisting, quick and raw and unspoken. His jaw clenched. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” he snapped, louder than he meant to. Guilt pressed sharp behind his ribs, coiled tight. “You knew he was here— like this —and you just left?!”

Tabitha’s voice broke in before the echo could fade, brittle and angry and cracked straight through. “Has he been here this whole time? What the hell, Pietro—what is this?!”

Toad’s voice came next—barely a breath, already falling apart at the edges. The words tripped on themselves, chasing something he didn’t know how to fix. “Did we hurt him?”

He stepped forward, eyes wide, hands fluttering at his sides like they were still searching for something useful to do. “We didn’t—I mean—oh my god. We didn’t break him, right? I didn’t know he was—I wouldn’t’ve—I didn’t mean to scare him, man. Did, Did we hurt him?”

His hand stayed steady at the back of Kurt’s head, the other slid beneath Kurt’s knees and lifted him—smooth, easy.

Kurt didn’t fight it. He only curled in tighter, arms locked around Pietro’s neck, forehead pressed to the curve of his collarbone. His breath still hitched in stutterin g gasps. Quiet—but far from calm. His body kept trembling, too much tension knotted into every line of him, clinging as if even the air might splinter away.

Only when Kurt was secure, when every inch of him had molded close like distance itself was a danger, did Pietro lift his head.

His eyes passed over the room once, unreadable.

Lance shifted. Tabitha turned away.

“We’ll talk when I get back.”

—----------

Pietro didn’t stop until the door clicked shut behind them.

The room was still dim. Still quiet. As if the world hadn’t noticed anything had broken. He crossed the floor without hesitation, careful not to jostle the boy clinging to his chest, and lowered him onto the bed with the same gentleness he’d used to lift him. He eased Kurt down, one hand braced behind his back, the other steady beneath his knees. But the second Pietro’s arms began to pull away, everything in Kurt seized.

“No—no, wait—”

The words cracked out of him, wild and desperate, a sound torn straight from something raw. His fingers clawed for Pietro’s shirt, gripping tight, knots of panic clenched in his fists. “Please don’t—don’t leave—I didn’t mean it, I swear I didn’t mean it, I was just—I was scared—”

Pietro froze, hands still steady where they rested against Kurt’s ribs, holding him in place without pressure. He didn’t shift or lean away, just stayed close, the warmth of him constant and solid in the open quiet between them.

“I’m right here, Blue,” he said, voice low but sure. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Kurt’s breath hitched—shallow and uneven, dragged through clenched teeth like it hurt just to take it in. His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened. His whole body curled inward, bracing against something that wasn’t there anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, words tumbling fast, tangled. “I didn’t mean what I said before, about… about not knowing you. Not trusting you. I didn’t mean it, I swear—I was scared, I didn’t— I wasn’t thinking, I just—” His voice cracked. “Please don’t go again. Please.”

“I know,” Pietro murmured, barely louder than breath, but steady. “It’s okay.”

Kurt shook his head, frantic. His golden eyes were wide, rimmed red. “It’s not. You left. I told you to go and you actually did and I—” His voice folded in on itself, splintering around the words. “I thought maybe that was it. That I’d ruined it. That you wouldn’t come back and we’d never— we’d never get back to what we were.”

Pietro exhaled, slow and uneven. His chest felt too tight to carry the words, but he forced them through.“I shouldn’t’ve left,” he said. “That’s on me. You were scared, and I made it worse. I should’ve stayed and fought for it. Fought for you. Made sure you knew I was still on your side.” His jaw clenched. “You had every reason to be scared. I didn’t give you enough reasons not to be.”

Kurt’s lip trembled. His fingers were still fisted in Pietro’s shirt, fur brushing against Pietro’s knuckles, breathing shallow and uneven between them.

“You came back,” he whispered. “Even after I pushed you away. Even when I said those things, you— you still came back.”

Pietro reached up, slow and careful, brushing a lock of hair from Kurt’s forehead. His fingers lingered there, soft and steady against his temple, grounding him where words might not be enough.

“Of course I did,” he said. “I never really left. Just… lost my footing. That’s all.”

Kurt swallowed hard. His tail, still half-curled around Pietro’s leg from when he’d been carried, gave a slow twitch, before stilling.

“I wanted to believe you’d come back,” he said. “Even when I was upset. Even when I was scared.”

“I know,” Pietro answered softly. “I’ll keep coming back. No matter how bad it gets. No matter what you say when you’re scared. You don’t have to be perfect for me to stay.”

Something gave then. A low sound slipped from Kurt’s throat—relief or exhaustion or something deeper that didn’t have a name—and his arms moved before thought could catch them, reaching blind, dragging Pietro down into the space beside him.

Pietro let it happen. He shifted until he was half-curled around Kurt, shoulder tucked close, one leg bent slightly to accommodate the warmth pressing in beside him. Kurt folded small under his chin, breath still uneven, muscles twitching faintly with leftover adrenaline.

“I do trust you,” Kurt mumbled, voice blurred at the edges. “I was just… stupid. I thought you were like that, but you’re not.”

“Don’t think about it anymore,” Pietro said. His voice stayed low, steady, close enough to skim the edge of Kurt’s ear. “It doesn’t matter now. You need rest.”

Kurt made a quiet noise—half a hum, already slipping toward sleep—and tucked himself in tighter. His breathing slowed. He stayed, still and quiet, gaze flicking to the ceiling but not really seeing it, one hand resting lightly at Kurt’s back. He could feel the breath beneath it, soft and even. The rise and fall. The proof that, for now, he was okay. Only then did he shift.

Carefully, without a word, he reached back and pulled the second pillow from behind him. His fingers adjusted it with practiced care, folding it into the shape left behind. He eased Kurt onto it with slow, cautious shifts, not enough to wake him, just enough to preserve the space.

Kurt didn’t stir. His breath stayed even, warm against the pillow where Pietro’s chest had been. One hand twitched loosely in the blankets, fingers still curled around something that wasn’t there. The edge of his tail shifted once, then settled again.

Pietro stood at the edge of the bed, motionless.

His gaze locked on the quiet rise and fall of Kurt’s chest in the dark. That small crease between his brows hadn’t faded. Even now, the tension lingered—carved deep into muscle and bone. Like part of him was still bracing for whatever might come next.

Pietro’s jaw tightened.

He wanted to stay—to be what Kurt needed, the constant, the tether, the warmth he kept clinging to like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

If he were better—steadier—maybe he would’ve. Stayed through the night until the nightmares didn’t reach him anymore.

He couldn’t. Not right now.

His pulse still thundered—loud, erratic. His stomach twisted, restless. Thought after thought struck like frayed wires, sparking too fast to follow. The rage hadn’t passed. It hadn’t even dulled. It pressed beneath his skin, caged but seething, coiling tighter by the second, searching for a faultline. A way out. He wasn’t trying to stop it. Not really.

The crash hadn’t hit yet. But it would. It always did. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe five minutes from now. He didn’t care. None of it mattered—not how out of character this was, not how far he’d stepped from who he was supposed to be. 

All that mattered was Kurt. That he was safe. That he was breathing. That, even half-asleep, he’d asked Pietro to stay—and believed he would. He had, long enough for Kurt’s breathing to slow. For the tremors to quiet and fear to loosen its grip just enough to let sleep in.

He’d stayed—not because it came easily, but because Kurt needed him still. Because the tremors hadn’t stopped, not really, and holding still was the only thing Pietro could offer that didn’t risk making it worse. So he did. He became something steady, something certain. A center of gravity for someone who’d had theirs torn away.

Now the storm had turned inward.

It curled low behind his ribs, pulsing hot. A slow-build furnace, heat gathering with nowhere to go. Every breath wound it tighter. Every second spent still made the pressure worse. He could feel it—tight in his chest, sharp at his fingertips. If he stayed, it would break loose. Not loud, not right away—but in little ways that would poison the air. His voice would edge too sharp. His hands would twitch, start to tremble—the same hands that had just held Kurt steady, the same hands that shouldn’t be allowed to shake. The safety in this room, the calm they'd fought to build—it would crack.

That couldn’t happen. This feeling—this burn beneath his skin—it wasn’t about Kurt. It never was. It was about them. The ones down the hall. The ones who pushed and pushed and pushed until the seams split open and things broke. Who crept into a room they weren’t meant to enter, poked at wounds they didn’t understand, and stood in judgment without knowing what they were looking at. It was about Tabitha with her razor smile, Lance with his careful disapproval, Toad with his lazy amusement.

They had no idea what they’d stepped into.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fucking fair , and the fury of that truth sat hot on Pietro’s tongue like poison he didn’t know how to swallow.

He needed it out.

So he made himself believe that this—this leaving—was the right thing. A line drawn not between them, but around him. He could burn it off somewhere else. Let the worst of it out where it couldn’t undo what little peace had been rebuilt.

He exhaled through his nose, the breath sharp and controlled, and eased himself to his feet. The air in the room felt too still now, too quiet, like it knew what he was about to do. Like it wanted to stop him but couldn’t reach. He didn’t look back.

–//–

The shockwave lit the room in blue-white fire as one of the upper-level drones exploded against the Danger Room’s wall, shrapnel scattering across the platform in a storm of molten debris.

“Move!” Scott shouted, voice slicing through the chaos like a whip. “Left flank—double back!”

Rogue dove without hesitation, flipping into a roll that landed her behind cover just as another spider-drone skittered down the far wall, its metal legs clicking fast against the steel. Jean’s telekinesis caught it mid-leap, wrenching it sideways into a collapsing pile of limbs—but not fast enough to stop the next wave.

More dropped from the ceiling—metal bodies slick with artificial sheen, limbs snapping open mid-fall, eyes glowing that sickly, synthetic red that didn’t flicker or blink, only watched. They didn’t land so much as slam into the floor in erratic waves, twitching with motion before their weapons engaged—spinning blades that howled through the air, energy whips crackling to life with an electric shriek, plasma turrets locking in with a low, mechanical growl.

There were no safeties this time. No programmatic pullback before impact. Just the clean, sharp intent of annihilation. They weren’t just training bots. They weren’t warnings.

They were a promise.

The team—outnumbered, half-scattered, already breathing too hard for this early in the fight—didn’t get time to regroup. They didn't get a second to plan. The floor was already lighting up beneath them in jagged veins of molten orange, and the walls shifted again, jagged plating peeling back to reveal more deployment hatches, more shrieking metal soldiers waiting to drop.

Scott barely had a grip on the situation. Barely enough bandwidth to track a flank or give an order—just the blur of movement, the flash of Jean’s hair at the edge of his vision, the concussive wave of a too-close explosion that left his ears ringing and the back of his throat scorched raw. The air stank—burnt plastic, ozone, the bite of his own sweat clinging to his uniform like it had been seared into the fabric.

The pressure in his chest wasn’t fear. It was something denser. A coil of static wedged under his ribs, vibrating harder with every breath, like it had grown teeth. It was chewing through him from the inside out. He could feel it in his bones—an overcurrent of command, duty, dread—crackling along his spine, electric and alive.

A drone lunged out of the smoke, limbs snapping into place mid-leap. His visor flared wide, slicing a red-hot blast through the air, cleaving it clean through the torso before it hit—but it didn’t matter. More dropped in behind it, legs scrabbling across the walls, claws glinting in the flicker of half-lit chaos. 

“Fall back and regroup!” he barked. “Evan—cover Rogue! Jean, right side! I want clean angles—”

The simulation cut. Everything blinked out at once—light, sound, motion. The room dimmed to standby gray, the noise replaced by the mechanical hum of shutdown systems cooling under stress. Scott snapped his head toward the control booth. The overhead speaker crackled once.

“That’s enough,” Xavier said, calm but firm. “Simulation’s over. Everyone back to the locker room. Get some rest.”

No one moved. Rogue still had one glove braced to the floor. Evan leaned on his knees, soaked in sweat. Jean stood tense and breathless, her gaze flicking to Scott like she was waiting for him to react before she did.

“Professor,” Scott said, too sharp in the silence, “we weren’t finished—”

“You’ve pushed them far enough,” Xavier replied. The tone was even, but beneath it—something tired. “They’re giving you everything they have. So are you. I know what this is, Scott.”

Scott’s jaw twitched.

“You think if you push harder, you’ll be ready when the moment comes. That if you train enough, hurt enough, fight hard enough, it’ll make a difference. That it’ll bring him back.”

Scott didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

Xavier’s voice softened, not in volume but in weight.

“We’re doing everything we can. Logan’s still out there. I know it doesn’t feel like enough—but some things are out of our hands. That doesn’t make it your fault.”

Scott’s fists clenched at his sides.

“If you think it would help, I can call Storm back from Cairo. I’ll pull whoever you need—”

“We don’t need Storm,” Scott snapped, flat and fast.

A pause stretched in the space between them.

“You’re not helping them by running them into the ground,” Xavier said quietly. “This isn’t sustainable.”

Scott’s breath caught—tight and shallow. He turned toward the exit.“No,” he said. “But the second we have a lead—we’ll need to move. We can’t risk not ”

He started walking. “Whoever took him…” He didn’t look back. “They don’t get a head start.”

Jean watched Scott’s back until the Danger Room doors hissed shut behind him. Silence followed, thick and uncomfortable, pressing in from all sides. She pressed a hand to her temple, already bracing for the headache building at the base of her skull. Too much psionic feedback. Too much tension bleeding off the team, smoke rising from a fire no one could put out.

It clung to the air—fear. From the moment the sim started, Scott had been pushing. Harder. Sharper. Every command edged in something desperate.

He hadn’t said it out loud. He didn’t need to.

We lost Kurt.

Not just in the physical, missing mutant sense. In the real way. The emotional marrow of the team— gone . Disappeared. No one knew how to patch the tear he’d left behind. Jean hadn’t even pretended she had an answer.

