Work Text:
John wakes up in a sterile metal room without his lighter and knows immediately that they lost. That he lost. His mouth tastes like ash.
The place is made up like a hospital room with a cot, a sink and an IV stand, from what he can make out - he's only half awake - and that's it, so he's guessing it's not meant for extended stays. He doesn't know exactly where he is, but he'd put money on it being somewhere under the Xavier Institute (so there's probably a camera too): there's something familiar about the sheen of the steel.
Steel. Magneto could break him out - in his semi-conscious state he half-dreams of the metal walls crumpling like paper - but no. If Magneto could, he already would. They wouldn't have put him in a metal room if it meant Magneto could reach him.
So their glorious leader's dead or depowered, then. He's been dragging himself further towards consciousness, but that realisation makes him just want to go back to sleep. He could: he's pretty sure that's a morphine drip going into his arm, and he's still pretty sleepy, but morphine usually means serious injury, surgery or power suppression, and he needs to know which one it is this time. He doesn't hurt anywhere, but that's kind of the point of morphine.
It takes him several minutes - though it feels like longer, god, morphine makes him loopy - to pull himself upright, and just as he manages it, the door at the far end of the room opens and in comes Bobby.
Aw, fuck.
"You are the last person I want to see right now," John tells him - or tries to. The morphine mangles his words into unintelligibility.
"I know," says Bobby, coming to stand beside the bed, in a tone both soothing and wry. He's in casual clothes, and there's no injuries on him that John can see, but there's strain around his eyes. Taken on too much responsibility, as usual.
"Fuck you," John tries, and hey, that came out pretty well.
"Hey, play nice. I was the one who carried your sorry ass out of there." Ugh, can't he even get a rise out of Bobby any more? He's too drugged to be properly angry, but irritation itches under his skin. He licks around the inside of his mouth and tries for coherency again.
"You're dressed like Mr. Summers," he says, because hey, it's true. It even comes out sounding something like how he meant, and Bobby must understand (all those times he's heard John slur his words in the morning, face mashed into his pillow-) because he just shrugs.
"I guess," he says. "But do you really want to waste time baiting me, or do you want me to tell you useful stuff that you've missed being out cold for a week?"
John lets his head thud back against his pillows. "You know I used to tell you to grow up, but I didn't mean like this. You've gone all boring." He thinks he sees a flash of temper then, but Bobby gets himself under control and shrugs again.
"Didn't you hear? War changes people. I'm one of the oldest here, and I had to be an adult figure for the younger kids. I had to be responsible."
"Right," says John. "You joined the team. Congratulations."
"Hey, what are you so bitter about?" Bobby's frowning. "It's not like there was a rivalry or anything - you never even wanted to join." Bobby, missing the point as usual (that's not actually fair, but John isnt feeling particularly charitable right now).
"Fuck no I didn't. I wanted to do the right thing." Bobby laughs then, bitter.
"John, we were seventeen. We didn't know shit about 'the right thing'. As proven by you joining a mutant supremacist terrorist group."
"Fuck you. Fuck you," John snarls. He's not slurring any more, but he's still too tired to put foward all his arguments, all he learnt from listening to and talking with Magneto. "We're special, damnit, and even if we weren't we'd still deserve better than this!"
Bobby holds his hands up. "Not disagreeing with you there." That edge he had less than a minute has vanished. "But you can't kill people because some of them are predjudiced."
"But I can, that's the point." An awful thought strikes him: can he? He breathes deeply, searching for the flame in his chest, and after one moment where it seems all his internal organs turn over, he finds it. He can't get a hold on it with the morphine in his system, but it's there.
"They wanted to depower you, you know," says Bobby abruptly. John curls his lip and shrugs. He's not surprised. "I know they got authorisation to do it to some of the Brotherhood, the ones they thought were too dangerous." John's heart swells with pride at being thought too dangerous and with rage for his comrades. He hadn't been terribly close to any of them, but as their name suggested, they were brothers-in-arms. Taking away a mutant's power...it makes his skin crawl.
"I stopped them," says Bobby, and now John does look up. The first five responses that spring to mind all go down roads he doesn't want to go down and all the ones after are too sentimental, so he keeps his mouth shut. He's not often lost for words - not after learning fast-talking as a survival tactic - and he's sentimental even less. Must be the morphine.
Bobby clears his throat.
"I...have a proposition for you." Bobby tucks his hands between his knees. "So, right now, Scott is overwhelmed with trying to take over the Professor's job." His voice doesn't hitch when he talks about Xavier. "Hank's tied up with the government and Logan's dealing with his own problems, which leaves us with Jean and Ororo. Me, Piotr, Kitty and Jubilee are helping them, but we already did lots of stuff before, and with the influx of new students, we need another person."
"And you're desperate enough to ask me," translates John. "And where's Rogue got to?"
"She took the cure," says Bobby, a little too quietly, and John thinks oh. He wants to make a nasty comment, but nothing seems quite right.
"Look," says Bobby, looking even more tired, "right now, you've got nowhere to go. Magneto's been depowered, there's no-one emerged yet to take his place - unless you want to and I really don't think you do - and considering that you're technically a felon, if you leave here you're basically condemning yourself to a life on the run. Fake ID if you can get any, shoplifting, sleeping rough, the works."
"Not like I haven't done it before," John counters.
"I know." There's an expression on Bobby's face which John can't name. "Yeah, I know. I remember. But do you really want to go back to that when you have the option of a safe place?"
"Is it?" John asks, leaning forward abruptly even though it makes him woozy. "Is it really safe? What, you think everyone's just gonna accept me back into the fold? I used to be the black sheep here and that was bad enough, but now - now I'm the wolf."
"Since when have you cared?" Bobby counters. "You were only bothered about me and Jubilee, and I can tell you now that I'm accepting you back as my friend - yeah, even if we aren't technically friends any more and you don't want to be, because that didn't stop me when I first met you and it's not gonna stop me now - and between you and me, Jubilee might put up a fuss, but I think she's missed you."
