cameos
More of my end of the bargain, because I don't back out of deals, unless I do, but not this time. So here it is, in lieu of gelato. Smooches, dear. Two to three.
Title: Sunshadow
Author: Lassiter
Rating: R
Summary: Being lost in Venice. It's preferable to being lost in other things, sometimes. St. John/Bobby. Post X2.
Thanks to Betty for betas, and special mention goes to Kagome for It-picking. Any inaccuracies are mine, not theirs.
-
Sunshadow
A white disk in a mercilessly cloudless sky. It looked the same with or without sunglasses.
"You shouldn't do that," said Rogue's voice in his ear. "You'll damage your eyes."
He lowered his eyes to the water, watching the green and purple splotches dance across the surface. Head reeling, St. John held on tightly to the balustrade as familiar hands began to gently rub his back.
"Don't touch me."
The hands disappeared. "Suit yourself."
Venice, at best, was a maze. Add the tourists. Add the sun. That was excess heat from two sources St. John couldn't control. It was all or nothing: if he couldn't control it, then it ate him alive. His shirt stuck to his back after he criss-crossed Venice x number of times in which x was an integer between Fuck This and Fuck You, and St. John felt ready to throw himself from the bridge into the canal.
Wearily, he leaned back against the balustrade and checked the crumpled map in his hand.
"I have some business in Lido to attend that will not require your attendance," Magneto had said. "At least, not yet. I'd like you to stay in Venice. Mystique will take care of you. Do as you like, but do not draw attention to yourself. I will be at the Hotel Pordenone at three o'clock, and you will be as well."
On the map, one street corner was circled in black marker with an arrow pointing to St. John's scrawl: Magneto. Hotel Pordenone. 3 pm.
The time was twenty past three. Asking for directions had proven futile.
"Does it even exist?" asked St. John.
"Yes."
He looked up, meeting Rogue's eyes. She was more composed than usual. Her right pupil flashed gold, and when John blinked, it was dark brown once more. A wink like only Mystique could do.
Unnerved and working to hide it, he said, "You've been there?"
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
Mystique-as-Rogue tipped her head to the side in amused condescension. There were traces of a smirk at the corners of a mouth that was as immaculate as the rest of her. Her entire fucking appearance was immaculate. One of the perks of being a shapeshifter, St. John supposed. Get a hair out of place or make-up smudged, and just get a new body. So far Mystique had been Dr. Grey, Professor Xavier (non-paraplegic version), and Logan.
St. John wondered if she was aware of the pattern of her forms. He hoped not.
"Whatever," he said, pushing past her.
Mystique watched him go. One brown-haired head bobbing up and down determinedly through the crowds. After a few seconds she followed, the steady click-click of her heels betraying her composure.
-
The sun was a big ball of fire.
St. John wondered what he could do with the sun, given the chance. Sure, there were probably all sorts of neat tricks he could pull, but St. John was a man who lived in the moment.
The first thing he would do, would be to turn down the heat.
Sweat plastered St. John's hair to his forehead as he wove his way through the people crowding the narrow, shop-lined alley. My, what a pretty mask for Shelley back home. Ma che bella sciarpa rossa. What lovely wind chimes; Grandma would love them.
What a fucking waste of space.
St. John was moving as fast as he could, which, considering the alley's current population density, was not very fast at all. He was knocking people into stands, shoving them into shops they didn't intend to go to and happily ignoring the cries of "Stupid American!" hurled at him in four different languages. Somewhere along the way he realised he'd dropped his sunglasses. Whatever. He wasn't even sure if he was following the map anymore, but every click-click of heels behind him propelled him further forward, injecting a new energy that could almost be mistaken for desperation, or fear.
It was when he reached a fork in the road and paused to pick that he realised the clicks had stopped. Which meant.
Shit.
It was only a matter of time now. Now it was too late to go left or right. There was a last-second 'she wouldn't be that cruel,' but the inevitability was a knife to the gut.
"Hey, John."
St. John turned around and came face to face with Bobby Drake.
That was Bobby's smile. That was Bobby's smile right there. That was the way he put his hands in his pockets, right down to the left thumb hooking into the belt loop. That was the way he tended to put his weight on one foot rather than standing completely straight, and there was the amusement in ice-blue eyes that laughed silently when catching St. John in an interesting position.
Mystique's illusion was seamless.
"Long time no see," said Bobby.