Her eyes flicked upward toward the control booth, toward Xavier, who hadn’t moved since Scott walked out. His expression had gone flat, unreadable. He’d known this was coming. Scott didn’t hide things well anymore. The strain was in the way he stood. The way he held his breath too long, like letting it go might break something.

Jean didn’t want to think about what that meant.

So she closed her eyes and did what she always did.

She searched.

The motion came easily now, part of her nervous system, woven into the way her mind flexed. She reached beyond the walls of the mansion—through trees, across empty roads, into the quiet corners of distant neighborhoods. Her awareness stretched wide, then deeper still. Fingertips of thought brushed the psychic field, searching for anything that felt like him. A voice. A flicker of brightness. A memory where it didn’t belong.

There was nothing.

Just a silence that held firm no matter how hard she pushed.

The first time, she told herself it was fatigue. She’d been tired. Her focus was off. The second time, it had to be static—noise in the field. Background interference. These things happened. Her powers weren’t perfect.

Now the silence felt sharper.

Each time she reached, it pressed in closer. Her temples ached sooner. Her hands trembled. Vision blurred at the edges. The pressure came fast, like altitude sickness. Still, she kept going. If she stopped, she’d have to sit with what that meant.

No one could know what it was doing to her. Not while Xavier watched her like a failsafe. Not while Logan called in with promises that never landed. Not while Scott tore himself apart trying to hold the pieces.

She smiled when she had to. Nodded when they asked her to try again. Stood still even when the ground leaned away beneath her feet.

Someone had to.

But it was getting harder. The need to scream pressed against her throat, sharp and rising. She wanted to break the silence in half, force it open, tear through it with something that might finally hurt back.

She presses her palms together. Breathes slow. Swallows it back down.

There’s only so long you can lie to yourself before the silence starts answering back.

A sharp movement caught her attention—too sudden, too close. Footsteps struck the floor with too much force.

Her eyes opened in time to see Evan shoulder past her. “Man, this is bullshit,” he muttered, not bothering to keep it quiet.He didn’t care who looked. He hoped they did. Let them sit in their silence and choke on it. They could keep lying to themselves. He couldn’t.

What the hell were they even doing?Running drills like this was supposed to be strategy? Like it would make any of them feel less useless? Less helpless?

Kurt wouldn’t have waited.

He wouldn’t be playing soldier, memorizing formations, or listening to Scott bark orders like any of it mattered when one of their own was still out there. He would’ve gone after them. 

No questions. That was Kurt. That was who he was.

Now he’s just—gone. They’ve done nothing but stay waiting

Evan’s fists clenched as he stalked down the corridor, each step building into something hotter, faster, less controlled. The heat was back, crawling under his skin. His mutation prickled beneath the surface—needles in his blood, pressure rising fast, like something ready to break.

He hit the corner and turned hard into the locker room. Eyes flicked to the nearest bench. He didn’t sit. Couldn’t. The training uniform clung to his back, cold with sweat, every inch of it a reminder that he hadn’t done a damn thing that mattered.

The locker door creaked as he yanked it open. Metal groaning under his grip. The edges of his vision narrowed, everything pulsing in his chest like a warning: how many more days like this? How many more mornings with the same answer—no lead, no trail, no sign?

How long until someone finally said it out loud—that they weren’t looking for him anymore. Just waiting to find the body.

He squeezed his eyes shut, breath stuttering. He’d been trying to push it down. Told himself it was just frustration. Just adrenaline, but it wasn’t. It was constant. Coiled at the base of his spine, crushed into his lungs, wound tight around his ribs like wire. It made his skin feel wrong—too tight, too hot—like he didn’t fit inside it anymore.  It made him feel wrong in his own skin—not just useless, but unstable.

His fist slammed into the locker with a dull, heavy clang. The sound exploded in the empty room—flesh and bone hitting metal with a crack that echoed off the walls. The door buckled in under his hand, steel caving like it had been waiting for the impact.

Pain tore through his knuckles, bright and electric. It ricocheted up his arm, lit his nerves on fire, snapped him into the moment—but it didn’t slow the burn. It clarified it.

The heat surged again, molten and wild, crawling beneath his skin. His mutation flared at the edges, pressure blooming sharp across his shoulders, his forearms, his back. The spikes hadn’t surfaced yet—but they were there. Pushing. Threatening.

They always came close when the fear hit like this. When the silence stretched too long. When the rage had nowhere to go. Evan stayed frozen in place, fists trembling at his sides. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck. His pulse thudded against his skull. Every inch of him screamed to move , to lash out , to let go.

He didn’t.

The fire filled him, just like always—but he held the shape of it. The taste of metal thickened at the back of his throat—adrenaline or blood, he couldn’t tell which. His eyes burned. His skin prickled. He’d never been afraid of what he could do. Never once shied away from the edge.

But this—this pressure building inside him—it didn’t feel like power anymore.

It felt like fracture. He clenched his jaw. Let the fury fill his lungs. But he didn’t let it break the surface.

Not this time.

The sound echoed down the hallway—sharp, jarring, metal and fury cracked together like thunder. Kitty flinched at the noise, her shoulder brushing against Rogue as the two exited the Danger Room. “What was that?” she muttered, scanning the corridor, posture already tightening.

Rogue didn’t answer. Her gaze stayed forward, steady, unreadable.

Of course it did.

They kept walking, the hallway too long, too quiet. The buzz of fluorescent lights overhead didn’t fill the silence—it just made it worse. Kitty kept glancing sideways, watching Rogue’s expression like it might crack, like maybe, maybe, she’d finally say something.

Rogue was like stone. Shoulders squared, jaw set, boots steady against the floor like she couldn’t feel how wrong everything felt now. Like she refused to.

Maybe she really didn’t, or maybe she’d just gotten so good at hiding it. Kitty would never know the difference.

That was what killed her most of all. Kitty couldn’t stop feeling it. Her thoughts kept dragging her back to it, drowning her in it. She hadn’t let it show—she wouldn’t—but it lived in her now, humming under every smile, every laugh, every carefully breezy answer.

They were all pretending. All of them. Waiting for someone else to break first, to say the thing no one wanted to say out loud.

What if they never find him?

If she let herself cry, even a little, it would unravel everything. If her voice cracked, if someone saw the way her hands trembled when she thought no one was looking, it would make it real. It would mean the fear was justified. That the silence wasn’t just a lull.

So she smiled. She kept her voice light. She laughed at the right moments and said the right things and wore her usual colors and made sure her eyeliner masked the redness around her eyes.

Outside the mansion, the world hadn’t changed. People still ate lunch. Still worried about homework. Still posted selfies and argued over movie times like nothing was wrong. Kurt was an afterthought to them, the outside world had taken one look at her silent grief and decided it wasn’t worth slowing down for.

His absence followed her like static—clinging to the quiet spaces he used to fill. The couch was missing the guy who always perched on the armrest instead of the seat. The kitchen didn’t have his voice rattling off puns in two languages while breakfast burned behind him. The hallways were too still, the dining room too quiet, and there was no fuzzy tail curled around the leg of her chair anymore.

No more “Kit-Kat” echoing down the hall like it was stitched into the air itself.

Sometimes she swore she heard it anyway. That teasing lilt at the edge of a doorway, half-sung and always a little smug. If she just turned fast enough, he’d be standing there. Grinning. Tail flicking behind him like punctuation. One hand raised in a lazy wave, some dumb joke already halfway out of his mouth like the last two weeks had never happened.

By the time she reached her room, the weight of everything was pressing down on her shoulders like wet cement—slow, crushing, inescapable. Her hand barely managed the doorknob. She shut it behind her with a soft click and stood there for a second—just standing there, slumped against the wood, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a sigh.

Behind that door she could drop her mask.

Gone was the practiced posture, the bright voice, the tight little smile she wore like armor. What was left was something heavier.

She turned on instinct, feet dragging over the floor, legs trembling under the exhaustion she hadn’t let herself feel until now. Her bed caught her like a mercy. She collapsed forward, face burying into the pillow before the first sob tore loose—ragged, desperate, too loud for the quiet.

Fabric muffled her cries as her fingers twisted into the sheets. Her body curled in on itself, shoulders shaking, tears spilling hot and endless down her cheeks. The sobs came in waves—too big to stop, too fast to control—until her chest felt caved in, until her throat burned and her head throbbed and her lungs ached from the effort of trying to breathe between the wreckage of sound.

She cried until there was nothing left but silence and the ghost of his voice in her mind.

I just want him back.

Her phone buzzed once on the nightstand. She didn’t need to reach for it to know who it was.

Probably another check-in. Another short, well-meaning message that tried too hard not to sound worried. Lance didn’t know. He couldn’t—not really. He hadn’t noticed how slowly she’d started to slip, how her responses had gotten shorter, her smile less real. Or maybe he had. He just didn’t know what to do about it.

She wasn’t about to make it easier. Letting him in meant letting someone see this—this version  of her, crumpled and shaking and breaking apart alone in the dark. It meant saying it out loud, that she couldn’t hold it together anymore.

She couldn’t do that .Not yet.

So she let the phone stay quiet. Let the screen go dark again and the distance grow. Right now, that distance was the only thing standing between her and the moment she finally admitted the truth—that she didn’t know how much longer she could keep pretending.

—----------------

Sunday mornings weren’t supposed to feel like this.

They used to be quieter, yes—but not like this. Not brittle, not sharp around the edges like the whole house was waiting for something to snap. After the professor had ended training early yesterday evening the X-Men were tense, too restless to admit they were shaken by it. No one said it out loud but it was in the air woven into every silent glance from the younger students.

The kitchen had been quiet. No teasing, no teleportation tricks, no complaints about coffee being too bitter or cereal too soggy. Just clinking spoons and half-finished breakfasts. Kitty hadn’t touched hers. Scott stared at his plate like it might offer a solution he hadn’t already tried. Evan kept fidgeting with the edge of the table, legs bouncing, a storm trapped in skin. Rogue hadn’t said a word. Jean had stopped trying to break the silence days ago. 

It was becoming routine and that—more than anything—was what made it unbearable. The morning hadn’t even had time to unfold before it shattered. 

The front doors of the mansion slam open with the force of a storm breaking, the echo rolling through the halls.

The moment he steps inside, every eye in the room snaps to him—and to the figure he’s dragging behind him, half-conscious and bloody, barely staying upright on unsteady legs. The scent of sweat, dirt, and old blood clings to Logan’s battered form, his breath comes rough and ragged as he throws the man forward.

The man collapsed onto the floor with a grunt, coughing weakly as he struggled to lift his head. Logan barely spares him a glance, rolling his shoulders as his claws retract with a metallic snikt . His knuckles are bruised, his face smeared with dirt, but his eyes—his eyes are wild , sharp, filled with something feral and unrelenting.

“They had him,” Logan growls, voice raw with exhaustion and barely leashed fury. “Hydra had him.

The words collapsed onto the room, flattening the air with their weight, stealing the breath from every set of lungs like a sudden drop in pressure before a storm. Time held still for a heartbeat. 

Scott was already moving, the scrape of his chair legs lost beneath the sharp staccato of his boots hitting tile. He didn’t run, didn’t shout—but there was something in the tension of his shoulders, the way he stalked forward like he was walking a wire stretched too tight, that made everyone else freeze in place.

“They had him?” he asked, low and sharp. His voice was clipped, controlled but too even. Too calm, a surface stretched thin over something that had been boiling for days.

Logan didn’t look at him. He just nodded once, jaw set. Then, with a grunt, he reached into the battered fold of his jacket and pulled free a thick, blood-speckled file—creased, smudged, and heavy with damp edges.

“They scramble their data so it can’t be traced. Took me days to get my hands on this much. It’s not a location.” His eyes flicked to the man on the floor, then back to Scott. “But it’s proof. They took him. Hydra, Doc here had him.”

Scott didn’t say a word as the file was thrust into his hands. The pages inside were grim. Clinical. No photographs, no names—just numbers, acronyms, timestamps, and behavioral logs. The deeper Scott read, the colder his blood ran. The title at the top of one report seared itself into his mind:

Theta-9: Verbal Stimulus Response Report.

His jaw clenched.

Charts tracking Kurts responses to voiceprints. Analyzing emotional shifts. Tracking pulse spikes. Reaction times. Response degradation over extended exposure.

Each voiceprint corresponded to one of them. Each one followed by metrics. Graphs. Notations. Scientific precision, devoid of humanity.

Scott’s fingers curled around the edge of the page. He didn’t finish reading. His body surged forward before logic could catch up, grabbing the Hydra doctor by the front of his stained uniform and hauling him off the ground with a brutal yank that sent the man choking, feet scrambling for purchase. The man let out a wheezing gasp, more blood bubbling from the corner of his mouth, but Scott didn’t loosen his grip.

The ever-composed leader of the X-Men was gone. What remained was something carved from white-hot fury and bitter guilt, his entire frame vibrating with restrained violence.

“What did you do to him?” Scott hissed, the words barely audible, more breath than voice. His hand shook where it was balled up around the scientist's shirt collar. The doctor coughed wetly, grinned through blood-slicked teeth. “Even if I wanted to tell you…” he rasped, voice brittle and gloating, “you wouldn’t want to know.”

His eyes were clear. Cold. Detached. Not proud, but pleased . 

Scott slammed him to the floor. In one swift motion, bone meeting tile with a sickening thud as the man crumpled in a heap—coughing, groaning, but still grinning. The echo of it bounced off the foyer walls, sharp and final.

Jean was already moving before the man hit the ground. She’d risen the moment Scott grabbed him, but now she was there—at his side in an instant, her hand on his arm, grounding, steady. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t try to stop him.

She had seen what was in that file too. Enough to know that Kurt hadn’t just been captured.

He’d been broken . Alone in a soundproofed room. Just him and a voice—then another, then another—familiar, warm, trusted. A montage of everything he loved turned against him. 

