#magnetance

     “ -- erik?”      it’s me.” 

     perhaps an unnecessary addition -- she is      using her own voice. but ever since janos      mistook her for an intruder and nearly atta-      cked as she was bringing in the groceries,      she has taken to dropping those little words      onto any announcement of her presence      when she is taking a new face for a spin. it’s      only me, it’s only raven, finding different ways      to hide. she pushes the door to his room further      open to allow herself entry, steps inside cauti-      ously. 

     it has been only weeks since cuba. she still feels      as though something in her has been amputated.      freedom is taking its time in setting in. 

    ❛i suppose a THANK YOU is in order. you never had to stick around, erik but you did.❜

hamilton: an american musical | accepting.

     he relaxes against her, his back pressed to      her chest, her arms coiled around his midriff      from behind, just above the jut of his hips. she      has one leg tucked underneath her, the other      outstretched beside his. the tension has not      left his body. it rarely ever does completely,      even in these soft moments, in the dim light      and the warm sheets.

     raven enjoys film. not too many people know      things like that about her – only those who      know her as raven, not mystique, and that      number dwindles every day. of the decades      she’s lived through, she’d argue the eighties      were the best for film. blade runner, ghost-     busters, the breakfast club. two star wars      movies - and decent ones, too. conan. no      one will remember if we were good men or      bad. all that.

     she keeps one arm around him, lifts the other      to trail her fingers loosely over his scalp, pulling      gently through his hair. it’s longer than he used      to keep it, when they were young. it’s going gray.      she’s been watching, like a time lapse, the color      fading from him. they’re getting old. or - he is, at      least. my darling, you haven’t aged a day since      ninteen eighty-five, he’d joked once, not too long      ago, and she’d smiled. she thinks she’d find it      funnier if she wasn’t so aware she’d still look      just as young and lovely as she put him in a casket. 

     no one will remember if we were good men or bad.      why we fought, or why we died. 

     forgiveness, he muses, and the sound comes paired      with a bittersweet taste. can you imagine? no longer      being condemned as terrorists on television, violent      extremists, the mutant menace. walking free on the      streets, the recognized saviors of their kind, messiahs      rather than iscariots. striding hand in hand through      the grand wooden doors of a home once hers, briefly      his, greeted with love and open arms by the only man      they both hold as high in their hearts as they hold each      other. sweet, yes. a fever dream.

     she hums, curls her body forward to rest her chin on      his shoulder.

     “we knew going into this no one would thank us.” 

     it’s not worth longing for. it’s selfish to expend the      energy there – it would be nice, to come to a gentle      end, but what she wants for herself and for him mat-     ters so little next to the millions of their people still      suffering. it isn’t about them. no one will remember      if we were good men or bad.

*wipes a single tear of approval*

     “god’s sake, erik, take the helmet off.”

     she barely lifts her eyes from her reading (a comic      book - sophisticated as always, raven) to make the      comment. she doesn’t need to look up to know the      approaching heavy tread heralds the great magneto,      master of magnetism, harrumphing about their little      makeshift base with a hunk of metal on his head. 

     angel thinks it’s a blessing in disguise. keeps away the fedoras.