It’s like trying to hotwire a Pinto
I’m concerned about the health of my Bobby. He doesn’t want to get laid, he won’t accept ice cream, he just moons about like - like a love-struck teenager. Meh.
I heard there was a Reunion Challenge over at dry_ice, but this doesn't quite meet the parameters. Again, meh.
Movieverse: X2
Mind & Matter
i. Optimism
They meet in bed. That’s where it starts.
There’s enough room for both of them in the twin, and Johnny’s lying on his back, flipping his lighter around between his fingers.
Bobby’s propped up on his side, elbow supporting his weight as he stares down at Johnny, a slightly glazed look adorning his face.
St. John glances up at him and chuckles. “Virgins,” he says.
Bobby blinks, and watches St. John manipulate the lighter for a while. The ‘click fwoosh’ of it igniting is by turns hypnotic and jolting. After awhile, Bobby collapses his elbow, trapping his right arm between his body and the bed, so he can gaze at Johnny’s profile, memorizing, remembering.
His left hand moves of its own accord.
He starts at St. John’s hairline and traces down with his index finger: a smooth line down his forehead, between eyebrows, and over the bridge of a nose that has never been broken.
“There are 206 bones in the human body,” Johnny recites as Bobby’s finger dips into the little divot between his upper lip and his nose. “But there are only 14 in the face. 26 if you include the skull.” Johnny’s mouth moves, forming words even as Bobby’s finger brushes over his lips.
St. John turns his head as Bobby’s hand glides over his chin and down his throat. Johnny moves slightly, close enough for his nose to bump against Bobby’s, and Bobby follows suit when Johnny’s eyes flutter closed.
The kiss starts out softly. Just lips. Soft, welcoming, parting to invite Bobby’s tongue in to play.
St. John’s mouth is warm, and he tastes like chocolate sauce and bananas. A split without the ice cream. Bobby presses forward slightly, his hand resting around Johnny’s neck casually.
He pulls away only when he has to breathe. The next kiss is chaste, just a brushing of lips, and Bobby’s hand slides easily along St. John’s collarbone, coming to rest just above his left nipple.
“There are 25 bones in the chest counting ribs,” Johnny says, brushing a kiss against Bobby’s forehead. “But the heart isn’t a bone, so technically it can’t be broken.”
When Bobby wakes up, he’s alone. Tomorrow is St. John’s 18th birthday.
Bobby has no idea where he is.
ii. Pessimism
This time they’re in the bathroom.
Bobby is standing at the sink, preparing to shave. The basin is full of hot water, even though Jubilee has told him countless times how bad that is for his skin. St. John is sitting on the toilet, dressed in his pajamas and playing with his lighter.
Bobby remembers that Johnny was wearing the same outfit the day he left.
He glances at St. John before opening the medicine cabinet and taking out shaving cream and a disposable razor. When he closes the mirror, Johnny’s standing behind him. “You should be more careful, 75% of accidents happen in the bathroom,” St. John says dryly.
Bobby doesn’t say anything. Instead, he spreads a liberal amount of foam in his hand and steps a bit closer to the mirror. He lathers up quietly, while St. John plays with his lighter just over Bobby's left shoulder.
Not once does Bobby look at what he’s doing.
Not once does St. John look at the lighter in his hand.
Their eyes meet in the mirror.
Bobby glances down, once, to pick up his razor, but before he can do that Johnny comes up behind him, pressing a very prominent erection against his ass.
St. John’s breath almost scalds the skin on the back of Bobby’s neck, and Bobby thinks it’s like watching some sort of porn-slasher movie as St. John puts down his lighter on the right edge of the sink and picks up the razor. He wraps his left arm around Bobby’s waist, and they’re closer than they’ve been in a long time.
Instinctively, Bobby turns his head towards the right, towards Johnny, and he watches out of the corner of his eye as St. John brings the razor up. “Tilt your head back,” he instructs.
Bobby does so until his head rests on St. John’s shoulder, but he flinches at the first touch of the razor. “You should be careful,” Johnny says, dragging the razor from Bobby’s clavicle to his Adam’s apple. “I could cut an artery or a vein. We wouldn’t want that.”
Bobby swallows, and he can feel the press of the razor as it slides over the artery that’s throbbing in his throat.
“Carotid,” Johnny says. “I could kill you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Johnny whispers in Bobby’s ear. “It always matters.”
When Bobby wakes up his legs are tangled in his sheets, and he’s cut off the circulation to his right foot. When he untangles, finally, the pins and needles are dulled by the pounding in his head. Instinctively, he puts his hand to his throat.
Tomorrow is Christmas.
It’s been almost six months.
iii. Realism
The phone call changes everything.