Thirteen hours before he gave in. They’d measured his breaking point . Writing it down like a test score. Logan stood off to the side, silent. His hands flexed at his sides, claws itching beneath the skin, but he didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

He’d already had his reaction when he first saw that report. Back when he’d ripped through the Hydra base like a goddamn animal and left the walls stained with payback.

Jean pressed her fingers to her temple, her posture rigid as her eyes narrowed with cold concentration. The foyer around them seemed to still in response, as if holding its breath with her. She reached inward, tried to sink beneath the surface of the Hydra agent’s mind—but found nothing. No flicker of thought, no open door. Just a wall. Not like most people, whose mental barriers were subconscious, flawed. This was something built. Engineered.

Her brows furrowed. She pushed harder.

She winced, her hand jerking back from her temple like it had burned her. A tremor ran down her fingers before she fisted the hand at her side, jaw clenched, eyes dark. “I can’t read his mind,” she said flatly, voice too calm—too cold. The kind of calm that came from standing too close to something you didn’t want to feel. The kind of cold you wore when detachment was the only shield left.

The doctor shifted on the tile, struggling to brace himself on an elbow, his breath wet and shallow. Still, impossibly, he laughed. Low and thin, a sound dragged from his throat like gravel. “Of course you can’t,” he rasped, coughing up more blood but grinning through it like he’d won something. “They train us for people like you.”

The rest of the X-Men had begun to close in now, slow but deliberate. Their silence wasn’t hesitation—it was something harder. Something heavier.

The rest of the X-Men had begun to close in now, slow and deliberate. Their silence wasn’t hesitation anymore. It was expectation. The kind that felt heavy in the air, waiting for something ugly but necessary.

“I’ll do it,” Rogue said.

Every head turned. Her voice cut clean through the tension, cool and steady—but final, like a blade sliding home. She was already peeling the glove from her right hand, bare fingers pale in the harsh light.

“Give him hell, kid.” Logan muttered, voice low, almost approving. His lips twitched into something dark.

He didn’t stop her. No one did.

Across the floor, the Hydra agent’s confidence cracked. His eyes widened, fear hollowing them out fast. He tried to drag himself backward, hands scrabbling uselessly against the tile.

“Wait—don’t—”

Rogue stepped forward and seized his arm.

The reaction was immediate. His body locked, spine arching, eyes rolling back in his head. Breath shattered in broken, gasping fits as Rogue took . The memories came hard and fast—slamming into her mind in jagged shards. Cold metal. The sterile sting of antiseptic. The hum of machines. His cruelty. His pleasure in control.

She didn’t flinch.

She held on until he collapsed, until every last tremor drained out of his limbs, before letting go. Her breath hitched sharp in her chest, shoulders rising and falling too fast. Still, she stood steady.

Slowly, her head lifted.

For a moment—just a moment—her face didn’t belong to her. Her lips twisted, faint but wrong, shaped into something thin and knowing. Her eyes gleamed, sharp and cold, glinting with something that wasn’t hers.

It wasn’t just memory sitting behind them. It was presence . Something wore her skin for a breath too long, savoring the aftertaste, clinging to the edges of her mind like oil.

Then she blinked.

“I know where he is,” Rogue said quietly.

Her voice barely carried. But it didn’t need to. The stillness shattered anyway. Jean exhaled sharply, too close to a sob. Logan’s stance shifted. Scott’s head snapped up, his whole body coiling like a spring pulled too tight.

“You’re sure?” Scott asked. His voice cracked raw, all pretense burned away. Only need remained. 

Rogue nodded once. Her eyes were still glazed. The ghost of whatever she’d dragged out of the Hydra doctor hadn’t fully let go yet.

—---------------

The sound of combat boots echoed sharp against metal floors, too loud in the emptiness, each step reverberating down cold, sterile corridors. The X-Men moved like ghosts through a graveyard, shoulders tense, weapons ready, eyes scanning—but they found no resistance. No guards. No traps. Nothing.

Just silence.

Not the peace of a place abandoned long ago, but the eerie, deliberate quiet of something scrubbed clean in a hurry. Every hallway bore the ghost of motion—scuffed tile, faint scrapes where machines had once been dragged, doors left half-ajar as though someone had forgotten to close them in their rush.

Scott’s voice came low and clipped over the comm. “Split up. Sweep the entire facility. If there’s anything left, I want to find it.”

They fanned out without question.

Jean moved quietly, her eyes unfocused, brushing along the walls with her mind like fingertips searching for a pulse. Logan stuck to the shadows, his movements slow and deliberate, nose wrinkling at the stench of antiseptic and burnt wiring. 

Room by room, they found nothing. The underground complex had been gutted—hollowed out with brutal efficiency. Labs stripped to bone, consoles ripped from their wires, hard drives taken, notes shredded or burned. Nothing left but dust and broken fixtures, like a carcass picked clean by scavengers.

“There’s nothin’ here,” Rogue muttered, her voice low, tight with frustration. She swept her gaze down the corridor like maybe if she looked hard enough, something would shift. Something would give.

Down the hall, Evan glanced over at her. “Keep looking,” he said, trying to sound optimistic, but the way his fists kept clenching and unclenching betrayed him. His jaw was tight, shoulders drawn. He was just as done with this silence as she was. 

“I FOUND SOMETHING!”

Kitty’s voice cracked through the hall like lightning, high and urgent.

Rogue’s head snapped toward the sound of Kitty’s voice, her body in motion before her mind could catch up. Evan bolted beside her, matching her pace without a word, their footfalls pounding in tandem, sharp and echoing, a shared rhythm of desperation. Whatever waited at the end of that hallway—it had to be something. It had to be.

Scott was already there by the time they rounded the corner, standing just outside the open doorway, listening as Kitty breathlessly explained what she’d found.

“It’s on the floor,” she said, pointing with a shaking hand. “It’s definitely Kurt’s” 

That was all Rogue needed to hear. She pushed past them without a word, slipping into the room like the walls might close in behind her if she waited too long. Evan was right on her heels, his expression tight, eyes already scanning.

The room was gutted like the rest—cabinets empty, equipment stripped—but this one was different. In the center, bolted to the floor, stood an operating table. The table was stripped in places, its sides lined with empty brackets and rust-streaked bolt holes. Rogue’s boots scuffed quietly against the tile as she stepped forward, fingers trailing along the edge of the metal surface. 

Scott stepped inside behind them, crouched low, gloved fingers brushing the ground before gently lifting the few strands of indigo fur Kitty had spotted. He held them up in the light—soft, unmistakable, and horrifyingly out of place.

His brow tightened, mouth pressing into a grim line. “He was probably in this room last,” Scott said quietly. “None of the other rooms I checked had any sign of him.” His voice was steady, but there was something brittle underneath it—he was forcing the words to hold shape when they wanted to crack.

Evan stepped in beside him, eyes narrowing as he scanned the table. “There are hinges here, man,” he said, pointing along the frame. “But they’re all busted up. Whatever was here must have been torn off.”

Rogue stepped in closer. Her eyes tracked Evan’s gesture to the side of the table, narrowing as she crouched low, brushing back the edge of the scorched metal plating. There, tucked just beneath—wires. Frayed, blackened, their ends curled like something had burned through them in a hurry. She let out a breath through her nose, slow and steady, her fingers hovering just above them like she expected them to still be hot.

“They were electric,” she said, voice quiet, edged with steel. “Restraints. Had to be.”

Evan glanced at her, brow tight. “You think that’s what it was?”

Rogue didn’t take her eyes off the exposed wiring. “Ain’t many reasons to run power through a table like this—unless you’re tryin’ to lock someone down and make damn sure they stay that way.”

Evan’s gaze followed the frayed ends, his jaw tightening. “Then they weren’t just restraining him,” he said quietly. “They were blocking his powers. Shocking him, maybe—trying to stop him from teleporting.”

Scott rose slowly, still holding the strands of fur like they meant more than evidence—like they were the last trace of someone fading from reach.

A sound at the door made them all turn.

Logan and Jean stepped into the room, their expressions already telling the story. Logan gave the space a glance, but his eyes didn’t linger long on the table. He’d seen too many like it.

“Rest of the facility’s clear,” he announced, voice rough. “Not a damn thing left. No sign of him anywhere else.”

Kitty let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her shoulders sagging beneath the weight of it. Her voice came out small, thin around the edges. “What now?”

No one answered.

—-------------------

The night settled heavy over the mansion, wrapped in silence too tight to breathe. Rogue had stopped keeping track of the hours—somewhere between two and three, maybe later, maybe earlier, it didn’t matter. The lights were off, the window cracked just enough to let in the faint rustle of trees, the distant hum of life going on.

Rogue pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, hard enough to see stars, hard enough to chase something back into focus—but it was gone. If she concentrated, really concentrated, she could still feel the echo of the doctor's thoughts brushing against hers—clinical, surgical, not a flicker of empathy in them. Just sterile fascination. Kurt wasn’t a person at all to him, but a series of test results.

The memories didn’t slip away so much as recoil, like something alive and twisted, slithering just out of reach the second she got too close. Every time she tried to grab hold of it, it unraveled between her fingers, left her gasping in the dark with nothing but the taste of bile and panic. It haunted her but exhaustion still dragged her under, relentless and uncaring, the way nightmares always waited for the ones who didn’t want them.

Theta-9 exhibits no response to initial auditory stimuli. Containment measures remain effective.

Dr. Adler’s hand moved smoothly across the tablet, the stylus clutched between two precise fingers, tapping notes with the rhythmic satisfaction of a man deep in his life’s work. Around him, assistants murmured in clipped tones, adjusting surveillance angles, activating internal sensors, monitoring vitals.

“Prepare Sequence One,” Adler said, voice clipped, efficient. “Let’s see if he earns his name.”

The screen flickered to life with a grainy overhead feed of Subject Theta-9—curled on his side in the far corner of the containment cube, breath shallow, tail coiled protectively against his chest. 

The sedatives were beginning to wear off. A flicker in the fingers. A twitch in the tail. Muscles rippling with instinct before awareness could catch up.

Adler leaned forward, stylus in hand, eyes sharp behind the glass. “We’re live.”

“Vital signs stabilizing,” an assistant confirmed from behind the monitors. “Theta-9 is conscious. Observation window initiated.”

The mutant rose slowly, hands bracing against the steel floor, golden eyes narrowing as they adjusted to the dim, asymmetric lighting. The ceiling light was deliberately positioned off-center—enough to cast inconsistent shadows, to disorient. Golden eyes blinked open, pupils constricting under the stark overhead light. He scanned the chamber—walls smooth, seamless, unbroken.

Theta-9 climbed first. Leapt to the walls, tail anchoring against the smooth steel. Tested the height. Dropped down, turning in a tight circle. The panic wasn’t there yet, but Adler saw the signs. Subtle shifts in posture. Muscle tension. Elevated respiration.

Five minutes in, his heart rate spiked three beats per minute. The beginnings of desperation. Excellent . At minute thirteen, Theta-9 hesitated in the far corner—then crouched down. There. The imperfection Adler had left for him. A flawed panel, subtly warped at the edge, its lip just barely raised. A silent invitation.

The subject examined it, pressing at first with fingers.It didn’t budge.

Then, the hesitation. A stillness.

Adler leaned forward. Do it, he thought.

Theta-9 opened his jaws and bit. The sound was wet metal and shearing enamel. Even through the monitor, Adler could see the strain in his jaw, the slight tremor in his arms as he anchored himself and tore a ragged line through the composite alloy.

“Fascinating,” he breathed, voice low with admiration. “His canines exhibit tensile force well beyond projected baselines.”

Blood welled at the corners of the mutant’s mouth, dripping to the floor. He didn’t flinch. The metal gave, and Theta-9 pulled until the panel snapped away and he slipped into the vent tunnel beyond.

Fourteen minutes, twenty-seven seconds.

Adler smiled. “Let him enjoy it.”

A beat passed before Adler signaled his assistant. The convulsion was sharp and immediate. A short, ugly cry echoed back through the speakers as Theta-9 collapsed mid-crawl, limbs seizing, body locked in paroxysmal rigidity.

“Retrieve him,” Adler said, already making notes. “Relocate that mutant to Cell Pattern Delta. Let's test learned behavior under altered environments.”

The screen faded to black as the assistants moved. Adler’s reflection lingered in the glass, eyes bright, alive with purpose. “It appears we have something worth keeping.”

Rogue’s eyes snapped open.

For a second, she didn’t know where she was. The warmth of sunlight stretching across her sheets felt wrong— too soft, too normal. It didn’t match the chill still coiled beneath her skin, the echo of steel and screaming static that hadn’t faded with the dream.

His memories clung to her like smoke. She could still feel the outline of his fascination pressing against her thoughts, like fingerprints on glass. That wasn’t how memory was supposed to feel. She sat up slowly, fingers tightening in the bedsheets, trying to hold on to the last scraps of what she’d seen.

The memory hadn’t slipped away yet. That meant there was still a connection. Still time.

Maybe if I touch him again.

The thought rooted deep, low in her gut. The Professor had Adler in holding—safe, locked down, monitored. She wasn’t supposed to get near him again. Not without supervision.

But she had to. She had to try . If there was anything left buried in that man’s head, anything that could lead her to Kurt—she had to reach it. Whatever it cost.

Still, life didn’t pause for any of it and neither did her classes.

She forced herself out of bed, though the act felt more like dragging a corpse from a shallow grave than greeting the day. Her arms ached with a leaden fatigue, fingers clumsy as they tugged at clean clothes—if they could even be called that—fabric rough and indifferent beneath hands that wouldn’t stop trembling. Every movement felt mechanical, like someone had rewired her overnight and left half the circuits sparking. 

