BY : Blu
Category: X-men Comics > Slash - Male/Male
Dragon prints: 3085
Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men comics, or any of the characters from it. I make no money from from the writing of this story.

Part 1 of 8. "Memoirs of a Russian"

1852 words

Characters copyright and property of Marvel Comics Group. Story and plot copyright 2002 Blu Fiction and property of Atomic Fantasy all rights reserved. Please contact the author for archive permission and feedback.

Memoirs of a Russian is dedicated to the forgotten, the unknown, the soldiers.


'Fastball Special', I remember him say. Ask. I loved to hear him ask me. In his strong, gruff voice. Battles always made me tired. They always made me horny, as well, but I never told anyone. Of course, I didn't need to tell him. His nose could pick it up.

And who was I? The strong silent one. The one nobody could read. The one nobody spoke to because I couldn't speak much back. I was the one without any identity. That was my identity. I had none.

Wretching late-night in the bathroom off the side of my own small room. I was drained from where we had been. It had taken a lot out of me. I could never figure out why, though. I still don't know. I think I was nervous.

This place is very new to me. I feel out of sorts with these people and their American ways. I don't really understand what goes on around me. They all smile and laugh when I talk but I don't know what they are finding so funny. I don't make jokes, not really. I tried once but it came out badly.

Logan was the only one who knew me. We didn't need words, not much. He knew. He always knew. Knew my moods like a man knows his own cock. Knew that pretty well, too.

He and I had some fun. At first it was nothing. Playful flirtatiousness, maybe. I don't think that, in those first years here, when we both joined, I really knew what I was. What I am. What I would become. I knew nothing of the world outside our small farm, and the Siberian countryside. I knew nothing of mutants nor x-men. Nothing of space and intergalactic travel. How could I know? I was naive. I was young. I was only a boy, really.

Boys do have fun, though. I'd nearly forgotten what I was, back then. Until Logan reminded me.

It was late one night. I was unable to sleep and had gone out back to look at the stars. I loved stars. I loved their beauty, their sanctity, their pristine untouchableness. Something so much bigger than we are. At least, I had loved them until I found myself traveling to several of them. But that's not part of this story.

As I said we had just returned from our trip. I had been sick. I felt sick, inside. I was lonely. I felt alienated. I knew it wasn't anybody's intent, certainly. I missed my home, my family, my little sister, my brother. Mom and dad.

As I gazed at the stars, enjoying the feel of a cool night breeze on the exposed flesh of my body - I often sat at night wearing only my nishorshorts - I thought I heard a rustle among the woods to the left of me. I discounted it as the wind, but when I saw a shadow slip out from them in the moonlight, I got up in concern.

My first thought was that an intruder had come onto the grounds, somehow. I was already morphed into the Colossus - a name I had disliked since they gave it to me the first day of training - without a thought. But my caution was unfounded, when I heard his voice.

"Cool it, Petey," he said. In that gloriously hard voice he uses. Used.

"Wolverine - I - I didn't know it was you," I answered him dumbly. They all thought I was dumb, I knew.

"How's the night?" he asked, sitting himself down on the grass next to my matted spot, to my surprise.

"It's good, tonight. Clear." I joined him in my own place, turning back up to the stars. We each reclined in the moonlight and for moments all was quiet and still. It was so nice to do that, I remember. To just lay and not feel.

"What bings ya out here, this hour?"

"I could ask the same."

He grinned at me like a devil, with sharp teeth gleaming in the pale light. "Aww, come on - you know me."

I didn't. Not really. But I understood. "I'm out here because I can't sleep," I answered.

"What's eatin' ya?"


"That means: 'What's bothering you - why can't you sleep?'"

"Oh." Most of the students didn't bother to explain their American phrases to me. It made me glad, for some reason, that Logan did. Even that small gesture on his part opened my eyes to him as a man. Of course, at the time, I could hardly express myself in the right ways. "I'm not having a good time, here," I said. "I feel left out. The others - don't talk to me as much, and I can't talk ok, you know, so I am alone."

But why on earth would he have ever understood that? Him, the man of the hour, always in the spotlight, always being called to the Professor's for something or other. Knowing now what I didn't then, I know he understood it best of anyone.

