Title: White
Author: Aletheia nerdlove@tpg.com.au
Pairing: Scott/Logan
Rating: PG-13 for implied
Summary: Scott reflects.
Disclaimer: Characters property of Stan Lee, Marvel and
Fox. All this is just fiction, so move along. nothing to see here.
A/N: Written in 27 minutes, between classes at
university. First go at X-Men fic, but I don't expect anyone to go lightly on
me for that. ;)
-WHITE-
White. he was sure it was a colour he remembered, sure
that he could recall it to mind when he wanted to.
White. he was sure he remembered seeing the sunlight
reflecting off pure, virgin snow, so pale and so intense it was like looking
directly into the sun.
White. maybe that was the colour of his bed sheets -
crisp, clean, untouched white, as pure as the snow he remembered from before
his mutation manifested and equally as untouched.
White. was it the last colour that Jean had seen
before that wall of water crashed over her, sending her beyond his ken where
his love could not save her?
White.
Maybe he *didn't* remember it.
Maybe it was all a dream he once had, the dream of
colours that once existed where now everything was stained red. What he
possibly, maybe, faintly once knew as white was now pink, a pale, pale pink,
but stained by his mutation nonetheless. Everything he saw was in shades of
black and pink, dusky rose-greys and violent, crimson red.
But no white.
Never white.
What would it be like, he wondered, to look upon white
now, without having to fear that his gaze would destroy all that he looked
upon?
Did white even exist? Suddenly to think of something
so pale as not to contain a single glaze of pink, no single bloom of
discolouration seemed beyond him. Maybe he remembered white like a dream that
had never happened, like an experience he had never had the chance to have.
After all, how could he hold onto the memory of something so pure and not have
it stained by his own memories and experiences? Maybe white once was pure and
untouched, the palest tone imaginable, so beyond his comprehension that he
could not even describe it. Yet. maybe white was always this pale pink, maybe
white had *always* been snow sullied with blood. Maybe white was as much a
dream as being able to look into a reflection of his own eyes without a barrier
of ruby quartz between them and his own reflection.
White. was pain white? Was white the excruciating
agony of pain, ripping through his body and singing like a flaming siren's song
in his nerve endings?
White. was love white? Was the pure joy he experienced
when in he had been in Jean's presence, in her arms, in her body, white?
White. was lust white? Lust, that all-powerful,
all-consuming, and above all *driving* force that encompassed him when he drove
himself into Logan's body, the blinding pleasure of orgasm that exploded
through him with flash-fire intensity. Lust that made him human once more, lust
that made him *feel*, lust that seared at his uncaring heart until he *had* to
want and need again. Lust that melded him to the one man he knew he should
loathe with every shred of his soul, lust that made him turn to Logan like the
other man was a lifeline, lust that bled all the red out of his sight as Logan
in turn took him.
White.
He could not remember what it looked like, but he knew
with out a doubt that he felt it in every fibre of his being like it was a
physical presence, white manifesting as pain, as love, and above all, as lust.
White.
.Logan was white.
END