TITLE: Must Be The Music: Love In Plaster
AUTHOR: Beaubier
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL: fastlove.for.rentATgmailDOTcom
FANDOM: X-Men: Evolution
PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE: Any time, just let me know!
CATEGORY: Romance/Drama
RATINGS/WARNINGS: Rated M for language and adult situations (aka, manlove. Don't like it, don't read it.)
SUMMARY: Seventh Story in Must Be The Music. With the end of Senior year in view, how well can Quicksilver and Northstar weather the eminent changes in their lives? You guessed it—with a huge temper tantrum.
DISCLAIMER: I didn't invent the X-Men and I have nothing to do with Evolution. If you somehow think I do: Thanks for the compliment, mislaid though it may be.
NOTES: This is a sort of sequel to Thicker Than Water (which was a sequel to Relativity and then Here Comes Trouble), but it's not necessary to read that saga to catch on here. I'll make everything clear. That said, this is the seventh in a planned series of several one shots that explore the various main characters from TTW. Some will be serious, some fluffy, some just plain ridiculous (much like Here Comes Trouble, only more disjointed.) These stories will be written in chronological order beginning a few months after the end of TTW. They are generally stand-alone, but this one does have some parts of it expanded on in the next story, which is Alex's. Not much, but it will answer a question or two if anyone cares.
This is Pietro's. If you don't like this one, please hit up the next one just the same. They'll all be completely different from each other. Except that… you know. I'm writing them all. The current line up is Wanda, Warren, Jean-Paul, Jean, Rogue, Sam, Pietro, Alex, Scott, Aurora. But of course that's subject to change if I get a bug up my nose about something.
IMPORTANT: PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS STORY IF YOU ARE OFFENDED BY SLASH AND ADULT SITUATIONS. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. Should you choose to ignore this warning and end up blind (or just angry and disillusioned, or possibly traumatized,) the author is not responsible. By reading further, you agree to this. Seriously. You do.
Also, there is a minor appearance here by an NPC invented at the Project Bayville RP of a few years ago. Ant got a lot of use there, so I thought I'd resurrect him for one last time in this one (just a much… happier version of him.) Sorry about the OC ish feeling in that one little bit but… yeah. Sometimes you need a plot device.
Thanks a million to Risty the Amazing Beta, who is very kind to put up with my many flavors of princess. (The characters, not me! No really!)
0000000000000
Must Be The Music Pt. 7
Love In Plaster
I really thought
That we
Had something moving faster
Than love in plaster
-The Hives
Pietro stood up, dragging the back of one hand over his mouth. The moment he got to his feet, Jean-Paul had him by both arms.
He smiled when he saw the look on JP's face. It was hard to see when you were down on your knees, but it was worth the wait. Jean-Paul's eyelids were heavy, his eyes bright. And he had that smile on his face—lazier than his usual sharpish smirk. Almost happy.
Man. What a look. There was a sick sort of impulse in Pietro that actually made him think half the reason sucking dick was so awesome was that look. It was seriously… sex.
"I'm going to do horrible things to you tonight," JP promised, pushing him against the flimsy partition between bathroom stalls. He leaned closer, aggressive with what little space they had to themselves, and kissed Pietro hard. He still tasted like gin and tonic.
Pietro felt like he was being mauled by a tiger in the middle of polite society.
It was a good night, so far. And if there was one thing JP had taught him that no one else had ever managed to, it was the satisfaction of a job well done.
(Later, he thought he should've known he was way too happy at that moment for it to last. But at the time, it seemed almost perfect.)
0
Pietro flopped down on the couch, half on top of Jean-Paul. He managed not to spill his Long Island (it was like IV alcohol, he didn't care if it was girly… ish) in the process and was very proud of himself. Hooking one leg over and between Jean-Paul's he leaned back, took a gulp and surveyed the lesser beings around them. They'd danced. They'd been off to do bad things in the bathroom. They'd had a million drinks that had gone right through both their systems. According to his schedule, that meant it was now time to sit down and make fun of all the ugly people. And maybe make out a little before they went home.
That'd be hot.
The music in this place wasn't half bad, but the people were another thing entirely. Pietro was fucking sick to death of going out in Bayville… but he didn't really want to go all the way to the City just to get fucked up when he knew he'd want to stagger home and get laid within a few hours anyhow. Staggering home at certain speeds when wrecked was a pain in the ass. And sometimes made him throw up. Which was gross. And bad for the making out.