"Yer a big man, Pete," he said, looking over at me. I felt like he was looking at me, not saying it but with his eyes. "You can handle things. It'll work out. Is it true what they say about Russians?"

I was lost at the turn in converation. I wasn't sure what he was getting at - or if I had missed something. I thought I did. "What?" I asked dumbly, again.

"You know," and he threw me another of those heart-melting devil's smiles. I turned on my side, head in elbow, to look on him better. He was shirtless, too. But where I was smooth, he was covered in dense dark hair from neck to navel. He was smaller than me. Much smaller, but he had a compact weight to him, a presence, a finely honed physical virility and primal sexuality. I realized this as I now looked at him for the first time, not as Wolverine but as Logan the man, who was speaking to me not as Colossus, nor as Piotr the dumb Russian, but as Pete his friend.

I smiled back at him. I couldn't help but throw in a grin of my own. "No, what?"

"Do you all kiss other guys?"

"Sometimes." I was still smiling, he was looking somehwat smug.


"Friendship. Trust. Family - it's like you Americans shaking hands."

"So whaddoya do when yer in love fer real, then?"

"We kiss."

"Pull out the big sausage do ya?"


"Nothin'. How does yer girl know that you love her then, if yer always kissin' men?"

"I don't kiss girls."

"You mean unless you love them."

How could I have explained it at the time? I was young. I hardly knew how to say enough words to talk, and certainly not to express my feelings on love and men. "No," I said, laying flat on my back again, sighing deep because I knew I was nervous now. I had said the wrong thing. He would hate me, maybe even attack me. Or worse, he wouldn't talk to me again. But I could only go on, now that it was said. "I don't kiss girls. No ... sex, " the unfamiliar word that I knew was hot in America stuck on my tongue; I'd heard the other students talk about it and it always set them off into quiet or giggles. "I don't have it. With girls."

And then Logan turned a serious eye on me. He looked at me, I could feel him. Just staring. Not saying anything.

And then, just when I was going to get up and go in because I couldn't enjoy the sky anymore, I felt one of his thick-fingered, strong hands running the length of my chest and stopping on my left, just laying there.

"That?" he asked me quietly but with a serious edge to his voice. "That's what you like?"

I could only nod in mute silence. My heart pounded, and it only pounded faster when he, not saying anything more, ran his hand down to my night-shorts, and put one finger under the waist. I knew what it looked like down there. I could feel myself growing, straining. I was suddenly embarrassed. I didn't want him to see me, not so fast - not like that.

"Logan, I" I put a hand to his and brought it away, "Please - I ..." I couldn't think of what I wanted to say in the right words in english, so I got redder and redder until he finally grunted and laid back. I let out a sigh of frustration. "Thanks," I said.

He was gone when I turned my head. I didn't know whether to be happy, then, or to cry for myself. I wouldn't cry, though. I wouldn't. I was not old but I was neither a boy of 12. I could handle it - I would - like my papa had done. Always be stern, always be fierce, never show doubt. But the last part of his advice I never seemed to remember. It came to me while I walked back to my room, and as I lay down, I thought on it. 'But don't be afraid to cry - even strong men must cry.'

I mouthed the words as I dozed off. Years later I wouldn't forget a dream I had that night. Logan came to my room, and he was naked. He said nothing nor did I. Words wouldn't work. He pushed himself down onto me, and I wept, not for sadness, but for joy. I felt tears slide down my face while he said things to me, in my ear. He made me feel so good. 'Hey Petey,' he said, 'how bout a Fastball Special?' I grinned at his inferences, and with a smile I knew was large on my face, and deep Russian words pouring out of my throat, I gave him what he wanted.

I woke the next day to an empty bed, of course, realizing it had only been a dream. It didn't matter, though. Logan and I shared a bond from then on - it would last a long time. Sometimes, now, I miss him. I wonder about him, where he is and what he is doing - if he has met a nice girl and settled down, or if he is still chasing his own demons. I wasn't the only lonely person, that night on the lawn. He was lonely, too. I will never forget his touch, the look in his eye, the gleam of his teeth in moonlight, the feelin his his heavy weight on me. I won't ever forget the way he talked to me, the way he felt next to me. I won't forget our special bond. More than anything, I won't forget that he was my friend.

- P. N. Rasputin, 11 Feb


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