Breakfast was skipped. She slid through the hallways as though the floor itself rejected her presence. One class blurred into the next—math, maybe? Then biology, or something that involved too much talking and too little oxygen. Nods came on autopilot, shallow dips of her head that didn’t quite register what she was agreeing to. Her pen moved, scribbling nonsense she would never remember. Laughter echoed too loudly around her, sharp and cruel in its normalcy. How could they laugh? How could they sound so light when everything in her had calcified overnight?

By third period, it had all become too much—yet somehow, also not enough. The hum of voices had dissolved into a low, oppressive murmur, like insects crawling beneath her skin. Her head dipped forward, heavy with the weight of sleeplessness and things she didn’t dare think about. She fought to hold herself upright, but her body was betraying her in slow, humiliating increments.

Her eyelids slipped shut. Once. Twice. A slow, traitorous flutter.

The chamber was a void by design. A sealed cube where light did not linger and sound became a weapon. It offered no comfort, no cracks for false hope to seep through. Oxygen was permitted—barely—but warmth, softness, and mercy had been filtered out with ruthless efficiency. 

Dr. Adler stood motionless at the console, the pale glow of the controls casting his face in ghostly relief. His spine was ruler-straight, shoulders relaxed, hands precise as they ghosted over the interface with surgical restraint. He did not look directly at the creature in the cube—not yet. Observation in these initial stages was always more revealing when undiluted by awareness.

Theta-9 had folded into himself, the way animals did when waiting to die. A graceless knot of limbs. Knees drawn tight, face buried, tail cinched mercilessly around his ankle like a noose he might tighten himself if given long enough. Adler catalogued the posture clinically, though something colder and darker stirred faintly beneath the surface of his calm exterior.

He activated the sequence.

“Kurt—where are you?” Jean Grey’s voice, feather-soft and drenched in worry, filled the cube.

Theta-9’s ears flicked—subtle, unconscious. No other movement.

Good. Still resisting. Still hoping.

He advanced the program.

“Please, man, we’re looking for you—just give me a sign.” Summers, next. Steady, dependable. The leadership voiceprint. Slight desperation layered into the tail end. The timing mattered. Hope always died slowly.

Theta-9 tensed. Fingers clenched faintly, pressing into the meat of his own palms.

Ah. There it was. The beginning.

Adler’s lips curved slightly. Not a smile but more of a faint acknowledgment of art taking shape.

The voices spiraled onward, slowly tightening. A slow rotation—Xavier’s baritone. Ororo’s soft-spoken worry. Kitty Pryde, hesitant and trembling. Each precisely engineered—each a scalpel of simulated love, sharpened in advance through careful audio modulation and tested for optimum emotional yield.

“Kurt, please—I need you.”

The Pryde sample. Adler’s gaze flicked to the monitor. A subtle twitch of Theta-9’s fingers. A slow, unconscious shifting of weight. He wasn’t breaking—yet. But his body remembered. Instinct clawed past willpower.

Note: Prioritization of adolescent female voiceprint. Emotional tether located. Continue escalation.

Adler advanced the progression without a word, fingers steady as a conductor guiding a symphony only he could hear. He had no need to rush. Suffering was more effective when coaxed, not forced.

“Yo, Blue, where the hell are ya, man?”

Adler’s head tilted slightly in quiet anticipation. The reaction was immediate.

Theta-9 exploded upright. He struck the top edge of the cube, nearly concussing himself in his desperate lurch toward the familiar. His heart rate spiked. Pupils blew wide. He clawed at the walls now, breathing wild and ragged.

“ Todd?! Is that you—?! ”

Adler allowed himself a slow, indulgent exhale. The music had begun. Oh, it was exquisite—the broken crescendo of desperate recognition.

“ What the hell is this place, man—? I—I can’t see anything! ”

Theta-9 was pounding now. Bare palms slapping steel hard enough to smear sweat and skin oil. His screams tore themselves raw, voice warping into frantic German as panic devoured reason.

“Nein, nein, nein—Todd, please—I am here, I am here—”

Adler’s expression didn’t shift, but he drank in every note like the finest sonata. The panic was operatic, pure, unfiltered terror transmuted into auditory beauty. He didn’t need to revel openly. The silence of his composure made the music all the sweeter.

“Shit, man, I—I don’t know what’s happening, they—they grabbed me—I don’t—”

“DO NOT LISTEN TO THEM!  TODD, PLEASE—”

Theta-9 was breaking—too fast, too easily. Adler could see it: trembling muscles straining against primal instinct, fangs bared not in aggression but in pitiful, feral fear.

“ Please—please let him go! He is not like me—he is not dangerous— ”

Adler leaned back, crossing his arms with quiet finality.

“Cut it.”

Silence fell. Sweet, perfect, obliterating silence.

Theta-9 froze mid-scream. Breath caught in his throat like broken glass. The stillness that followed was a special kind of cruelty—deafening in its sudden absence of sound. He remained frozen in place, hands against the wall, shaking faintly as confusion began to bleed into terror’s vacancy.

Adler’s fingers hovered over the console, pausing. He regarded the mutant’s frozen figure in the dark with distant, academic interest. Still clinging to hope. Still resisting, even now.

That would not do.

He adjusted the settings with a flick of his wrist. Subtle shifts. The temperature dropped by two degrees. The light dimmed slightly further, forcing Theta-9’s already taxed eyes to strain. The audio began anew—but this time, not with words.

White noise.

At first, it was soft. A faint, insistent hiss in the background, like static on a dead channel. Then Adler layered in the undertones—subliminal tracks buried beneath. Whispers, unintelligible at first, designed to trigger the brain’s need to interpret.

Theta-9’s head snapped up. Confused. His eyes darted around the black chamber as his breathing quickened, mouth parting slightly as he strained to hear—what? The lack of clarity itself was the weapon.

Sensory disruption successful. Subject disoriented. Good.

The voices returned, carefully interlaced with the noise.

“Kurt?” came Jean’s voice again, sudden and bright amidst the crackling void. Not pleading—dismissive.

“Forget it. You’re not trying. You don’t care.”

Theta-9 flinched, shoulders curling tighter inward. He whispered something—a desperate, inaudible rebuttal—but it was swallowed by the chamber.

The voices shifted rapidly now, cycling too fast for comfort. Evan. Ororo. Kitty. Rogue. Todd again. Scott’s voice cutting through, cruel, unfamiliar: “You’re dead weight, Kurt. Stay gone.”

Adler watched in detached fascination as Theta-9’s breath hitched violently, his hands curling against his ears, as though he could somehow shield himself. 

“Stop…” Theta-9’s voice cracked and dissolved. “Bitte, stop… I—I—”

Adler didn’t stop.

He activated the final auditory sequence. The real scalpel. Xavier’s voice, cold and flat. “He made his choice. He’s not ours anymore.”

Theta-9 collapsed in stages, all momentum gone. His legs gave first, then his spine. He slid down the steel wall like a broken puppet whose strings had rotted away, until his head rested against the surface, lips moving in useless, crumbling prayers.

The sob came out low and desperate, a child’s sound—wet and shaking.

“Bitte… bitte…” His words dissolved into half-sobs. “Please… I v-vant to go home… I want to go home, bitte, bitte, please—”

Over and over, like a rosary whispered by the damned.

Adler recorded the timestamp with clinical detachment.

Thirteen hours, forty-seven minutes. Subject destabilization complete.

Theta-9 whimpered in the dark, his body a fragile ball of convulsions and whispered longing. No dignity remained—just trembling and grief made manifest. The words bled together now, slurring and half-lost.

“ Vant to go home… bitte… please… ”

Adler stepped away from the console at last. The experiment was finished for the night. The aftershocks would continue—inevitably. They always did. The mind, once cracked, never healed cleanly.

Rogue shot upright in her desk with a gasp so sudden, so violent, that her chair scraped backward across the tile in a screech that made half the class jump. Her hand clamped instinctively to her chest as if she could physically hold in the adrenaline spiking through her veins.

"Miss Darkholme!"

The teacher's voice cracked across the room, startled and sharp. Mr. Naughton, old-school and strict, frowned from where he stood at the chalkboard. He pushed his glasses up with the kind of deliberate patience that usually came before a long lecture.

"You fell asleep?" he asked, incredulous. "That’s unlike you."

The whole room was watching now. Rogue’s skin crawled under their eyes, like every nerve ending had been replaced with barbed wire. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The phantom weight of Kurt’s sobbing still clung to her ears. Bitte… please… I want to go home…

Without a word, she shoved her books into her bag so fast her notebook hit the floor. Left it. Slinging the strap over her shoulder, she ignored Mr. Naughton entirely as he sputtered something about not dismissing herself and disrespecting the classroom.

She was already halfway out the door before he finished the sentence.

"Rogue—hey, Rogue, wait!"

Scott’s voice, close behind. Footsteps too loud in the empty hall. She didn’t slow.

"Rogue, stop!"

Fingers brushed her shoulder, light but insistent. She spun on him like she might hit him. He stepped back, hands up instantly, eyes wide behind his glasses.

"Whoa. Okay. Sorry." His voice softened instantly, concern slipping in warm and familiar. "I just—what happened? You ran outta there like—"

"I’m fine." Her voice cracked despite her best effort. She pressed her lips together and turned away, clutching her bag like it could anchor her.

Scott didn’t buy it. No chance. Not after Kurt vanished and left them all hollowed out in ways they didn’t talk about but felt anyway, sharp as splinters under the skin. He read people now — read them too well. He had to. He wasn’t letting anything slip past him again.

"Rogue, come on." His voice gentled, low and coaxing now, threading soft through the tension. "Just talk to me. Please."

Her throat clenched hard, the words shriveling before they ever reached her lips. She couldn’t. Not with him standing there, all quiet strength and steady patience, radiating that suffocating kind of safety that only made everything inside her twist tighter.

"I said I’m fine," she snapped, harsher than she meant to. Her eyes stung. She swallowed it down. "I just—need time, alright? Back off, Scott."

The hurt flickered across his face, but he let her go.

"Okay," he said quietly, hands falling to his sides. "Just… don’t disappear, alright?"

She didn’t answer. Just kept walking, she needed some air and the school just felt too damn suffocating. 

—-------------

The back lot of the school was empty except for the familiar curl of smoke wafting lazily in the sunlight. Tabitha stood against the wall, shoulders slouched like the building was the only thing keeping her vertical. She didn’t look up as Rogue approached, just took a drag from the joint held between two chipped pink-painted fingernails.

"Well, well," Tabby drawled, eyes gleaming with half-lidded mischief. "Bayville’s top honor student skips out on class. Didn’t think you had it in you, Southern Belle."

"Shut up." Rogue didn’t slow, didn’t smile. Just collapsed against the wall, arms folded so tight it felt like she could hold herself together if she just squeezed hard enough.

Tabitha didn’t take it personally. She just took another hit and wiggled the joint at Rogue invitingly.

"Want a little therapy?" she asked with faux sweetness. "Very scientific. Calms the nerves. Makes you forget all your existential dread."

Rogue glared. "You’re disgusting."

Tabitha laughed—full-bodied, amused, easy. "Fair. But I'm relaxed and you're not. So who's really winning?"

Rogue flipped her off lazily without turning. Tabitha smirked, tossed her head back, and smoked anyway. The silence that fell was surprisingly companionable, heavy only in Rogue’s mind.

Tabitha’s eyes were a little red when the joint burned out. She flicked the filter away with practiced indifference, wiped her nose, and finally glanced sideways, quieter now.

"Okay, seriously though." Her tone shifted just slightly—just enough that it didn’t sound like a joke anymore. "What’s eating you?"

Rogue hesitated. The easy answer was loaded on her tongue. The snap, the shove, the go to hell . She almost did it. Almost. But when she looked at Tabby—really looked—she saw the faintest crack in her usual smug detachment. 

"My brother’s missing," Rogue muttered, the words bitter and awful in her mouth. "And I’m havin’ nightmares about him in class"

Tabitha’s entire face slackened, smile gone like someone had flicked off a switch. She froze, just for a beat too long. Then, smooth as anything, she slid the mask right back on. A little softer, sure, but easy. Natural. Like slipping into heels she wore too often.

"Shit, Rogue. That’s… that’s rough." Tabby winced, then gave a little shrug. "For real though—hope your blue dude’s okay."

Rogue narrowed her eyes faintly. Something about the way she said it tugged at her, but Tabbitha was already pushing off the wall, dusting ash off her ripped jeans like they were done here.

"Anyway," Tabitha added, flipping her hair over her shoulder, "I gotta bail. Lance’s Jeep is due back soon and he’ll probably bury me alive again if he knows I stole it, again. "

Rogue snorted faintly despite herself. Tabitha winked and turned, sauntering off like she hadn’t just slipped out of answering anything real.

"Later, sugar," she called over her shoulder.

Rogue stayed there for a moment after she left, back pressed to the brick, eyes heavy.
It didn’t help. None of this helped.

But at least, for a few minutes, it made her feel less like she was splintering.

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut, silence swallowed the room.  

“Tell me I’m fucking crazy,” Tabitha snapped, her voice loud and too sharp, cutting through the stillness like a blade. She spun toward the others, eyes wide, hands twitching like they couldn’t find purchase on reality. “Tell me I’m fucking crazy, because — what the hell did we just see?!”

“No fucking clue, man!” Toad half-yelled, voice cracking on the edges. His hands were already in his hair, tugging hard, his eyes wide and unfocused like he couldn’t settle on where to look. “But — fuck, dude, we fucked up. We fucked up bad. Kurt was a fucking mess!”

Tabitha nodded hard like if she agreed fast enough it would make sense. “Yeah, yeah, I know — but also—also—” she threw her hands up, words stumbling over each other in their rush to escape, “ what the fuck was Pietro on?! ”

Her voice pitched up, teetering dangerously close to hysterical. “He was so— so fucking gentle , like—like, that’s not Pietro, right? That’s not fucking Pietro. Right? That wasn’t real, that couldn’t have been real. I have to be dreaming.”