"Who I used to be," says John, fiddling with the edge of the sheet.
"You haven't changed that much. Sure, you turned into more of an asshole and got the douchiest haircut known to man - which I took the liberty of dying back to brown, no need to thank me - but I recognise you."
"You have, though." John stares at him, finally realising - "you've started to talk like me."
Bobby shrugs.
"That's what Kitty said. I had too, I guess - I became a survivor, and to cope I guess I subconsciously looked to the best survivor I knew." He pushes himself off the bed before John can respond to that. "Look, I'm not going to ask you to do this for me or anything, because I don't want it to be like that and it wouldn't work anyway. I just want you to think about it. Think about your options. Maybe the others won't like it, but weren't you the one always telling me to grow a thicker skin and accept that not everyone would like me? Just - remember that I'm asking you to come back. That I want you back." And he's out of the room before John can say anything to that either. Which is good, because he has no idea what he would have said.
~*~*~
He takes it, of course, because he's always liked throwing things in people's faces. I'm alive, suckers! He saunters through the corridors like he was never gone, and behind his indifferent mask, he watches the varying reactions like a hawk. Some people he doesn't recognise and they don't seem to recognise him, but the people who knew him before seem to react with varying amounts of confusion and contempt. Unlucky for them, because there's nothing that sets John's blood boiling like being looked down upon.
No-one actually engages him though, so he arrives at his room unmolested. Bobby's room now - even with the sudden influx of kids, he hadn't been assigned a new roommate. The minute he steps inside, closing the door behind him, he sees that apart from his bed being made, his side of the room has been left entirely undisturbed.
He's been gone for four months.
Well, shit. He sits down on the edge of the bed and powerful wave of deja-vu sweeps over him - there's Bobby's bed, there's his posters, there's his shoes in the usual place under his bed. John instinctively knows the place where Bobby's watch sits on his dresser at night. Even the muffled sound of people moving about in other parts of the school is familiar.
Nothing's changed. He joined a fucking revolution, fought for what he believed in - and it was only an interlude, a brief interruption. Here's his old life, his childish life, waiting for him. It'd be too easy to fall back into it; it makes his skin itch.
An idea suddenly strikes him, and he checks under his pillow for - no, the lighter's gone. He checks the bookshelf - gone. Under the mattress - gone. Not entirely undisturbed, then. His mouth twists in irritation and he taps his fingers against his thigh. They won't be in the room: Bobby knows him better than to leave him unattended around anything that could be used to start a fire.
But he knows Bobby pretty well too, and he knows that Bobby will have a lighter on him because he'll want to test John with it. He'll be right, but it still pisses John off. His stride through the Mansion this time is less insouciant and more purposeful. He doesn't want to start a fight, but if provoked he'll bite.
As it turns out, only one person gets up the guts to actually talk to him, and it's Kitty. She steps out of a side corridor and nearly walks into him. Anyone else might have put their hands out to steady her: John automatically steps back. He's not a touchy-feely guy.
"John," she says, still standing too close so she has to tilt her head right up to look him in the eye. John wants to step back again, but he doesn't want her to think he's giving ground.
"Hey," he says, quieter and less cocky than he meant to. She's looking at him in a way he might describe as 'assessing', but doesn't say anything for a long moment. John feels kind of awkward but isn't going to break eye contact before she does.
"Good to have you back," she says at last, and okay, that wasn't what John was expecting at all. He blinks at her, too startled to have a sharp retort ready. She doesn't quite smile, and there's still a wariness around her eyes and mouth, but when she says "Bobby's out on the terrace," her voice is gentle. She's walking away before he can say thanks or fuck you, so he lets it go for now and keeps on heading for the big sitting room and the terrace beyond. He'd been sure Bobby would be there, but it's nice to have it confirmed that he really does still know Bobby that well.
No-one else accosts him, though the few people in the sitting room eye him mistrustfully. He ignores them like they're part of the furniture and casually saunters out of the open french windows, onto the terrace. Bobby is indeed there, leaning on the balcony. He doesn't look up as John approaches; John remembers that he could recognise Bobby's footsteps, and wonders if Bobby can still recognise his, if he ever learnt to pick them out in the first place.
"Hey," says Bobby. John doesn't say anything, and they stand in silence for several moments. At last, Bobby asks:
"Is it funny that I can still recognise your footsteps? Or just stupid?" John is momentarily taken aback, but quickly regains his equilibrium and shrugs, even though Bobby can't see it.
"Pretty useful, I'd say." He stands with one hip thrust out, weight on one leg. Cocky, but not a fighting stance: Bobby will understand that he's not come to fight. Hopefully.
Bobby turns round at last and stares at him for a long moment, face unreadable. Then he digs in his pocket and takes out a rectangle of metal, glinting in the early spring sunlight. John's heart leaps.
"Here." Bobby tosses it to him, and John doesn't catch it as much as snatch it out of the air. It is - his lighter, his shark lighter, the one he brought with him to the Mansion and never let go of. He flicks the lid, sees the flame spring up, and the euphoria hits him all at once. He takes a shuddering breath and knows he's grinning like a maniac, but Bobby's just watching him with a smile. He looks like what John might call proud.
John goes over to lean on the balcony. The grounds of the Mansion are beautiful as ever, hyacinths and irises in full bloom turning the beds purple, and some white flower with long, spidery petals that he can't identify. And in the middle of it all, the fountain which froze over in winter for ice-skating - or which Bobby froze over at any time because someone fancied skating in the summer. The nostalgia sets warmth blooming in his chest, and he chokes it down so he doesn't start grinning like an idiot again - or, god forbid, shed a tear or two. There is such a thing as manly crying, but John's not mastered the art yet. Besides, crying always leaves him with a headache.
"You talked to anyone yet?" John's eyes flick to Bobby's profile.
"Only you," he says. "And Kitty, briefly." He starts idly playing with his lighter, just because he can.
"What did she say?" Bobby does a good job of keeping his voice neutral, but his shoulders stiffen just a little.
