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chapter one
IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE
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THE MAN IS dead before he hits the pavement.

Ceres closes her eyes and scrunches her face against the onslaught of blood that sprays across her skin and clothes. A woman screams from somewhere behind her, splitting the sounds of Brooklyn traffic and disturbing a flock of pigeons that had been pecking at something on the ground.

The warm liquid drips down her face. Ceres slowly peels her eyes open to see a car nearly striking the curb as the driver slams on the brakes, causing the tires to squeal before they can run over the man's body. The semi-truck that had just plowed him continues on like nothing had happened— as if they hadn't just run a red light and killed a man at four in the afternoon on a Tuesday.

Some people don't seem bothered by the accident. Nothing can impede them on their commute to wherever it is they're going, so they step around the mangled corpse that's slowly pooling blood all over the crosswalk, their faces blank. New York has stomped all of the empathy out of them. Maybe in another city, crowds would have gathered to observe the horrific event, pulling their phones out to record or take pictures. It may have made the news. But in this place where you can witness a life-altering event on your morning commute to work on any day of the week, hardly anyone seems bothered.

Ceres still hasn't stepped off of the curb. People bump into her as they push past, eager to cross the street before the timer runs out. She pointedly avoids looking at the man's body but stares down at her clothing as if in a daze. Her white t-shirt has a tidal wave of crimson staining the fabric, causing it to stick to her abdomen. There are a few droplets on her denim pants as well. At least the café she works at requires employees to remove their aprons at the end of their shifts, or else she would have been in even more trouble.

"Oh my God," a woman cries in a trembling voice. Ceres realizes it must be the same one who'd screamed, for every other witness on the sidewalk has already fled the scene. "Are you okay? Here, let me help you."

Ceres belatedly realizes she's talking to her. Still a bit dazed by what had just happened right before her eyes, she turns to see a lady in her forties digging through an enormous purse that may as well double as a bowling bag. Her entire arm seems to disappear in it as she shuffles through her belongings. Eventually, she produces a small packet of tissues and quickly pulls one out, then begins wiping at Ceres's cheeks.

"Oh — Oh Lord," the woman says, her face pinching in dismay. "It's just smearing."

Ceres finally regains her senses enough to speak. "I'm fine, ma'am. Really. Thank you."

The wail of sirens interrupts the rest of their conversation. Police cars and an ambulance arrive at the scene, preparing to block off the area of the accident and take the man to a hospital. A paramedic rushes toward Ceres after spotting the blood on her, but she assures them she isn't injured and that yes, she can make a statement.

Twenty minutes later and she's back on her way. When Ceres reaches the next block, it's almost like nothing ever happened. The sun is shining through the few clouds that sprinkle the azure sky, which is hardly visible through the skyscrapers that frame the streets. People rush by with coffees in their hands. Even though a man had just been killed in a hit-and-run a mere block away, the rest of the world continues on without a blink. Tragedy can strike at any moment and yet others will remain absolutely unaffected.

It had happened so quickly. One moment, the man had been standing in front of her. The crossing light had changed from a red hand to a walking figure. Then the man had taken a step off the curb and the semi had dragged him under before Ceres could utter a sound.

It would have been a very different story if Ceres had been in front of him instead. Getting struck by a truck that large would have hurt, but it wouldn't have killed her. Maybe it wouldn't have hit her at all. The driver would have found a way to slam their foot on the brake at the last second, or swerve out of the way, or complete some other miraculous act to avoid her. All thanks to the curse that protects her from fatal harm.

Ceres enters her apartment with a resigned sigh, then immediately coughs once she inhales again through her mouth. She sputters for a few seconds, waving her hand in front of her nose to dispel some of the smoke clouding the room. Someone else may have thought that their apartment was on fire. Ceres knows better.

Her roommate and eternal pain in the ass sits on the sofa with a cigarette in hand. Ilyas Ravel takes a drag, then lets the smoke blow from his mouth in a cloud that almost obscures his face with its density. His eyes slowly open at the sound of the door closing, which is barely audible over the seventies rock music blaring from the speakers of his beloved stereo. They nearly pop out of his head once he notices Ceres standing in the doorway. He rapidly arcs his arm around as if that could make the plumes of smoke disappear when they've clearly been hanging in the air for a while.

Ceres doesn't know why she even bothers with him anymore. She'd told him to only smoke in his bedroom, but it's clear he hasn't been listening to her. The last time she'd inquired about the slight stench when she'd returned from work, he'd told her he'd burnt some eggs.

You would think, after roughly sixty years of knowing him, she'd be able to see through his bullshit. Apparently he's gotten better at lying. Maybe she should just stop believing a word that comes out of his mouth.

The windows are open, but it still doesn't allow all of the smoke to blow out of the main living area. Ceres' eyes dart to her bedroom door to ensure she'd remembered to close it this morning. Thankfully, it remains shut against the grey haze.

Ilyas extinguishes his cigarette on the ashtray he'd placed on the coffee table — gross — and stands to turn off his stereo. The resulting quiet makes Ceres' ears ring. The smoke causes his brown skin to appear slightly washed-out, but as he walks closer to her, he becomes clearer. His shoulder-length black hair is pushed back from his face as if he'd recently swept a hand through it. There's some day-old stubble lining his jaw, making him appear older. He's only a few inches taller than her, so she's able to glare straight into his face.

"Damn, who'd you kill?" he asks once he notices the drying blood streaked across her face and clothing.

"Nobody, but it'll be you if you smoke in here again," Ceres threatens with a jab in the center of his chest. The harsh action sends a shockwave up her finger and to the rest of her hand, but she doesn't shake it off.

