( closed prompts )

[carmesi]

Who: Wanda and others
What: Eclipse, magical madness, quest
Where: Solvunn and Horizon
When: A bit after the eclipse, mid-March.
Warnings: Will include in top levels if necessary.

Comments

[piqure]

[ it happens in mere moments and yet feels like eternity, like this is where he's always been, raw and recent recollection ripped from the forefront of his psyche. no longer in his kitchen, with the red lunchbox and the smell of coffee and the morning light. his hand on aunt may's is slipping away and instead its dr osborn's wrists he's clawing at as his airways constrict and lock and he can't keep his vision from swimming.

he begs her to run, the crash of the building around them drowning out so much - concrete slabs and rebar and steel - falling and falling and may is gone from his vision and there's panic and fear ringing so bright — ] May — May ! — [ his voice breaks in his yell, the sort that rasps from a constricted throat and finishes in a fit of coughs.

the rubble closes in, knocks into him as he raises his arms over his head to keep the worst of it off, softened by the durability of his suit and he rises away from it on his hands and knees and he sounds so small — ] — no, nono —

[ the words, senseless as they are, wither in his throat when his eyes lock on the two children, hidden and barely safe under the bed. his head reels, hurts behind his eyes and he needs to find his aunt but oh my god there's kids and he's not thinking twice, crouching by the bed with hands outstretched in front of him, placating and covered in the smoke-grey fallout. ] Hey — hey it's okay. It's alright. Come on — [ edges closer, arm leaning against a fallen wall as he reaches out the other towards them. ] — please, I'll get you out of here, okay?

[ he takes his eyes off of them, for a short moment, roving around the chaos he recognizes and doesn't. his senses are frazzled now, burning with awareness, nostrils flaring and a quiet sort of anger rising like bile in his throat. no green goblin in sight. no aunt may. he needs to find her, but he needs to get these kids to safety too. hurry, hurry.

(where was he? there weren't any kids before. it wasn't so cold before. before when?) ]

[carmesi]

[it's so much grief—so new, so raw. this is like when she had first lost her parents, when she had lost pietro and these feelings manifested anew; a part of her lost forever, never to find the pieces to be put together again. it's like when she couldn't feel vision anymore, and all she could remember was the way he said stay, because it worked—god—it worked.

wanda needs to find her footing, level her magic back into soundness, but she finds herself under the bed that served as a roof for her brother and her, for days, while they waited for the bomb carved in their home to go off. much like peter, her thoughts are now frazzled; she connected too closely to his thoughts to the point they've weaved with her own.

it's a shared nightmare, now, and she stares at him, with the eyes of a child, unable to speak anything but sokovian.]

We can't.

[she echoes herself at the age of 10, in an unknown language, and it's when peter turns away that wanda takes a deep breath, conjures her magic, and forces a new variable to take place, all in the same moment that she chokes back a sob. there's static in the air, the children are gone, but in arrives a specter into the picture: a man with bleached hair, sportswear, and an accent in his words.]

Hey, man, what are you doing here?

[pietro—the ghost of him—directs himself to peter (and it hurts wanda so, to use her brother as a shield, a visage, the last bits of memories to put together an image of who he used to be), looking unfazed by the situation at hand. it's like he's in a different location altogether.]

Can you get out, or do you need help?

[piqure]

[ peter takes his eyes away from them for a moment; it feels like a moment, a girl’s answer small and scared in a language he can’t understand.

every part of him of screams that something is terribly wrong, frayed nerves and burning breaths as he tries to keep his inhales steady, through his nose, jaw tight. Tries to find his own proverbial footing — tries to still the disorientation and listen. it feels like he’s on the cusp, just a little bit more. just follow your intuition a few steps farther…

but it is overwhelming, and he feels a little too much and it doesn’t feel like just his own pain anymore and that’s the first thing that seems to put a single hairline fracture in his haze. it almost feels like there’s something else pushing against his mind, but he can’t quite chase it enough.

when he looks back, there’s no children, there’s no bed and instead there’s a tall stranger, bleached hair and a sort of look to his face that makes peter think he can trust him, unfazed and untouched by what is around them, displaced and standing not but a few feet away and peter still jolts.

even with his enhanced physiology, his body protests but he forces himself up to his feet, a smooth motion that turns sloppy at the end as he stumbles forward.

no, this was wrong — ] — What? How did you . . .

No, hi, I’m — I’m fine, [ think, Peter, think. he’s never met him before. where are they? how did you get here? what if there’s no time? he turns to look up to the man with sincere desperation. ] I have to find my aunt — she’s hurt.