Lance scoffed. “Who gives a fuck,” he bit out, crossing his arms so tight it looked like he was trying to hold himself together by force alone. “It was still Pietro. I don’t give a shit how soft he was acting. Are we seriously supposed to be worried about Kurt after he tried to kill me?!”

Toad flinched at the word kill, his face screwing up tight, as if the sound alone hurt. “Dude, come on—” Toad shot back, voice breaking halfway through. “Did he really mean to?! Like — seriously? He didn’t even know who the hell we are, he was losing it, man.”

Tabitha nodded quickly, eyes darting between them. “Yeah, yeah, for real — we saw him sobbing, Lance. Sobbing. He said—shit, he said he was scared.”

Toad’s voice dropped, breath hitching. “Yeah. He… he gets the benefit of the doubt, right? He has to.”

Lance’s mouth twisted, his jaw tight as hell. He was shaking his head before they even finished. “Tell that to my corpse if I’d slipped,” he snapped, voice low and bitter. His eyes burned as he threw a sharp look at both of them. “If I’d lost my grip on his tail and fell out of the fucking sky, I’d be dead right now. Dead. Don’t fucking forget that.”

The room went tight and sharp again, the words lingering ugly and heavy between them. Tabitha broke it, sighing hard, dragging both hands up her face until her fingers dug into her hair.

“Fuck,” she breathed. “Okay. Okay, yeah — yeah, he was dangerous. You’re not wrong, Lance. He was really fucking dangerous. You saw how much he was struggling — he was ready to hurt himself to get free. That’s not normal.”

Toad nodded, his voice softening with worry, turning almost hollow. “Yeah. What the hell happened to him, man? He couldn’t have just been chilling with Pietro all this time and ended up like that. That’s… no. That’s not how this works.”

Lance huffed sharply but didn’t argue this time. His shoulders slumped a little, tension bleeding out. “No,” he muttered. “Yeah. You’re right. There’s something way fucking bigger here.”

Tabitha laughed, short and empty and desperate. She shook her head, rubbing hard at her eyes, then dropped her hands uselessly against her legs.

“I can’t— I can’t fucking get over Pietro, dude,” she said, voice hollow with disbelief. “You heard him, right? That fucking monologue—?”

Her voice twisted into something jagged and shaky as she mimicked him, eyes wide and incredulous:

‘“I’m still the guy who’s too loud in the morning and leaves his socks everywhere, forgets to eat breakfast but remembers to make you lunch.”’

Tabitha’s lip curled faintly, half sneer, half sheer bafflement.

“What the fuck was that?”

Toad glanced sideways, rubbing the back of his neck, still wired. “You guys think there’s... something going on between them?” His voice dipped lower, uncertain but itching to say it. “I mean, Pietro’s never that gentle about anything. Not even Wanda.”

Tabitha’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, dude,” she said, quick, biting, too ready to latch onto the thought. “Like—he cares about Wanda, sure, but when she was around? He’d rather eat glass than say anything nice. Barely managed more than a ‘whatever, don’t die’ half the time.”

Toad nodded fast, like he needed backup, like the words felt safer if someone else said them too. “Exactly! But with Kurt? He was—Jesus. He stuttered. He actually stuttered through an apology. That’s—”

“—not Pietro,” Tabitha finished, her voice dropping, edged with something tight and raw.

Lance let out a heavy breath, like they were exhausting him, but there was tension in his jaw. He didn’t argue. Just crossed his arms again, tighter this time, like he was holding in more than he was saying.

“You guys are acting like he’s a whole new person,” he muttered, but it came out weak.

“He IS!” Tabitha snapped, sharp enough to cut. Her eyes burned as she rounded on Lance, frustration pouring out fast and hot. “Come on, Lance—have you ever seen Pietro coddle someone?! Mister I’m-too-fast-for-everyone, who can’t even wait for us to finish a sentence without cutting in or bouncing? When the hell has he ever been gentle?”

She stared him down, daring him, practically begging him to argue so she could shove it right back.

Lance opened his mouth—then shut it again. 

He huffed, dragged a hand down his face, tension bleeding out in a long, frustrated exhale. “Fuck,” he muttered, low and reluctant. “Okay. Okay, yeah—there’s something wrong with him too.” He shifted awkwardly, glancing between them like the words weren’t fitting right in his mouth. Then, with zero confidence, he offered, “Maybe they, uh… bonded?”

Tabitha blinked, slow. Toad stared like he’d just thrown a wet paper towel at a house fire.

Lance held up his hands, defensive before they even reacted. “I mean—look, Kurt’s clearly not himself, alright? He’s fragile. Like—emotionally. Obviously.”

He hesitated, grimacing. “Actually, that’s what’s fucking me up. He was strong. Like—really strong. No way it should’ve taken three of us to hold him down.”

Toad perked up at that, face screwing up tight. “Right?! Dude, that’s been bugging me since it happened.” He waved his hands like he could make the memory behave. “Like, yeah, he’s wiry and all, but that was freaky. Two weeks ago Kurt couldn’t even open a stuck window without bitching about it. Tonight? Took three of us and even then he was kicking our asses.”

“Yeah.” Lance’s face darkened. “That was not normal. That was like—feral on steroids.”

Tabitha scrubbed both hands hard over her face, fingers dragging through her hair until they caught at the roots.

“Okay,” she said tightly, voice going thin and fast. “So. He’s been gone two weeks. Comes back stronger, traumatized, and weirdly attached to Pietro.”

She dropped her hands, letting them fall uselessly against her legs as she stared at the floor like it might explain something.

“Awesome. Great. That totally answers everything,” she deadpanned. “Definitely not terrifying at all.”

The words hung there, heavy and awful.

Toad let out a long, shaky breath, slumping back like the weight of it all finally crushed him flat. “So what now?” he muttered, voice thin. “Are we just gonna sit here and wait until Pietro comes back? ‘Cause I gotta be honest, I don’t think I want answers that bad. Not bad enough to volunteer as a fucking punching bag.”

Lance snorted, sharp and ugly. “Oh fuck off. He’s not gonna kill us.”

Toad gave him a look. A long, incredulous one. “Dude. He threw Tabitha at you like an hour ago for fun. That was before he had a trauma-bonded feral Kurt to protect. He comes back pissed? We’re dead. Or worse.”

“Worse than dead?” Tabitha cut in, raising her brows. “What, you think he’s gonna make us hold hands and talk about our feelings?”

Toad didn’t laugh. None of them did.

“Okay, bad joke, whatever,” she muttered, waving herself off. “Point is — yeah. I’m with Toad. I don’t want to be here when he walks back in.”

“Well, too fucking bad,” Lance shot back, jaw tightening. “He’s gotta give us answers. He doesn’t get to just disappear with Kurt and leave us here losing our minds. We deserve to know what the hell is going on.”

“Deserve?” Tabitha echoed, staring at him like he’d grown another head. “Lance, did you see him? He wasn’t thinking about us. He probably doesn’t even care if we’re losing our minds. To him, we’re the assholes who pinned his—whatever Kurt is to him— to the floor while he sobbed.”

That shut Lance up for half a second. He scowled, but didn’t argue right away.

Toad fidgeted anxiously, his knee bouncing. “I’m just saying,” he mumbled, “dude comes back and starts with the accusations? I’m not dying on this hill, alright? I’ll apologize, I’ll bake a fucking cake, I’ll—whatever. I’m out.”

Tabitha snorted, but it was humorless. “Yeah. Yeah, same. I vote survival over answers.”

Lance groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “You’re all acting like he’s some monster. He’s still Pietro.”

“That wasn’t Pietro,” Tabitha fired back immediately, sharp and sure. “Not like we know him. That Pietro would’ve screamed first, punched second. This one? The quiet, soft-spoken, ‘trust me, Blue’ version? I don’t know what the fuck that was. But that guy? That guy’s scary.”

Lance shifted uncomfortably, but didn’t argue again. Not this time. His silence said enough.

Toad let out a slow breath and slumped even further into the wall. “So... what, then?” he asked quietly. “We just sit here and wait?”

Tabitha nodded slowly, like the admission tasted like ash. “Yeah,” she muttered. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

No one liked it. No one said anything else. Time stretched thin and brittle as they stayed like that, each of them sinking into the awful quiet, stealing glances at the door like it might open any second and decide their fate.

—-----

When the door clicked open again, the air changed. Toad’s stomach clenched like he was waiting for a fist to drop.

Pietro stepped in—slow, controlled—and Toad hated it. Hated everything about it. Pietro wasn’t buzzing. That was the worst part. No blur at the edges, no vibrating fingers or nervous pacing or that constant hum of speed he always carried like static on his skin.

It was gone.

Replaced by this cold, focused stillness that didn’t belong to him. “What did I tell you,” Pietro said, eyes cutting sharp between them, “about staying the fuck out of my room?”

His voice didn’t even rise. No dramatic flare. Just low and measured —and that somehow made it worse.

Toad felt his limbs lock, throat tightening. “Listen, man—” he started, half-pleading, but behind him—

Tabitha laughed.

It cracked through the tension like glass under a boot, and Toad’s whole body flinched, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up like they knew this was about to go sideways. “Fuck you, psycho,” she snapped. “What the fuck is all this? Who even are you?”

God fucking dammit.

Toad’s head whipped toward her, eyes wide. What the hell are you doing?! 

His glance snapped to Lance too—same reaction, same silent are you trying to get us killed?

What happened to wait for answers ? What happened to don’t poke the fucking bomb while it’s ticking ?

Pietro let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh—short, jagged, like something tearing. “You think I owe you—what, an apology ?” His voice cut low, too even. “For you doing exactly what I told you not to?”

Toad couldn’t breathe right. His heart was sprinting ahead of him, pulsing behind his eyes. But his limbs wouldn’t move. He was stuck—watching, waiting, like the air might snap in half any second.

Tabitha didn’t flinch. She should’ve. She really, really should’ve. But she stayed rooted, arms folded, jaw locked in that familiar, lethal kind of stubborn that never knew when to fold.

“Go fuck yourself, Maximoff,” she snapped. “I don’t care if this was something we ‘should’ve stayed out of’—you’re hiding something dangerous .”

Pietro’s head tilted.

Just slightly. But something about it— that angle, that calm—made Toad’s spine light up like an alarm.

“ Dangerous? ” Pietro repeated, softly. “What part of what I walked into looked fucking dangerous, huh? Was it three of you crushing Kurt? Or Kurt , crushed into the damn floorboards like he didn’t matter. Because I remember that part real fucking clearly.”

Tabitha sneered at him. “You didn’t see him before,” she bit out. “We didn’t just decide to dogpile him. He was out of control. He needed to be restrained. ”

Lance stepped forward, arms tight, voice sharper now—vindicated, bitter. “Yeah, he wasn’t some poor victim, Pietro. He attacked us. You know what it’s like to teleport midair? It’s not just scary, it’s lethal. I grabbed his tail to stop him from dropping me. My bad, I guess, for not wanting to fall to my death.”

His voice spiked, laced with resentment.

“Or have my throat ripped out. Because he wasn’t scared—he was biting, man. Snarling. Like a fucking animal.”

The second the word left his mouth, the temperature dropped. Pietro didn’t shout. He didn’t even move.

“Don’t fucking call him an animal .”

Something in the air snapped —like a live wire flexing just under the surface.

“You fuckers have no idea what he’s been through,” Pietro said, and for the first time, his voice cracked . “You think you do, because you saw fangs and panic and didn’t know where to put it. So you pinned him to the floor and labeled it dangerous .”

Tabitha practically threw her hands up, eyes wild. “You’re acting like we were clued in! Like we’re just supposed to know —what? What the fuck he's even been through? We found out he was in the house less than a fucking hour ago!”

“Yeah,” Lance cut in, tone sharp with accusation. “Are we supposed to feel bad for your pet project now? You’ve been hiding a missing X-man for two fucking weeks , Pietro!”

Pietro twitched.

Toad found his voice, finally. It tumbled out before he could stop it. “We get it, man. You’re probably neck-deep in some Mystique shit, right? She drop him off? Set this whole thing up?”

“ Pet project, ” Pietro echoed, and the words came out bitter. “You think that’s what this is?”

He dragged in a breath—shaky, too sharp—then let it go like he was choking it down. Hurting them wouldn’t help. That mantra spun through his chest like a blade.

He wasn’t like that.
He didn’t have to lash out.
He didn’t have to be like his father .

Mystique had told him to handle it. Told him he had to keep her plans stitched together until she got back— be useful for once . If they found out too soon? If things unraveled?

It was on him to fix it.

He could fucking fix this.

“You want your goddamn answers?” Pietro snapped, voice cracking. “Fine. Here. Here’s your fucking answer. ”

He threw his arms wide like the truth might burn out of his ribs.

“Kurt’s got amnesia. Hydra tried to reprogram him—wipe his head and turn him into some kind of mutant weapon. That’s what you tackled to the floor.”

The room fell silent .

Lance and Tabitha blinked like their brains had both hit error messages. Trying to process something that didn’t compute.

Toad’s throat went dry. “What…?”

“I don’t know how bad it is,” Pietro said, voice ragged now, cracking under the weight of it. “He’s having a full-blown identity crisis every day. He doesn’t remember the X-Men. Or Bayville. Or any of us.”

“What the fuck,” Lance muttered. His face had gone pale, the words forming slow like he was watching his own guilt solidify in real time.

Toad couldn’t breathe. His mind spun like a centrifuge stuck on the wrong setting.

There was no way. This couldn’t be real.

“You’re lying,” he whispered.