But god, could Bayville get any uglier? He and Jean-Paul were most definitely the best looking people there. Then again, they would've been anywhere. Obviously.
His eyes flicked to JP quickly. His face had recovered from that moment of dreamy hotness in the bathroom and he looked stone cold again. Pietro admired him through a half-cocked fleeting buzz.
What a beautiful grouchy bastard.
Jean-Paul's hot hand suddenly came to rest on Pietro's leg. His thigh, to be more accurate. Up fairly high.
Right. Time to go home.
Pietro leaned closer, smelled that faint aftershave smell that reminded him of sweat and sex, but smelled much cleaner than that in reality. "This place is lame."
Jean-Paul smiled, running his thumb just a few inches up and down Pietro's thigh.
Time to go home now.
"I'll find us better places next year," JP promised.
"Yeah?" Yeah, whatever, take the hint, JP. Pietro wants sex.
He was about to point that out in less uncertain terms when JP replied, "Living in Manhattan has to have some perks."
Pietro felt himself freeze quite suddenly. If the music kept playing, he didn't know—he could've sworn the entire place had just screeched to a halt around them.
Living in… Manhattan? As in… not Bayville.
Jean-Paul couldn't live there. That… didn't make sense. In fact, the thought suddenly made all that warm happy comfortableness drain right out of Pietro.
Or maybe it was just the blood leaving his face.
"… what?" he asked once he found his voice. It was quiet, but he could hear the music again now, just barely. The lights were dimmer. The crowds almost disappeared instead of just freezing in time.
Pietro didn't know why, but all the sudden he didn't feel so good.
JP had no idea. "Empire State," he laughed. Actually laughed the words. "Where I'm going to college…"
"Yeah but…" Pietro took his leg off JP's. Took another drink of his Long Island, hoping to fortify himself with its alcoholic goodness. He hadn't thought…
Well, he'd known JP was going to college. JP was a snob. They all went to college. But…
"I mean, people commute," he croaked.
Jean-Paul looked amused. "Or my friends could come visit. You know. Now and then."
Pietro swallowed hard. He just hadn't thought…
Jesus. Why hadn't he? And why did he suddenly feel like he was going to throw up?
"What's wrong with Bayville?" someone with his voice asked. Probably him, but his mind was like a hamster on a wheel, running and running and getting absolutely nowhere at alarming speeds. Over and over and over. Youknewhe'dgo, everyonegoes, youknewthiswouldhappen.
Jean-Paul snorted, still watching the crowd. "You hate Bayville." Then he looked at Pietro and his face changed. The corners of his lips turned downward in a slight worried frown, his eyes began searching Pietro's face with that weird intensity he got sometimes.
Pietro could feel himself physically panicking—he knew it for what it was. He'd done enough running away in his life to recognize the signs… only this time he had no idea where the fuck he could run. As if that wasn't scary enough, he panicked even more because he knew that Jean-Paul would know too. He was too fucking fast—he never missed anything.
Sure enough, JP leaned toward him, touched his leg again. Carefully. He put his lips close to Pietro's ear. "I thought—"
Two words took a long time to say, for Pietro, and he couldn't help but figure out everything else that would come right after them. Some kind of consolation. Some kind of something to calm him down. To coddle him and make him feel like it was all okay.
He might be about to have a serious fucking panic attack, but he didn't think he could stand that shit all the same. He pulled away again, took another drink to try and settle his nerves. "Yeah well, whatever."
Jean-Paul reached out for him with his free hand, face nothing but sweetness for once. "Pietro…"
Pietro stood up, heart thudding in his throat. If he didn't move, he'd never get it under control. He'd sit there and listen to Jean-Paul use that weird fucking mix of bullying and affection to regain his trust and he'd never be able to go and then it'd be too late.
But there was nowhere to go anyhow.
Oh god. Not him too.
"I need a drink." He stood and chugged the bottom of his tea just to make it true. It slammed through him and almost made him stagger but he couldn't because then Jean-Paul would see.