St. John attempted to keep a deadpan face. Wondered if it was working. Probably not. "Don't fuck with me, Mystique."
Bobby's smile faltered. "Mystique...?" He looked over his shoulder like maybe she was right there ready to do him in. "Uh, no, sorry to disappoint. Bobby. Robert, if you want. No plans to wipe out the human race on my part."
"Really."
"The rest of the X-Men are here, you know, looking for you."
St. John closed his eyes and turned away. "For god's sake..."
"Me and Logan have a bet going on who'd find you first," Bobby continued, seemingly unaware that he was talking to St. John's back.
"Really."
"Would I lie?" Then there was Bobby's hands on St. John's waist, Bobby's breath on St. John's neck, Bobby's voice in St. John's ear. "Aren't you glad I found you first?"
St. John spun around, faster than he thought he could be, and shoved Bobby into the opposite wall. There was a sickening thud as the back of Bobby's head met brick. Good. He hoped it hurt. The surrounding crowd cried out and panicked, shrinking away and giving them wide berth.
This wasn't lying low at all. Magneto would probably kill him.
"Fuck you," St. John hissed. "Fuck you."
Bobby smiled a little smile no one else in the alley could see. His eyes flared gold.
St. John realised that if he leaned in three millimetres, he would be kissing Bobby's lips. He realised that if he tried to, Mystique wouldn't stop him. It was all part of the plan. Like letting St. John pin her against the wall was part of the plan. After all, Mystique could easily obliterate him if she wanted to.
Becoming the absurdly familiar to remind St. John exactly of what he didn't have.
St. John tentatively reached out his thumb, lightly brushing the side of Bobby's neck. Bobby's breath hitched in his throat, Adam's apple bobbing.
Seamless.
Three millimetres. That was all. Just three millimetres, for a few seconds, for a taste of familiarity that would at this point either tear him apart or hold him together. Just three millimetres and St. John found himself unable to move.
"Basta!" someone yelled, but by the time Giulio reached them, it was all over. The crazy one, the one with the darker hair, had bolted, disappeared into the crowd. He looked at the blond one.
"Stai bene?" Giulio asked. "Okay?"
The blond didn't respond, only rubbed his shoulder and stared after the other American. Didn't even look in Giulio's direction. Just turned down the opposite way and walked off, clearly intending not to look back.
Giulio watched him go, miffed. Fucking Americans.
-
St. John bought peaches. Pesche. Little cardboard signs taught him that apples were mele and pears were pera, and that pesche cost three Euros per kilo. The vendor chattered contentedly to him in Italian as she weighed the fruits. She didn't seem to know (or if she did, she didn't mind) that St. John didn't have a clue what she was saying.
"Gracias," said St. John upon receiving his bag.
"Grazie," the woman corrected.
She waved at him as he continued on his way. He waved back.
St. John kept to the shadows, stealing under shop awnings and similar things as much as possible. He told himself it was to keep out of the sun. It was certainly not because he was avoiding Mystique.
The time was four-twelve. Death by Magneto loomed over St. John's head. He couldn't bring himself to care enough.
The peaches were surprisingly soft, breaking noiselessly under his teeth. He wiped the juice off his chin and continued being lost in Venice. St. John decided it was rather nice being lost in Venice. It was better than being lost in other things. Settling into the soothingly blank tourist mindset, St. John walked down Calle Sant'Antonio and submitted himself to distraction.
He almost felt like an extra in a movie, what with the cobbled streets, the cute bridges, and the buildings out of fairy tales, painted yellow with green window shutters, painted red with white. He could be an extra in a romantic movie, a dozen of them. There were certainly enough couples happily living out their dramas on the streets of Venice today, and as the camera zoomed in to catch his smile or her promise, there would be a guy with a bag of peaches walking through the background, minding his own business.
St. John found he had to concentrate to remain blank. It wasn't something he was completely unfamiliar with. When he was thirteen and accidentally torched the kitchen table, he had reacted similarly: focus all his energy on other things, on everything, except this frightening thing inside. 'Focus' was the key word, and he had been trying to do so since he joined the Brotherhood.
Being thirteen and scared seemed like a hundred lifetimes ago.
Sometimes he slipped, and there would be the memory of Bobby running his fingers down St. John's back, leaving trails of frost that melted as soon as they formed. Bobby kissed away the water as if he was a man in a desert. There would be the memory of a smile in the moonlight as the bedsprings creaked beneath them. The bed wasn't made for two. They managed.
