Not Less Than Everything
Chapter 1
by
Rex Luscus
DISCLAIMER: All poetry belongs to the estate of T.S. Eliot. Wolverine, Nightcrawler and the X-Men belong to Marvel Enterprises, Inc. Duh.
ARCHIVING: Just ask.
NOTES: A big, sloppy thank you to Lorelei and Dark Hedgehog for all their help with this monster. I'm serious when I say it wouldn't have happened without you. You guys are the shit. < G >
Oh, and thanks to Graham Greene. I think this story is some sort of homage to him, though I didn't realize that as I was writing it.
"What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Toward the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. ..."
Burnt Norton, [9 - 14]
Read a poem once. Good poem. Could've done without all the stuff about God. But I'm thinking of it because it had this line in it: "Love is more nearly itself, when here and now cease to matter."
That's bullshit. Look, I'd like to say to this chump, you clearly never had to hold your lover in your arms and listen to him say that you're *never* going to see him again, and knowing - being completely certain - this is the last time you will ever touch him.
Imagine it. You can practically feel the time escaping from between your bodies with each beat of his heart against your chest. You try to focus on the warm, solid *realness* of his body in your arms but you can't make yourself forget that it'll soon be gone. And you realize that the frothing hatred you feel for that end makes it come for you even faster. Great if you're into irony. No matter how much you try just to *feel* for these last few seconds - to concentrate on the smell of his hair, the gentle sink and swell of his breathing - you can't forget that you're storing up that moment to last you the rest of your life.
And when it's over and he pulls away, it's like that moment was *always* lost, already gone before it even began. And you're stuck with now, that long, cold here and now, where you don't have him, and you never had him, and you never will again.
Kurt never told me he was planning on running off to the seminary. I can't let him off the hook by saying he thought I knew, either. It's not just that I didn't expect it - I'd no more expected him to go be a priest than I'd expected him to become an astronaut or a deep-sea diver. We'd talked about his religion a couple of times - it was hard to ignore, seeing as I had to stare at that little gold cross lying in the hollow of his throat, rising and falling with his quick breaths as I made love to him. Sometimes I worried that maybe, somewhere deep down, he hated me for tempting him - or sullying him, or however it is they think it works. But - and again with the irony - Kurt's faith had always been something I *loved* him for. You get to be my age - believe me, few people do - and you start wanting to hang around people who have the things you can't have anymore, like faith in people, and belief in the world's basic goodness. I loved being close to that. I never dreamed I'd have to compete with it.
Then one day I wandered into his room and found him packing. The guilty look he gave me told me the important stuff; the rest was just excuses. He wasn't happy with the X-Men. He didn't feel useful. He didn't like defining himself by the fact he was a mutant. He was going to do something that felt more right to him blah blah blah.
It probably ain't a good idea to take what you're feeling when your lover says he's leaving you for the Church as the sum total of your religious beliefs. But if ever there was a time when I believed in God less or hated him more, I can't recall it.
And as much as I always tried to be fair and see things his way, I learned at that moment how big the difference is between someone who believes and someone who doesn't. Sure, so some abstract father-figure and a wooden effigy behind an altar helped get him through the day. Fine. But I could do that for him, too. And I was real, flesh and blood real, and could touch him and hold him and talk to him. How could a few bits of wood and some old stories compare to that? How could he pick God over *me*?
I didn't say it quite like that - for one thing, it came out a lot more angry and selfish and stupid. He didn't ignore me, and when I was done he didn't argue. He just zipped up his bag, then kissed my cheek and leaned his forehead against my temple like he'd done so many times before, mumbled an awkward "I'm sorry," like he was embarrassed to admit it, and walked out.
And I stood there stiff as a board because, like the macho prick I am, I'd chosen to be angry. My plan was to punish him with the cold shoulder - because I still figured I'd have a chance to make it up to him later. I didn't get it then - that there would *be* no other chances. I should have taken that little bit he offered.
So after that, everything I did was an attempt to make those chances, to fight the *forever* of what he'd done. I've never been the kind to take things lying down, and my experience has taught me that there's usually a way out of any tight situation, as long as you have the will and the patience. There was a way to convince Kurt that he was screwing up; I just had to find it.
I make it sound like I just ran out the door after him, but that's not how it happened at all. Maybe that's what I should have done, but I also ain't the kind to admit being wrong so fast.
Instead, I sat on it a few weeks, making everyone around me miserable, doing nothing, thinking nothing, perversely getting a feel for the size and shape of the hole that had opened up in my life. Somehow I convinced myself that I didn't think about him every second of the day. That I barely noticed he was gone. Then one day, I was suddenly running for my bike, knowing I had to get to Brooklyn immediately, knowing I was going to lose my mind if I didn't at least see him one more time.
I don't even remember the drive. Hell, I don't even remember calling the operator for the address, though apparently I did. I was on autopilot - guess I was afraid my pride would sabotage me if I let myself think too hard about what I was doing. Then finally I was there, and there was a big door, and through the door I found a receptionist, and I asked her about Kurt. She said something about calling up to the rector's office. And still none of it seemed real.
Standing there in the dim, musty old brownstone living room, with its mildewy rug, and four rummage-sale chairs, and little hair-netted, bespectacled receptionist, I thought about what would happen when he came down. I thought about what it would be like to touch him again, to kiss his lips, everyone else around us be damned - so to speak. Who cared if this was a house of God - I'd let God see how it felt for the shoe to be on the other foot for a change. And I'd show Kurt what he'd been missing, make him see he couldn't leave it behind.
All this was so real that when he finally came down the staircase, I forgot to notice how beautiful he was and just thought about how much it was going to hurt if he didn't at least let me touch his face.
