knives

Pietro had always enjoyed spending time in Lance's room.

His roommate had the most spacious room of the four and an unnecessarily large bed. He always had a poster on the wall of some band he'd never heard of or the latest scantily clad beauty of the season.

Sometimes, he liked to sneak into Lance's room. His friend pretended to be bothered by Pietro's presence, and Pietro pretended to dislike the very particular scent of Lance's sheets. It was silly, really, but he enjoyed sinking into his friend's mattress, really sinking in until he couldn't see the damp patches on the ceiling anymore.

It was something akin to a game of tug-of-war; there was no end, no defined rules, only blurred boundaries and a lingering scent of cigarettes and adolescence. A game where they always ended up losing yet were eternal winners. A game that never truly ended, only reinventing itself according to their hidden needs and desires.

There were few constants; the way the bed sagged under the combined weight of the mutants and seemed to creak like cracking bones whenever they got close to each other was one of them. Pietro could also remember how the sheets would fly off the sides and the door would stay closed. Most importantly, he always made it back to his room anyway.

Today is no different.

The weather at dusk is dry and icy, but Pietro had grown accustomed to the constant breeze that ran through the house. Saturday drags on everything too slow for someone who can surpass the speed of sound and the very rhythm of life. Instant gratification was worse than utter dissatisfaction; eating and being hungry again, drinking and instantly wanting more.

He rests his face on the pillow and sighs; it's ridiculous, almost like a grunt. His arm slips off the bed, and his fingertips carelessly caress the old wooden floor. He shifts, restless as always. The cheap bedspread is starting to itch.

He thinks about going to Lance's room. It's an almost irresistible idea, and he still doesn't quite figure out why. Maybe it's the result of his masochism and his teenage impertinence, his desire to irritate everything he touches. Maybe he's just a little more of an idiot than he thinks he really is.

Even as tempting as the thought was, the process of getting out of his own bed was slow, by a speedster's standards. He practically crawled like a kicked dog to the door. This was Lance's fault, in a way.

Alvers always stopped him, made him slow down. Pietro hated it. He hated having to go slow; it made his legs tremble with anxiety and forced him to think and question things he didn't want to. He hated it almost as much as it intoxicated him. The change of pace was overwhelming, different, and he craved it irrationally.

It was all about the satisfaction at the end of the day, a mental game, the tortuous coexistence his friend put him through. 'The greater the struggle, the greater the reward,' or that's the phrase Pietro remembers, but he still doesn't know what the struggle is or what his reward is, as if they were entangled with each other. That was just one of the factors that made their relationship so difficult to define.

Pietro was very aware of it. Lance played with him constantly, making him run in circles; letting him lie on his bed next to him, and then he felt like a fool. He still hadn't figured out the trick, or what his answer was supposed to be. Somehow, he felt he needed it; it was strange, almost abstract, and Pietro hated anything abstract.

Lance was playing with him, Pietro was very aware of it, he still doesn't find out if Lance was aware of it too.

He bites the inside of his cheek and looks down as he walks toward his friend's room. He swallows hard before bursting in, without knocking—he never does. Any papers or other light objects fly through the air as he passes, and the mattress springs creak when Pietro throws himself onto the bed with renewed energy.

There isn't even time for Lance to react and Pietro can't help but laugh when the other falls out of bed in surprise, although his laughter doesn't last long before Alvers pounces on him in a pathetic imitation of a strangulation.

"I swear, Maximoff, the next time you come into my damn room like that, I'm going to throw you out the window."

This is something Pietro can get used to; pretending to be in control is much easier than actually being in charge. He can annoy Lance all he wants, but at the end of the day, if his friend doesn't react, everything falls apart. Because Pietro is the one who needs this. He hopes Lance will never, ever figure out his one trick, if he hasn't already.

“I’d love to see you try it, Alvers.”

Lance pulls his hands away from Pietro, rolling his eyes. There's a little voice in Pietro's head saying he won this hand, but he can't quite believe it.

"Why do you always have to come to my room? Why never Todd's or Fred's room, why always me?"

Suddenly, any arrogant remark that might have come from Pietro's mouth vanishes. It's almost astonishing how much effort it takes him to answer the question. He presses his hands tightly against the sheets, and his reply comes out in a childlike, almost helpless tone.

"uhm, because it's easier to annoy you."

He knows how silly and unnatural it sounds, but luckily Alvers is merciful and lets it slide. However, Pietro finds it difficult to look at him for the next few seconds. He grabs the sheets and grips them tightly, until his knuckles turn white.

It wasn't long before he caught the pungent smell of cigarette smoke. He'd never really liked the smell; the thought of smoking had never even crossed his mind before he met Lance, and that made him feel a little foolish compared to his older friend. Lance had an aura of maturity that Pietro couldn't replicate, which was perhaps why he wasn't the leader of the group and Lance was.

He decides to take a look at Lance and he feels like he's seeing a living image of everything cool and rebellious. Lance doesn't even try, and that makes Pietro nauseous.

Lance grabs him, looks at him, and a smirk forms on his face .

“Are you ready to try it this time?”

Pietro can't help but frown.

“I told you I don’t know how to smoke”

That only widens his friend's smile, and Pietro is about to throw a tantrum, if only he could be the only arrogant one in the world.

“It’s smoking, not physical chemistry, 'Tro”

'tro'; The nickname makes him feel a tickle under his skin, it's a trained reaction, a Pavlovian response and Pietro takes the bait.