And there would be the memory of...
of...
(The memory of...)
Then St. John would regain control, turn the blankness on full blast, and walk on.
He passed the train station. In accordance to the third law of lost tourists-which dictates that there is always one landmark you keep coming back to, no matter how often you backtrack to make different turns-it was the fourth time he had done so. (The first two laws probably had something to do with cameras, or exchange rates.)
There was a bridge in front of the train station, connecting Cannaregio and Santa Croce across the Grand Canal. St. John wondered if it had a name. Rialto it was not, but it still looked like it would have a fancy name. St. John vaguely wished he hadn't dropped the map when he ran from Mystique.
Now that the sun was going down and the air wasn't as harsh, more people ventured outside. They gathered in small groups on the bridge, on the steps at the bank of the canal, on the steps in front of the station. Smoking, laughing, consulting guidebooks for the next big adventure. There were two dark-haired girls on the steps of the bank who were doing nothing at all. Inactivity in the midst of noise and movement. They shared earphones for one Discman, staring out over the water. St. John had half a mind to ask what they were listening to, but they seemed content enough in their own little bubble. They probably don't want to be disturbed, he thought. In retrospect, neither did he want to disturb them.
The time was five to five. He was running out of peaches. He could probably also draw some ironies about how the sun was descending and he was ascending (well, over a bridge), but there was that tug at the corner of his mind, a familiar and fearful tug...
St. John tried counting backwards from one hundred. It didn't work the last time, but maybe it would work this time.
It didn't.
The memory of rushed kisses between classes, between sleep and waking, between being normal and being this. They were never quite sure what 'this' was. Bobby liked Rogue. St. John maintained a regular flirtation with Jubilee, but still. The memory of tentative looks turned to touches turned to touches turned to secrets. Always secrets. Always some dark cloud hovering.
The memory of Bobby slipping his arms around him from behind and resting his lips on the back of his neck. It was a Sunday and raining, and St. John told Bobby he was so damn clingy sometimes. At least I know to get what I want, said Bobby. St. John had laughed. You think I don't? Bobby just began unbuttoning St. John's shirt. You never know what you want, he murmured. The rain became more intense, the pitter-patter on the windowpanes becoming a low, insistent buzz. His shirt fell to the floor. Fade to black.
St. John stood at the top of the bridge and stared at the water.
It was through this method of start and stop that St. John found himself standing at the door of Hotel Pordenone at thirty-one minutes past five. For a minute he just stared, as if he didn't believe he was actually here. Just read the sign hanging on the pole above the narrow doorway. Looked through the doorway up the stairs, up at where the lobby must be on the second floor.
He could run away. He could buy a goat-class train ticket out of here, find a phone and call the Professor, ask them to take him back, take him back because it was all a big mistake. One big misunderstanding. Take him back because he really was on the X-Men's side, and he never meant to turn his back on everyone and leave them all behind. Take him back because he never supposed to be the lonely one.
He could do it, too. St. John had the money in his pocket in a wallet next to the Zippo, which-he noted with some surprise-he hadn't touched all day. He could do this. He could turn around right now and leave.
He shoved his hands into his pocket, fingering the thick wad of Euros Magneto had given him, and began walking up the stairs.
-
Ding.
The elevator doors opened to the fourth floor, which St. John thought would be more aptly called the fourth closet. Five steps out of the elevator and he was already at the end of the hall. Behind him he heard the elevator doors close.
So what would Magneto do to him? St. John was only late, after all. Right? Still, it wasn't wise to piss off a man who could kill you with a bullet made of the iron in your blood. (He had told St. John the story one day, and he had been equally horrified and fascinated. Magneto smiled magnanimously at the boy's pale face and said, "You'll learn.")
St. John inserted the key into the keyhole-"Ah, yes. Mr. Lensherr has left a key for you, sir."-turned it, and stepped inside.
Bobby was sitting on the couch.
St. Johns staggered backwards. "Oh, god. No. No, you're not..."
Was he?
Maybe it really was Bobby this time. It could be. It could be that Professor X was in the bedroom right now, and Storm and Cyclops were somewhere outside checking the perimeters.
It could be that that was really Bobby Drake sitting on that couch.
"You're not Bobby," said St. John. It came out sounding smaller than he intended.
"No." Mystique's voice out of Bobby's mouth. "Close that door."
He did.
"I told Erik what happened this afternoon," Mystique continued. "We had a few words. Now he's left to get an early dinner. He's left me to deal with you."