"I don't see why you care. You can't die and my lungs repair themselves."

She starts walking toward the single bathroom to assess the damage, replying over her shoulder as she goes, "I can't go to work smelling like smoke, and that shit clings to everything. I have to deep-clean the furniture again. And need I remind you that your cat doesn't have protection against your horrible habits?"

Though she can't see him anymore, she can tell that Ilyas's face has fallen at the mention of his pet. "I put Chris in your room. You know I don't smoke with her around."

"It lingers," she reminds him. "You're older than me— you should know this stuff. Stop acting like a misguided twenty-something-year-old."

"I am a misguided twenty-something-year-old."

"In appearance, old man."

This is normal. Ceres and Ilyas bicker like siblings, Ceres tries to get Ilyas to change his awful living habits, Ilyas refuses, and then they move on. It's to be expected after being roommates for an unfortunate forty or fifty years.

When Ceres had finally wanted to leave the X-Men mansion in the late seventies, Charles Xavier, her mentor and close friend, had encouraged Ilyas to go along with her. The two of them are the perfect pair if you ignore their clashing personalities. Ilyas's body heals so rapidly that his aging process is slow, leaving him around a hundred years old but resembling someone in their mid-to-late twenties. And Ceres can't die or age past twenty-seven. So, really, while she does curse Charles for forcing her to be stuck with Ilyas, she's also grateful. He's the only person she can count on to stick around.

And with Charles being as old as he is, she'd feel bad about cursing at an elderly man, anyways. At least to his face.

It takes several minutes to wash the blood off of her face. Her time in the X-Men force has left her proficient at dealing with the crimson stains, but she finds the droplets in the most inconvenient places. Behind the shell of her ear. On her temple, dangerously close to her hairline. Where the dip of her collarbone meets her shoulder. She wouldn't be surprised if she found another drop five years from now, at this point.

With her skin feeling raw, she walks to her bedroom, finding Ilyas frantically trying to wave the remaining smoke out of the open windows as she passes through the living area. Ceres opens her door to see a black circle on her bed. At the sound of the door opening, a head pokes up from the circle— Ilyas's cat had been snoozing on her mattress. Chris gives a hoarse mewl of greeting before nestling deeper into the orange covers. Ceres scratches her soft head as she walks to her closet and picks out an outfit that isn't ruined.

"There's a package for you," Ilyas informs her through the wall. "I opened it already."

"That's a federal crime." Ceres emerges with clean clothes and a frown on her face.

"I've committed many of those in my lifetime. One more isn't going to hurt."

Ceres rolls her eyes and finds a plant on the countertop that hadn't been there before; Ilyas must have put it in his room while he smoked. It's the only considerate thing he's done all week. Or, perhaps all month.

The plant is a peace lily in a small, black pot. Its white petals reach skyward as if yearning to touch the heavens. They're surrounded by vibrant green leaves larger than her hand, framing the pot like the rays of the sun.

A small card pokes out from the soil. Ceres picks it up to find a message scrawled in black ink.

Be proud of who you are.
—Erik

The message warms Ceres's heart. She and Erik Lehnsherr hadn't been the best of friends for the first twenty years that she was involved with the X-Men, but the events of the 1990s had changed things. Charles and Erik's on-again, off-again frenemy-ship had finally seemed to turn in the right direction. Ceres has known him for about a decade less than she's known Charles, but any gift from her old friends means everything to her. Even if she's aware that Erik's main reason for tolerating her is because she's a mutant.

She doesn't know if she has space for the plant in her bedroom. It's practically covered in plants on every surface, with some hanging from the ceiling or on shelves built into the wall since she'd run out of space. It may seem unnecessary to some, but for Ceres, they're her tie to life.

Some people view immortality as a gift. Living forever sounds exciting, right? But Ilyas and Ceres know firsthand that it isn't true. When you're cursed with immortality — or slow aging, in Ilyas's case — the idea of living begins to lose its appeal. You watch your closest friends grow old while you're still as youthful as when you first met. Each decade means new and confusing slang, inflation, and a different plight rocking the world. You go through the same motions every day and know it will never end. So if you can't live for yourself, you have to find something else to live for.

Ceres had chosen plants. It helps her practice her patience — which, since she lives with Ilyas, is always running thin — and gives her a strict routine to follow. If she's gone, then the plants will die, too. Ilyas surely wouldn't take care of them. She can't bear the idea of running out, so she always keeps more than enough plants on hand. It helps that Charles or Erik will send a new one every so often. It's their own way of keeping her alive.

The plant method hadn't worked for Ilyas. He'd needed something moving, breathing, and feeling, so he'd adopted his cat. Chris is the only thing that he takes extra-special care of. On days where he can barely drag himself out of bed, she'll jump on him, meowing for food, and he'll get up to feed her breakfast.

Every day is a test of their survival.

Because unlike the man who'd been struck by the semi in front of Ceres, she and Ilyas don't have to wonder when their final moments will be. They don't have to consider if the next step they take will be their last.

_________

a/n:

hi lol so this is being published sooner than expected, but i got tired of seeing it in my drafts, and also i've been in my steres feels lately, so here ya go!

i hope you enjoyed this first chapter. it's not the most exciting thing ever, but the first part of this book won't have too much action/fight scenes. i want to focus on building characters and dynamics before diving into catws!!

please tell me what your thoughts are and what you're most excited to see. personally, i'm the most pumped to develop ceres's powers and show you all what she's capable of💛☀️💫⭐️✨🌟 my queen. also i'm excited for her to formally meet steve cuz DUH.

—kristyn

( word count: 2.4k )