[ this, he knows to be true. right? she’s hurt. no, she’s gone. he swallows a lump in his throat. ] There’s kids here. There were two kids, under a bed. Can you help — [ wait - where is the bed? where are they? peter pivots on the ball of his foot, searching. the look he throws pietro belies growing confusion. ] them? They were just here?

[ and more forcibly, voice rising louder around them, around this space he can’t quite get the sense of, swimming around the edges the further away he looks. ] May?

[carmesi]

[pietro takes a mind of his own, the illusion of him; he walks up to peter as he goes on, stuttering and asking questions, all helping to buckle the look of confusion on pietro as he walks over the rubble on the floor. he keeps a distance from peter, but does not keep too far from him.]

There is no one here. You okay?

[her older brother used to know how to connect with others better, offer kind words when needed and read the situation better—look at things less coldly.

he follows peter as he gets lost in the stream of looking after aunt may; wanda follows just behind, in the shadows, giving herself time to connect the dots, put her magic upright and remove them both from this tangent of memories and nightmares.]

You have to be careful. [pietro uses his speed to move faster than peter can stumble about, placing a hand on the kid's chest to keep him from moving.] This building is falling apart. Did you not hear? The Avengers need you to evacuate.

[piqure]

[ adrenaline rattles through him - whether dream or reality or something in between, there’s no getting away from that sort of instinct and he forges on, the stranger following behind and he almost stops to ask him why he isn’t looking for the kids, suddenly struck by irritation formed of fear.

but then the guy moves and peter doesn’t know where he goes until there’s a sound right in front of him, a hand on his chest holding him back from moving any further and his eyes widen, flick up to pietro’s face in genuine surprise. he's fast and peter doesn't remember meeting him before at all — ] The Avengers?

[ he searches the face for recognition — almost familiar, maybe in the eyes, but not quite enough for him to make a connection. idly, distantly, it occurs to him that there would be some names and faces he wouldn’t quite know, who were still part of the world’s mightiest heroes. or once were.

but that strikes him odd too. this feels displaced, time not making much sense. no sense at all.

a part of him wants to keep looking. a part of him doesn’t want to believe anything until it’s right in front of him. was there a flicker of movement in the shadows? he rushes towards a compromise, ] Look, I’m an Avenger too — sort of. I’ll be okay — you just, umm, you have to make sure that everyone else is evacuated, right?

I’m just helping — [ if he closes his eyes again, maybe he’ll be able to hear things better? he tries for that but instead it makes his head spin. something's wrong, his spider sense hisses, and he's finally starting to listen. ] sorry — where are we? Who are you?

[carmesi]

[pietro tilts his head, also mirroring the way peter looks at him, trying to find that recognition that would spell out for him who the hell this kid is. there is nothing that he can gather from his own volition, not without wanda whispering the answers to him. unfortunately, wanda's busy elsewhere in the realm of these entangled realities, trying to pull together at the magical seams—which means that pietro is on autopilot.]

A kid in the Avengers? [he snorts, good-naturedly, and offers a grin.] Come on, you must have heard. Pietro. Do not go forgetting it.

[—wanda's eyes open; they're a haze of red—]

Well, I will trust you. If you take too long, I will come back for you.

[pietro fist bumps peter's suit, right on the chest; the action is not strong enough to throw peter off-kilter, but because of the magic at play, it is enough to make the young man lose his balance, fall back, and land himself on a couch. peter sits in the middle of it, in a homely, suburban home, clean and crisp, no sign of destruction nor bombs. there two kids beside him playing video games: one in a green jacket, the other in a red sweatshirt.]

Hey—! Stop, I got you—! Tommy! We're in the same team! No way!

[piqure]

[ their exchange doesn't last too long, just enough for peter's confusion to tighten when its mirrored on the other's face. he almost sputters — halfway to indignant — until he hears the name and —

pietro? eyes widen, mouth opening to ask another question. something in his mind strikes at him, a distant conversation in a displaced time, a front porch in dreamlike peace. a conversation shared between him and - and wanda?

that's right. didn't she say she had a brother named — wait okay, he's going to let him look around more, that's good, he just as to say one more thing — ] Be care—

[ there's a bump on his chest, good-natured and not hard enough to cause the lurch that follows but his stomach dips, tumbling backwards as he is. breath leaves him in a soft oof as he lands on the soft cushions of a couch in a living room he doesn't recognize.

he blinks, bolts upright. it feels like home, but not his and he ends up staring at two children, seated on the couch and playing video games.

okay, no. no no this isn't right? for all the internal monologue, the influx of questions, he tries to keep himself steady. its difficult not to feel just a little bit safe in this space and he isn't sure why, but the desperation ebbs away from his tense shoulders, replaced treacherously back with some bittersweet sort of loneliness. the back of his mind rears up in panic (still struck by seeing his aunt, throat still sore and raw from hands on it moments before, mind still reeling at the speed of trying to catch up. and why was wanda's brother there? before? he needs to find his footing, but all he feels is like he is careening through a script he can't control, memories that were once his and now are someone else's). ] Um — hello?