St. John laughed uncomfortably. "You're not going to kill me, right? Come on, you guys need all the firepower you can get, no pun intended. I was only late. It's not like I... And I'm sorry about the whole pushing you against the wall thing, in that alley, but it's not like I was the cause of some major downfall, right? I mean-"
He didn't realise he was babbling until Mystique cut him off.
"I won't kill you," said Mystique, "and neither will Magneto. But he will be angry, when he returns." She rose to her feet, an act absent of her usual serpentine grace. That was the lazy way Bobby stood up after two hours of Saturday morning cartoons. Mystique was weaving the illusion again, but when she spoke it was still her voice.
"Magneto likes men who can obey orders," she said. "It's important for you to understand that. For the cause of the Brotherhood, obedience is imperative."
"I understand it," St. John muttered. "Maybe if you weren't pulling that shape-shifting shit this afternoon, I would have-"
"He also values strength, efficiency, and clarity of thought."
"Does he."
"You have to learn to take advantage of what comes to you," said Bobby's voice, and St. John had to look away. "You have to know how to take what you want. Really, it's the only way things get done sometimes."
St. John distinctly remembered there being at least a couple of metres between Bobby and himself. He wasn't sure when it turned into a couple of feet. A couple of feet and closing.
"Is this a test?" asked St. John.
"Yes."
"Do I pass?"
One foot away and... stop.
"We'll see," said Bobby.
Outside, a weary backpacker negotiated the price of a boat ride with a stubborn gondolier. A child wailed as her ice cream fell off the cone and splattered on the ground. A family pored over a map in the shade, trying to work out the shortest route to St. Mark's Basilica. A man whose looks belied his power ordered the veal pasta ratatouille and a glass of red wine; he sat back and watched the crowds pass, thinking of better things to come.
It was surprising, St. John thought, how easily he fell into familiarity. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it lingered that these weren't really Bobby's lips, not Bobby's skin that he was touching, and as St. John gently pushed this creature to the bed, he told himself it didn't matter, not really.
It was the time for long shadows. St. John caught a glimpse of the sky before he was enveloped in strangefamiliar arms. The horizon took on the burnished shades of afternoons, but through the window he could only see clear blue, as he had been seeing the entire day today.
It was the same with or without the sun.
[end.]
Title: Sunshadow
Author: Lassiter
Rating: R
Summary: Being lost in Venice. It's preferable to being lost in other things, sometimes. St. John/Bobby. Post X2.
Thanks to Betty for betas, and special mention goes to Kagome for It-picking. Any inaccuracies are mine, not theirs.
-
Sunshadow
A white disk in a mercilessly cloudless sky. It looked the same with or without sunglasses.
"You shouldn't do that," said Rogue's voice in his ear. "You'll damage your eyes."
He lowered his eyes to the water, watching the green and purple splotches dance across the surface. Head reeling, St. John held on tightly to the balustrade as familiar hands began to gently rub his back.
"Don't touch me."
The hands disappeared. "Suit yourself."
Venice, at best, was a maze. Add the tourists. Add the sun. That was excess heat from two sources St. John couldn't control. It was all or nothing: if he couldn't control it, then it ate him alive. His shirt stuck to his back after he criss-crossed Venice x number of times in which x was an integer between Fuck This and Fuck You, and St. John felt ready to throw himself from the bridge into the canal.
Wearily, he leaned back against the balustrade and checked the crumpled map in his hand.
"I have some business in Lido to attend that will not require your attendance," Magneto had said. "At least, not yet. I'd like you to stay in Venice. Mystique will take care of you. Do as you like, but do not draw attention to yourself. I will be at the Hotel Pordenone at three o'clock, and you will be as well."
On the map, one street corner was circled in black marker with an arrow pointing to St. John's scrawl: Magneto. Hotel Pordenone. 3 pm.
The time was twenty past three. Asking for directions had proven futile.
"Does it even exist?" asked St. John.
"Yes."
He looked up, meeting Rogue's eyes. She was more composed than usual. Her right pupil flashed gold, and when John blinked, it was dark brown once more. A wink like only Mystique could do.
Unnerved and working to hide it, he said, "You've been there?"
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
Mystique-as-Rogue tipped her head to the side in amused condescension. There were traces of a smirk at the corners of a mouth that was as immaculate as the rest of her. Her entire fucking appearance was immaculate. One of the perks of being a shapeshifter, St. John supposed. Get a hair out of place or make-up smudged, and just get a new body. So far Mystique had been Dr. Grey, Professor Xavier (non-paraplegic version), and Logan.