Pietro’s laugh snapped out of him like a whip—disbelieving, incredulous, bitter as hell. “ You think I’d lie about this?! ” he snarled. “You really think I could make this shit up?! ” He lunged forward without thinking, shoved Toad hard—shoulders catching the full burn of it.

“You have no fucking clue how bad today was,” Pietro hissed, voice shaking now. “No clue if he’s gonna be okay. No clue if he’s gonna snap again. Because I have no fucking idea what happened in that lab Mystique pulled him out of—and neither do you .”

Toad stumbled, caught himself, eyes wide. He flicked a helpless look toward Lance and Tabitha—but neither of them moved. They didn’t jump in. Didn’t defend him.

Of course not. Of course he had to be the one who got hit with this. He swallowed hard, throat sticking. “I—I didn’t know, man.”

Pietro laughed again, but it sounded wrong this time. Hollow. Mean and tired and too close to broken. “That was the point , Frog Boy,” he spat. “You weren’t supposed to know. Not yet. He’s not ready—and today? Today just fucking proved that.”

He stopped, chest heaving. The silence that followed felt radioactive. Pietro looked at Tabitha and Lance, something wild flickering behind his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, voice low and razor-edged. “Now you’re the pieces of shit that jumped a trauma victim while he was still recovering. I was finally getting him comfortable existing here. He just needed a little more time.”

“So tell me,” he said, still laughing under his breath, “what the fuck happened? What possibly went so wrong you thought pinning him to the goddamn floor was your best move? Huh? What did I miss ?”

No one spoke at first.

They just stood there—wide-eyed, caught in the blowback of what he’d dropped on them.

Then, slowly, the words started to tumble out.

“We—we saw you leave,” Tabitha said, voice brittle. “You were moving fast. Looked like something was wrong. We figured—fuck, we figured we should check on your room.” 

Lance picked up where she left off. “We thought maybe—maybe you’d left something there. So we went in. And ... there he was.”

Pietro’s jaw tensed.

“He noticed us,” Toad added quietly. “Like—immediately. And just... teleported. ”

“Right out of the room,” Tabitha said. “He was in the guest room when we caught up.”

“And that’s when I grabbed him,” Lance admitted, wincing.

“What?!” Pietro snapped. “You fucking grabbed him?! ”

Lance threw up his hands fast, defensive. “Not like that! Not—aggressively. I just—he looked like he was about to teleport again, and I panicked. I was trying to stop him from disappearing, okay?”

Pietro’s expression curdled. “So you grabbed his tail.”

Lance’s face twisted in discomfort. “Yeah. Which—yeah, I know now, fucking bad call , alright? But I didn’t mean anything by it. I figured—whatever, better than letting him run again. Only—he teleported anyway. ”

He paused. Swallowed hard. “And he took me with him. Straight into the fucking sky. ”

For half a second, Pietro almost cracked. He wanted to laugh. Honestly, he would've paid good money to see Lance flailing midair like a broken action figure. That guy hated being off the ground—probably some subconscious thing tied to his mutation. Earth boy with a panic disorder for open air. Everything about that fall must’ve sucked for him. Deserved it, too.

“He kept trying to bite me!” Lance snapped, like that explained everything. “Like—over and over again. He was going for my neck, my shoulder—anything he could sink his teeth into. I couldn’t let go of his tail or I’d fall. Straight down.”

He made a sharp gesture, mimicking the fall. “So I twisted his arm behind his back—only thing I could do—and that’s when he teleported us back to the guest room.”

Tabby jumped in, nodding fast. “Yeah, and then Lance comes barreling in, screaming for backup, and Kurt’s on the floor just—fucking snarling, man. Like full-on throat-ripping sounds.”

She threw her hands up, eyes wide, voice climbing. “So I go to help and the little shit snaps at my ankle! Almost got me too! I could’ve been ankle-less, dude.”

Toad nodded quickly, eyes darting like he still wasn’t sure they weren’t about to get hit again. “Yeah. I grabbed his legs. Thought that’d calm him down or at least keep him from flailing. But he was thrashing, hard. Like trying to kick through me.”

Tabitha nodded, still wired. “Yeah. He’s way stronger. Like—scary strong. I thought he was gonna pull a muscle or something with how hard he was twisting. It was—”

“Fuck sake,” Pietro cut in, voice sharp and disbelieving. “And why didn’t you stop?”

Tabitha’s hands flew up, defensive and jittery. “Because he was still fucking biting! He was thrashing like he was possessed! We had to hold him down!”

Pietro stepped forward, eyes burning. “Yeah? Well, he wasn’t fighting you the whole time! You could’ve gotten off him the second he started crying!”

Tabitha froze, mouth tight, and for the first time—really—her bravado cracked. She pursed her lips. Looked away. “…Fine,” she muttered. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Toad shifted awkwardly, glanced at Lance, then back. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Me too.”

Lance hesitated longer—but he wasn’t a total coward. Not this time. “Same,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

Pietro snorted. It was bitter and humorless. “I’m not the one you’re gonna apologize to,” he said flatly. “Kurt’s the one you hurt.”

That made Toad blink. He looked up, eyebrows high. “So… he’s staying here?”

Pietro crossed his arms, stance rigid. “What, you thought this was over? Just because you found out he’s here?”

None of them responded.

Pietro huffed. “You didn’t end anything. You just sped up the timeline.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaustion starting to bleed through his fury. “Mystique always wanted you to know about him eventually,” he said. Then, softer—deadpan and weighted:

“He’s becoming part of the Brotherhood.”

“ He’s joining the Brotherhood?! ” Toad screeched , his voice pitching high enough to make Pietro flinch.

Tabitha sucked in a breath through her teeth. “You wanted us to what— re-meet him?” she demanded. “Pretend we don’t know he doesn’t belong here?!”

“ Not my fucking idea! ” Pietro barked, spinning toward her. “You think I want to do this shit, Tabby?! You think I’m fucking thrilled about dragging a half-broken amnesiac into the house like he’s a new puppy? You know the deal. We do what she wants—we get to fucking stay. ”

A silence dropped over them like an anvil, heavy and choking.

But Pietro— of course —couldn’t leave it alone.

He stepped closer, voice slick with venom and something colder underneath. “What else would you have, Smith?” he said, leaning in just enough to crowd her. His head tilted to the side, eyes gleaming like a blade in low light.

Tabitha swallowed.

“You gonna go back to your deadbeat dad?” Pietro asked, voice low and mocking. “The one who only gives a shit when you blow something up for him? Or maybe your mom—oh wait, she’s too scared of you to even keep you around, right?”

Toad sucked in a breath, sharp and panicked. “Fuck, Pietro—” he hissed, eyes darting. “Don’t. Don’t set her off—”

Tabitha’s teeth clenched so hard her jaw twitched. Her fists were balled, shoulders locked like her body was fighting itself to stay still. “Don’t talk about them like that,” she ground out.

Pietro scoffed. “What, it stings? You don’t like the taste of the truth?” He leaned in closer, “Then tell me I’m wrong, Tabitha. Come on. Say something. ”

Tabitha sucked in a breath—sharp and furious—and stepped forward like she meant to swing. “You wanna start this, Maximoff? Fine. Where’s your mom, huh? Right— you don’t fucking know. Another mystery from your absent dad who won’t even give you a scrap of the attention you’re so desperate for.”

Pietro smiled. “How’s your little brother?”

Tabitha flinched. The breath caught in her throat. She took a step back.

But before she could speak, Lance’s voice cut through the tension.

“That’s enough, Pietro.”

Pietro turned on him with the smooth, practiced cruelty of someone who never learned how to back off—only how to aim better.

“Oh, you want in too?” he sneered. “Gonna give me some self-righteous speech about how I’m going too far? ”

Lance opened his mouth—

“Go ahead,” Pietro snapped. “Tell me how bad I am for being a little mean. Because you? You’re a fucking saint , right?”

He stalked a step closer, eyes glittering.

“You’re not exactly in a position to play moral compass, Alvers. What, you think you’ve got options? Where you gonna go—back to that lovely rat infested group home?”

Pietro tapped his chin with mock thoughtfulness. “Oh wait. Right. You’re not allowed back in Illinois, are you? Something about a building collapse? Some temper tantrum you threw over a girl who didn’t even see you until you nearly got someone killed .”

Toad sucked in a breath—sharp, fast, panicked.

Fuck, fuck. He knew better than to make a sound. Knew if he so much as twitched , Pietro would lock onto him next. He ducked his head, stared at the floor like it might protect him. Like silence might make him invisible.

Pietro shoved Lance in the chest, hard. “ Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought.”

Lance stumbled back a half-step, jaw tight, fists clenched—but still didn’t move.

Toad with his curse of a mouth—couldn’t let it lie.

“This doesn’t change the fact Kurt’s clearly unstable, ” he blurted. “I mean, c’mon—he tried to bite us—”

Pietro’s eyes snapped to him, sudden and deadly. “You have no idea how hard it’s been,” he growled, “getting him far enough to almost meet you. To trust this place. And now, instead of progress, you’ve taught him something else.”

His voice dropped. “You’ve taught him he’s fucked up. Beyond the missing memories. Beyond what Hydra did. Now he thinks he’s wrong.”

Toad opened his mouth, but the words died before they formed.

Pietro tilted his head, lip curled. “You’d know what that feels like, right?” he said, deceptively calm. “You’re trying to smoke that feeling away—shove it down deep where it eats you alive. Telling yourself you’re not like her. That you’re not just some broken version of your strung-out mom. ”

Toad inhaled sharp. His whole body went rigid. 

Lance shoved Pietro back a step, hard. “You’re crossing the fucking line . ”

Pietro sneered at him, but this time he didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, chest heaving, jaw tight, rage bleeding out in every direction but finally burning low.

His voice dropped, bitter and exhausted. “If you three had just fucking waited ,” he muttered, “this would’ve been so much easier. But now?”

He looked at the wall, like he could already feel Mystique breathing down his neck.

“Now I’ve got to do damage control before she gets back.”

Pietro’s gaze swept over all three of them, eyes flat and cold.

“You wanna hate me? Fine. I don’t fucking care,” he said. “But you keep your head down and do what I tell you.”

His voice dropped, laced with steel.

“Or Mystique finds out you crushed her son into the floor while he was having a fucking episode .”

Tabitha’s breath caught, her anger flickering out for just a moment. “What…?”

Her voice was small, disbelieving.

Pietro raised a brow like it was obvious. “What—you thought she wanted to keep an X-Man around for fun?”

He laughed, but there was nothing amused in it. “She wants her son back, yeah—but she also wants a weapon. So he stays here. Until she can worm her way into his life—like she did with all of us.”

Tabitha’s scowl returned, but she didn’t argue. Lance and Toad shifted uncomfortably, both of them looking anywhere but at Pietro. “Fine,” Tabitha bit out, jaw tight. “We’ll play along. What do you want?”

Pietro didn’t hesitate. “Not a word about Kurt to the X-Men. They’re looking for him, sure—but Mystique’s been keeping them distracted, feeding them dead ends. She’s bought time. But it won’t last forever.”

Lance exhaled, rough. “So what—we just pretend to meet him for the first time?”

“No,” Pietro said, shaking his head. “He thinks he was already joining us before the memory loss. That the Brotherhood was his plan. So if you know things he doesn’t? That won’t throw him. It’ll just make sense to him.”

He fixed them each with a hard stare.

“You don’t talk to him about the X-Men. Not even a hint. Mystique wants to frame that part of his life herself. She wants control of the story.”

He paused, voice lowering.

“And I don’t plan on messing with that. So until she says otherwise? You act like he’s just a mutant who’s been hiding in Bayville.”

Toad bit his lip, gaze bouncing from Tabitha to Lance before nodding, slow.

“…Okay, man,” he said. “Yeah. We’ll do it.”

Pietro nodded once, then leaned back on his heels, arms crossed tight again. “ Good. ”

He took a breath, just a flicker of hesitation crossing his face—something raw and regretful in the way his jaw shifted like he wanted to take something back.

But just as fast, it vanished.

“He’s not gonna want to see you guys,” Pietro said, voice level again. “I’m gonna try to nudge him toward talking, but if he shuts down? If he refuses?”

He shrugged. “There’s not much I can do. We just better hope Mystique gets back before then—before she starts wondering why her son’s suddenly spiraling backwards.”

Tabitha rubbed her palms against her pants, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. She had a dozen things to say and none she could afford to voice.

Pietro caught the look but didn’t comment. “You’re gonna be his friends now,” he said instead. “You’re gonna make him feel welcome. ”

He rolled his eyes. “Freddy probably doesn’t need this talk. That guy’s starving for company—he’ll throw himself into the role like it’s his new favorite hobby.”

Tabitha looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. “ Fine, ” she muttered. “What fucking else?”

Pietro’s voice went flat. “Act normal. Don’t be stiff, don’t act like you’re tiptoeing around glass—even if you are.”

He swept his gaze across them again, colder now.

“He’s gonna be on edge . You’re gonna have to make him feel like he belongs here. Like he’s not some broken puzzle piece. Just one of us. ”

They nodded, silent and heavy with everything unspoken. No one met Pietro’s eyes.

He let out a breath—tight, controlled. Maybe the closest thing to mercy they’d get from him tonight. “I’m gonna say this once, ” he said, low and hard. “And if you don’t listen, next time’s gonna be a whole lot worse.”

His eyes swept over them one last time. “ Stay the fuck out of my room. ”

Then he turned on his heel and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

—----

The ache started in Kurt’s ribs—deep, bruised, pulsing with every shallow breath—and bloomed outward like a slow burn under his skin. He shifted, just barely, and it lit his whole side on fire.

Memory followed. Too fast, too vivid. Hands on his back. Pressure. The sound of shouting. His own breath caught in his throat, trembling and raw.

He let out a soft sound—half whimper, half gasp—and a rustle nearby made him flinch.

