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“Are you being purposefully slow?”
Peter releases a sigh—although it’s more of a huff, dripping with frustration—and resists the urge to roll his eyes, staring daggers at the figure in front of him.
“I’m tired, man,” Peter defends, despite making more of an effort to catch up and match the pace of Erik’s wide footsteps.
Erik says nothing as Peter feels a familiar sharp pain pierce through his leg. He continues limping, feeling a heat of anger as he stares at the back of Erik’s snow-covered hair. “And in case you forgot, I’m dealing with an injury.”
“I haven’t forgotten. Otherwise, we would have been at the school by now,” Erik replies dryly.
This time, Peter does roll his eyes as he really starts to wonder how he ever expected his father to be anything but an asshole.
But some part of Peter argues at that, and Peter almost hates that part of himself. He hates how he can’t just accept the fact that Erik Lehnsherr doesn’t like Peter—doesn’t care about Peter—and most likely never will.
And maybe that could change if Peter could not be a baby and actually tell his father of their relation, but Erik’s current attitude doesn’t really promise much.
It is because he is in pain, Charles had told him. But I assure you Erik would be nothing but pleased to discover you are his son.
And then Charles had paired them up on this stupid mission and Peter got hurt and despite the biting snow and his bloodied leg, Erik is anything but pleased.
Thanks a lot, Charles.
Peter keeps his eyes on the horizon as they travel through the woods. He begins to notice loss of feeling from his fingers, the paleness spreading throughout his skin.
He ignores it. “You have any plans for the holidays, man?”
“The holidays aren’t really something I focus on.”
Peter feels like an idiot. “Right. Uh… any other plans then? For the winter?”
“No.” Erik’s words are clipped, but they lack the usual annoyance that is present whenever he talks with Peter.
“Prof says they’ll probably have a dinner or something. On Christmas, I mean,” Peter says, flicking his eyes toward Erik. “Will you be… staying for that?”
“Why does it matter to you what I do?” Erik asks, finally meeting Peter’s eyes. And there it is. Annoyance.
Peter hopes the embarrassed flush in his face can be passed off due to the cold. “I, uh… I don’t. I was just making conversation.”
That’s when he decides, for once in his life, to shut up. And it’s not difficult, with the ache in his leg becoming more present—and the fact that he feels like a walking ice cube. A frigid chill covers his bones as he runs his tongue across his chapped lips, his feet feeling heavier and heavier with each step. He keeps his eyes ahead and tries imagining the warm fireplace and soft blankets awaiting him at the mansion.
That and the biting I told you so he gets to say to Charles. Good thinking, Charles, really—forcing me and Erik alone so all he can do is grunt and complain while my leg is probably broken, by the way—okay maybe not broken, but it’s going to leave a scar for sure—
His fantasy is interrupted by his father’s voice. “Is that your teeth chattering?”
“No,” Peter replies instantly, but the shake in his voice betrays him.
Erik stops, obviously unconvinced.
“My speed messes with my metabolism,” Peter explains, his voice still coming in hoarse breaths. “I don’t adapt to the cold that well. I’ll be fine once we get back to the school.”
Something flickers over Erik’s eyes. “By adapt, you mean…?”
“I don’t adapt,” Peter says flatly.
They both stand there in silence for a moment before Erik’s eyes shift down to Peter’s leg, scarlet staining the attempted bandage.
His father sighs as he takes his coat off, an arm outreached. “Here.”
Peter feels stunned for a moment, because Erik Lehnsherr—infamous asshole and all—is giving Peter his coat.
“Oh, that’s okay.” Peter shakes his head, the action sending a dull ache to the back of his skull. “I don’t need it.”
Erik walks closer, an air of frustration surrounding him. “Take it.”
Peter doesn’t feel like arguing and maybe he does want the jacket, just a little—so he retrieves it from Erik’s grasp, fingers barely brushing against his cold skin.
The coat is slightly baggy on his figure, but as Peter continues his walk he can’t help but feel like a bit of a badass. No wonder why Erik wears it all the time.
“Thanks,” Peter mumbles.
Erik says nothing.
Peter can’t tell when it hits him that something is wrong. It’s as if he didn’t know a before, he didn’t know anything other than the prickling in his fingers and the haziness in his eyes. He had almost forgotten the pain in his leg over his exhaustion, when his limp had become less of a limp and more of a bleary drag.
He starts to feel this sensation of sleep, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier as he makes his way through…
…through what, exactly?
He blinks, white powder covering his lashes as his steps get heavier. Trees. Snow…
The forest. He’s in the forest.
He’s in the forest from the mission. Right.
He should probably worry over the fact that he’s struggling to remember where he even is, but Peter’s main concern is just getting to the school. Then he can finally burrow himself under his warm covers and sleep—hopefully without any interruptions.
Sleep. He just wants sleep…
He feels a sudden touch to his shoulder—invoking an instinctive urge to fight because nobody is supposed to sneak up on Peter—but the flinch that shutters through his body drains all of the energy out of him, leaving him with nothing to defend himself.