St. John wondered if she was aware of the pattern of her forms. He hoped not.
"Whatever," he said, pushing past her.
Mystique watched him go. One brown-haired head bobbing up and down determinedly through the crowds. After a few seconds she followed, the steady click-click of her heels betraying her composure.
-
The sun was a big ball of fire.
St. John wondered what he could do with the sun, given the chance. Sure, there were probably all sorts of neat tricks he could pull, but St. John was a man who lived in the moment.
The first thing he would do, would be to turn down the heat.
Sweat plastered St. John's hair to his forehead as he wove his way through the people crowding the narrow, shop-lined alley. My, what a pretty mask for Shelley back home. Ma che bella sciarpa rossa. What lovely wind chimes; Grandma would love them.
What a fucking waste of space.
St. John was moving as fast as he could, which, considering the alley's current population density, was not very fast at all. He was knocking people into stands, shoving them into shops they didn't intend to go to and happily ignoring the cries of "Stupid American!" hurled at him in four different languages. Somewhere along the way he realised he'd dropped his sunglasses. Whatever. He wasn't even sure if he was following the map anymore, but every click-click of heels behind him propelled him further forward, injecting a new energy that could almost be mistaken for desperation, or fear.
It was when he reached a fork in the road and paused to pick that he realised the clicks had stopped. Which meant.
Shit.
It was only a matter of time now. Now it was too late to go left or right. There was a last-second 'she wouldn't be that cruel,' but the inevitability was a knife to the gut.
"Hey, John."
St. John turned around and came face to face with Bobby Drake.
That was Bobby's smile. That was Bobby's smile right there. That was the way he put his hands in his pockets, right down to the left thumb hooking into the belt loop. That was the way he tended to put his weight on one foot rather than standing completely straight, and there was the amusement in ice-blue eyes that laughed silently when catching St. John in an interesting position.
Mystique's illusion was seamless.
"Long time no see," said Bobby.
St. John attempted to keep a deadpan face. Wondered if it was working. Probably not. "Don't fuck with me, Mystique."
Bobby's smile faltered. "Mystique...?" He looked over his shoulder like maybe she was right there ready to do him in. "Uh, no, sorry to disappoint. Bobby. Robert, if you want. No plans to wipe out the human race on my part."
"Really."
"The rest of the X-Men are here, you know, looking for you."
St. John closed his eyes and turned away. "For god's sake..."
"Me and Logan have a bet going on who'd find you first," Bobby continued, seemingly unaware that he was talking to St. John's back.
"Really."
"Would I lie?" Then there was Bobby's hands on St. John's waist, Bobby's breath on St. John's neck, Bobby's voice in St. John's ear. "Aren't you glad I found you first?"
St. John spun around, faster than he thought he could be, and shoved Bobby into the opposite wall. There was a sickening thud as the back of Bobby's head met brick. Good. He hoped it hurt. The surrounding crowd cried out and panicked, shrinking away and giving them wide berth.
This wasn't lying low at all. Magneto would probably kill him.
"Fuck you," St. John hissed. "Fuck you."
Bobby smiled a little smile no one else in the alley could see. His eyes flared gold.
St. John realised that if he leaned in three millimetres, he would be kissing Bobby's lips. He realised that if he tried to, Mystique wouldn't stop him. It was all part of the plan. Like letting St. John pin her against the wall was part of the plan. After all, Mystique could easily obliterate him if she wanted to.
Becoming the absurdly familiar to remind St. John exactly of what he didn't have.
St. John tentatively reached out his thumb, lightly brushing the side of Bobby's neck. Bobby's breath hitched in his throat, Adam's apple bobbing.
Seamless.
Three millimetres. That was all. Just three millimetres, for a few seconds, for a taste of familiarity that would at this point either tear him apart or hold him together. Just three millimetres and St. John found himself unable to move.
"Basta!" someone yelled, but by the time Giulio reached them, it was all over. The crazy one, the one with the darker hair, had bolted, disappeared into the crowd. He looked at the blond one.
"Stai bene?" Giulio asked. "Okay?"
The blond didn't respond, only rubbed his shoulder and stared after the other American. Didn't even look in Giulio's direction. Just turned down the opposite way and walked off, clearly intending not to look back.
Giulio watched him go, miffed. Fucking Americans.