Eyes still squinting against the sunlight, Kurt turned his head—and saw movement. A figure slouched in the chair beside the bed, limbs unfolding with a groggy groan.

Pietro blinked hard, scrubbed at his face, and yawned. “Morning, Blue,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep. His gaze found Kurt—and just like that, the haze cleared.

“What's with the face?” Pietro asked, sitting up straighter, eyes narrowing slightly. “What hurts?”

Kurt tried to answer, but his throat rasped like sandpaper. He winced hard, tried to swallow, and grimaced instead.

That was answer enough.

“Alright, alright, say no more,” Pietro said, already standing. He moved slower than usual—no blur, no rush—just careful steps to the side of the bed. His hand hovered for a second, then landed light on Kurt’s shoulder, guiding him back against the pillow.

“Yeah, no, you’re not moving today,” he said, gentler now. “Bed rest. Mandatory. Doctor’s orders.” His mouth twitched in a soft, lopsided grin.

Kurt grunted, eyes slitting at him in weak protest. Pietro huffed a laugh.

“Okay, grumpy pants,” he teased, smoothing the edge of the blanket near Kurt’s collarbone. “I get it. Not a fan of being babied. Tough shit.”

Kurt let out a low, miserable whine, one hand dragging sluggishly up to his throat. His fingers grazed it like he wasn’t sure what he was asking for—just that it hurt .

Pietro raised a brow, catching the movement. “Yeah, okay—got it, hang on.”

He reached for the water bottle on the side table, cracked the cap one-handed, and shifted closer. “Here,” he said, voice softening as he held it out.

Kurt pushed himself upright with a wince, leaning forward just enough. Pietro brought the bottle to his lips. The first sip was fire—cold fire, sharp relief. It hurt going down, but then the dryness cracked apart and something in his chest unknotted. He drank again, slower this time.

“Danke,” he rasped, voice raw but audible.

“Yeah, no problem,” Pietro murmured, steadying the bottle for another sip. “Go slow.”

He stayed like that—knelt at the edge of the bed, one hand on the bottle, the other bracing Kurt’s shoulder until the bottle was nearly half gone. Then, wordless, he eased it away and set it back on the table.

Kurt sank against the pillow again, eyelids heavy, but still watching him. A soft breath slipped out of him, more exhale than sigh, and Pietro caught it like a cue.

“Alright, breakfast, Blue.”

He was gone, a rush of air and a creak from somewhere down the hall. Kurt blinked once and Pietro zipped back in, a bowl in hand, steam curling up from the surface in soft spirals.

“Cinnamon apple oatmeal,” Pietro announced, setting the bowl down like it was some grand prize. “Turns out, if you move fast enough, you can heat up anything.”

He offered a smile—gentler than usual—and helped Kurt sit up, careful hands bracing his back, shifting pillows until the angle was right. The bowl settled into Kurt’s lap, radiating warmth.

Kurt blinked down at it, then up at Pietro, and—barely—smiled. Just a faint pull at the corners of his mouth, like it took real effort to mean it.

“Danke,” he rasped, voice rough but clearer than before.

He picked up the spoon, blew carefully on the first bite, then slid it into his mouth with a slow chew, like even that small act needed caution.

Something in Pietro’s chest tugged, some stupid little itch that made him want to coo or pinch Kurt’s cheek or say something horribly sappy. He shrugged it off with a full-body shake like he was trying to dislodge the thought itself.

Nope. Not going there.

Instead, he stood up, moving to the dresser to dig out clean clothes, tossing a shirt over his shoulder. Monday. Still a school day. And now that breakfast was handled, he just had to make sure Kurt was set up to survive until lunch.

But first—he had to check the damage.

“Alright,” he said quietly, crouching again by the side of the bed. “Gonna see how bad it is, yeah? Just your arms first.”

Kurt nodded, slow and wary, still holding the spoon. His hand trembled faintly, but he didn’t argue.

Pietro reached out and gently took Kurt’s forearm, fingers brushing aside the soft, short fur. He parted it enough to see the skin underneath—lighter blue than the rest—but what met his eyes made his stomach twist. The bruising bloomed in uneven patches of deep purple and angry violet, the kind that looked like they’d ache for days. They mottled the underside of Kurt’s arm and crept around the sides in branching shadows. It didn’t look good—worse, Pietro realized, because it was probably worse everywhere else he couldn’t see. The fuzz was hiding half the damage.

Kurt flinched slightly when Pietro’s grip unintentionally tightened.

Pietro dropped his hand fast, guilt flashing across his face. “Shit—sorry. My bad.”

Kurt didn’t answer at first. Just looked down, quiet, breath shallow like even the air felt heavy today. Pietro stood up, brushing his palms on his pants and scanning the room like it might magically produce a med kit.

“Okay,” he said briskly, masking the tension behind forced cheer. “I’m gonna grab you an ice pack for, well, your everything, and some ibuprofen. That’ll hopefully dull the worst of it. We don’t exactly have a doctor’s office at the Brotherhood.”

He flashed a quick smile, hoping to lighten the mood—but to his surprise, Kurt actually smiled first. Just a tiny one. The edge of his mouth pulled up, faint and crooked.

“I’m okay. Really,” Kurt said, voice scratchy but earnest.

Pietro stopped dead, eyebrows shooting up. He turned slowly, like Kurt had just announced he was going for a jog.

“You are so not okay, Blue.”

Kurt blinked at him, confused but amused.

Pietro crossed his arms. “You’re on bed rest until I say otherwise. That’s right—I’m the doctor now.”

He arched a brow, lips twitching with mock seriousness. “Dr. Maximoff, at your service. My qualifications include, uh—being faster than the pain meds I’m about to steal from Toad’s sock drawer.”

Kurt let out a quiet, raspy laugh—and that felt like a small victory.

“Now eat your oatmeal, patient,” Pietro added, already zipping off to fetch the ice and pills. “Doctor’s orders.”

By the time Pietro returned, Kurt had cocooned himself in the blue fleece blanket. The oatmeal bowl was balanced carefully in his lap, half-eaten, and his golden eyes were locked on the TV across the room—some rerun sitcom with exaggerated laugh tracks and bright colors that didn’t quite match the tension curling in his shoulders.

“Alright, meds and ice,” Pietro announced, keeping his voice light as he crossed the room. He passed Kurt a water bottle in one hand and dropped the two ibuprofen into the other. Kurt popped the pills into his mouth without question, swallowing them with a tilt of the bottle. As he drank, Pietro crouched beside the bed and slid the gel ice pack carefully against the curve of Kurt’s lower back.

“That should help,” he murmured, adjusting it gently. “Figured your back probably got the worst of it.” Kurt winced, but nodded, shifting against the cold. “Ja. It sucked,” he muttered, sticking out his tongue.

Pietro snorted. “That is the most passive response to being crushed by three people, Blue. Where’s the fire? Come on, call someone an asshole or something.”

Kurt gave a soft huff of a laugh, but shook his head, eyes fixed somewhere far away.

“No,” he said. “They were just doing what they thought was best, Pietro. I can’t blame them.”

Pietro’s smirk faltered.

Kurt stirred his oatmeal absently, voice growing quieter. “I was dangerous. They had to stop me.”

Pietro sat down beside him on the edge of the bed, still and sharp. “No you weren’t, Blue,” he said firmly. “You were reacting.”

Kurt’s shoulders hunched. “No, Pietro, I—” His voice wavered. “I tried to bite him.”

He looked up, eyes wet and haunted. “I don’t know why. But as soon as he touched me, my brain just—snapped. It told me I had to get rid of the threat. That was it.”

Pietro’s throat tightened.

“Lance?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Kurt nodded. “The tall one with messy brown hair. He wasn’t trying to hurt me, Pietro. He was trying to stop me. And I—”

His voice broke.

“I didn’t even feel human. I felt like something else. Like I wasn’t me.”

Pietro exhaled slowly, biting down hard on the flood of things he wanted to scream. At Hydra. At Mystique. At whatever bastard had turned this soft, careful boy into someone who questioned if he was even a person anymore.

“You are you, Blue,” he said softly. “They didn’t take that from you. Not permanently. You’re still in there.”

Pietro’s hand stayed warm and steady over Kurt’s, his grip just tight enough to anchor without pressing. The quiet between them hung heavy for a moment, laced with all the things Kurt wasn’t saying yet—things Pietro was starting to learn to wait for.

Kurt sank further into the blankets, head tipping back against the headboard as he wrapped himself tighter like he could ward off the words he didn’t want to feel. “I didn’t feel real when it was happening,” he said again, softer this time. “It was like—I was watching from the outside. Like my body was moving, biting, growling—but I wasn’t in it. Just… stuck. Outside. Screaming at it to stop.”

His voice went quieter. “And they knew my name, Pietro. They were talking to me —and I couldn’t even say anything. Couldn’t make it stop. Not until it all collapsed and I couldn’t breathe anymore.”

Pietro’s jaw locked, fury simmering low behind his ribs. “That’s when they should’ve stopped, Blue,” he said, voice tight. “Right fucking there. When you started breaking. That’s all it should’ve taken.”

He shifted closer, voice softening. “And honestly? They shouldn’t have been in my room to begin with. None of this would’ve happened if they just kept their noses out of shit that wasn’t theirs. This mess? Its not on you.”

Kurt huffed, looking down at his lap. “I’m not trying to hide from them. It’s just… easier. When it’s just us.” His fingers twitched in Pietro’s grip. “I don’t want them thinking I’m broken. But after last night?” His mouth twisted. “They’re gonna treat me differently. Like I’m dangerous. Like I’m some animal.”

Pietro flinched at the word.

“Don’t—” he snapped, then caught himself, exhaling slowly. “Don’t say that, okay?”

He turned more fully toward Kurt, meeting his gaze head-on, steady and unflinching.

“You’re not an animal. You’re not broken. And I’m not gonna sit here and let you tear yourself down like this, Blue.”

His voice dropped, fierce and low.

“You’re a person. You’ve got thoughts, feelings, a shit-ton of trauma—but that doesn’t make you any less. It makes you you. And those idiots?” He jerked his head toward the hallway. “I don’t give a damn what they think. You shouldn’t either.”

Pietro squeezed his hand once.

“I’ll make sure they behave. They’ll treat you right. Or I swear, I’ll make their lives hell.”

Kurt’s eyes flicked up, the barest hint of a smile ghosting at the edge of his mouth. He licked his lips, then asked softly, “Does this mean I have to talk to them soon? Because... I want to apologize to Lance.”

Pietro frowned instantly. “You’re not apologizing to that asshole. He’s fine.”

Kurt squeezed his hand—gently, but firm enough to get his attention. His gaze didn’t waver.

“I do,” he said quietly. “He could’ve gotten really hurt. If he’d slipped—he could’ve died, Pietro. I can’t live with that on my conscience. Human life is... it’s precious.”

Pietro opened his mouth to argue, but the words didn’t come. Instead, his brain flicked unbidden to Mystique’s report—to the way her voice had lowered when she told him what happened the first time Kurt broke containment. Fourteen human lives. Gone. An entire Hydra facility leveled.

And here Kurt was, shoulders hunched under blankets, guilt-wracked and hurting over the possibility that Lance could’ve slipped. That he might have fallen.

It made Pietro sick. This soft, scared boy had no idea what his body had been forced to do.

“Yeah,” Pietro said finally, voice softer than before. He let go of the argument and instead let his fingers trace absent patterns across the back of Kurt’s hand. “Okay. You don’t have to talk to him now. Let’s wait until you’re feeling better. Then we’ll talk to Lance so you can apologize.”

Kurt nodded, eyes warm and grateful. “Danke,” he murmured with a smile that made something sharp twist in Pietro’s chest. He looked down—because looking at Kurt too long like that made it worse. Focused instead on their hands. That’s when he noticed it.

“Are your nails... growing?” he asked, brow furrowing.

Kurt followed his gaze. Looked at his own fingers—and frowned a little.

“I noticed that when I first got out,” he said slowly. “They look clipped. Like... like someone cut down my claws.”

“Claws?” Pietro echoed, blinking.

Kurt nodded. “Yeah. I remember them being longer before. They’re usually sharper. But now they’re trimmed, like someone did it on purpose.”

He looked up again, expression unreadable. “I’m glad, though. If they hadn’t... I would’ve been much more lethal last night.”

Pietro didn’t know how to answer that. How do you tell someone who’s worried about a bruised ego and some almost-biting that they’d once leveled an entire army? That their claws weren’t the real danger?

You don’t.

So he didn’t.

He swallowed it, shoved it down somewhere deep where it couldn’t reach Kurt, where it couldn’t ruin the soft quiet of this moment. If Pietro could help it, Kurt would never know. Not about the bodies. Not about what they’d turned him into. Not while he still looked at Pietro like that—like he was something safe.

Instead, Pietro held Kurt’s hand tighter, fingers curling firm around his. “I think they make you more special,” he said softly. “Claws are cool. You shouldn’t be happy they took that away from you.”

Kurt tilted his head slightly, a small, grateful smile breaking across his face. “You are too kind, you know?”

That made Pietro snort. “Yeah, because I’m just world-renowned for my kindness.”

Kurt laughed, a quiet huff that barely shook his shoulders.

Pietro’s phone dinged in his pocket, a sharp chime that broke the moment. Pietro sighed, already annoyed before even checking. “Ugh, okay—well, I’m off to school, Blue.”

He stood, brushing imaginary lint off his jeans, but his tone softened again as he looked back at Kurt, still curled in the blanket with oatmeal half-eaten and the icepack tucked against his back.

“I’ll be back for lunch, okay? Just… try not to overexert yourself while I’m gone.”

Kurt gave a sleepy nod, already sinking deeper into the pillows again. “Ja, I’ll be careful.”

