OUR LIFETIME || PIETRO MAXIMOFF
"i've lived enough lifetimes to know that i was meant for this one. i was meant for a life with you."
metamorphic: book 1
(summary inside)
avengers aou - ????
pietro...
IF YOU ASKED PIETRO MAXIMOFF what the worst thing to ever happen to him was, he wouldn't be able to come up with an answer, and somehow that was worse than having one.
When they'd followed Thanos to a distant planet and found him without the stones, three weeks had passed since he'd snapped away half of the universe. Pietro didn't want to travel there, and the only thing that had pulled him from his bedroom had been the prospect of finding Savannah there, but she hadn't been.
"She's dead. When the soul stone became nothing, she too-" But Pietro had stopped listening by then. He'd learned long ago that vengeance was a wasted emotion and it would be especially wasted on someone who was on the verge of death anyway- a problem that had been solved when he glimpsed Thor severing the purple being's head. And the very talkative racoon, Rocket, his friend Nebula, and the remaining Avengers were practically speechless as they boarded the ship.
The thing was, though, that Pietro hadn't believed Thanos, at least not about Savannah.
Savannah wasn't dead, and saying that wasn't him settling into the first stage of grief. It was him knowing the truth and knowing that if she was dead, deep down he would know.
He knew, though, that she may not have been dead, but she wasn't here and that was a tragedy in itself. There was also no saving his sister or his friends, and that too was a tragedy.
Someone tapped his shoulder, halting his thoughts. It was Natasha. Pietro took note of her reddening shoulder length hair. She didn't seem to care enough to get rid of the remaining blonde strands or return the new strands to blonde. He also noted the dark circles beneath her eyes, which were probably a mirror of his.
He hummed in question, his barely eaten food coming back into view. "Eat it kid." He scooped some of the noodles onto his fork and shoved it into his mouth. Pietro forced a smile, but he knew it was pointless to do so with Natasha. "Don't give me that look."
"Would you rather me burst into tears every chance I get?" His words came out slow, but agitated.
The woman pretended to think. "It would be better than you just sitting there and staring off into space all day."
He scoffed. "What do you want from me, Natasha?"
"For you to get out of this damned compound," she replied simply. "It doesn't help for you to be in the place you fell in love with her 24/7. I think you should take Tony up on his offer—"
"No."
"Is it because you can't forgive him?" Her words weren't judging, only curious.
"No." It wasn't about forgiving Stark, which Pietro had worked toward for a long time before actually doing so. It was more about having to move on.
"Nobody is telling you to move on," the woman said, leaning on the kitchen counter. Pietro hadn't realized he'd said that out loud.
"Maybe not from Savannah," he murmured. She too had believed that there was a chance Savannah was still alive. "But surely from Wanda." He set his fork down on the counter and shoved his hands into his shaggy hair. He felt his throat tighten. "And I keep thinking that this is only a nightmare and tomorrow I'll wake up in some hotel in London, and Savannah will be right next to me laughing at a silly cartoon, and my sister will be only one call away if I need her."
"Pietro—"
"But there is no waking up from this, is there?" He interrupted her. He pushed himself to his feet. "Savannah is God knows where, and Wanda is..." He trailed off, unable to say the words, and uncertain what the right words were in the first place. It didn't feel right to say Wanda was dead. Erased, maybe.
Pietro began to walk toward the door that led outside.
"Where are you going?" Natasha called to his back.
His voice was tired when he replied. "For a run."
"It's almost ten o'clock—" But Pietro had stopped listening.
He wasn't wearing the right shoes, and he hadn't stretched, but he didn't care. He just ran.
The wind felt cold against his face. It was too crisp for his nose and that reminded him of home, but he wasn't sure that was a good thing.
It had been almost a year since Thanos had plucked apart everyone's lives and destroyed the stones—a year since Pietro had watched Thanos's head roll around the floor of the his hut—a year since he'd felt anything at all.
So maybe he was in denial.
Denial was a safe place for his hope to bloom and prosper.
Denial was keeping him alive.
And with that thought Pietro stumbled out of his run, catching himself before he could fall. He was breathing too hard, and it had nothing to do with the exertion.
Pietro hadn't realized that there were tears in his eyes, and he'd wiped at them in anger.
He hated crying, and he hadn't done it since his parents died. He was weak then, and he'd promised himself that he would never be again.
That was a hard promise to keep in a universe that made a point of breeding his weaknesses.
The lone Maximoff twin wiped at his cheeks until his hands came back dry, and he could finally breathe again. He felt sick. He was glad there was no one there to see him, the empty compound an awful place until now.
He sat down on the soft grass and ignored the now thinned soles of his shoes.
Running was supposed to be that single moment he was most in control, but if Pietro Maximoff kept running, he would lose any semblance of control he had left. His body yearned to descend into those seconds where time meant next to nothing to him, but he just couldn't.
His thoughts were too loud, and his problems would take too much effort to outrun, and even then, he wasn't sure he could.
Thinking about it all made his chest ache, and Pietro was tired of hurting.
So, so tired.
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