What Ails You?

March 17, 2017:

Storm and Mattias meet. Mattias has yet to give himself over to his new home.

Xavier's Mansion - New York City

The hallways of the Xavier Mansion. Mattias' spartan, unused room.

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

It's far past eleven o'clock in the Xavier Mansion, and the world outside of the windows is bright, with fresh snow made blue by the light reflecting off of the moon. The younger students are mostly in bed, save for the occasional sound of water running through the pipes with last minute showers. The hallway is quiet, but there's a door cracked halfway open, spilling golden light out into the dimly lit walkway lined with works of art and the occasional suit of knightly armor.

Mattias Larsson's name and file had been distributed to staff. Having been evacuated from Sweden by his parents after a doctor they once trusted was found to be 'grooming' Mattias, he's come to the mansion. References to a half-black, half-blue faced creature hidden in a seemingly normal doctor's skin, it's no wonder that Mattias has been staying up late at night.

It's also no wonder that he hasn't entirely unpacked yet.

Now, there he stands in the doorway of his room, looking over the spartan walls with a pair of packs on his bed, unzipped and ready for the unpacking. The tall, muscular blonde sighs and steps forward, setting a family photograph on the nightstand beside his bed, then steps back, chewing at his lip in silence.

*

The door of his room is shadowed, but contured lightly. The moonlight reflecting off the snow outside illuminating enough to make Storm seem dwarfed as she leans against the frame of Mattias' room and watches him, but breaks the silence of his seeming indecisiveness.

No file in her hands, nothing but the drop of 'cloak' behind her, tethered by silver loops on fingers, that match the twine of attires binding at abdomen, two pieced but melded to one by decollage.

Mohawk of alabaster is pitched over a single shoulder, dark in contrast to the pale while she watches him.

"What ails you?"

*

Mattias doesn't jump at the sudden emergence of a voice behind him, which doesn't tend to share whether he knew she was there or not. At first, he lowers his head, glancing down the plane of his shoulder and the black tee shirt that covers it. Then, he commits to glancing back to Ororo, making brief eye contact with her before turning his attention back to the room at large.

"Claiming a new space as home." Mattias replies, a strong twinge of his eastern European accent wrapping itself around his words like a vice. After a second of contemplation, he turns and smooths down the front of his shirt, stepping out of the doorway and turning to the side, motioning for Ororo to step in, should she please.

"That's vague, I know." Mattias offers with a low voice, nearing deep tones. With a lift of his shoulder, he looks back to her face, offering a bit more. "Have you ever moved from one place to another and have taken your time unpacking? Like…once you're unpacked, you're claiming the space, and there's something weird about it?"

*

The Kenyan accent is still there upon Storm's voice, so when his own rings true with his look back, she acknowledges it as well as his words and compiles them, akin to self.

His door was open, the only reason Storm had shadowed Mattias' door instead of leaving a note, a paper flicked betwixt fingers now and then nearly origami'd into nothing to be tucked away upon his invitation. To which booted feet carry her silently within to claim his small chair with a regal decent and cross of legs. She is used to dominating a space, claiming it, and hers or not - owns it. But there are shadows where shadows shoud not be…

"Because it is not what you have known." A tilt of crown, those pale strands descending, painting pale against pitch.

"So what makes you hesitate, now?" No names yet formally exchanged, but it adds to the mystique, also depthens it between the two foreign strangers.

*

The hardwood floor of the bedroom creaks slightly under the northman's weight as he turns again, reaching past Storm's back to gather up a folded sheath of leather on his desk's surface. A leather jacket with some manner of stenciled art on the back of it; a subculture match for the chained wallet dangling from one hip to the back pocket of his jeans. The jacket is tossed onto his bed, and Mattias turns in time to watch the poised way Ororo claims the chair. Like royalty.

Mattias is no such graceful creature, but he's strong. A confidence lines his eyes while he listens to her, gauging her questions with a hollowing of his jaws and a twitch just beneath his left ear.

"Something feels wrong." Mattias announces, motioning towards his belly, the source of all gut-feelings. Mattias shakes his head. "Not with this place or you people who have taken me in. You've all been wonderful, and I'm grateful. It's that," Mattias tilts his head a measure, eyes flitting up to her mohawk, then down again. "Nothing's permanent, and too many things are telling me that these bags should stay packed, just in case."

*

Ororo watches Mattias, hs actionsdown to that twitch of jaw-line, making her prop fingers beneath jawline, little finger sweeping over lips, poising over them as if an un-ushered shh~!. But the -tap- differentiates. A nail dimpling upper lip with a delve and cleave that does not belittle her small smile and narrowing of eyes that are pale in difference to the dark skin-tone of a sun razed land.

"How long have you been nomad?" A tic of a sigle brow, and the light smile is revealed by the fall of hand from her jaw-line, the query'ing tilt of head to him.

A wave of hand, a rock forward and legs uncross to allow a prop of elbows upon thigh-high clad knees of pitch atire rimmed in silver, like the "jewelry" that keeps everything clung to the dark contrast.

"That is instinct. Survival. I will not begrudge you that." A flash f cerulean eyes as Storm rises before him and flashes a smile Mattias' way.

"But this place," A small adjustment of his single placement upon a dresser.

"Us." That single breath exhaled upon the word causing a chilled fog of mist before her lips that still smile his way.

""Once you make home here, it is family."

Now she fully faces him. "Do you fear that?"

*

"It's hard to tell how long I've been nomad. I knew I was different when I was a child. Things got progressively more interesting when I was a teen. I've been on the run three weeks, but I some part of me was ready for it for years."

Despite the skin-to-fabric ratio of Ororo's clothing, Mattias' eyes hold to her face, her shoulders, her mohawk. He meets her smile with a thoughtful one of his own, failing to present any of the typical boyish nervousness one might, or might not, expect. The unguarded, confident way he stands with one arm slipped down the back pocket of his jeans, the other reaching out to tap on an ornate bedknob, isn't seemingly intimated by anything but the bags on his bed.

"No. I really do not fear that." Mattias replies, smiling quietly. He turns his shoulder to Ororo, digging into a backpack to yank out and old, weathered notebook. "When you join a family, you take care of them, their problems, their needs. Not much afraid of that, either."

Then, he turns, slightly narrowing his blue eyes on Ororo's. The sharp tug of his cheeks is akin to a hammer coming down, finding the core of his problem.

"It's hard to ask people to take care of your problems when you're not quite sure what they are, yet."

*

First thing's first: I'm fired up and tired of the way that things have been… Storm watches Mattias withdraw the weathered tome, one hand rising.

Second: Don't you tell me what you think that I can be… In opposing hand another slip of paper unfolds and lands just beneath that bed-knob his other hand had rested upon. "Bring it to me, once you have decided to unpack. Take weeks if you must, Mattias. Family means taking care of you as well." A flick of those eyes to his notebook and fingertips rest upon it and splay, treating it precious in touch.

Third things third: Now look what we have put you through… "That's what we are here for." And with a righting of shoulders, those shadows that did not belong suddenly fade. She'll shoulder it, soldier it…

"Just do not unpack and unload," A flic of eyes to the space, him, his notebook… "Unless you intend to trust, have faith, and stay." His bag then is nudged with oppsing hand to tip contents more to the mouth, but she does not look at them - only him.

A turn then nd she moves to the doorway she had come into. "Storm."

Introduction made she glances back, eyes alight a different illumination of pale to match the smile that only briefly shows teeth against pale lips' frame.

"Welcome."

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