John shrugs. "Nothing, really." Click. Click. "Said she was glad to have me back. No, seriously," he insists at Bobby's eyebrow raise, "that was what she said. And not sarcastically either." He twists his mouth to one side. "Yeah, I'm not sure either. Might be planning to kill me in my sleep." Bobby snorts.
John tilts his head up, taking in the sunlight like a plant, thankful it's too weak yet for him to freckle.
"So," he says at last. "What's happened to Magneto? Depowered or dead?" He pauses and considers. "Both?" Either fate's terrible, but he hopes desperately that Magneto's still alive. It might be selfish, not wanting him to go out gloriously with dignity, but damnit John gave him his life, his hope, and he even if he never sees the old man again, with his sharp eyes and sharper smile, he wants to know that there's someone like that out there in the world, thinking those thoughts - and, knowing Magneto, bringing them to fruition. He might be relieved of his mutant abilities, but while he lives he can never be truly powerless.
"He's alive, as far as we know, but he's been depowered," Bobby says, and John is both elated and disappointed. As a mutant he'd be dangerous, dead a martyr - but depowered, to the masses he's just a scarred old man with too many regrets. A symbol of failure. It's wrong, so wrong - Magneto could never be a failure, not while he still breathes, not while John still needs him - but John knows all too well the vagaries of public opinion. The very idea makes him angry.
"He's just a man now," says Bobby, and John flares up:
"Magneto could never be just a man." He flicks his lighter more rapidly. "He was never even just a mutant." He was a god, he thinks, but he knows not to say that out loud.
"He's not Magneto now, though." Bobby's voice is gentle. "Just Erik. Erik Lensherr. An ordinary name for an ordinary man." And that tone - so fucking patronising - is what makes white hot anger burst in John's chest.
"Fuck you, trying to bring him down now. Magneto fought for you, and you were all so fucking ungrateful, too busy licking the boots of people who were ready to kick you in the teeth with them, wanted to grind our faces into the dirt, and you were trying to fucking appease them, looking for pats on the head, pretending we were no better than them - well I knew, I knew all along that we were better. Special." His voice is down to a hiss and he's up in Bobby's face. He can feel the furrows along his nose as his face twists into a snarl. "Magneto was a great man, is a great man, and if you think you're morally superior because you've compromised your integrity for treats, you're fucking deluded."
The silence holds for a long minute. At this distance John is uncomfortably aware that Bobby still has a good couple of inches and probably twenty pounds of muscle on him, but he doesn't back down. His heart is still blazing.
"That's always been your problem, hasn't it?" Bobby asks at last. His voice is very carefully controlled. "Saying too much. Your mouth, always getting you into trouble."
"You didn't seem to mind when I was sucking your dick," John snarls, and Bobby's face goes white. Fuck, John thinks. He wants to apologise, but that's stupid: he doesn't want to look weak and isn't sure how to anyway, not in words.
"Didn't think you remembered that," says Bobby, a tenseness in his face, in his fists, in his voice that John can no longer read. The ground seems to have tilted beneath his feet.
After a few moments, Bobby blows out a breath through his nose and turns to walk away, back towards the open French windows. John doesn't try to stop him. How would he? He doesn't know who Bobby is any more.
*~*~*
Of course he remembers.
One Saturday in autumn, a couple of years after John first arrives at the Mansion, he receives a handwritten letter addressed to St. John. The content of the letter doesn't matter: he doesn't read it. Instead, he lies down on his bed for half an hour, staring at the wall, before Bobby comes wandering in with grass stains on his knees.
Honestly, John doesnt expect much from Bobby here: he'll ask if John's okay, maybe tell him he's here if he wants to talk about it - despite the fact that John never does - because Bobby's sensitive like that. Or, as John prefers to put it, touchy-feely. He responds with noncommittal grunts or plain silence, which luckily Bobby doesn't seem to take offense at - he's got pretty good at dealing with John when he's moody.
This time, John responds to the usual questions with utter silence, which is by no means unusual. But when he should be hearing retreating footsteps, either to Bobby's side of the room or out of it completely, the footsteps instead come closer and the mattress dips. John tenses, ready to be shaken. If this is Bobby's latest attempt to get him to talk about his feelings, he can fuck right off - John doesn't do this touchy-feely shit.
A warm weight comes to rest against his back, and John freezes. As an arm carefully wraps around him, he realises: Bobby is cuddling him, in what universe is this okay? John wants to say something like what the fuck, but he can't speak. He can barely breathe. Bobby's too close - he's always too close, never leaves John alone.
Bobby presses closer, squeezing his arm around John's torso. Is this some kind of freaky bonding thing he's been taught at church, 'How to Comfort a Friend in Distress'? He looks like he's from a family who're into that kind of shit. John just focusses on breathing in and out. Just a gay guy being cuddled by his ostensibly straight probably-not-all-that-tolerant roommate. Nothing to see here. Perfectly normal.
It's ridiculous: he should have thrown off Bobby's arm by now and just left the room, but something instinctive prevents him, and it's only partly the fact that he kind of likes being snuggled by a well-built guy. Okay, really likes. It would help if it wasn't someone he has to face afterwards, though.
Fine, John can do this: they'll lie there in vaguely awkward silence (which should be a lot more awkward, why is this not awkward) until Bobby thinks he's solved the problem or gets bored. John can deal with that. He totally can.
John drifts for a while, making up a story in his head to distract himself. Being quasi-spooned like this is pretty comfortable, with Bobby's warmth pressed against his back and a strong arm around his waist. He may as well enjoy it while it lasts. Plus he's resolved not to freak out if Bobby doesn't.
He comes back to Bobby's fingers lightly stroking over his hip. He's starting to feel like Bobby's girlfriend or something, which is ridiculous because a) straight and b) John would make a shitty girlfriend. Well, apart from the giving head bit. He likes to think he's pretty good at that.