-
St. John bought peaches. Pesche. Little cardboard signs taught him that apples were mele and pears were pera, and that pesche cost three Euros per kilo. The vendor chattered contentedly to him in Italian as she weighed the fruits. She didn't seem to know (or if she did, she didn't mind) that St. John didn't have a clue what she was saying.
"Gracias," said St. John upon receiving his bag.
"Grazie," the woman corrected.
She waved at him as he continued on his way. He waved back.
St. John kept to the shadows, stealing under shop awnings and similar things as much as possible. He told himself it was to keep out of the sun. It was certainly not because he was avoiding Mystique.
The time was four-twelve. Death by Magneto loomed over St. John's head. He couldn't bring himself to care enough.
The peaches were surprisingly soft, breaking noiselessly under his teeth. He wiped the juice off his chin and continued being lost in Venice. St. John decided it was rather nice being lost in Venice. It was better than being lost in other things. Settling into the soothingly blank tourist mindset, St. John walked down Calle Sant'Antonio and submitted himself to distraction.
He almost felt like an extra in a movie, what with the cobbled streets, the cute bridges, and the buildings out of fairy tales, painted yellow with green window shutters, painted red with white. He could be an extra in a romantic movie, a dozen of them. There were certainly enough couples happily living out their dramas on the streets of Venice today, and as the camera zoomed in to catch his smile or her promise, there would be a guy with a bag of peaches walking through the background, minding his own business.
St. John found he had to concentrate to remain blank. It wasn't something he was completely unfamiliar with. When he was thirteen and accidentally torched the kitchen table, he had reacted similarly: focus all his energy on other things, on everything, except this frightening thing inside. 'Focus' was the key word, and he had been trying to do so since he joined the Brotherhood.
Being thirteen and scared seemed like a hundred lifetimes ago.
Sometimes he slipped, and there would be the memory of Bobby running his fingers down St. John's back, leaving trails of frost that melted as soon as they formed. Bobby kissed away the water as if he was a man in a desert. There would be the memory of a smile in the moonlight as the bedsprings creaked beneath them. The bed wasn't made for two. They managed.
And there would be the memory of...
of...
(The memory of...)
Then St. John would regain control, turn the blankness on full blast, and walk on.
He passed the train station. In accordance to the third law of lost tourists-which dictates that there is always one landmark you keep coming back to, no matter how often you backtrack to make different turns-it was the fourth time he had done so. (The first two laws probably had something to do with cameras, or exchange rates.)
There was a bridge in front of the train station, connecting Cannaregio and Santa Croce across the Grand Canal. St. John wondered if it had a name. Rialto it was not, but it still looked like it would have a fancy name. St. John vaguely wished he hadn't dropped the map when he ran from Mystique.
Now that the sun was going down and the air wasn't as harsh, more people ventured outside. They gathered in small groups on the bridge, on the steps at the bank of the canal, on the steps in front of the station. Smoking, laughing, consulting guidebooks for the next big adventure. There were two dark-haired girls on the steps of the bank who were doing nothing at all. Inactivity in the midst of noise and movement. They shared earphones for one Discman, staring out over the water. St. John had half a mind to ask what they were listening to, but they seemed content enough in their own little bubble. They probably don't want to be disturbed, he thought. In retrospect, neither did he want to disturb them.
The time was five to five. He was running out of peaches. He could probably also draw some ironies about how the sun was descending and he was ascending (well, over a bridge), but there was that tug at the corner of his mind, a familiar and fearful tug...
St. John tried counting backwards from one hundred. It didn't work the last time, but maybe it would work this time.
It didn't.
The memory of rushed kisses between classes, between sleep and waking, between being normal and being this. They were never quite sure what 'this' was. Bobby liked Rogue. St. John maintained a regular flirtation with Jubilee, but still. The memory of tentative looks turned to touches turned to touches turned to secrets. Always secrets. Always some dark cloud hovering.
The memory of Bobby slipping his arms around him from behind and resting his lips on the back of his neck. It was a Sunday and raining, and St. John told Bobby he was so damn clingy sometimes. At least I know to get what I want, said Bobby. St. John had laughed. You think I don't? Bobby just began unbuttoning St. John's shirt. You never know what you want, he murmured. The rain became more intense, the pitter-patter on the windowpanes becoming a low, insistent buzz. His shirt fell to the floor. Fade to black.
St. John stood at the top of the bridge and stared at the water.
