Title: States of Mind: The Farewells
Author: Ashlea Ensro
Feedback: ::whining:: pleeeeeaaaaaaasssse? morleyphile@yahoo.com
Rating: R for not-at-all graphic m/m interaction and disturbing themes.
Category: VRA
Spoilers: up to "One Son".
Keywords: M/K slash, post-colonization, implied character death
Archive: yes, but let me know.
Disclaimer: I don't think they'd want to be owned by me. Every time I get them together, 
one of them dies. The States of Mind series was created by Umberto Boccioni, and look 
what happened to him.

Summary: A farewell at a train station.

Author's Note: You've heard of songfic; this is paintingfic. Specifically, it is based on 
Boccioni's "States of Mind" of 1911. There are three paintings: "The Farewells", "Those 
Who Go", and "Those Who Stay", representing the artist's belief that the world was at a 
crucial turning point, and humanity was to be given the choice of plunging headfirst into 
the future or to remain mired in the past. The paintings are on my site at 
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/7599/states.html, if you'd like to see them.

Futurism was a mainly Italian movement around the turn of the century. It was 
characterized by a modified Cubist style meant to depict motion and simultaneous points of 
view - but more importantly, by a love for modern technology and warfare, a pervasive 
misogyny, fascist politics, and an urge to destroy the past. (There'll be a test on this later.)

It should also be noted that the opinions of Boccioni and the other futurists are not opinions 
I share. :)

This is one of three stories; they can be read in any order.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
States of Mind: The Farewells
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"What's the matter, Krycek? I thought you were going to save the world."

If Krycek is moved, he gives no indication. He wants to say something philosophical, 
something that will justify this final act of surrender, something that will make him out to 
be less of a coward. Instead, he rests his forehead against the cool silver of his stiletto 
weapon and stares out at Mulder with verdant detachment.

"Would you like to die now or later?" he asks. He might be inquiring the time of day.

He starts to stand, but he never makes it. Mulder tries to grab his arm; grabs the wrong 
arm, a painful tug against the younger man's scarred stump, to which Krycek lashes out 
instinctively. Mulder throws him against the wall and they both experience at once the rush 
of familiarity which masquerades now as desire.

Look outward. They are in a train station. It is the end of the world. Mulder leans in to kiss 
his enemy, but it is too late; the sky is dark and hums like electricity, the drone of a 
thousand bees.

The word "last" has resonance. It echoes across the deserted landscape. For the very last 
time. At last.

"Does it make you happy?" Krycek asks.

"To die?" Mulder offers a weak half-smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"To have been right, all this time."

The question is unanswerable. Krycek waits for a response. When there is none, he says, 
almost a whisper, "Come with me."

"I have to find her."

He does not specify who *she* is; his sister, Scully, his mother, it could be any of them, 
their identities melded together and slashed by the pounding rain. It does not matter, the 
name of the woman for whom he searches. He has been searching so long that his own 
death can be the only resolution.

"Live," Krycek says. It is a plea. He has never begged in his life.

Mulder opens his mouth before realizing that he had done so in the intention to apologize. 
He will not apologize, not to this man, not to his enemy, and not for a sacrifice that is his 
alone to make. "No," he replies.

Gripped by a sudden inspiration for melodrama, Krycek says, "Then kiss me."

Mulder's lips are cold and desperate, his eyes shut and shadowed in the flickering light. 
His grip on the younger man is more powerful; more arms give him the advantage. The 
warmth of Krycek's human hand against the back of his neck is a harsh contrast to the 
mechanical coolness that cuts into him as he reaches for the other arm.

The shadows turn Krycek's once handsome face into a twisted mask. As Mulder pulls 
away, he does not recognize the man who faces him.

"I have to leave," Krycek says, "They're waiting for me."

Need is a stranger; Mulder resists reaching for him again. "A little longer," he says. He 
leans forward, slowly draws open the zipper of the younger man's leather jacket. Krycek 
does not encourage him, nor does he pull away; he stands there, eyes focused on a distant 
horizon.

"They will leave without me."

"Then stay."

If he regrets this surrender, he does not show it.

"I have to leave," Krycek says, "We all make our choices." He places the weapon on the 
cement floor in front of Mulder. When he walks, it is backwards in deference to the 
building wind.

Mulder slips further into the shelter of the wall. The storm is rising, insect swarms 
drowning out even the pale globe of the moon.

"Stop me," Krycek whispers.

Mulder hesitates. He closes his eyes.

Neither of them remember to say goodbye.

When, past the railroad tracks, it occurs to Krycek to look back, he sees only a deserted 
train station.

There is the light of a ship in front of him, cut by the driving diagonals of rain, a hundred 
times brighter than a speeding car along the highway. He opens his arms to welcome it, the 
sound of the descent overpowering even the noise of the swarm.

Ten minutes later, the last train goes by, and it does not stop for passengers.