“Ugh, come on, give me that”

In the blink of an eye, he grabs the cigarette pack. They look cheap, faded, and a little squashed, and he feels something akin to uncertainty. He glances at the pack as he pulls one out with almost surgical precision, as if he's afraid of making a fool of himself in front of Lance. He probably looks like a rookie right now.

He glances at Alvers, at the way he holds the cigarette between his fingers. He takes a moment to observe his hands; his skin is only slightly darker than Pietro's, but he has small calluses visible. He immediately notices how large his hands are compared to his own.

His mind returns to the cigarette in his hand when he realizes he's been observing.

Lighting the cigarette should be easy, but he's so nervous he almost lights the orange part. He presses the lighter once, twice, thrice, but no flame comes out.

“Do you need—?”

“Shut up, Alvers!”

Pietro could kill Lance right now, he swears it on his life. He can't help feeling so foolish around him, shrinking at the slightest provocation.

A flame comes out of the lighter.

The crushed tobacco begins to burn.

“Next time, you have to put it in your mouth before lighting it.”

Lance takes a drag on his own cigarette, and Pietro imitates him, not only his technique but also his gestures, trying to reconstruct his aura of effortless arrogance in front of someone he wants to impress. He repeats to himself, "What does Alvers have that I don't?"

He protects his ego and doesn't think much more; Pietro never thought things through much until he met Lance.

He takes a drag; it's too slow for his liking, it feels like it lasts forever until the smoke reaches his mouth. He doesn't dislike the taste, and he's even grateful for that—one less bad taste in his mouth to get used to.

It's the smoke that's killing him, putting him on alert. The sensation feels alien and burns his tongue; he wants to cough, he wants to choke, and he wants Lance to hit him on the back so he doesn't suffocate.

Not burning the sheets is one of the many thoughts consuming him as he takes the cigarette from his mouth. He holds it between his index and middle fingers, resisting the urge to crush it in his hands. He feels overwhelmed, even though the tobacco should be relaxing him. He doesn't understand why Lance likes it so much, but there's a voice inside him telling him he has to.

The tip of the cigarette burns down and Pietro holds the smoke in his mouth. He stays like that for a few seconds. He swallows and instantly feels like an idiot.

As expected, he chokes on the smoke and starts coughing instantly. It's a dry cough; it burns his nose a little and his throat feels hot. He looks down; he doesn't want to see Lance, he can't; he's just let him down, as if he couldn't pass some rite of passage.

There's something inherently masculine about the way Lance just laughs, carefree. Under Lance's eyes, Pietro is stripped of his insolent image. For Pietro, it's much better to be looked at than to be observed.

“Fuck! So you were really bad.”

Pietro coughs a little more before speaking

"I told you so! I've told you a thousand times already!"

He wants to throw a tantrum, he wants to be the voice of reason, he wants to stop falling apart in front of an idiot like Lance.

He lifts his head and looks at Lance, who's still wearing his little smile. He’d prefer the angry Lance, or the Lance who's a bit of a goofball trying to do the right thing, anything but this.

Luckily, his friend is merciful to him, only a little.

“I can blow smoke into your mouth”

It's a dirty trick, it’s unfair, like everything they do in the Brotherhood. The bad guys play dirty, tripping you up and hitting you from behind. Pietro doesn't know why he's so taken aback by the question.

Pietro is foolish, he knows it, but he can recognize the aggressive symbiosis that binds them together like nails digging into skin. His feelings for Lance are sharp and tumultuous, but he doesn't yet know what they taste like, though they're as ugly to swallow as smoke. Pietro is aware of this, and it seems Lance is too.

He becomes an accomplice when he goes along with Lance's plan.

"how?"

Lance's hand takes Pietro's cigarette and stubs it out in his old ashtray. He takes a drag of his own like a professional, his chest expanding and ash forming at the other end.

Anticipation is killing Pietro, like a wild animal watching a wolf preparing to devour it alive. His eyes are wide open, and he breathes through his open mouth. He is agitated.

He doesn't have a moment to react before Lance grabs his cheeks and presses his mouth against his. He places his hands on Lance's shoulders, searching for a stability that was never there, he squeezes and it feels warm.

It's a soft kiss, and Pietro's chest tense. It's as if Lance cares so much that he's enjoying it, as if he's giving without expecting anything in return. It's something new, he likes it, and yet, the inevitable end of it makes him anxious.

It is Lance's hands that guide Pietro, draw him closer, and relax him. They are the hands of a leader, and that is all Pietro needs: that firmness and constancy he never had, or at least the illusion of it. If his friend wanted, Pietro believes he would let Lance pull his hair and bite him right now.

He doesn't even taste the cigarette; he's too focused on memorizing the taste and feel of Lance's lips, afraid that this first time might be the last. Lance's lips are slightly chapped, tasting of salty skin with a spicy, masculine undertone he can't quite place.

The smoke reaches their noses and surrounds them like a cloud of bad decisions that fade into the background amidst the touch and the small, damp sounds and sighs. Only a tiny bit of the smoke ends up in Pietro's mouth, a mere excuse for Lance's glorified teenage desire.

Pietro is surprised when their lips don't stay apart for long; Lance pulls him back in and their kisses become quick, but never clumsy.

Their game continues, the rules lost once more. They can't tell where one's mouth begins and the other's ends. The bed creaks beneath their shared weight.

Pietro returns to his room at nightfall, and everything goes back to normal.