Notes: WHOO-HOO! Lance angst ^-^; Uh...there’s some pretty bad language in here ^^ I used ‘fuck’ a lot. Oh yes, if you are a Jean fan, you are now warned that she is called a bitch VERY often. *blinkblink* So um...steer clear, I guess. This is a first person POV (Point Of View) with Lance (I made no secret about it), and it’s really dark. While I usually have a tendency to make Lance wayyyy nicer than he should be, I portray him as the bitter, antagonistic, Jean-hating guy he is in this fic o.o So, um, hate Jean? Love Lance? Love L/S? Love angsty bitter monologues? C’mon in ^-^

Additional Notes: This is _not_ betad.

Enjoy, and please give me C&C!!!

“blah.” People speak
-- uh...scene switch

--

When one of your school’s star students shows up at your door drenched and teary-eyed, you don’t just turn them away. Especially if that star student happens to be friends with your lust slash love interest. It was fairly late at night when she showed up, perfect mascara running, cherry lipstick smudged. God, I loved seeing that. It wasn’t needed to fake a smirk, not that it had ever been needed, as I leaned against the doorjamb, not bothering to invite her in out of the downpour.

“Jean Grey,” I noted slowly, drawing it out as if relishing the syllables. Don’t give a crap about you, I added mentally with disdain. Her viridian eyes met mine, distant yet trembling with aloof pride. The bitch had probably been crying. Serves her right.

I took in her soaked state, sneering slightly at how she probably felt ashamed at showing up. Her fiery hair was plastered to her milky skin and face, hued a burnished copper by the cold rain. The outfit she commonly wore was drenched and clung to her sticky skin. Right then and there, any other guy would’ve keeled over from lust overdose. I thought she was the ugliest thing I had ever seen.

“What the hell do you want?” The smirk unfurled itself from my lips as I continued watching her warily. She frowned slightly, dark eyebrows drawing together, before she said quietly, her voice still honey-sweet despite her distressed state. God, I hate her. I hated how she cried without making her eyes red and sunken, how she could sob and not roughen her voice, how she could be so absolutely fuckin’ perfect. Just perfect. Nothing less for Professor X’s lapdog student, eh?

I wrenched my thoughts away from there, and arched an eyebrow as Jean Grey of the popular and beautiful, whispered, “Fuck me.”

_What_?! Since when did the goody-good X-men go around sleeping with the enemy? “Lance Alvers and his buddies?” Since when did _Jean Grey_, the abso-fuckin’-lutely, disgustingly _perfect_ girl slash student slash walking conscience go around asking guys to bang her? Did hell freeze over yet again?

I stared at her, feeling slightly disturbed yet unable to keep the smug grin that graced my lips as surely as my mask kept me away from the rest of the world.

“What, ol’ One-Eye wasn’t good enough?”

Oh, I bet he is...I bet he’s so fuckin’ delicious that the bitch in front of me couldn’t ever appreciate it enough. Jean just watched me silently. My smile widened. Let her read my thoughts, I snickered mentally, maybe they’d even turn her on. Then I knew she had been poking around inside my head when she flushed slightly and averted her gaze.

Or maybe my question had hit a nerve. It didn’t matter. I agreed to the two-word phrase she first spoke to me when I opened the door. If only to make Summers--Scott--jealous. It confused Missy Grey, I think, because she glanced, baffled, at me when the thought crossed my mind. Like I was going to tell her. Bitch.

But it had me thinking. Why would Jean want to fuck _me_? Leader of the opposite team...did she get into a spat with her pseudo-boyfriend? Or was it just for the thrill? Afterwards, it was all I could think about, ‘why?’ It didn’t make sense, but then again, nothing really did. Trying to make Scott jealous had to be the stupidest thing I had ever attempted, yet it actually worked. Or maybe that bitch was flaunting it in his face that I had screwed her.

A week later, Pietro asked me why the hell I’d want to make ‘Shades’ jealous if I had such a fuckin’ ‘thing’ for him. I wondered that myself. Maybe it was so that he’d think about me, that he’d acknowledge my existence, besides always pretending to be Yoda and spouting off crap about how we--the Brotherhood--were bad news, then trying to rip my head off before forgetting completely about the whole thing. I’d rather he hate me than ignore me...because then he’d think about me. Pathetic.