The receptionist fidgeted in that funny way people always do around Kurt - trying to stare at him without *looking* like she was staring. Kurt gave her a smile as he came down, then turned his smile on me, and stopped about five feet away. This from a man who'd sit in everyone's lap if they'd let him, so either he didn't trust me or he didn't trust himself. I desperately hoped it was that last one.
"Logan," he said.
"Had to see you," I blurted out as explanation.
His eyes flickered nervously, and he threw a quick glance at the receptionist. "Let's go outside and talk," he said.
Out on the stoop, he still kept his distance. My hands itched to pull him closer, but I've hunted long enough to know when a cornered animal's ready to give up its life, and when it's going to bolt if you move.
"How've you been? How's the studying going?" I started awkwardly, not knowing what to say.
"Okay," he answered, fidgeting.
Everything felt strange. He was so far away, so locked up inside himself, with his hands in his pockets and his face turned slightly away from me.
"I can't sleep at night," I offered suddenly, not caring how pathetic it sounded.
He didn't answer, but looked a little more uncomfortable than before. I dared to move a little closer, and he blinked but didn't pull away. I lifted a hand towards his cheek to stroke it.
"Don't," he said, flinching.
I let the hand drop.
After a while, I asked, "Do they treat you all right?"
He said, "Yes. They don't care about the way I look."
"They should," I told him.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, if they had blood in their veins, they'd see what I see," I said.
"Please don't," he sighed.
I stopped talking.
It was getting late. The sun disappeared from the upper storeys of the buildings across the street; the air was getting chilly. I realized we'd gone a long time without saying anything, but he was still there, hugging himself and shivering a little in the cold - he was only wearing a T-shirt.
We sat side by side silently, looking out over the street. For a second, I was painfully aware of time draining away like water through a crack, gone forever. I took off my jacket and settled it around his shoulders.
"Come back with me," I said.
"I can't."
"Why?" I let my hand rest on his arm where I'd been arranging the jacket. "Why not?"
"I'm happy here."
"Yeah? Then why did you say 'I can't' instead of 'I don't want to'?"
He sighed, a little shakily. "Logan," he said, "I didn't leave you because I thought what we were doing was wrong, if that's what you think."
"I don't care about any of that," I said, my voice getting louder. "I just want you back."
"Yes. I know you don't care about any of that."
I looked at him. He looked back, his eyes brighter now that the sky was getting dark around us. I hadn't missed the accusation in his voice, and I was scared like I never am in a fight.
"That's not how I meant it..."
"How did you mean it, then?"
I took a breath, trying to keep my cool, trying to think clearly. "What I meant was that I don't care where you lay the blame," I answered finally. "Tell me it was all my fault; that's okay. Ask whatever you want; I'll change. Just come home."
"It had nothing to do with you."
"What?" I could've laughed. Or cried. Or something. Everything I did had to do with him, in some way. How could he do something this big, and think it had nothing to do with me? Guess I *am* an egomaniac sometimes.
"My decision. It had nothing to do with you. You didn't do anything wrong."
"I don't believe that." Stubborn, too.
"Well," he said, standing and taking off the jacket, "it's the truth." He handed me the jacket and started back inside.
I leapt up and caught his wrist. "Kurt," I said, my voice sounding futile and hollow, "Kurt. Please. Please." I begged for this like I never beg for *anything*, from *anyone*. He knew it, too; he knows me better than I know myself, sometimes. His eyes held mine, full of pain and indecision.
My hand squeezed around the twin bones of his wrist and for a sudden, strange second I was squeezing too hard. He was mine. It wasn't fair and he was mine, goddamnit. Then I took a breath. No, I told myself. I didn't want what could be taken by force. So I let go.
He hesitated for a moment, cautiously rubbing his wrist, then stepped toward me, slowly, like it was something he didn't really want to do, but had to. And, like he was a lion tamer sticking his head in the beast's mouth, he put his arms around me. And mine went around him and drew his body closer, but he was so wrapped up in himself that he was gone already, and his heartbeat sounded like a chiming clock in my ears marking the fleeing seconds, and I wanted to howl against it, but as much as I can do, stopping time is beyond me. Then he stepped back.
He gazed at me compassionately, but abstractly, like I was some poor jerk he didn't know - like he wanted me to get better, but had nothing to do with it. Like I was some sinner in his confessional. I could barely stand it.
"Kurt," I heard myself say. "Please. I love you."
His breath quickened. "I have to go," he whispered, and hurried inside.
I sat back down on the step, watching the door he'd disappeared into, and didn't move for a long time. I made myself think that if I didn't move, didn't do anything, time would stand still.
Then, as it got darker around me, and the streetlights flickered on, I started to think about my choices. I had a weapon against time that few other folks have. I could return to the wilderness; I could stop being human. An animal has no memory. At my worst moments, I've always been tempted - when Mariko died, for instance. I was tempted now.
Or I could let time go on, and I could damn well make it work the way I wanted it to. Some people call it hope; I call it refusing to give in. There's a reason why my code-name's Wolverine. Let's just say I've never exactly been the letting go type.
"I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting."
East Coker, [123 - 126]
All references to characters belonging to the X-Men Universe are (c) and TM the Marvel Comics Group, 20th Century Fox and all related entities. All rights reserved. Any reproduction, duplication or distribution of these materials in any form is expressly prohibited. No money is being made from this archive. All images are also (c) and TM the Marvel Comics Group, 20th Century Fox and all related entities; they are not mine. This website, its operators and any content used on this site relating to the X-Men are not authorized by Marvel, Fox, etc. I am not, nor do I claim to be affiliated with any of these entities in any way.