And then he gets stuck on the idea of giving Bobby head, which, okay, it's not like he hasn't thought about it before, but Bobby is right there, petting his hip, snuggling him for God's sake and this is about to get really awkward really fast. Bobby's fingers trace wider circles, rucking up John's t-shirt a little, and John has to keep his breathing under control. This small, non-sexual touch shouldn't be turning him on so much, but it's almost unbearably erotic. He shifts, restless, but that just means that Bobby's stroking his abdomen, which is even worse.
If Bobby realises what's going on, he's going to go straight-guy panic on him. Which would be unfortunate, because John does actually kind of like Bobby. Bobby puts up with him even when he's being a shit for no particular reason which, if he's honest, is above and beyond the call of duty for a guy who hasn't even known him that long.
In the end, it takes five more minutes of John trying not to tense and tip him off for Bobby to realise: he stretches, his hand trails down John's thigh, and John just holds still and waits for the fallout.
Bobby doesn't move his hand from John's crotch immediately - probably shocked out of his mind. John is aware of his own heartbeat, hammering too fast in the cage of his ribs. He contemplates rolling off the bed and fleeing before Bobby regains his senses, but the distance from his bed to the door, a couple of feet at most, seems so long as to be uncrossable.
Slowly, Bobby shifts his hand to get a better grip on John's cock through his jeans. John stops breathing. This kind of thing doesn't happen to him. He is not that lucky.
Bobby squeezes his fingers - unsure, experimental, is this okay. Maybe John is that lucky. He does his best to relax, trying not to scare Bobby off. Bobby starts rubbing the palm of his hand against John's dick, more gently than John would like, but John's willing to put up with some virginal fumblings if it gets him Bobby.
Bobby's breath is hot on the back of his neck as he carefully, so carefully, pulls down John's zipper to get his hand down his pants and around his cock properly. There's not much room, but someone else's hand on his dick feels great enough, especially with how Bobby's stroking over the head, first delicately, then more strongly, like he's working out what John likes. John makes soft, barely-vocalised noises in encouragement. Bobby's hand is cool and a little rough, and it's just what he wants.
He makes a little uhn noise when he comes, all over Bobby's hand. He holds his breath - having another guy's come on you is pretty much a litmus test for actually-straight-guys-having-an-episode - but Bobby just sighs into his neck, and John hears the scratching of a zipper. Bobby shifts a bit so he's still snuggled up to John but lying on his back, and a moment later John hears the unmistakeable sounds of him jerking off. He's cut, though, which means he'll want some kind of lube -
Bobby hasn't wiped off his hand. The sounds coming from behind him are wet. John swallows, but doesn't turn around. This is too fragile for eye contact. He just listens to the sound of skin-on-skin and Bobby's quiet sighs, culminating in a muffled noise which is going to haunt John's wet dreams for months.
John hears him clean up with tissues off the nightstand, then reach around. John tenses, but he's just doing up his fly for him, which is pretty considerate and also not indicative of a freakout.
John still can't look at him, though.
The day after Bobby decided to cheer John up via fluid-bonding, John stops him before he goes to shower with a hand on his cock, open and deliberate. Bobby breathes in sharply and let John sink to his knees and blow him right there in the middle of their room, early morning stillness disturbed by the wet sucking sounds. When he's come, Bobby looks like he's going to offer to get John off too, but John just shoves him towards the door and tells him to shower already, he's all sweaty and gross. When Bobby's gone, he kneels back down in the same position and jerks off hard and fast, eyes closed, imagining a hand in his hair and a cock in his mouth.
He comes silently.
~*~*~
John's still unsettled over his fight with Bobby when a girl's voice calls out his name. Shit. He turns around slowly to face the open classroom door. It's usually Mr. Summers' English room, the one with mice carved into the furniture. He immediately pinpoints his usual seat.
"Hey, Kitty," he says. Ugh, this is the last thing he needs. He liked Kitty back when he lived at the school because of her good nature. He also hated her a bit for it. Now, after they've fought on opposite sides, he has to have a civil conversation with her (he carefully doesn't examine why it wasn't so difficult with Bobby).
"So, I just saw Bobby storm past here," she says conversationally. "What did you say to set him off? And come inside, don't hover in the corridor." John moves grudgingly into the doorway, but no further, and shrugs.
"You know how Bobby is," he says.
"Difficult to upset?" she asks drily, and John resists the urge to fidget. Christ, it's like being interrogated by Mr. Summers. "Come on John, you can do better than that."
"It's none of your business!" he snaps. "It's something personal, just between him and me." He puts the wrong emphasis on personal, and knows that Kitty hears it.
"Personal, huh?" Kitty keeps staring at him. "What kind of personal?"
"Wha- personal, okay?" He feels himself flush the tiniest bit. Kitty looks thoughtful for a moment, then says, a little hesitantly,
"Is this anything to do with the thing I'm not meant to know about?"
"...What thing you're not meant to know about? There's lots you're not meant to know about, be a little more specific." John doesn't like the way her mouth purses at that, like she's trying to say something politely that can't really be expressed in any other way than profanity.
"You, um. I saw you, last year, in your room. I think you'd meant to close the door." She's blushing a little, but she keeps looking him in the eye. She doesn't say any more than that, but John knows what she saw: him, on his knees.
Well, shit.
"I didn't tell anyone, because I thought you wanted to keep it a secret, but I started noticing things sometimes. You were always touching each other - I remember you liked to wrap your hand around his ankle. And then that time when we were watching Romeo and Juliet..." She trails off. John remembers that very well - in the darkness of the TV room, when Bobby looked like he was getting bored of the film, John had slid his hand up Bobby's thigh, further and further under the material of his shorts, until he was cupping Bobby's cock while the lovers pledged themselves onscreen, and fondled and teased him right to the end of the movie, at which point he'd dragged Bobby off to the kitchen garden, where he'd pulled down Bobby's shorts to mid-thigh and finished off the job with his mouth - he'd thought with no-one any the wiser.
Fuck.
"Fuck," he says, with feeling, then immediately wishes he hadn't. Magneto had taught him that much about showing weakness, at least. Kitty's mouth twists to the side, not in approbation, but wry satisfaction. When did she learn to be dry like that?