It was through this method of start and stop that St. John found himself standing at the door of Hotel Pordenone at thirty-one minutes past five. For a minute he just stared, as if he didn't believe he was actually here. Just read the sign hanging on the pole above the narrow doorway. Looked through the doorway up the stairs, up at where the lobby must be on the second floor.
He could run away. He could buy a goat-class train ticket out of here, find a phone and call the Professor, ask them to take him back, take him back because it was all a big mistake. One big misunderstanding. Take him back because he really was on the X-Men's side, and he never meant to turn his back on everyone and leave them all behind. Take him back because he never supposed to be the lonely one.
He could do it, too. St. John had the money in his pocket in a wallet next to the Zippo, which-he noted with some surprise-he hadn't touched all day. He could do this. He could turn around right now and leave.
He shoved his hands into his pocket, fingering the thick wad of Euros Magneto had given him, and began walking up the stairs.
-
Ding.
The elevator doors opened to the fourth floor, which St. John thought would be more aptly called the fourth closet. Five steps out of the elevator and he was already at the end of the hall. Behind him he heard the elevator doors close.
So what would Magneto do to him? St. John was only late, after all. Right? Still, it wasn't wise to piss off a man who could kill you with a bullet made of the iron in your blood. (He had told St. John the story one day, and he had been equally horrified and fascinated. Magneto smiled magnanimously at the boy's pale face and said, "You'll learn.")
St. John inserted the key into the keyhole-"Ah, yes. Mr. Lensherr has left a key for you, sir."-turned it, and stepped inside.
Bobby was sitting on the couch.
St. Johns staggered backwards. "Oh, god. No. No, you're not..."
Was he?
Maybe it really was Bobby this time. It could be. It could be that Professor X was in the bedroom right now, and Storm and Cyclops were somewhere outside checking the perimeters.
It could be that that was really Bobby Drake sitting on that couch.
"You're not Bobby," said St. John. It came out sounding smaller than he intended.
"No." Mystique's voice out of Bobby's mouth. "Close that door."
He did.
"I told Erik what happened this afternoon," Mystique continued. "We had a few words. Now he's left to get an early dinner. He's left me to deal with you."
St. John laughed uncomfortably. "You're not going to kill me, right? Come on, you guys need all the firepower you can get, no pun intended. I was only late. It's not like I... And I'm sorry about the whole pushing you against the wall thing, in that alley, but it's not like I was the cause of some major downfall, right? I mean-"
He didn't realise he was babbling until Mystique cut him off.
"I won't kill you," said Mystique, "and neither will Magneto. But he will be angry, when he returns." She rose to her feet, an act absent of her usual serpentine grace. That was the lazy way Bobby stood up after two hours of Saturday morning cartoons. Mystique was weaving the illusion again, but when she spoke it was still her voice.
"Magneto likes men who can obey orders," she said. "It's important for you to understand that. For the cause of the Brotherhood, obedience is imperative."
"I understand it," St. John muttered. "Maybe if you weren't pulling that shape-shifting shit this afternoon, I would have-"
"He also values strength, efficiency, and clarity of thought."
"Does he."
"You have to learn to take advantage of what comes to you," said Bobby's voice, and St. John had to look away. "You have to know how to take what you want. Really, it's the only way things get done sometimes."
St. John distinctly remembered there being at least a couple of metres between Bobby and himself. He wasn't sure when it turned into a couple of feet. A couple of feet and closing.
"Is this a test?" asked St. John.
"Yes."
"Do I pass?"
One foot away and... stop.
"We'll see," said Bobby.
Outside, a weary backpacker negotiated the price of a boat ride with a stubborn gondolier. A child wailed as her ice cream fell off the cone and splattered on the ground. A family pored over a map in the shade, trying to work out the shortest route to St. Mark's Basilica. A man whose looks belied his power ordered the veal pasta ratatouille and a glass of red wine; he sat back and watched the crowds pass, thinking of better things to come.
It was surprising, St. John thought, how easily he fell into familiarity. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it lingered that these weren't really Bobby's lips, not Bobby's skin that he was touching, and as St. John gently pushed this creature to the bed, he told himself it didn't matter, not really.
It was the time for long shadows. St. John caught a glimpse of the sky before he was enveloped in strangefamiliar arms. The horizon took on the burnished shades of afternoons, but through the window he could only see clear blue, as he had been seeing the entire day today.
It was the same with or without the sun.
[end.]