3DISCLAIMER: This is fanfiction. If I really owned the characters of X-Men, I'd be ruining the comics. (Seriously, I'd ruin it with M-preg, a lot of gay, and more Banshee. :P)
O.K., this is a sequel to the story Bring Havok on a Screeching Mutant, by And then theres yaoi. Now, if you are going to read this story, I recommend reading the original first in order to comprehend what's going on here. Plus, it's a really great fanfic to read. After you've read that, please come back and examine this, O.K.?
So this story takes place a year after the first story. It revolves around how Sean's and Alex's lives have changed since their last meeting. This first chapter is told in Sean's point of view, while the second is told in Alex's.
Please read and review because I need to what wrong with this so that I may perfect it. :D
Forever mutant and always proud,
~Ms. Unusual-in-Groovy-Ways
Half-Remembered Dreams Pt. I: Why a Banshee Howls
The old floorboards of the quaint, little cottage we lived in creaked loudly as my parents attempted to tip-toe through my room. I prepared for my morning push to wake me up, but it never came. Instead, minutes passed painfully by as I waited for parents' routine yelling. After what seemed like ten minutes, I was going to wake up myself (a first) but was greeted by a thunderous "SURPRISE!"
I screeched my signature scream as I jumped up for my original position on the bed and onto the hard floor. My mom gasped but quickly came to the rescue for her only baby boy. Although I did not need her to help me up, I let her, knowing that it would make her happy to do so. As soon as I was sitting on my bed, I asked my mom and dad why they yelled "SURPRISE!" at me earlier.
"You don't remember?" my mom, Quinn, asked me in an almost shocked voice. "It's a very important day. You can't forget it."
"Is it my nineteenth birthday?" I asked confusedly.
"No. Guess again."
"You won the lottery?"
"Nuh-huh. Keep guessing."
"You're pregnant?"
"No, sweetie. I'm not."
"Dad's pregnant?"
"Tom, please tell him," my mother said to my dad. "He's never going to get it."
"Sean, it's the one year anniversary of us moving to Ireland," he said in a happy tone of voice, but it was, by far, less cheerful than my mom's way of talking.
"So?" I said with a lot of attitude. I hated Ireland. Not because it was a bad place with bad people, but because it was not my home. I missed New York with a yearning sadness and rejoicing our departure from that great place made me mad.
"'So?'" Quinn repeated. She looked like a told her that her face looked like trout. "Darling, it's been one year! We've been here a year and we've loved it here for a year. I thought we wouldn't last two weeks because of our attachment to New York, but we made it! You should be happy."
"Hey, ma, but I'm not," I replied as I stood up. "I'm sorry, but I don't feel like celebrating. Can I change and meet you guys downstairs?"
They soon nodded and left my room.
After the closed my bedroom door, I fell limply onto my bed. I laid there, eagle spread, completely hopeless. I wanted to go back to sleep, to go back to a happier place, but I couldn't. I was up and fully awake. No matter how much I wanted to pass out, I just could not.
The reason why I sought to back to bed was because it reminded of a happier time. It made me think of a time of love, peace, optimism, brotherhood, friendship – everything that I didn't have here. But the funny thing was that it wasn't memories, per say, in my dreams; it was just something familiar – like a feeling – in my dreams that made me desire to go back.
The dreams were never elaborate or adventurous or mind-boggling. There was just something homey about it that made it feel like I was reliving an event or fulfilling a past duty. The dreams consisted of pictures, cut out images, of the most random things. There were even sounds and smells in there. Sometimes, instead of a random sweet smell or a crash of glass (I heard a lot of things falling, like, in a lab or something because it sounded like a klutz knocking down beakers), I would smell, like, the ocean and listen to a girl's laugh.
My favorite dream was when I heard someone's voice say my name. Nothing was in the dream. Just a sound. It was definitely a dude's voice, though. But it was a nice tone. It wasn't mean or taunting, like the guys at my new school. It was kind, steady, strong, caring. It had to belong to a boy who was like brother to someone or someone who'd take a bullet for his best mate.
Another dream I liked was the one where the word "Havok," in messy, black lettering, showed up in my head. I really had no idea what it meant (it was misspelled) or who's handwriting it was. But it stayed with me, you know? One day at school, my math teacher caught me doodling "Havok + Banshee = 4ever" in my notebook. I told her that I didn't mean to do it, that I just drew it unconsciously, but she did not believe me. When she called my parents in later that day, they asked me what meaning the doodle had, but I couldn't answer because I didn't know. I still don't know.
Although its meaning remained a mystery, I wrote on my left wrist, nice and big. Because I wrote it with a Sharpie, it didn't come out easily. And since I was not big on baths, it never washed off. Occasionally I just stared at it and then, out of nowhere, chance pictures popped up in my head – like a wheelchair, a ship, a funny looking helmet, a chess set, and the color blue with scales and fur. But the weirdest image was one of short, Blonde hair. For some reason, I felt like I knew where that hair belonged but I didn't. I felt like I've touched it before too, but I did not remember from where.
After lying in bed for about fifteen minutes, my mom and dad called me down for chocolate chip pancakes. I get dressed in an old green T-shirt (which I felt strange connection to) and my favorite jeans before running downstairs. When there, I saw Mom cooking up a storm. There was bacon, eggs, sausage, pancakes, waffles, and ham. There was so much food on our breakfast table that I could not see the actual table.
Even if I was cranky that morning, my hormonal teenage boy hunger won me over. I dug in and stuffed my face happily. And even though I felt like utter shit that morning, I made my mom glad by eating every edible thing on that table.
It was 7:46 when I looked wearily that the clock that hung over the stove. Because I had a very important test to fail that day, I kissed my mom and bid my dad good-bye before I ran out of the house like a mad man.
My hatred for Ireland in general could not even compare to my hatred for my school. I loathed that school with such hatred that people could almost smell it on me. My school was filled with a bunch of jerks that did not help the cause. The teachers, too, were the devil's children. And they hated me as much as I hated them. That was why I was guaranteed an F for every test, pop quiz, and anything else that had a grade.
That was why, for the rest of the day, I daydreamed of the day that I would go back to New York figure everything out. Deep down in my heart, I knew it was not dreams that invaded my mind at night, but actual memories. I did not know from where or when, but I knew that they were real. I knew that a genuine guy lived out there – who knows where – who had a voice that belonged to angels and probably had glorious hair. I knew that the wheelchair in my dreams had a reason of being there. I understood that the helmet, the chess set, the sound of crashing science equipment, the color blue, the ocean, and everything else I dreamt of during that first year in Ireland had a cause of coming to me over and over again. I knew that if it was simply a dream and that it was just my imagination, I would have not dreamt of it so much.
That was I knew that that kiss I "dreamed" of in the early hours of the morning meant something special.