That looks like a fun game — [ tries for calm. succeeds mostly, just a bit out of breath. he's still in his spider suit. ] Are - are your parents around?

[carmesi]

Hello!

[the twins chime in unison, like his being here, showing up out of thin air and wearing his spider suit is the most normal thing to happen to them. it works fine if they're a memory, because they exist within a space where weird is normal.]

Dad's at work. [chimes in tommy, not removing his eyes from the screen.] Mom told us to stay here and to keep you company. [billy does, on the other hand, turn his eyes away from the screen to look at peter, a bit of a confused look on his face; he's always been the more perceptive one of the two, considering his powers.] It's not safe if you leave this space. Mom's fixing it.

[should peter look outside the windows, though they allow beams of sunlight of a perfect day in suburbia through, he will notice that they are surrounded by a whirlwind of scarlet.

billy blinks up at peter.]

You're thinking too much.

[has billy become something of a voice for wanda? yes, he has. though she is not in this pocket of reality, she can sense his presence entrenched within her magic, putzing about, thoughts mingling about and entangling themselves with hers.]

Can you stop doing that?

[piqure]

Oh, [ he says, a little dumbly, fingers folding over the couch cushion as he sets his feet on the plush carpet and takes the home in more fully.

cozy suburbia greets him. the kids seem entirely unfazed by the suit, and at least there's no residue of dust and grime from before to leave prints on the fabric.

dad's at work, one kid says. okay, that feels kind of normal? the rest — it still serves to send a chill rushing up his spine and raking up along the back of his neck because that's not all that normal. it's not safe, he says. ] Mom's fixing it?

What's she fixing? [ who and where??

peter doesn't register himself rising from the seat and closing the distance to the window, ducking under the curtains to look outside. if there's danger there, he needs to know and his senses feel so addled, so long a time on high alert, that he isn't sure what to trust right now. he wants to trust this place. something out there, out here, suggests that he should. insists, even. a squint, agains the sunlight until his eyes land on the swirl of red. it almost feels familiar (battlefield against thanos but he tries so ardently to shove that thought away). quickly, he steps away, turns, and presses his back to the window. the sun shining through almost feels warm.

theres a frown, concern stark and his mind starts its ragged race again until billy's voice halts it. ] What?

I — I don't know how to stop that, [ he says this lamely, going to the front door. maybe if he keeps moving, he can run away from the thoughts catching up because while he doesn't know what's going on right this very instant, it's in his nature to try.

though, trying the handle doesn't yield much results. ] Okay — um, okay, so — [ don't think?? how does he not think?? ] — I'm Peter Parker. What're your names? [ simple. let's do simple for now. ]

[carmesi]

[peter may feel like he's stuck in a cage, whirling about in the same existential thoughts of where, when, how, and the ever-significant who. tommy, who was the most focused on the video game, tenses and stops when he tries for the door handle — active relief on the twins when it doesn't open.

well, at least he seems to have gotten both the boys' attention.]

Magic is hard to control sometimes. [billy starts, and tommy just shrugs.] According to Billy. He doesn't know that much. I sure do!

[tommy sticks his tongue out, hanging on to the back of the couch, staring over at the two; billy stands away from the couch, closer to peter.]

Anyway, I'm Billy Maximoff. And that's my brother, Tommy. We're twins.

[he points at each other, then beams. tommy, on the other hand, says a little cryptically:]

You really shouldn't stand so close to the door, Peter Parker.

[if peter feels the pinpricks of his spider sense starting to become more concrete and make more sense, then maybe he should trust it. the door handle starts jiggling, shaking harder and harder, the windows rattling as if the air outside were being compressed. the lights dim, shadows growing darker, longer, more menacing.

billy repeats, a certain nod of his head:]

Mom will fix it.

[piqure]

Yeah, I heard that about magic too, [ there's a nod in agreement, half-way absentminded, half-listening until his head snaps over to them and he almost gawks, looking to the twin boys. back and forth, between the one hanging off the couch, and the one thats edged closer. maximoff — but that would mean - ] Wait — as in Wanda?