I hate it when I think too much. I hate it when it’s all I can do; I need _action_. I’d rather be out beating the shit out of someone rather than sit and brood over whatever romantic interest I had. It’s especially stupid since he’s on the opposite team, but of course, I didn’t really give a damn. I have a responsibility to the Brotherhood, but the ‘Brotherhood’ doesn’t care about who I’m sleeping with. Maybe it was bad to fuckin’ fall in love with the other team leader, but Pietro, Todd, and Fred know that life’s too short to care about that. All I really care about is taking the emotion and running with it. Of course, nothing will probably happen...but such is life.

The other night, I asked her why she was hangin’ with a guy like me. I didn’t really care; just wanted to know if the bitch had some ulterior motive. I hate people like that. I hate her. She told me it was for the thrill. Told me that Scott...Summers was being too clingy. Damn him. Then she told me that he kept spazzing about us being together. It made me happy in a sadistic, twisted way. But part of me hated myself for putting him through that. Being leader was tough--I knew that, but I didn’t care. That was what was so great about being me most of the time...I don’t care. But with Summers...Scott, I don’t know what to think, what to feel. And I have no clue what the hell to call him. Summers? Scott? Cyclops? Cyke? Lover-boy? Shades? _Fuck_. Well, the last one doesn’t count...

I hate her so much. Jean Grey...who the hell does she think she is? Always talking like she’s all high and mighty when she’s just a spoiled brat. She doesn’t know _shit_...if she wants to know what life on the streets is like, then maybe she should get off her fuckin’ high horse and look around. They’re all the same...’cept maybe Scott...Summers. At least he has a freakin’ clue about what it’s like. I hate it when people talk down on us like they know what we’re “going through” when they don’t know _anything_.

When Summers stopped giving me the evil eye and started ignoring me, I began to think that maybe screwing with Red was a bad idea. Who knows what the hell she’s been tellin’ him...probably playing mindgames and fucking with his sense of loyalty to the X-men. Pisses me off. Maybe ‘cause I know that the whole thing is beneath him...or maybe because I want him so bad that even _Fred_ knows it. Well...not Fred. The day he figures it out is the day I come to school stoned, jump up onto the X-geeks’ lunch table, and toss my boxers into the air while dry humping Summers/Scott’s leg. ...Interesting mental image, don’t you think? That’s what I thought. I bet Red’d enjoy the show, too...Stupid bitch.

Maybe I’m a little bitter, but I think I’m entitled to it. Parents were abusive, friends got killed, went to jail at least 2 times--would’ve been 3, but I broke out--and all that shit...Yeah, Jean Grey, star student and star fuckin’ cheerleader really shouldn’t be hanging out with a bad boy like me. In hindsight, I should’ve been at least glad that a chick that tight came to me wanting to screw. And I don’t mean tight socially.

But I hate her. I’ve never truly hated anyone in my life so much...maybe it’s because she embodies everything that I’ve ever despised. Not just figureheads of authority, either. But perfection in a calculatingly cruel way...the type of perfect that a serial killer would aim for. No, let me rephrase that, ‘cause if she was like that...she’d be remotely cool. She’s so abso-fuckin’-lutely perfect and she _knows_ it. She uses it. She screws with people’s heads and they worship her for it. Nothing’s ever gone wrong for her in life...whoop-dee-doo, she can read minds and lift things! The horror! Like hell. She never had to go through the shit that the rest of us had to. Hell, most of the X-geeks haven’t had to. But her...Jean Grey with her two-syllable name and two-faced nature--God, I hate her.

If she’s so fucking good and sweet then why the hell does she smirk to herself every time she sees one of us coming down the hall? Yeah, I see it. I can see it...this faint glimmer of sardonic amusement lighting her eyes, and playful pity...she _knows_ we don’t want pity, and she _knows_ she would never give it because she doesn’t fuckin’ want to. But she does it anyway, because she knows it grates on our nerves. ‘cause she knows what makes everyone tick. And she still does it now, even after she showed up at my doorstep--our doorstep--and asked, almost commanded, me to fuck her. Bitch.

She’s in accelerated English with me...smart-ass Juniors with the bad-ass Seniors. What a concept. One of the girls found a dead robin, and they decided to have a commemorative service for it. It sucked. Not because of the bird--hell, I would’ve thanked its tiny carcass for getting me out of class, but because of having to see Red getting all teary and whispering in her sugar-sweet voice, dripping with lies, ‘Can I lead the service? I-It’d mean so much to me...’