It’s not a dream.
“You didn’t really think I’d miss your birthday,” Johnny says by way of greeting. His voice is tinny and static-y. A bad connection.
The sound alone is still enough to make Bobby break out in a cold sweat, except instead of sweat, little bits of ice form on Bobby’s forehead and his palms. They make it very hard to handle the phone, and Bobby props himself against the closest piece of furniture, which turns out to be his desk.
His legs don’t feel right, either. The muscles are spasming like he’s run for too long.
“I can’t talk much, we’re kinda - I just can’t. So anyway, how’re things? You doin’ all right? How’s Jubes? Kitty?”
“I,” Bobby starts and then pauses. He what? “I wasn’t sure you would remember,” he says lamely.
“You think after six years, I could really forget your birthday?” The incredulous tone is clear even on the bad line, and Bobby cradles the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can wipe his palms on his jeans.
It doesn’t help. The ice sticks fast. “I wasn’t sure. I mean, you know, I didn’t want to expect --”
St. John cuts him off, just the way he always used to. “I got you something, I just wanted you to know that I didn’t forget.”
“Thanks, you didn’t have to --”
“Bob, it’s your birthday, stop thinking so hard. It’s just something I saw that reminded me of you, I’m gonna try and send it out soon.” There’s a pause on the line.
Bobby can hear Johnny breathing, and there are a million things he wants to say to fill the silence. He can feel his own chest getting tight, and he wonders if he can freeze from the inside. “I wish you were here,” he says finally.
“I know.”
“Maybe,” Bobby begins, ending before he wants to. In his dreams he never has to say anything. In his dreams Johnny always knows.
“I don’t think so,” Johnny says.
“It could have been different.” Bobby’s got a million scenarios entitled ‘how.’
There’s another pause, and then a new voice comes over the phone. Bobby can’t tell, but he thinks it’s Spanish. It goes by too fast.
“I have to go,” St. John says.
“I know.”
“Maybe…”
“One day,” Bobby finishes.
“Yeah,” Johnny manages before the phone goes dead.
Bobby’s not sure how long he sits there, perched on his desk, before his brain starts to reengage, but the ice has disappeared from his palms and the operator on the phone is telling him ‘please hang up and try again.’
He wishes everything in life were that easy.
-finis-
Adoration and thanks to lux__aeterna and iscaris for their betas and advice.
Edited to add:
Happy Birthday, kattiya!
I heard there was a Reunion Challenge over at dry_ice, but this doesn't quite meet the parameters. Again, meh.
Movieverse: X2
Mind & Matter
i. Optimism
They meet in bed. That’s where it starts.
There’s enough room for both of them in the twin, and Johnny’s lying on his back, flipping his lighter around between his fingers.
Bobby’s propped up on his side, elbow supporting his weight as he stares down at Johnny, a slightly glazed look adorning his face.
St. John glances up at him and chuckles. “Virgins,” he says.
Bobby blinks, and watches St. John manipulate the lighter for a while. The ‘click fwoosh’ of it igniting is by turns hypnotic and jolting. After awhile, Bobby collapses his elbow, trapping his right arm between his body and the bed, so he can gaze at Johnny’s profile, memorizing, remembering.
His left hand moves of its own accord.
He starts at St. John’s hairline and traces down with his index finger: a smooth line down his forehead, between eyebrows, and over the bridge of a nose that has never been broken.
“There are 206 bones in the human body,” Johnny recites as Bobby’s finger dips into the little divot between his upper lip and his nose. “But there are only 14 in the face. 26 if you include the skull.” Johnny’s mouth moves, forming words even as Bobby’s finger brushes over his lips.
St. John turns his head as Bobby’s hand glides over his chin and down his throat. Johnny moves slightly, close enough for his nose to bump against Bobby’s, and Bobby follows suit when Johnny’s eyes flutter closed.
The kiss starts out softly. Just lips. Soft, welcoming, parting to invite Bobby’s tongue in to play.
St. John’s mouth is warm, and he tastes like chocolate sauce and bananas. A split without the ice cream. Bobby presses forward slightly, his hand resting around Johnny’s neck casually.
He pulls away only when he has to breathe. The next kiss is chaste, just a brushing of lips, and Bobby’s hand slides easily along St. John’s collarbone, coming to rest just above his left nipple.
“There are 25 bones in the chest counting ribs,” Johnny says, brushing a kiss against Bobby’s forehead. “But the heart isn’t a bone, so technically it can’t be broken.”
When Bobby wakes up, he’s alone. Tomorrow is St. John’s 18th birthday.
Bobby has no idea where he is.
ii. Pessimism
This time they’re in the bathroom.