"Look," she says, then sighs. "Look, I don't know what you said, but - did you mean it?"
"Yes," says John instantly. But that won't appease Kitty, who can make his life here very difficult if she chooses, and he reluctantly adds, "but his reaction was - strange. What he said - I didn't get what he meant." He swallows. "I just - it didn't make sense." In his pocket, he turns over the smooth metal oblong of his lighter.
Thankfully, Kitty doesn't make him go on.
"Okay," she says. "So, you gonna ask him what he meant?"
John shrugs, but not dismissively.
"Yeah," he says, "I guess so."
~*~*~
John and Bobby have sex once after Rogue arrives at the Mansion.
John knows, you see. He knows in that first class, when Bobby freezes his fireball to impress Rogue. He twists around to see Bobby turned to the side and on his face that half-smile that he always gives to John, and he knows. It's the beginning of the end.
When Bobby comes back to their room that evening, John's waiting. Bobby closes the door behind him and John's upon him, fingers catching in his belt loops, mouthing his neck. Bobby laughs, a little breathless, slides a hand into his hair and lets John sink to his knees and blow him right there, braced against the wall.
But that's not the kind of sex that John means, the kind where he has to get himself off with his own hand and the memory of Bobby's cock heavy on his tongue: he means fucking.
He's messed around with it before: he learnt the pleasure of fingers up his ass early on, then acquired a purple silicon cock to further explore the possibilities. Bobby's seen him finger himself once, and John thought his fingers twitched like he wanted to join in - Bobby may not think he's gay or bi or whatever, but a hole is a hole. Ideally, John would take it slow, ease him into the fucking, but he's running on borrowed time and he knows it.
For the next two days, he doesn't get Bobby off. Somehow they're never in their room at the same time: the first night John sneaks in long after Bobby's asleep, the second John pretends to be sleeping when Bobby comes in. He knows Bobby won't jerk off, because Bobby knows that John will know and be upset.
Sometimes, it occurs to him just how fucked up it is that he wants Bobby so much -fuck, nevermind come, he'd let Bobby piss on him, in him if it meant he got some of Bobby on him, on his skin, inside him - that he gets pissed when Bobby gives his come to the shower drain instead of to him.
So when Bobby comes back to their room after classes, dropping his bag, kicking off his shoes and closing the door, the edge is there. So's John, on his back on Bobby's bed, two fingers up his ass.
Bobby stops dead. John arches his hips and his t-shirt rides up a bit. He kept it on because it would feel weird to be entirely naked in their room: Bobby may be comfortable with the other guys seeing him in a state of undress in a locker room or bedroom, but John definitely isn't. Plus it's warmer this way when Bobby starts to involuntarily drop the temperature.
Lifting his hips further off the bed, John crooks his fingers and groans. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Bobby still in the doorway, transfixed. At least he shut the door before noticing John so Piotr or Kitty or whoever isn't getting a good look at John fingering himself. Another groan, and Bobby swallows and shudders. John fists his free hand in the duvet, not wanting to touch his cock - let Bobby stare. He keeps rubbing his fingers over his prostate and bucking his hips, panting, until he withdraws to try three fingers: he wants to be stretched, filled. Specifically with Bobby's cock, but that'll come soon enough, assuming Bobby doesn't just freeze the both of them in his excitement. Right now he has to prepare himself to take it, and doesn't that spur him on.
Bobby still hasn't moved. John deliberately opens his legs wider, giving him a better view. He wishes Bobby would come closer: he must want to, the way his eyes are fixed on John's fingers disappearing into himself. It could be shocked disgust, but John can see the bulge in his jeans. Three fingers don't feel much like a cock, but John uses all his powers of imagination anyway.
It's not enough. Bobby isn't going to move on his own: John beckons him over with his free hand, and he steps haltingly towards the bed. He looks like he can't believe what's happening. Truth be told, John's a bit surprised at how far this has gone: handjobs to blowjobs to fucking and so far no crisis of sexuality on Bobby's part. Then again, he probably thinks it's okay so long as it's not him sucking cock or taking it up the ass.
Up close, John can see how fast Bobby's breathing, the outline of his hard cock in his jeans. The memory of the taste of that cock fills his mouth, and he swallows hungrily.
"Do you want," Bobby starts, then trails off with a vague gesture at John's lower body.
"Fingers first," says John, because he wants this to last. His voice is slightly wobbly. "Here." He hands him the lube. Bobby stares at the tube stupidly for several seconds before turning red and undoing the cap to slather lube over his fingers in an obviously inexperienced but very determined way. He kneels over John, between his spread thighs, hand hovering uncertainly until John takes out his own fingers and guides Bobby's index to the hole. Slowly, gently, Bobby presses inside. He doesn't stop until the finger is all the way in, and then he just stops dead, staring at his finger disappearing inside John's body.
It is, John has to admit, pretty hot. But they've bigger things to do here, so he says,
"Here, do it with your palm facing up." Bobby looks confused, but twists his hand so he's doing as he's told. "Now curl your finger." Bobby does, but stops halfway. "Further," says John, trying not to squirm, and when Bobby finally finds his prostate he jerks his hips roughly. "Yeah," he says, trying for reassuring - Bobby looks startled and a bit scared. "Like that." Bobby does it again, brow furrowed in concentration, and doesn't pull away this time but instead starts rubbing it - softly at first, like he doesn't know how much John can take, but then a bit more firmly. He's still staring at John's ass clenching around his finger.
"Fuck," John says, breathless, "oh, fuck." He arches his hips off the bed, making small bucking motions into the air. Bobby goes with it, keeping his finger stroking over that one spot. He's getting more confident, so John pushes a bit further:
"Gimme another," he says, and Bobby obeys, working in his middle finger with agonising slowness. "You're not gonna hurt me," says John, "I do this all the time," and he's sure he's not imagining how Bobby shudders a little at that.