Everyone thought she was such a ‘sweetheart,’ or a ‘darling.’ It was a fucking bird! And she would’ve probably used her telekinesis to knock the critter out of a tree if only to coo and gush and cry over it. I hate her. I fucking totally hate her.

She doesn’t know what she’s dealing with. She doesn’t know how close she’s coming to getting burnt--she thinks she can ‘handle’ it. She thinks she can handle me. Yeah, right...like I’d let any brown-nosing bitch take reign over me.

Who does she think she is? Maybe at the Institute, people give a damn about what she says, or what she thinks she knows, but here...Heh, she doesn’t _belong_ here. When she rings the doorbell and smiles that simpering smile of hers at Pietro as he opens it, he scowls at her and tells her to just get the fuck in. When she goes into the living room, Todd cranks up the volume of the tube so loud that it hurts her ears and she has to leave. Once, Fred nearly broke her arm when she tried to open a closet. She doesn’t belong here. And I love that.

Pietro asks me all the time why the hell I let her come. I tell him because I _let_ her. She doesn’t just waltz in, like she can stay and be here and be loved. She comes to fuck, and when I do so, it’s not because I want to, or because I care. It’s because that’s what it is...fucking. And she knows it. When I told him that, Pietro smirked a little and shook his head. We all have our tiny quirks, and sometimes they don’t make sense. But Pietro and I understand each other perfectly well. We’re both more or less ‘control-freaks,’ as Todd coins it. It’s either that or ‘dictator of the crappy remote,’ but that title belongs solely to Pietro.

And do you know what else I hate about Jean Grey? She kissed him. She kissed Scott Summers. Okay, maybe they weren’t together before, but they sure are now. Oh, yeah, I got her figured out. Fuck me, tell Scott, advise Scott, fuck Scott. It’s like some kind of fuckin’ cycle. Right, so she thinks she can just screw with me, go behind my back, and then expect me to do nothing? She doesn’t know shit. She doesn’t know me. And she has no fuckin’ clue what the real, _real_ world is like.

Not her goddamn ‘Oh, my life is ruined ‘cause I’m “different”’ sitcom. The world the rest of us outside the mansion live in. The world with cheap lays and used condoms littering the ashen sidewalk, where people don’t care if you’re pretty, smart, or perfect, where people don’t care if you have family, or where you’re comin’ from. The _real_ world, baby--that’s what it’s about. It’s about screwing others over and protecting what real friends you have; it’s about not giving a fuck when someone you hate cries. Maybe it seems a bit pessimistic--but I’m pretty sure I have the privilege of being a fuckin’ downer. Ever been raped? She asked me once after rambling about all the crap she got from Scott’s thoughts. I told her all the details while we were ‘intimate,’ as she calls it. Lil Miss Perfect got up afterwards and threw up all over our bathroom interior. Todd threw a fit and told her either she cleaned it up or she wasn’t leaving. That kid can really spazz sometimes...but then again, it _was_ his turn for bathroom duty.

I can remember all that without a problem. You know why? ‘cause despite it all, I have no remorse. Maybe I feel a little bad for Summers--Scott--for all the crap that Red probably put him through, but he’ll get over it. Jealousy is powerful, but it’s not enough to control a guy like him.

Do you know what else I can remember clearly? I can remember her telling me to come to their fuckin’ ‘estate.’ I can remember her telling me to meet her in the garden ‘cause Scott wanted to talk to me. I remember listening and being a goddamn fool. I remember getting there, and seeing her fucking him.

Have any idea what it’s like, having one of the only people you give a damn about being fucked by the one bitch that’s screwed you over from the start with her very _existence_? God, I hate her. I hate her I hate her I hate her IhateherIhateherI. Hate. Her.

Scott freaked, predictably, and Jean just half-smirked at me. “You had this coming to me,” She told me, and asked, “does this turn you on?” I smiled back, and replied, “Sure, it does.”

I don’t think she was expecting me to take it so well, because she faltered. When she climbed off of Summers, he was gaping at me. I wished I could see his eyes--the expression must’ve been knee-slappin’ tear-jerkin’ abso-fuckin’-lutely hilarious. If you were a cold-hearted calculating screw-over bitch.

Jean laughed.

Like I said, I don’t think she expected me to take it so well, _or_ to act so nonchalant. Do you know what I also ‘don’t think’? I don’t think she expected me to edge into her room at night; I don’t think she expected me to tie her to her fucking bed; I don’t think she expected me to gag her and tell her that her thoughts meant nothing. I don’t think she expected her room to burst into flames and no one to come running. I don’t think she expected to real world to suddenly rear its ugly head...