[ he blurts out, because that's the first thing that comes to mind - not thoughtless but if he says it out loud it means he isn't thinking on it for any longer than he needs to.

but that does inspire more realization — he didn't know she had kids. what happened — oh no —

his back is to the door and his ears ring in tinnitus as his senses sharpen, suddenly, and he's sidestepping away from it right in tandem to the twin's warnings, right as the handle rattles, the frame bangs and the windows shake and darkness presses in.

he crowds towards them and while they don't seem very concerned about this at all, full faith in their mom (he cannot help but understand that), peter still puts himself between them and the door, the windows. shoulders square, footing more sure.

the air feels thin. ] Okay — [ a glance over to them, spider sense prickling. anticipating...something? he tries to steady his voice. ] — does your mom need help?

[carmesi]

[wanda knows this conversation is happening—can hear it—and the twins are capable of having it at all because of her influence, the way her memories allows for the fuel for these two imagined lives to act as they did before she took down the hex for good. peter asks them if she needs help, and there is an ache in her heart.

she worries, now, perhaps without having the right to, after barging into peter's mind and trying to anchor these irrational feelings that make the darkness grow within oneself.

while she may have separated herself from the chaos she breathed life into, she is very much in the midst of it. turning her hand, grafting through the magic with tiny movements of her fingers. now that peter is a little more disconnected from his thoughts, distracted either by the presence of the twins or just general understanding of the situation at hand, it allows wanda the opportunity to grab purchase of her magic and really have a foothold on it.

does your mom need help? — the question echoes, and she closes her eyes tight, uncertainty heavy.

tommy speaks abruptly.]

She's afraid you'll hate her. [the boy turns to look at his brother, the two of them keeping eye contact for a while longer, before nodding and turning back to peter. billy points at the window.] But she doesn't want you to stay trapped here. You could jump, but... you'll need to stop thinking so much.

[certainty. resolve. that's what peter will need.]

[piqure]

[ standing there in the middle of this home — he feels that disconnect in between. that affirmation of safe intermixed with the rising feeling of intrusion. like he shouldn't be here, or maybe he shouldn't be seeing this. like he's looking through an old recording to something very, very personal.

this knowledge, these two kids...it feels? it feels sad, but warm. love and loss and he still tries to make sense of it all around him. he doesn't understand exactly, but he's connected enough of the dots to recognize that wanda is involved, now. that she's trying to do something.

tommy's voice is that of a small boy, but it feels like there's years of worry and weight packed into the statement and peter shakes his head, incessant. ] No — no, why would I? [ quiet, confused. is this all her magic, doing this? he doesn't know its extents, hadn't seen them in all their might, but why would she do this now? unless something in this world was influencing her? maybe that was it, but it was becoming abundantly clear there were no answers to be found here.

for a boy used to leaps of faith, the two twins tell him to jump and he looks to the window and back to them. words spill over without a second to consider and he isn't sure who he's saying them to. ] Your mom will be okay. I promise.

[ and against his initial judgement, that surface-level instinct - kids, stay, protect - he turns on the ball of his foot to get a running start, closes his eyes tight and jumps.

is it unfortunate that, in his valiant attempt to follow instructions and not think, his new york apartment flashes in his minds eye. he doesn't know where he's jumping too, just hears a breaking of glass and feels a lurch in his belly, but at least his has that. come what may. ]

[carmesi]

[come what may. visions of aunt may flood wanda's reckoning, as peter's thoughts slingshot between that surface-level instinct of protecting kids, to thoughts of his new york apartment and all the sentimentality that comes with it. it's that thread, that painful thread full of sorrow and guilt and self-hate that consumed her and threw her into a loop of emotions she had thought forsaken enough to control.

she cannot let herself drown in it again, which is why the twins had emphasized that he shouldn't think too much. at least, now, wanda is ready to brace herself against the crashing waves of it all.

—what is grief, if not love persevering?—

and that's exactly what she needs to hang on to, how valuable those words are, and how they keep her strong, resolved to keep walking, no matter what else comes her way. (it probably helps, that peter questions why he should hate her; the way he promises that their mom would be okay.) peter jumps through the whirlwind of scarlet, gets dragged with the torrent, and wanda exerts herself—the shrill scream of the wind hiding her voice as she pushes her magic to submission, taking all the pain that came with it onto herself, even peter's, if just momentarily, to shape and mold it long enough to make sense of it.

it's peter's new york apartment again—but not quite the one he grew up in. it's the one he moved into, one cold december day, all by himself, memories others had of him completely lost to a spell. this much wanda is not aware of, but there is a distinct feeling of solitude there. scarlet carves itself on the walls, but only as it pulls the segments of this place together.

peter may stand looking around, but at one point he will notice the warmth of a hand on his back. a familiar voice speaks to him: a woman, dark-haired with brown eyes.]