"Third, c'mon," he says after a minute, impatient to get on with the fucking. Bobby bites his lip like he isn't sure, but takes out his two fingers and tentatively begins to replace them with three. It's a bit painful, yeah, but it's the right kind of pain: a warming tingle that makes his cock ache.
"Get your pants off," he says at last, a bit croaky, and it takes Bobby several seconds to register it, like he's too caught up in fingering John's ass to care about anything else. He blinks at John, who rolls his eyes and says, "quickly", and Bobby drags his fingers out of John's body to all but wrench his clothes off, t-shirt included even though John hadn't asked.
This is probably going to be the last chance he gets to see Bobby naked for a while, and certainly the first time he's ever had the opportunity to ogle properly, so John makes the most of it for all of the two seconds he gets before Bobby dives back onto the bed and starts prodding around John's hole, which he knows must be puffy and slick from the fingering - it's definitely sensitive. Bobby seems to like it, at least.
"Here." John gropes around the bedsheets to retreive the lube. "Slick yourself up." Bobby's eyes snap from his ass to his face.
"Are you sure? I mean really sure," he adds hurriedly. John would appreciate the concern, but right now he really wants to get fucked.
"Yes, I'm sure. I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't." Bobby still looks unsure, though, so John says, sweetly: "Bobby, the way you're going, you're making it sound like you don't want to fuck me."
"What? No, I do, I do!" John almost laughs at how frantic Bobby sounds. Cleared that one up at least.
"Then do it," he says, and at last Bobby takes the lube to spread it over his cock. John watches avidly: the up-down motions and Bobby's thrown-back head make him imagine Bobby jerking off, just like this, and when this is over he wants to be able to remember what Bobby looks like with his hand on his cock.
John spreads his legs and plants his feet flat on the mattress, tilting his hips up: an unmistakeable invitation, and thank god Bobby doesn't ask him if it's okay, just scrambles up the bed and braces himself over John, one hand supporting his weight, the other holding his cock to guide it to John's hole. He pushes in agonisingly slowly, and John can see his shoulders shake a little from the strain. Bobby's cock inside him feels so good, like being filled when he didn't even know he was empty. Bobby's so careful that it doesn't even hurt, just goes in smooth and perfect. God, John's missed being fucked.
Bobby makes a wet gasping noise into his neck, and starts to move. He's obviously slowing himself down, teeth sunk into his lower lip, and John doesn't want that, so he says:
"C'mon, harder," and wriggles his hips as best he can.
"Can't," says Bobby shortly. "I...I'll come too soon." He's blushing. He's also stopped moving, which is completely unacceptable.
"So? I want you to come in me." Bobby takes a sharp breath in through his nose. "C'mon, fuck me properly, I like it rough."
"Okay," says Bobby, a bit shakily, and starts moving again: small grinding thrusts at first, getting himself back into a rhythm, then quickly progressing into proper fucking, grabbing John's hips and slamming into him. John loves it. Bobby only occasionally bumps against his prostate, but John's fine with that: he's really getting off on the sensation of being pounded into and used by Bobby. He keeps his eyes on Bobby's face, the tight muscles in his jaw, as he loosens his grip on the sheets to reach a hand down and start jerking himself off.
Bobby does come quickly, and John can feel it. He's never been fucked without a condom before, and he savours the feeling of Bobby's come spurting warm into his ass. A bit of Bobby inside him, just for him - Bobby's cock is softening inside him, so he jams his own fingers in his ass beside it, feeling the wetness of Bobby's come, rubbing roughly over his prostate, and he comes half a minute later, jerking his hips up into his own grip.
"Was," says Bobby after a few minutes of silence, still sprawled on top of John, still inside him. His voice is scratchy, and he clears his throat and tries again: "Was that okay?"
Now John really does laugh, tired and achy and satisfied.
"Bobby," he says, "that was amazing."
~*~*~
John finds Bobby back in their room, sat on his bed looking morose. He lurches awkwardly to his feet when John comes in, like he thinks John will want to fight. John closes the door behind him, leans against it and stares hard into Bobby's eyes. He blows out a breath through his nose, and dives straight in:
"Why did you think I wouldn't remember?" Bobby shifts uncomfortable, but doesn't look away.
"I thought you wouldn't want to remember," he admits, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.
"Why the fuck wouldn't I want to remember?" Seriously, this shit makes no sense.
"Because you just stopped and acted like it never happened, like you didn't know what I wanted. The day after we actually had sex. I guessed it'd made you realise that you didn't really want to do that with me after all."
"What the - are you stupid? I didn't suddenly stop wanting to suck you off, you suddenly decided you wanted Rogue and I thought I'd get out of the way before I was pushed aside."
"I - But I wouldn't -" Bobby looks totally confused.
"Really? You'd have kept on having casual sex with your roommate while having a girlfriend? Even if you couldn't touch her, I didn't think you were that kind of guy, Bobby."
"This was three days after she came here, how did you even know she was going to be my girlfriend?" He's getting frustrated now.
John shrugs.
"Saw the way you smiled at her in that first class. It was pretty obvious that you were both interested and you'd get together. And I figured that once you went back to girls, you wouldn't really want to settle for your male roommate, right?"
"How do you know?" asks Bobby, quietly.
"Because you're straight, or at least like to think you are."
"When did I ever say that?" John snorts.
"You didn't need to."
"So you just assumed."
"What, so you're not? Bobby Drake, our golden boy, willing to admit he's a queer?" John knows his face has gone ugly and sneering, but he doesn't care.
Bobby doesn't even flinch.
"Guess so," he says.
Neither of them say anything for a full minute. At last, Bobby scrubs his face with his sleeve and sighs.
"You really thought that I was that invested in pretending to be straight?" he asks. John shifts uncomfortably.
"Uh, yeah," he says.
"So all the time, you thought you were the one driving me into it, while I..." Bobby trails off for a few seconds, then asks, "Why did you keep blowing me?"
The question puts John off-balance.
"...Because it seemed like a good idea at the time?"
"Yeah, but -" Bobby sighs. "Did you really want to, or did you think you ought to?"
John side-eyes the fuck out of him.