I also don’t think Scott Summers expected it. And that’s the only thing I feel sorry about. But he didn’t know. And if he did, he didn’t tell...didn’t tell everyone that I was the one who dragged down Jean Grey’s drapes and tied her up, that I was the one who enkindled the combustible, trendy accessories of hers aflame, that I was the one who hated her so, so, _so_ much. The other day, I thanked him for it...he just told me to show up for the funeral. Stick up his ass...probably 12 foot long at the tip with the Empire State Building as the main competitor for the rest of it.

It confused me, though, because...didn’t Scott care about Red? I saw them fucking...I saw them kissing, I saw them acting in love. Bitch. She probably altered his mind. I didn’t bother to think about it too hard, though...no use getting pissed at the dead.

The others weren’t surprised that I had killed her. They were startled, though, when I told them that I was going to the funeral. Pietro somewhat understood, Todd though I was crazy, and Fred just didn’t care. All fine by me.

When I got to the cemetery, everyone else thought I was insane, too. Most of the X-geeks looked pretty pissed that I had showed up...but Scott just stood up and gestured to one of the seats up front. It was so damn sunny--it made me feel glad. Seemed as if the world sided with me...now, if only Pryde would stop sobbing hysterically. I guess I can relate, though...losing someone close to you hurt a lot. But I couldn’t help but wonder if everyone here would still cry if they knew what Red was _really_ like...then again, they probably wouldn’t believe me.

After the elaborate, flowery ceremony was over, everyone paid their respects to the fresh grave that held the remains of her body. I wished I could spit on it and burn the gaily colored blossoms like I burned her useless loathsome body. The professor was talking to a few policemen...probably about finding out who did it. Let them try. Summers didn’t seem inclined to tell anyone about it, so far, and though that in itself seemed questionable, I wasn’t about to dissect it and get all deep and profound.

I smiled thinly down on the grave, watching the marble glisten in the gleaming sun. She was dead. God, I hated her. It seems ironic that no matter what the situation is, I always seem to hate her. And now that she was gone, I hated her more. I hated how the grass was neatly trimmed about the corners of her headstone, and how so much floral was scattered atop the plot of land like a coverlet of bright, colorful snow. I hated how everyone was crying that she was gone. I hated how she seemed even more loved now that she was dead...‘how tragic,’ I heard, ‘She was so young and beautiful.’ Beautiful...don’t forget ‘venomous,’ I told them silently, bitterly. The whole affair made me sick to my stomach. I hate how everyone always cries at funerals, even if the person didn’t deserve it.

When everyone was finally gone, it was just me and her. Jean Grey, the ever-perfect abso-fuckin’-lutely over-privileged bitch...and me. Lance Alvers. Indescribable in just one word...Pietro called me an enigma once. Told me I had too many moodswings. If Scott had told me that, I would’ve been thrilled...’cause that would’ve meant that he gave a damn, that he noticed. Now I wasn’t sure where I stood with Scott Summers...but I’d find out.

Right now, though...it was about me and Jean. Jean and me. No...never Jean and me...she doesn’t deserve to come first. She’s not better than me...she’s not better than anyone. Fuck her.

Her grave is so prettily done up, like how meticulous her make-up had always been when she had been alive. Had been. Those words...so delicious. Makes me want to hum a lively tune...to be happy. To forget about the real world.

Instead, though, I made myself remember. I remembered all the hatred, all the jealousy, anger, bitterness. I remembered all the darkness, agony, despair, loneliness. I remembered her kissing Scott, pressing her soft white hands against him, and I remember myself wishing I could see his eyes. Why would I want to see his eyes?

To know whether or not he was enjoying it. To know whether or not I still had a chance.

I remembered and remembered until my memory ran dry...and then, I imagined the stark black river of hateful memories and distant pasts running down past the cheerful yet mournful flowers, withering them at a touch. Down, down into the earth, it trickled...all the bitterness she caused me, all the hurt she could’ve caused Scott. I left all that behind. I left them with her.

In the quiet sunlit cemetery, I stared down intently at the grave, feeling my heart lighten. The start of it all? I remembered. And I also hoped she’d remember, too, wherever she was.

“Know what?” I whispered, voice hushed not in reverence, but as if imparting some hurtful secret,

“That’s what you get for playing with fire.”

fin