Bobby is standing at the sink, preparing to shave. The basin is full of hot water, even though Jubilee has told him countless times how bad that is for his skin. St. John is sitting on the toilet, dressed in his pajamas and playing with his lighter.
Bobby remembers that Johnny was wearing the same outfit the day he left.
He glances at St. John before opening the medicine cabinet and taking out shaving cream and a disposable razor. When he closes the mirror, Johnny’s standing behind him. “You should be more careful, 75% of accidents happen in the bathroom,” St. John says dryly.
Bobby doesn’t say anything. Instead, he spreads a liberal amount of foam in his hand and steps a bit closer to the mirror. He lathers up quietly, while St. John plays with his lighter just over Bobby's left shoulder.
Not once does Bobby look at what he’s doing.
Not once does St. John look at the lighter in his hand.
Their eyes meet in the mirror.
Bobby glances down, once, to pick up his razor, but before he can do that Johnny comes up behind him, pressing a very prominent erection against his ass.
St. John’s breath almost scalds the skin on the back of Bobby’s neck, and Bobby thinks it’s like watching some sort of porn-slasher movie as St. John puts down his lighter on the right edge of the sink and picks up the razor. He wraps his left arm around Bobby’s waist, and they’re closer than they’ve been in a long time.
Instinctively, Bobby turns his head towards the right, towards Johnny, and he watches out of the corner of his eye as St. John brings the razor up. “Tilt your head back,” he instructs.
Bobby does so until his head rests on St. John’s shoulder, but he flinches at the first touch of the razor. “You should be careful,” Johnny says, dragging the razor from Bobby’s clavicle to his Adam’s apple. “I could cut an artery or a vein. We wouldn’t want that.”
Bobby swallows, and he can feel the press of the razor as it slides over the artery that’s throbbing in his throat.
“Carotid,” Johnny says. “I could kill you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Johnny whispers in Bobby’s ear. “It always matters.”
When Bobby wakes up his legs are tangled in his sheets, and he’s cut off the circulation to his right foot. When he untangles, finally, the pins and needles are dulled by the pounding in his head. Instinctively, he puts his hand to his throat.
Tomorrow is Christmas.
It’s been almost six months.
iii. Realism
The phone call changes everything.
It’s not a dream.
“You didn’t really think I’d miss your birthday,” Johnny says by way of greeting. His voice is tinny and static-y. A bad connection.
The sound alone is still enough to make Bobby break out in a cold sweat, except instead of sweat, little bits of ice form on Bobby’s forehead and his palms. They make it very hard to handle the phone, and Bobby props himself against the closest piece of furniture, which turns out to be his desk.
His legs don’t feel right, either. The muscles are spasming like he’s run for too long.
“I can’t talk much, we’re kinda - I just can’t. So anyway, how’re things? You doin’ all right? How’s Jubes? Kitty?”
“I,” Bobby starts and then pauses. He what? “I wasn’t sure you would remember,” he says lamely.
“You think after six years, I could really forget your birthday?” The incredulous tone is clear even on the bad line, and Bobby cradles the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can wipe his palms on his jeans.
It doesn’t help. The ice sticks fast. “I wasn’t sure. I mean, you know, I didn’t want to expect --”
St. John cuts him off, just the way he always used to. “I got you something, I just wanted you to know that I didn’t forget.”
“Thanks, you didn’t have to --”
“Bob, it’s your birthday, stop thinking so hard. It’s just something I saw that reminded me of you, I’m gonna try and send it out soon.” There’s a pause on the line.
Bobby can hear Johnny breathing, and there are a million things he wants to say to fill the silence. He can feel his own chest getting tight, and he wonders if he can freeze from the inside. “I wish you were here,” he says finally.
“I know.”
“Maybe,” Bobby begins, ending before he wants to. In his dreams he never has to say anything. In his dreams Johnny always knows.
“I don’t think so,” Johnny says.
“It could have been different.” Bobby’s got a million scenarios entitled ‘how.’
There’s another pause, and then a new voice comes over the phone. Bobby can’t tell, but he thinks it’s Spanish. It goes by too fast.
“I have to go,” St. John says.
“I know.”
“Maybe…”
“One day,” Bobby finishes.
“Yeah,” Johnny manages before the phone goes dead.
Bobby’s not sure how long he sits there, perched on his desk, before his brain starts to reengage, but the ice has disappeared from his palms and the operator on the phone is telling him ‘please hang up and try again.’
He wishes everything in life were that easy.
-finis-
Adoration and thanks to lux__aeterna and iscaris for their betas and advice.
Edited to add:
Happy Birthday, kattiya!