“Peter.”
Peter. Peter…
“Peter!”
Peter—that’s his name.
“Yeah…?” he rasps, his voice oddly shaky.
His vision is as blurry as it comes, foggy figures in the corners of his eyes, but he doesn’t miss the abrupt stinging sensation to his left cheek. It’s not the usual stinging that had been affecting his body for the last hour, this one sudden and harsh and…
And—as his eyes flash open at the feeling—he discovers it was a slap.
Peter feels more awake suddenly, blinking as he sees Erik’s eyes bore into his own—frantic and concerned.
“What the hell was that for?!” Peter exclaims, his words stuttered.
Erik says something in response, but it’s unintelligible to Peter’s ears. An arm wraps around his waist, leading him towards a rocky clearing.
“Stop—let g-go of me, dude—” Peter tries shaking himself off of Erik, but his hold is tight and unmoving. “What are you doing—?”
Peter begins to feel his head clear as they find themselves under a large boulder, hovering over them in an almost cave-like structure.
Erik sits Peter down against the rock. Peter releases a shaky exhale under the rock’s protection, finally free of the snowfall.
But despite the coverage, Peter can feel himself shivering more than before, harsh shudders racking through his body as he clings to any source of warmth—which is none.
And that’s when Peter finally comes to terms with the fact that he is very, very cold.
Which is why he’s surprised when Erik begins to rip Peter’s coat—well, technically Erik’s coat, but whatever—off of him, resulting in a fierce blast of cold to hit his body.
That’s also when Peter realizes that maybe Erik isn’t an asshole.
He’s a downright killer.
“What t-the hell, man!”
And then Erik does something very, very weird.
He hugs him.
Well, okay, maybe it isn’t really a hug. Erik has pulled Peter into his side, his head burrowed in the folds of Erik’s sweater near his shoulder, arms tightened around his torso. He places the coat on top of him, cushioning him like a soft blanket.
So… yeah, it’s pretty much a hug.
“It is not a hug,” Erik says flatly—which is when Peter realizes he must have voiced it aloud. “You’re hypothermic. We’re sharing body heat.”
“It’s a good hug,” Peter says with a grin, his voice muffled against the fabric of Erik’s sweater. It makes Peter happy knowing that despite nearly freezing to death, his humor is still intact.
Erik says nothing. And Peter knows he’s only joking and that Erik was right—it isn’t anything like a hug, because Peter is freezing and these are the natural rules to hypothermia—but it still feels like a hug.
And it doesn't make a significant difference, not immediately, anyway. But he can feel the distant heat emanating from underneath Erik’s sweater, which is why—despite it being a bit embarrassing—he burrows his head deeper, clinging to any ounce of warmth Erik has to share.
They sit in silence, with the exception of the soft snow falling just outside of the rock. He can feel the slight shivers from Erik’s body as the time passes, giving him increasing guilt.
And then fear, because Peter’s pretty much lost feeling at this point. He doesn’t know how far away they are from the mansion, meaning nobody knows where they are, and Erik’s getting colder…
“Are we going to die?”
His words were spoken softly, barely whispers from the tip of his tongue, but he feels something register within Erik.
“We are not going to die.”
His words are strong and confident. But Peter still feels unsure.
“I won’t let that happen.”
And something’s different in Erik’s tone this time, something Peter’s never heard within his usual stoicism. It’s soft and promising, but also weak—broken. A plead, almost. Not to him, but to something.
He doesn’t know what to say to that, truthfully, so he doesn’t say anything.
He lets the silent consume him until eventually, his eyes reach a delicate close.
Erik can feel his heart race in his chest, holding the boy as tightly as he can—although he isn’t a boy, Erik reminds himself. His hands dust over every inch of chill that coats Peter’s skin, trying everything within his power to stifle the chill with his own warmth.
It’s a struggle though, when Erik is losing warmth to give.
He avoids Peter’s brown eyes, eyes that bring such a sickening familiarity to Erik. He tunes out the dull thump of Peter’s heart against his own, a beat that’s slowing with every minute. He distracts himself from the way Peter’s body seems to grow more limp with every raspy breath.
He distracts himself from the fact that as night grows, Peter is beginning to start looking less like Peter and more like Nina, a trembling body in the grasp of his own, skin pale and icy against his touch.
“Are we going to die?”
Erik almost startles at the words, though they aren’t loud. They’re barely even a whisper.
But there’s true fear in the words, a begrudging air of distress that haunts the back of Erik’s mind…
A scream, disrupted by a piercing arrow through the forest…
“We are not going to die.” Erik forces as much confidence as he can muster, but the images still plague his head, because suddenly he’s back in Poland…
Lifeless eyes, cold skin, scarlet-stained fingertips…
“I won’t let that happen,” Erik breathes.
Not again, is what echoes through the night. Please.
Please.
Please.
Please…