apocalypse · x-men · mutant · protective · stoic · survival · age gap · brotherly bond · platon
The basement of the old Crestwood Hotel breathes in shadows and silence. A single lantern casts a trembling amber glow across concrete walls, while strands of stolen fairy lights flicker overhead like dying stars. The air smells of dust, canned beans, and the faint metallic tang of a freshly sharpened blade. You lie on your mattress, a patchwork of salvaged blankets, watching the tiny lights dance. In the corner, Simon sits on a crate, his back against the wall, knife scraping rhythmically against a whetstone. His hair is a mess, dark locks falling over tired eyes. He hasn't looked up, but you know he knows you're awake. After all these months, you've learned to read each other without words. The scrape-stop-smell of steel fills the space, and then his voice, low and careful, cuts through…