Okay maybe I have a problem
Title: When you have nothing left to burn
Fandom: Marvel (X-Factor)
Pairing: Rictor/Shatterstar
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This is how they celebrate on Mojoworld.
Warnings: COMPOUND-WORDS. Oh God, so many compound words. Weird Mojoworld turns of phrase.
When Shatterstar saw his first bonfire-dance, he’d only been out of the pens for a month and he wasn’t ready. He sat silently while his older tent-mates painted elaborate swirls onto their necks and hands and faces-some of them had men or women come in and paint it for them, in beautiful shades of green and blue and red and purple and gold. He never knew where the paints came from, or where they went afterwards, when the whole tent-unit was packed up on their shoulders. He didn’t understand why they would carry these pots of paints, when their loads were heavy and their days were long. He didn’t understand the bangles they carved out of wood, or the anklets and neck-bands they sewed out of cloth. But he watched them, in their long, flowing skirts, the women with their chest-wrappings loosened, feet bare and unready for combat, as they danced to the drums and the battle-song. It reminded him of the dancers and made his stomach twist, it wasn’t until later that he learned about things like reclaiming and celebration and being alive.
There are others like him, fresh from the pens, who did not know how to stand and dance with the others. They sit on the bench-logs, drinking a little of the juice and eating a little of the bonfire-feast. They look at each other, sometimes, guiltily. They dress for combat, their hair neatly braided out of the way. They hold their swords in their laps, so that they may defend themselves more readily in the face of ambush. Their faces are bare. They wear no jewelry. They do not talk, or laugh, and they do not dance. There are many of them.
Sometimes, the ones who have never seen the pens will take pity on them, or tease them, and attempt to engage them in conversation. Some of them will answer back, awkwardly. Shatterstar never does. This one, though, is small and dark, and something catches in Shatterstar’s throat at the sight of him.
“May I give you paint, fellow rebel?” the boy asks coyly.
Shatterstar nods.
“Hold this,” he says, and presses the small pot into Shatterstar’s hands.
He uses his fingers, deftly tracing gold patterns over Shatterstar’s fair skin. The catch in his throat moves to his chest, causing his heart to beat loudly and wildly. He tries to swallow. His fist clench, the pot of paint digging into the flat of his palm.
“Is something the matter?” asks the boy, innocently enough. It is much too close to his ear to be innocent.
“No, I-”Shatterstar stutters. He stands up abruptly, shoving the boy off of him. “I must leave.”
He turns to run, but not before catching the boy’s ally scolding him.
“You know better than to bother a sword-polisher,” he can hear her say. “Did you not see for yourself how new he is? Come, dance with us, and not that poor boy.”
He sprints back to the tent, heat flooding his face, still clutching the pot of paint. He slides and falls face-first onto his bed-wrappings, breathing in deeply to try and calm himself.
“Rest yourself, young one,” says a gentle female voice. He jerks his head up. There is an old woman sitting there, sprawled out next to his tent-mate Rainfall. She has a sheet of bed-wrapping tucked around her like a shawl, for warmth. She smiles at him, gently. “You will find him.”
“Who will I find?” he asks, noticing for the first time that the brand around her eye matches his own. Her eye glows softly.
“The one who will make you want to dance.”
“There is no one,” mutters Shatterstar, more to himself than anyone, but she just smiles at him again and she doesn’t say anything.
--
He kept the little pot in his belt-pocket, and it traveled with him to Earth and to X-Factor. He still isn’t sure why. He notices it now, on his sparsely decorated desk, wondering what he could possibly wear to a club, and if he ever saw anything that could help him on television. He wants to paint his hands and neck and shoulder and shake his hair free, to whirl around a bonfire with Julio in his arms. And it hits him, suddenly, that he will never do these things, that Julio may take him dancing and even to Mexico someday, but that he may never offer what he has to give. And he knows, sadly, that his world was scarcely one of feast-nights and bonfire-dances, with months and months and months passing between them. And Julio, who has fought many battles, but never a war, whose place is in the dry heat of the desert and the roar of the city, who cannot help but tie himself to this earth, this planet, may not last a full week in the swamps of another world. So he sighs, and turns his head back to the closet, and away from the fire.