"I sucked your cock because I enjoyed it, duh. What's this about?"
Bobby shrugs uncomfortably, hands still in his pockets.
"Well, uh, you said you'd done it a few times before, and I never really got the impression..."
"Fuck's sake, Bobby, just because I sucked a few dicks which I probably wouldn't have sucked without monetary incentive doesn't mean that I'm incapable of understanding sex as anything other than a barter transaction. What kind of psychoanalytic shit have you been reading?" Bobby gives an awkward one-shouldered shrug.
"Well, you just kind of admitted that you thought I was using you for meaningless, emotionless sex and you were okay with that. I- I'm not really sure what goes on in your head sometimes," he admits. John cracks a small grin.
"Yeah, me neither sometimes," he says. Back on solid ground.
~*~*~
His duties at the Mansion turn out to involve basically the same stuff as his old duties: cooking, washing up, doing laundry and various other chores. But there's a kind of undertone to it, like instead of doing teenage chores, they're playing at being adults performing their daily routine. They barely see the teachers: they no longer have the safety net of 'grown-ups' to fall back on. At seventeen, they're the grown-ups now.
He's been here five days, and the dichotomy between what's changed and what hasn't keeps unbalancing him. Every morning he wakes up in his old room and goes through his morning routine, getting showered and dressed, still attuned to how he and Bobby intuitively worked out a way of ensuring no bathroom snarl-ups. Meals are at the same times, the same food is served. He's got classes to go to and chores to do.
But the atmostphere is different. He does more chores than he used to, at meals talks only to Bobby, and sometimes he's the student in the classes but more often he's the teacher, explaining the set English books because that's what he's always been best at. Well, regarding school subjects, anyway. Everywhere, there are new kids he doesn't recognise, and they watch him with wary eyes, which he supposes is marginally better than the contempt and mistrust which he sees in the faces of his peers. Ungrateful cowards, all of them, boot-licking traitors - but John reins himself in, bites his tongue. They barely tolerate him as it is: the last thing he needs is to set the spark to ignite them. So he keeps his head up but his tongue in check, and they settle for largely ignoring him, like a nasty stain on the carpet that nobody can get out. John fantasises about setting them on fire.
The fragile peace breaks, of course. Within the week, in fact, which was roughly what John was expecting. He's good at keeping track of tension, knowing when to stick around for the fireworks and when to get the hell out of Dodge.
He doesn't expect that it's going to be Jubilee that does it, though.
It's taken her six days, but he wanders back into his room after helping with laundry and teaching the younger kids how to fold a fitted sheet correctly to find her sat on his bed, spine unusually stiff. She looks like she's being interviewed, except that even when being interrogated by teachers she's slouchy and insouiciant. Her face isn't overtly angry, but her lips are drawn tight in an expression John recognises.
Man, he's in some deep shit.
Jubilee doesn't say anything for at least half a minute. She doesn't even look at him, keeping her eyes fixed on the view from the window. This is unusual for Jubilee: of the two of them, she was always the one charging in first while John hung back. It makes him nervous, and he wants to start flicking his lighter, but he daren't break the silence, so he settles for putting his hand in his pocket and rubbing his thumb over the smooth metal, warmed by his body heat.
At last, Jubilee says, like it takes an effort,
"In your shoes, I'd have done the same."
"You'd have gone with him?"
Jubilee nods, still looking out of the window. John exhales slowly.
"Not any more, though," she adds, and John frowns in confusion. "After you left - I couldn't abandon the people here like that. Your friends." Her voice is cold. That's wrong - when Jubilee gets angry she gets loud, not quiet and cold. She runs hot in all things. Wrong-footed, John retorts,
"I wasn't exactly close to anyone except you and Bobby, and I left to do what was right." It comes out weak, and he winces.
"Does being right mean that much to you?" She's looking at him now; the look in her eyes isn't friendly like it used to be, and it makes John's chest tighten.
"We were fighting for mutant freedom," John begins, but Jubilee cuts him off.
"Mutant freedom? Don't make me laugh." Her lip curls, derisory. "It was for revenge. So childish, so fucking petty. A few months ago, I'd have wanted that. Now I know better."
"No, we wanted something bigger, something for all of us," but John can tell he's lost her. "You've grown up," he says instead, because it's true. The old Jubilee was never this polished. She's only sworn once so far.
"That's what happens when you suddenly get a shitload of responsibility shoved on you. Sink or swim." She shrugs, with a touch of her usual insouciance. She's looking away again. It upsets John more than it should.
"Look," she says after a moment, "if you care so much, why are you even here?" John shuffles awkwardly, hand in his pocket curled tight around his lighter.
"It's just for a while, until I work out a plan." He tries not to sound defensive, and fails.
Jubilee turns back to look straight at him, looks him straight in the eye, and John has to fight the instinctive flinch.
"You don't think Magneto needs you now?" she asks, and John knows she's right. She must see it on his face, because she makes an expression between a smile and a grimace.
There's a tense silence for a few seconds. Then she says,
"You grew up too, Johnny. Just differently from the rest of us, I guess." She gets up to leave, and on her way out, she pauses for a moment to nudge John's shoulder with hers. "Take care of yourself," she says, quietly but with more of her usual warmth than John's seen this whole conversation, and then she's gone, her footsteps fading down the corridor.
John stands there for some time, staring at the dust motes swirling in the beam of sunlight through the window.
Then he gets out a bag, a big one, and sits on his bed to wait for Bobby.
~*~*~
When Bobby walks into the room, it's like deja vu. How many times has John seen him walk through that door with that same lean to avoid the sharp edge of the bookcase? John slowly exhales to ease the ache in his chest. He watches Bobby take note of him, then the bag; the dawning comprehension on his face is painful.
"You don't have to go," he says, taking a couple of steps forward. "I don't want you to go."
"Yeah I do." John's voice sounds hollow. "And yeah, you do."
