A/N: When I started writing this, I don't think I intended for there to be any twincest. Eh, whatever; I like how this turned out.
Pairings: slight Pietro/Wanda
Rating: M/R for safety
Summary: There was never a tale of more woe/Than that of Wanda and her Pietro.
Warnings: Slight feelings of incest/twincest, strong emotions, ramblings, character death.
There was never a tale of more woe
Than that of Wanda and her Pietro
Pietro (Quicksilver) stood over Wanda (the Scarlet Witch). Shocked, appalled blue eyes to matching, losing-color-fast ones.
They had been close when they were children. When Wanda had been locked away, they had grown apart; a wedge had been placed between them. But they were twins-and twins are two parts to one whole. It was inevitable that they would meet up again one day.
In an instant, they had hated their shared father-and each other. Yet, Pietro had no real reason to hate his sister. And if he was honest with himself, he didn't; Pietro despised himself. And Magneto, but mostly himself.
What he had done to Wanda, let be done to her… What the girl had survived… What had hurt and burned at his sister for all those years…
(He sometimes-often-wondered if maybe he should have been the one committed. After what he did, what he had done for no good reason, Pietro was convinced he was insane. It wasn't as if Magneto had ever been a good father. He should have chosen a different side. One that was actually good to him. Doing the exact opposite was just more proof that he was positively crazy.)
It would be useless to apologize. He knew she would never forgive him; she couldn't, for so many reasons. If roles were switched, he wouldn't be humble or merciful either. He didn't deserve it.
He wasn't good at apologizing, regardless of if he could still say it or not. Saying sorry just wasn't his thing. Pietro didn't live up to being less-than-perfect, and that's just what apologizing did: it admitted an error, cut delicate silk. Apologizing was like aiming light directly on an old oil painting-one just did not do it if the painting was to be preserved.
Sorries, hate, blame, self-loathing…none of it mattered. Not now, not with his twin at his feet, staring up with accusing and questioning eyes, her body cold. Flies were buzzing around her, grating Pietro's ears.
She was silently asking him, "Why?"
He had no plausible answer for her.
Suddenly, he was reminded of a play he had read in school, Romeo and Juliet. In it, so many had died-stupidly. One was accidentally stabbed in a fight, then Romeo had avenged him. Then he had killed Juliet's suitor, and himself. After that Juliet woke up and, seeing her love dead, stabbed herself. One of their mothers had died from heartbreak at her child's death.
He let out a laugh, demented and wild and unstable, as he kneeled down because the story reminded him so much of him and Wanda; forsaken and star crossed from the start.
Except, in this version, Romeo killed Juliet.