It's pretty bare, Peter. [aunt may purses her lips, but smiles nonetheless.] You'll try and make it your own, won't you?

[piqure]

[ the umbral wind knocks into him, a flare of scarlet as it howls and he thinks he catches a scream but before he can careen himself towards it, there is a blink, a sharp-cut moment that stops in silence.

what is grief —

wanda's voice, an echo — quiet words exchanged by two people who felt a little too strongly for a world a little too cruel and a little too difficult to be good in — that reverberates as peter opens his eyes, standing in the bare apartment.

— if not love persevering

jeans and a hoodie, no suit this time. its empty, cold, lacking the things that make it home and new york's overcast skies mirror the mood. there's crimson crawling into the walls and fading, piecing it together and he blinks, bleary-eyed and tired.

then there's a warm hand flattening on his back just as he takes a long sigh and he turns to look.

this time, it isn't confusing to him anymore why he feels so wrecked, the brunt of loss remembered. he knows she's gone. (what is grief?) he's visited her grave and left her flowers (if not love persevering?) there's only solitude for him here in the sum of his actions. price paid by more than him.

he doesn't know where wanda is, or what she's done to get him here. doesn't really understand what phantom stands in front of him now, just knows that he wants to say things he will never have a chance to again.

even if it isn't really real. grief and love and it overflows. all he can promise is to be better than he is. people die around you, peter.

tears well, threaten to spill over as his throat constricts. ] May — [ voice breaks. his hands find her shoulders. she's wearing the same jumpsuit as before, free of rubble-dust and blood. before she — ] — I'm so sorry. You weren't supposed to get hurt. Why didn't you run, May? Why didn't — [ he ducks his chin, tongue passing across his teeth. he grapples with self-control but the truth is he wasn't ever very good at that - (think of where you are, this isn't real, she'll never hear this so just accept it. where's wanda? is she okay?) but the next words are said with heat and conviction and a touch of anger. ] It was my fault. [ it should have been me. ]

[carmesi]

[it probably is telling, the way aunt may's ghost is a similar reflection to pietro's own. similar emotions afflict them, born from those who carry their memories with them. aunt may refused to run — pietro agreed to go, and regardless of whether either of them had done or refused to do what was asked of them, the result may have very well have been the same: their deaths.

but there is one certainty about their choices.

aunt may raises her hands to put them on either side of peter's head, gentle rubs of her thumbs against the line of his cheeks.

why didn't she run? well, the answer is obvious:]

Because I love you. I couldn't have left you alone.

[pietro had agreed to go at wanda's behest, because he loved her; because he trusted she would be able to handle things on her own. the hot tears on peter's cheeks move aunt may, as she works to fix peter's hair, down to his shoulders to fix the creases of his hoodie and shirt. finally, she lifts his chin, forces him to look at her.]

We all make choices. [her hands hold tightly to his forearms] I chose to stay.

[words, perhaps, that are empty because this isn't the real aunt may, just an echo of what they all wish they could hear, drawn from emotion and memory. aunt may's expression softens though, uncannily like herself, and she draws peter close to her, arms tight around his shoulders, a kiss to the side of his head, into his hair.]

I love you, Peter.

[no blaming, just nuances of affection; crisp and real, drawn from the very real notion of sentiments found should aunt may be alive.

—like that, in a few more seconds, the spell breaks.

wanda has replaced aunt may, embracing the boy, holding tightly as the world succumbs to carmine tones, breaking away from them and dissolving into what peter's horizon used to be—except bare, missing out on the details, a sketch of itself. wanda heaves, breathes heavily, and holds on tightly, her words quiet:]

I'm sorry.

[piqure]

Love you, too. [ he says - he has to, muttered as it is. the ghost of aunt may — how he remembers her, how he will always remember her — says things she's always said. we all make choices, she answers, in a tone that makes sense of the world, in a way that makes things better even when there's no fixing them and he knows the reason she didn't run: because he wouldn't have either and he is nothing if not her son in all the ways that make it so. thumbs passing along his cheeks, haunted comfort.

in the end, it is a contrast. it feels real and his mind supplies that it isn’t. not her hands fixing his hair, the creases in his clothes, or the kisses on his head or how she pulls him into a hug and his arms loop around her and hold on tight.

and then the spell breaks.

he feels it do so — feels the reality snap back like a rubber band and it leaves him feeling exhausted and he still holds on, cheek pressed into auburn hair instead of brunette. a part of him expected her to fade to ash and dust.

he ought to be embarrassed by how readily he clings, but he feels as though his thoughts had been pulled taut and flipped through, worn thin as he is. is there anything left to be ashamed about?

a part of him still rings out from their shared pain - all those emotions interwoven and she feels less a stranger. ] — Wanda,

[ he pulls back first, straightens up to look at her with red-rimmed eyes, briefly downcast; the look of someone who inadvertently feels as though he’s overshared something terrible and personal, even when it had slipped from his control before he could ever stop it. ] What happened?

