The Funeral
It had been a good day.
Morph could work a camera and an audience like no one else, but there are only so many times you can reveal personal lore like your mom dying from cancer before the story starts to get stale. Or they try to ask about the asshole dad you pointedly didn’t mention. Everyone wants to see drama or trauma, but both were a little too fresh on Morph’s mind right now.
So instead they slept in and spent most of their afternoon shooting hoops with Logan, who had gone fully feral at the mere suggestion of sitting still and suffering stupid questions. He did laugh at Morph’s idea for his chiron, though: “Name: Logan Howlett. Powers: Angry, Hairy, Stabby. More at 11.”
Then Morph’s world shrank down, down, down to that horrifying video on the television screen and the shock of the household around it.
Now, every moment before the “Genosha Genocide” feels like a different life.
The next several days were a blur of grief. It was like waking up from a nightmare, only to find you were still in it.
It poured at Gambit’s funeral. The pounding rain on Morph’s umbrella made them flinch; the sight of Gambit’s casket made them sick. But the hardest part by far was Rogue’s eulogy.
Everyone knew it’d be rough. What Morph didn’t expect was how much it would resonate with their biggest fears.
“I didn’t tell him…he didn’t know…” she choked out.
The umbrella trembled in Morph’s grip.
“Don’t make my mistake…”
That will be me, Morph realized. That will be me, and that’s if I’m lucky to survive.
Rogue’s devastating words reverberated in Morph’s brain; the heartbreak in her voice would haunt them forever. The ceremony turned to background noise as their own existential panic set in. Their thoughts spiraled; even Logan, standing strong and sure beside them, faded away.
I can’t—if she couldn’t, how could I—? And what does it matter, in the face of extinction?
Or am I just a coward, finding another excuse to hide?
Morph was transported back to another time. A time when they were again standing in the rain, but they were soaked. Small. And so, so happy and so, so muddy. And then their dad came home early, and they couldn’t hide in time. He was screaming at their mom and screaming at them, furious because they were in a dress. Would they have done it all again, if they knew what would happen? The pain of the memory feels so unnecessary, especially considering how it spoiled the joy of that day.
There are consequences to being honest. Real, painful consequences. Can I handle more pain, when losing Gambit—losing so many people—is already so much?
Morph was wrenched back into reality by the warmth of Logan’s hand closing over theirs.
“Hey,” Logan muttered softly. With a gentle tug he took over holding up the umbrella, then pointedly held his elbow out and side-eyed Morph to offer his arm in exchange. Morph noted—mostly out of habit—that they were in the back of the crowd; this wouldn’t draw any attention. (They kind of hated that they did that.) Latching onto his arm like a life raft, Morph let their head rest on his shoulder. Because they could. Because they needed it.
Morph sighed quietly, grounding themself. Logan, of course, was unfazed; sturdy as ever. It almost made them chuckle.
The ceremony continued. The casket started being lowered into the grave.
Goodbye, Gambit, Morph thought. You were the best of us.
As it ended, Morph gave Logan a final squeeze and disentangled themself. Their neck would be sore from the odd angle, but it was more than worth it.
“Thank you,” Morph said quietly, as the two of them made their way back to the mansion.
“‘S no good keeping it inside,” Logan replied, eyes trained straight ahead. “You need someone to lean on, you find me, okay? “ Then he grinned, or as close to it as anyone got lately, and turned to Morph. “You need someone to fight, you find me faster.”
Morph gave a ghost of a smile in return. “Always knew stabbing was your love language,” they teased.
“What?” Logan asked with mock indignancy. “It counts as touch.”
Morph wasn’t sure if he knew how funny that was.