Pietro hesitated at the door, gaze lingering like he didn’t trust the room not to swallow Kurt the second he stepped out. Then he pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at Kurt. “Rest. Or I’m dragging your fuzzy ass back into that bed myself.”

Kurt huffed a tiny laugh. “Understood.”

With one last glance, Pietro was gone.

—--------

Kitty was just stepping out into the hallway, sweater sleeves pushed up to her elbows and a half-eaten granola bar clutched in one hand, when she caught sight of Rogue. The older girl shuffled out of her room like a ghost, moving slow and stiff like every muscle had rusted overnight.

Kitty almost said hi—almost—but Rogue’s eyes didn’t meet hers. Didn’t even flick in her direction. She muttered something low under her breath as she passed, voice gravel-thick with sleep and something heavier. Kitty turned her head, listening without meaning to.

And heard it.

Kurt.

The name was barely audible, caught in the hazy fog of Rogue’s breath as she veered into the bathroom, door clicking softly shut behind her. Kitty stood frozen for a beat, heart stuttering in her chest.

She said his name.

It shouldn’t have felt like a miracle. But it did.

For hours now, no one had said it. Not really. Not out loud. Not since Logan had stormed in dragging that Hydra creep behind him.

Kitty blinked fast, pushing the back of her hand to her nose like that would stop the pressure blooming behind her eyes. She wasn’t going to cry. Not in the hallway. Not over this.

She turned and walked, granola bar forgotten in her hand. The hall felt colder now, like Rogue’s voice had carved something open in it. Was she dreaming about him? Maybe. That would make sense, right? It had to mean something. 

She wanted to believe that. Desperately.

The silence around Kurt had been eating her alive—because he wasn’t just gone, he was missing in a way that felt personal. Like the world was deliberately erasing him, one day at a time. Like if no one said his name, he’d stop existing altogether.

Downstairs, Scott was already waiting near the front entrance with Jean. He looked like he hadn’t slept, but then again, none of them had. Not properly. He greeted Kitty with a tired smile—one of those leader-smiles, pulled tight and practiced—and she gave him one back that felt just as fake.

On the way to the car, she told him quietly what she’d heard.

Scott stopped in his tracks for a second. Then just nodded, jaw tensing slightly as he glanced back toward the mansion like he could somehow see straight through the walls and into Rogue’s mind. “We should check in on her,” he said finally.

“Yeah,” Kitty agreed. “Just… if anything feels off.”

Neither of them said what felt off already. They didn’t have to.

Instead, she climbed into the passenger seat of his convertible, pulled her knees up under her, and watched the world pass by.

Bayville blurred outside the window. Green lawns too perfect, morning joggers too oblivious, the sky too blue for how wrong everything felt inside her skin. It made her stomach twist. Everything looked normal.

The wind pulled at her hair, cold against her cheek. She liked it, though. It gave her something to feel. Something that wasn’t the hollow ache that lived behind her ribs now—where Kurt’s laughter used to echo, where his warmth used to settle whenever he popped into her room just to sit, to talk, to be there.

When they got to the school, Kitty wandered through the bright corridors looking for Lance. She spotted him by his locker, his messy brown hair tumbling over his tense shoulders as he rummaged inside. Next to him, Toad leaned with casual insolence, the two of them bickering low enough Kitty couldn’t catch the words. When Toad hopped off and drifted away as she approached, she simply slipped into Lance’s space without asking.

He let out a quick breath, snapping the locker closed and turning to her with a practiced smile. “Hey,” he said, voice clipped. The tension in his shoulders was sharp, a held-back storm—something Kitty felt in her chest before she heard it.

“Morning,” she said quietly. “How are you?”

Lance gave her a stiff shrug. “Fine,” he managed, but the curve of his jaw and the tight pull of his lips told her otherwise. She didn’t press him. She wasn’t sure she could make him talk if he didn’t want to—and she didn’t have the energy to break him down today.

Lance tried to focus—on her voice, on the rhythm of her steps beside his, on anything other than the tangled mess in his head. But Todd’s voice kept echoing like static stuck in his ear.

"I’m just saying, man, how the hell are you hiding this from her?"

And the worst part? Todd wasn’t wrong.

Lance clenched his jaw, staring straight ahead like the lockers would offer him a way out. He’d been walking around with this pit in his chest since last night—since Kurt had looked at him like a wild animal.

Now he was walking Kitty to class like he hadn’t almost been dropped by her best friend twelve hours ago.

They hadn’t talked about it. Not really. Kitty had barely mentioned Kurt, and when she did, it was careful. Lance didn’t know what to do with that. He didn’t know how to gauge how she felt, how deep the hurt went, or if telling her what happened would only tear something open neither of them could patch.

He glanced at her now, watching how she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled like the world hadn’t twisted sideways.

Lance swallowed hard.

What the hell was he supposed to say?

Pietro had made it crystal clear—they couldn’t say a damn word to the X-Men. No one outside the Brotherhood could know. And Lance wasn’t about to mess with Mystique’s plans. No fucking way. That woman had a long memory and no tolerance for traitors. He wasn’t suicidal.

Which meant… he couldn’t tell Kitty.

But Kitty hadn’t said anything either. Nothing more than a passing mention that Kurt “wasn’t gonna be in school.” And Lance—idiot that he was—had believed that. Or maybe he’d just wanted to. When Todd started making noise, acting like it was some massive conspiracy, Lance figured he was overreacting. Again.

Only now it all clicked.

Kurt wasn’t just skipping school. He was gone. Missing. And the X-Men? They were covering it up while they scrambled to track him down. Meanwhile, the guy they were losing their minds over was curled up under a fleece blanket in Pietro’s damn bed.

And somehow he was the one stuck in the middle of this mess. The hell kind of logic was that?

Why was he the one who had to lie to Kitty? Why was it his job to pretend like her best friend wasn’t unraveling two miles away?

The weight of it pressed down like wet cement in his gut.

Kitty gave him a soft wave as they reached her class—warm, like she didn’t feel the cracks starting to spiderweb through everything.

Lance forced a smile and lifted his hand in return. Then turned and walked away, feeling like a coward with every step. 

The hallway was too bright. Too normal . It made his skin itch.

He passed Freddy near the vending machines. The big guy lit up the second he spotted him, all easy grins and no idea. “Yo, Lance! You see everyone this morning? What’s with the energy—like, everyone’s got a stick up their ass or somethin’.”

Lance just grunted. Shrugged like it wasn’t his problem. “Dunno. Guess it’s just Monday.”

Freddy blinked, then shrugged too, grabbing his bag of chips. “Weird. Even Todd’s all twitchy. Thought he was just high, but… man, somethin’s off.”

Lance didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because yeah—something was off. Everything was. And Freddy didn’t know.  Lance wasn’t going to be the one to drag him into it. Not when he could barely keep his own head above water.

—----

“Lunch delivery for the world's most dramatic patient,” Pietro announced, already grinning.

Kurt perked up from his spot on the bed, still wrapped burrito-tight in the blue fleece blanket. His face lit up when he caught the scent. “Was ist das?”

Pietro set the steaming bowl down on the nightstand with mock ceremony. “Homemade mac and cheese. Triple cheese, actually. Because you—” he pointed at Kurt, “—keep drooling every time I make pasta, so I figured I’d introduce you to this American classic.”

Kurt took the bowl eagerly, spoon already in hand. One bite in and his eyes fluttered closed in delight. “Mmm… this is so good.” He paused, then added thoughtfully, “Germany has something like this. Käse Spätzle. But it’s usually baked, and the cheese is different.”

Pietro scoffed playfully, flopping onto the bed beside him, legs crossed and arms behind his head. “Okay, yeah, cool, but you’re eatin’ my mac and cheese right now, so clearly this wins. Mine’s got three cheeses. Count ‘em. Three. So suck that, Germany.”

Kurt laughed again, softer this time but still genuine, and Pietro grinned at the sound—there was something about it that made the whole room feel a little less heavy.

“How’s your pain?” Pietro asked, eyeing the way Kurt cradled the bowl.

“Mmm, not bad,” Kurt replied between bites, “but I also haven’t moved other than to go to the bathroom, so it only really hurt then.”

“Yeah, bed rest is still in order, mister,” Pietro said, half-mocking in his stern tone as he wagged a finger. Kurt stuck his tongue out in return, and Pietro just snorted and handed him the little packet of ibuprofen with a water bottle. Kurt took it obediently, the corners of his mouth quirking into a small smile.

Kurt looked at him over the rim of the bottle. “Where’s your food?”

Pietro blinked. “Oh. Right.”

Kurt rolled his eyes, his tone teasing. “You need to stop forgetting to grab your own food. I’m not the only person here.”

Pietro huffed, already zipping to his feet. “Yeah, yeah, I’m goin’. Nag me more, why don’t you.”

He disappeared down the stairs and reappeared seconds later with his own bowl in hand, plopping back onto the bed with a dramatic sigh.

“Wow. Happy now, Mom ?” he quipped, digging into his own lunch

“Yes,” Kurt said simply, and his smile was so genuine that Pietro actually stopped for a second, spoon halfway to his mouth. Then he cleared his throat, flicked his eyes to the TV, and kept eating like nothing had happened.

“You still watching this crap?” Pietro asked, gesturing at the screen with his fork. “I don’t get what it is with you and sitcoms.”

Kurt smiled at the TV. “I like that they’re funny, ja. Who doesn’t like to laugh?”

Pietro rolled his eyes with a huff. “You’re such a character, dude.”

But he didn’t change the channel. He sat there and watched, offering the occasional sarcastic comment, and by the time the bowls were scraped clean, both of them had relaxed into the rhythm of it.

Pietro stacked their bowls on the nightstand and leaned back into the pillows beside Kurt. They kept watching, the laugh track buzzing faintly from the screen, and then—quietly, naturally—Kurt slumped into Pietro’s side with a soft sigh.

Pietro snorted. “Getting real cozy, huh, Blue?”

Kurt just gave a shrug, keeping his head where it was. He didn’t answer because his heart was hammering too loud in his ears, and if he said anything, he was afraid it’d give him away. Pietro hadn’t pushed him off. He’d let him stay.

So Kurt stayed—nestled close, fighting the smile that wanted to tug at his lips, hiding the heat in his cheeks, and trying very hard to play it cool.

When Pietro's phone dinged, he groaned and sat up, stretching his arms overhead until his spine popped. "Ugh, time for class," he muttered, already stepping off the bed.

Kurt let out an audible whine, long and pitiful, as he flopped more dramatically into the pillows. Pietro turned, one brow arched.

“Gonna miss me that much, Blue?” he teased, smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Kurt didn’t even try to deny it—just stuck out his bottom lip in the most theatrical pout he could manage. “It’s so boring when I’m by myself,” he said, his voice edging into solemn. “You at least make the walls feel less lonely.”

Pietro blinked, caught a little off guard, his smirk faltering for half a second.

Then Kurt hit him with it—full-on puppy eyes. Big golden gaze, ears tilted just so, like he’d practiced this exact look to weaponize it. Pietro stared at him, squinting, jaw flexing.

“Okay—fine,” he groaned, throwing his arms up as he grabbed his phone. “I’ll skip. Happy now?”

Kurt beamed like sunshine cracking through storm clouds, and Pietro hated how warm that made his chest feel. He didn’t say it, but when he kicked off his shoes and climbed back onto the bed, he might’ve settled just a little closer than before.

“So,” Pietro said casually, flicking a glance down at him. “Tell me—what were the grand plans if I’d left you?”

Kurt tilted his head onto Pietro’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world, his hair brushing soft under Pietro’s chin. “Hmmm… probably would’ve just watched more TV,” he mused, voice sleep-warm and soft. “Or gone to bed, honestly. There’s not a lot I can do when my doctor —” he said dramatically, leaning in more, the press of him now unmistakable “—has forcibly sentenced me to bed rest. ”

Pietro huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes but not moving away. “Oh no, how awful. The poor baby has to stay in a warm bed and be doted on. What a tragedy.”

Kurt snorted, the sound muffled as he buried his face briefly against Pietro’s shoulder in mock despair. “It is awful,” he said, voice half-laughing and half-dramatic groan. “I am being smothered under the oppressive weight of care and nurturing. It’s torture, really.”

Pietro chuckled, nudging him lightly. “You’re the worst patient I’ve ever had.”

“I’m your only patient,” Kurt pointed out, grinning now, his tail giving a little flick behind them.

“Exactly,” Pietro said with mock solemnity. “And you’re still a pain in the ass.”

Kurt grinned, the corner of his mouth twitching up like he couldn’t help himself. “Ja, but if you really hated me,” he said, voice light and teasing, “you wouldn’t be letting me take over your space.” He punctuated it by snuggling further into Pietro’s side, a content little hum slipping from his chest as his tail coiled loosely around Pietro’s arm.

Pietro huffed, rolling his eyes—but he didn’t pull away. “What’s got you so clingy today, huh?” he muttered, trying for casual, but the way his voice dipped gave it away.

Kurt gave a small shrug, chin brushing against Pietro’s shoulder. “You made me feel safe… when I did not even feel like myself.” His voice softened, quieter now, almost bashful. “It… it is nice knowing I can rely on you.”

Pietro didn’t know what to say to that. His brain kind of short-circuited—like every sarcastic comeback he might’ve thrown out got jammed in his throat by the way Kurt was looking at him.

That soft, hopeful expression. The way he ducked his head a little, ears twitching shyly but still watching Pietro like this moment mattered.

“…Yeah,” Pietro muttered, glancing away quickly. “Well. I’m good at shit like that, I guess.” He tried to sound casual, like it was no big deal. Like his heart wasn’t doing some kind of weird lurchy thing in his chest.

Kurt’s tail gave a gentle squeeze around his arm.

“Danke,” Kurt murmured.

Pietro looked back at him, just for a second, and then away again.

“Yeah, Blue,” he said softly. “Anytime.”