[ all he can think to ask. it isn’t a demand, exactly. wonder? he’s so tired. but he needs to understand. what happened couldn’t have been on…purpose, could it? he tracks back to the suburban house, to the twins and the screaming howl of a scarlet whirlwind. ] Are you okay?

[carmesi]

[wanda holds her breath, knowing that this moment—in this embrace—won't last too long. peter would have questions, and she would need to have answers for him. he deserves those answers, much as anyone else she's ever hurt, but part of her worries that she will not get a chance to explain herself or that she won't be understood.

but peter, this sweet child wanda had only ever met from a distance in battlefields and a funeral, he looks at her and asks without anger, without any semblance of resentment. are you okay? her hands hold on lightly to his shoulders, forearms, then down to his wrists. her hands are shaking as she makes a point of holding his hands together between them.

she swallows, and repeats:]

I'm sorry. I—

I didn't know it was you. My powers, they're... [volatile. the word stings, because it's shameful of how true it is. she's supposed to have better control over them than this.] I didn't know — about your aunt. It caught me off guard and I, [she stops, looking down at their hands, biting down to keep herself quiet.

but peter deserves an answer other than half-breathed excuses. she nods to herself, then speaks, not yet looking at him.] It's been acting up for a few days now, my chaos magic. It takes over. It... it draws from my feelings, you know? And — I was pulled towards you, but I didn't expect all of this pain. Your pain.

[she looks up at him, her hands squeezing his.]

When I realized, about your aunt, I tried to pull away. I— I couldn't do it quickly enough.

[piqure]

Oh, [ lamely.

her hands shake, and his fingers curl lightly over them when they pass along to his wrists, a familial contact.

a shallow breath taken. in, out and repeat.

he had no idea how her magic worked. chaos magic, she says. it takes over she says, and his brows pinch. like dr octavius, with those tendrils of tech? it’s parallels and comparisons, but in no moment of his sprint through filling in blanks does he settle on resentment.

there’s sympathy. there’s an ache, somewhere under his ribs. her eyes aren’t those of a person who doesn’t have any good left in them and it isn’t in the nature of peter parker to see the worst in people. ]

I didn’t realize. [ didn’t realize his hurt was so loud. didn’t realize how much it had lingered, taken root. he thought he was doing okay, better and better at shaking it off when all it really was, was that he was learning to live with it and those were not the same thing.

and her powers could sense that?? he had no idea. what it worked with, what it reacted to or how the unending torrent of his thoughts, or the turmoil within, could influence it.

what this place making it worse? ]

It’s — it’s okay. [ he sounds rattled, but he means it. ] I didn’t tell you about her. It was just — really recent. I didn’t realize your powers reacted to these things. [ he watches her, hands still curled around hers, in part worried. in part, tries not to focus on more parallels, despite how one’s mind works after tragedy (he was holding onto his aunt when she fell). ]

I guess — I guess telling me to stop thinking makes a lot of sense, now.

I’m — sorry, too. [ for all she’s lost. he doesn’t know the extents but he felt them. he wants to ask about her kids. doesn’t think it’s the right time. clears his throat and finally let’s go, lifts his head to look around the bare apartment, instead. ] Is it better now? Is there — anything I can do to help?

[ he isn’t sure what else to offer.

should he be hurt? scared? angry? maybe that’s the expectation, in a way. maybe he needs a moment. he’ll take one later. ]

[carmesi]

[peter speaks, says it's okay, explains a little bit about his aunt — tries to go about it in his usual high-speed vocalization of thoughts, probably doesn't even notice the way his expression shifts and goes downward, somewhat avoidant of that reality. she has a vague recollection of, yeah, telling him to stop thinking so much.

things, while stuck in the fugue of scarlet and chaos, were a little difficult to discern entirely, now that she's got a better foothold on reality.

when peter pulls his hands away and looks around, wanda is left to hold her hands, the warmth of peter's hands gone. she takes a deep breath, not willing to concede to the fact that this itself is a death sentence to their acquaintanceship nor him solidly drawing away from her entirely, forever. so she brings her hands closer to herself, rubbing them lightly, nervously. it's what helps her look up and around with him, at the bare apartment.

there's a small shake of her head.]