"That's not true!" Bobby almost shouts, clenching his jaw and looking at him with hurt, angry eyes. "That's not true," he repeats. You - you know how you got out of Alcatraz alive?" John shakes his head. "Me," he snaps. "I carried you out. We were meant to leave after Magneto and Phoenix were taken care of, but I went back for you. You'd left us, you'd betrayed us, you'd attacked me and I'd knocked you out, we were enemies - but I couldn't leave you." He takes a ragged breath.
It should be touching, but John is scared, sick-hot scared in his stomach, of what he might say next. How much he doesn't want to know - but he does, he does want to know, so desperately, and he is so scared. He has to find some way to forestall Bobby's next words. He blurts out:
"Do you have any idea where Magneto is?"
"John, that's not-" Thrown off his stride, Bobby flails, flounders.
"As far as we know, you said." John gives him a hard stare. "I know you, Bobby, and I know what that means. He's definitely alive, and more than that, you've probably got some idea where he is. C'mon, tell me."
Bobby keeps his mouth determinedly shut. Spoilsport.
"Ugh, you're so frustrating sometimes." He turns away to unzip the bag. "In case you were wondering, this is why people don't always like you even though you're a 'real stand-up guy' or whatever the fuck - you get so prissy. They don't want to spill their guts to a guy who's tight with the teachers and won't give them anything useful in return."
"What, you're saying you don't like me?" Bobby sounds peculiarly hurt.
"Sad truth of life, Bobby: no-one has to like you." He takes a pile of t-shirts out of the wardrobe. His old clothes aren't much different from his new clothes, and that surprises him. He'd have thought his taste in clothes would have changed along with his politics, but apparently his allegiance to long-sleeved band tees runs deeper than that.
"But you like me," Bobby persists. "I know you do."
"Do you? For the matter, do I even know if you like me?" He means it lightly, squashing the t-shirts into his bag, but Bobby looks like he's been slapped.
"You know I do. Do you want me to tell you all those stupid, sappy things I think about you? Because I will. I swear I'll tell you."
John keeps on, bitterer now: "I don't really think you still do. I think you just like the idea of what I used to be like. Pets are always cuter when they're little, right?"
"That's not it!" Bobby's hands are clenched into fists. He looks anguished. "Look, you've developed extremist ideals and done some scary, stupid, bad stuff - but you're still you. My best friend, could-have-been-boyfriend, fuck, John, what do you want me to say?"
"Not that." John clenches his hands into fists. "I don't - I don't need you to whisper sweet nothings in my ear, or whatever. Just stay out of my way."
"I didn't ask you if you needed it," says Bobby, quietly. "I asked you if that was what you wanted."
John takes a breath.
"I need you not to stop me from leaving," he says, and thank god his voice doesn't shake. He can't handle this. He doesn't know - doesn't want to know - what this is. Fuck. Fuck. "If Magneto's still alive, I've got to find him," he says, turning back to packing, breathing slowly and deliberately to calm his heartbeat.
"And what will you do once you find him?"
"I dunno." John wanders into the bathroom and wraps up his toothbrush in a plastic bag. "He's been depowered, so I can't join up with him and take over the USA, if that's what you're worried about. I just want to see him."
Bobby hovers for a few more seconds, arms still folded, before at last admitting: "I just don't think this is a good idea."
"I know it's not a good idea." John digs his shoes out from under the bed. "But I've got to do it. I've got to find him again - because he's got a piece of me with him." He stands up, makes his voice soft. "C'mon, Bobby - trade you for a kiss?" He's joking, voice exaggeratedly sweet, but Bobby suddenly uncrosses his arms and strides across the room to grab John's shoulder with one hand and his jaw with the other, and kiss him.
John opens his mouth in surprise, but Bobby doesn't push his tongue inside - not like John would have. It's a pretty firm kiss, like Bobby means business, but the fingers cradling his jaw are tender. It's their first kiss, John realises. He digs his fingers into Bobby's forearms and doesn't know whether to kiss back or not.
After a moment, Bobby pulls back and rests their foreheads together. He slides his hand round to the back of John's neck, cradling his head.
"I don't want you to go," he says, very quietly.
"I know," says John. He pauses for a moment, feeling Bobby's warm breath on his face. "But-" he sighs. "Look, we've both got shit we need to do. Shit we believe in. And yeah, you were my best friend, fuck, maybe you're still my best friend, but it's time to just - let go. We're not the same, we can't be the same. Just let me go." His voice has gone very quiet, vulnerable, but for once he doesn't want to draw back.
"Okay, okay," Bobby says, helpless-sounding. "I know, okay. Just let me-" He kisses John again, and this time John kisses back, even runs his tongue over Bobby's bottom lip. Second kiss. He wants to give him this, what he can, while he can.
"I just don't want to have to fight you," he says when he pulls away again, this time far enough to look John in the eye. John swallows.
"Yeah, me neither," he says. He wants to say something like you won't, but he can't guarantee that and they both know it. "I'll miss you," he says instead, because it's sentimental but it's true, and he's never said that to anyone before but he wants Bobby to know it.
"Me too," says Bobby with conviction, hands dropping to John's waist and squeezing briefly. It obviously takes an effort for him to release John and step back, but he does it. John can still see the longing on his face, and it scares him. It looks like Bobby's about to say I-, but John cuts him off because he knows what Bobby's going to say and he doesn't know what he might say in return.
"So I'll be seeing you," he says, zipping up his bag. He's fetching his jacket from the back of a chair when Bobby says,
"Yeah, you will." He says it softly, but in a tone of great conviction, and John understands exactly what he means. What he's trying to say.
~*~*~
They don't talk to each other after that, or touch. John puts his bag on his shoulder, holds his head high, and Bobby lets him leave the room without a fight. The corridors of the Mansion are drenched in the sunlight that streams through the large windows, and John enjoys it for the last time as he makes his way to the entrance hall and at last out the double doors. In the life he's choosing, you gotta take pleasure in the small things.
John leaves the school on a late spring's afternoon, and he doesn't look back.
~*~*~
I'm not happy, but I'm not unhappy about it.
- Posner, The History Boys