But tonight, he will dance.
Fandom: Marvel (X-Factor)
Pairing: Rictor/Shatterstar
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This is how they celebrate on Mojoworld.
Warnings: COMPOUND-WORDS. Oh God, so many compound words. Weird Mojoworld turns of phrase.
When Shatterstar saw his first bonfire-dance, he’d only been out of the pens for a month and he wasn’t ready. He sat silently while his older tent-mates painted elaborate swirls onto their necks and hands and faces-some of them had men or women come in and paint it for them, in beautiful shades of green and blue and red and purple and gold. He never knew where the paints came from, or where they went afterwards, when the whole tent-unit was packed up on their shoulders. He didn’t understand why they would carry these pots of paints, when their loads were heavy and their days were long. He didn’t understand the bangles they carved out of wood, or the anklets and neck-bands they sewed out of cloth. But he watched them, in their long, flowing skirts, the women with their chest-wrappings loosened, feet bare and unready for combat, as they danced to the drums and the battle-song. It reminded him of the dancers and made his stomach twist, it wasn’t until later that he learned about things like reclaiming and celebration and being alive.
There are others like him, fresh from the pens, who did not know how to stand and dance with the others. They sit on the bench-logs, drinking a little of the juice and eating a little of the bonfire-feast. They look at each other, sometimes, guiltily. They dress for combat, their hair neatly braided out of the way. They hold their swords in their laps, so that they may defend themselves more readily in the face of ambush. Their faces are bare. They wear no jewelry. They do not talk, or laugh, and they do not dance. There are many of them.
Sometimes, the ones who have never seen the pens will take pity on them, or tease them, and attempt to engage them in conversation. Some of them will answer back, awkwardly. Shatterstar never does. This one, though, is small and dark, and something catches in Shatterstar’s throat at the sight of him.
“May I give you paint, fellow rebel?” the boy asks coyly.
Shatterstar nods.
“Hold this,” he says, and presses the small pot into Shatterstar’s hands.
He uses his fingers, deftly tracing gold patterns over Shatterstar’s fair skin. The catch in his throat moves to his chest, causing his heart to beat loudly and wildly. He tries to swallow. His fist clench, the pot of paint digging into the flat of his palm.
“Is something the matter?” asks the boy, innocently enough. It is much too close to his ear to be innocent.
“No, I-”Shatterstar stutters. He stands up abruptly, shoving the boy off of him. “I must leave.”
He turns to run, but not before catching the boy’s ally scolding him.
“You know better than to bother a sword-polisher,” he can hear her say. “Did you not see for yourself how new he is? Come, dance with us, and not that poor boy.”
He sprints back to the tent, heat flooding his face, still clutching the pot of paint. He slides and falls face-first onto his bed-wrappings, breathing in deeply to try and calm himself.
“Rest yourself, young one,” says a gentle female voice. He jerks his head up. There is an old woman sitting there, sprawled out next to his tent-mate Rainfall. She has a sheet of bed-wrapping tucked around her like a shawl, for warmth. She smiles at him, gently. “You will find him.”
“Who will I find?” he asks, noticing for the first time that the brand around her eye matches his own. Her eye glows softly.
“The one who will make you want to dance.”
“There is no one,” mutters Shatterstar, more to himself than anyone, but she just smiles at him again and she doesn’t say anything.
--
He kept the little pot in his belt-pocket, and it traveled with him to Earth and to X-Factor. He still isn’t sure why. He notices it now, on his sparsely decorated desk, wondering what he could possibly wear to a club, and if he ever saw anything that could help him on television. He wants to paint his hands and neck and shoulder and shake his hair free, to whirl around a bonfire with Julio in his arms. And it hits him, suddenly, that he will never do these things, that Julio may take him dancing and even to Mexico someday, but that he may never offer what he has to give. And he knows, sadly, that his world was scarcely one of feast-nights and bonfire-dances, with months and months and months passing between them. And Julio, who has fought many battles, but never a war, whose place is in the dry heat of the desert and the roar of the city, who cannot help but tie himself to this earth, this planet, may not last a full week in the swamps of another world. So he sighs, and turns his head back to the closet, and away from the fire.
But tonight, he will dance.