I tried to recreate it to what you had before, [in the horizon] but I didn't... know the details of it. [what he had placed in his domain and what she had corrupted with her magic. quietly, answering his question:] — I think it's alright now.

[wanda steps forward, pulling at the sleeves of her coat (modern clothes, from their world) downwards, hiding her wrists, but stopping before she moves too far away.]

Our... memories got mixed up. [it's a lot: of grief, of pain. it's worse when it's shared, because there's no untangling what is yours and what isn't.] I — could make you forget this happened, if it's too much. I'm just...

[so ashamed. the following words come out of her before she can stop them:]

It's alright if you hate me.

[piqure]

[ there's a moment, brief as it is, where neither of them speak, where his hands wring around themselves, pass along the sides of his jeans as he takes the room in. he finds his focus returning slowly, slowly, until — ]

No — [ his head whips around to her, response a little too rushed. i can make you forget she says and he can't help how his heart hammers at the thought. it's alright if you hate me follows so soon after and he shakes his head, so very certain. no more memory spells for peter parker, for a while. ] No, I don't want to forget. [ then she'd be the only one who'd remember this and that sort of solitude flew too close to home too. ] It's fine, I promise. And I don't hate you, Wanda.

[ more than anything though, he looks aghast at the idea. tommy had said the same thing she’s worried you will hate her. ] Why would I?

[ it's obvious enough to him that she didn't mean to come here with this intent — with pulling proverbial sutures of new wounds free, with sharing her own emotions in the process.

he steps back towards her, head canted, eyes searching. concedes on one thing with obvious apprehension: ] Our memories — okay, so that was kind of a lot, yeah. It did sort of feel like things got tangled? [ his nose scrunches in trying to put a name to it, a hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. ] I don't understand all of it, but — [magic is hard to control sometimes, a simple fact said by a twin in a safe little living room. ] It's okay, really, we're okay, right?

[ he stands there, a little unsure now, and doesn't say anything for some time. there's a lot of things to be said (or maybe a lot of things that shouldn't) when they stand mutual witnesses to some of their darkest moments.

if she's worried about him turning his back on her, she shouldn't worry. they all make choices. peter chooses to stay. their worst moments don't define them, an idea he needs to believe in, for his own sake too. ]

[carmesi]

[it's different.

peter goes and then returns so her vicinity to quickly, earnest in clearing the air to whatever her words may imply. he doesn't want to forget, he promises it's fine, and he even reassures her that he doesn't hate her. no one dislikes you, wanda—she exhales a quiet laugh, remembering vision's words. why would i?

her throat tightens and she shakes her head a few more times, minute movements as if to dismiss the notion altogether as he approaches her again. other people are harder to read, layered and careful with what they do give away; trust was an unending endeavor. it was simpler with others—vision, steve. peter is proving himself to be so much like them, and it only makes her remember how much she misses them both. lips part to breathe, bringing a hand up to wipe at the tears from her eyes.]

I can understand why you speak so fast and say many things. [she says finally, a warmth in her words. he's incredibly smart, and his heart is incredibly big, too.] You really don't stop thinking.

[relief washes over her as she echoes him.]

We're okay.

[for what it's worth, their physical bodies are alright. it's the emotional scars that got messed with, but it's not nothing they've been without for some time, is it?

she swallows, and speaks again, gaining a little bit of her usual candor, even if she is still somewhat withdrawn.]

It must have been hard creating this place. [the new york apartment.] Was this your childhood home?

[piqure]

[ no, he really doesn’t stop.

he manages to look sheepish at her saying so, however, corners of his eyes pinching as he exhales a huff, almost humor. weary as it may be. ] Ugh — yeah, yeah I guess?

[ the topic change feels a little like an offer, standing there with stinging eyes and brittle hearts. something that opens up the air to move forward instead of dwell, and he’s glad. we’re okay and his mouth tilts, a hint of a smile, relief echoed in the expression more than anything else. he wasn’t asking about their physical bodies, anyway. he knows they are and aren’t but that’s the way its been for a while.

but, the question does get him to focus a little more on what’s around them.

it’s feels disjointed, this space, standing in the living room of the small bedsit apartment that must have bled through his thoughts enough for wanda to shape it, with the distinctive chill of emptiness until he looks past it and to the kitchen and while he’s not yet mastered the full extents of the horizon, it is so intrinsically instinctual, that all it takes is for him to think about it just a little louder.

he’s good at that, after all, fact established and the kitchen takes on a warmth again, feels like two different places. he considers it, wants to pull towards it, frowns and shakes his head. ] No — we lived in a few different places.

They were all in New York, though. [ there’s a couch, the same one may’s had for a while. there’s a table, chairs. ] This one's...the first one I had to get by myself, though.

[ tentatively, ] Oh — um, I met your kids? [ everything feels like a poorly timed segue right now. he winces. ] Sorry, it's fine if you don't want to talk about it, but I just — I didn't know. We saw a lot of stuff from each other? And I just mean, if you wanted to talk about things, I'm here to listen.

[ and, in the fashion of someone who truly talks as much as he thinks, he adds with that quiet sort of honesty that is inevitably too telling: ] It — just feels less lonely, now.

[carmesi]

[wanda feels it inside her, the way their pain is parallel. peter's life may not have been turned upside down by the horrors of war and a destroyed apartment, but there is certainly destruction and loss. wanda was young when she lost her parents—when the war that waged in the streets of novi grad took over her home—but peter is young too, and he's already lost everything. at least wanda had pietro, and she wasn't alone as she traversed through her grief and anger alongside him; at least wanda had vision, who healed her grief and sorrow with love and gentleness.

she exhales slowly, watching as the place changes a little under peter's command, hears him bounce between topics, landing on her sons.

the smile she offers is small, heading for the couch and taking a seat, letting the palm of her hand lay flat on the cloth of the cushion, feeling the texture on her skin.]

Billy and Tommy. [their names are full of warmth when she says them, and when she raises her head, away from staring at her hand, a single tear falls down her cheek; it's almost like she's been holding back on uttering their names, making it missing them all the worse. wanda's throat is tight as she swallows, looking over at peter.

it just feels less lonely, now. there is gratefulness in her eyes. she can trust peter.] No one else knows about them.

[her magic is useful in many occasions, and, in this case, it helps her with manipulating peter's domain. she doesn't touch it, though; instead, scarlet waves paint like gauche paint on paper, bringing forth the image of her sons to sit on the couch, tommy to her left, billy to her right. her arms are around them, holding them close to her. they're sketches of a memory, with no thought of their own, but they press to her, holding onto their mother.]

I brought them to the world with my magic. [in case he starts thinking about numbers and the maths and thinks that having 11-12 year olds doesn't make a lot of sense—] But they couldn't stay.

[it's confusing, she knows, and perhaps it will throw a wrench into peter's attempt to understand the nuances of magic. wanda scrunches her nose and looks at him.]

You saw my brother, too.

[she remembers manipulating his memory to hold peter off.]

[piqure]

[ he wouldn’t want to say he lost everything. but he did, in many ways. it felt like she had too (felt, more apt than seen).

not all was lost, he'd still argue. after all, the multiverse was reportedly stable. mj and ned got into their top choice universities, friendship strong as ever and maybe one day — one day they'd know him again. dr strange...returned to the sanctum, and likely returned to facing down issues larger than the worries of an eighteen year old who didn’t even call to convince a school for admission first. life went on.

and yet even those who are alive and who matter no longer remember him. even here, it’s all just borrowed time before something happens again — before he gets whisked back home, or before they do, and how does that even work and if they come back will they know him or will he have to do it all over again?

it isn’t a spiral of thought he should go down on and the world shudders around him, and peter pushes against his horizon instead. almost forcefully pushes, chases the loneliness away, pulling the apartment back to whatever it was before: one of may’s places. melancholy maybe, but comfortable to fall back into. maybe because he can’t quite picture any other place with as much stability for the horizon to take its shape.

but wanda approaches the couch and sits, and peter lingers at the threshold, carefully watching the scarlet tendrils paint the scene around them.

there’s an ache under his ribs, cavernous. brows pinch, and he watches the two boys. there’s the start of a wave, until his hand drops by his side again. ] Oh.

[ anything beyond that seems inadequate. her magic? created them?? they couldn't stay? he does supply ] I won't tell anyone else... [ that's not his secret to tell, regardless.

he doesn't understand the magic, no. the nuances are lost on him, the disbelief rising before its tamped down. but it would not be superfluous now to say he knows near exactly how she feels despite. at the mention of her brother, he nods. small and quiet. ]

Oh — yeah, yeah I did.

Pietro, right? [ don’t go forgetting it the man of memory had asked. it seemed impolite to now. it seems impossible to. ] I didn’t know he was part of the Avengers too.

I'm — sorry. [ he remembers wanting to warn him, apprehension bubbling up. he means the next genuinely: ] He seemed really great.