"Pietro." Jean-Paul stood up after him. He was using that voice, the one he hardly ever used. That one that always meant something was going to suck, or had sucked, and Pietro should've known he'd hear it sooner rather than later. "if you're worried about me living in the next city over—"
No, no, not the next city over, just anywhere. Anywhere but here.
Stupid. They would all graduate in a month. A month. It'd be over. He'd thought, after all that…
He shouldn't have thought at all.
God. Air. Was it stuffy in here? Why couldn't he breathe? Why were his hands all shaky and stupid and what the fuck wasgoingon?
He almost sortof knew this feeling though—a long time ago, years and years before he'd ever known this guy. Godohgodpleaseno, he'd almost forgotten what it felt like. Nowheretorun.
Pietro pushed the thought away, jumped up and down on it, squashed it into nothing and buried it good before he moved on.
"I'm not." He started walking and Jean-Paul followed. "Why would I care?"
JP grabbed his hand. Pietro knew he was trying to keep him from walking away, but he didn't stop trying. "It will take you literally ten seconds to—"
"To what?" He jerked his hand back before Jean-Paul could feel it shake.
Anyhow, that wasn't the point. It wasn't the point because even if he was ten seconds away he was still somewhere else and he'd have college people and he'd be all intellectual and different and if he didn't live in Bayville he'd never want to come back and he'd forget all about the things that had happened and everything Pietro had would just disappear like it never existed.
God, he was seriously going to puke.
JP was undaunted. "It will take me ten seconds. You could just move, you know. You and Wanda could—"
Heh. Pietro thought he would've given up by now. Almost to the bar… almost to the bar… "Why would I wanna live there? Been there done that. It sucks."
It did. It sucked and it would always suck and this was where his… his…
He didn't want to leave and he didn't want to be left.
Why was he freaking out like this, why couldn't he breathe? It would've been okay if his heart would just calm down for a second and let him think, he was sure.
Air. Or just alcohol. Whatever.
"I honestly thought you understood when I said—"
Goddammit, take a fucking hint. Pietro stopped walking, swallowing his heart and turning to face the idiot stupid hot jerk guy. "Look, I don't really care. It's not like you're my boyfriend, so don't be such a puss."
JP's Spock-like eyebrows disappeared under his bangs.
Pietro noted, with a flash of both relief and acute pain, that he looked angry now.
"Excuse me, you fucking drama queen—"
Well… he wasn't his boyfriend. They both knew that. They'd always known that. So Jean-Paul had saved his life or something. So what—Jean-Paul was a hero. He'd save anyone's life, it was what he did.
He was no one special.
"Fuck off, okay?" he spat. "I need a drink."
"Pietro—"
"Fuck off," Pietro shot him the meanest look he had. He just wanted to get it over with. Just… pull off the goddamn band-aid. "Go to college and be better than me. You can tell me all about how enlightened it makes you and how great all the parties are and pity me for being—"
"An idiot?" Jean-Paul snapped. People turned to look at them, then went back to dancing and laughing around them. Jean-Paul didn't even notice. "I'm already there. What, because you don't want to go to school I should stay here and be a goddamn X-Man my whole life? Pietro I wouldn't—"
No. No no no no no, he wasn't going to listen to him lie. He was lying whether he knew it or not and Jean-Paul was going to leave him and that was all there was to it and his heart was going to explode all over them both (and not because it was breaking, that was totally gay—it was just beating that fast.)
"Like I give a fuck what you do. Jump off a cliff for all I care."
Jean-Paul just stared, lips slightly parted like he wanted to say something and couldn't. Like someone had smacked him.
He had such a pretty face. Jesus Christ, it wasn't even fair.
But Pietro walked away as slowly as he could make himself in his state of nearly uncontrollable panic. His heart thudding, his eyes burning. And melted into the crowd near the bar.
0
Ohgodohgodohgod whatwasIthinking?
Calm. Calm down. Have another drink. Calm.
Stupid. It was nothing to JP, why should it be to him? Okay, he'd been a good friend… but he was just a friend. He wasn't… there was nothing. There was nothing that could keep people together. Not really.
Pietro wasn't people who went to college. Pietro was people who ended up in jail over and over and died of an overdose at twenty-three in front of some crack house and had his internal organs sold on the black market. It wouldn't have worked anyhow. He'd always known that. What did that mean anyhow, for something to work? Everything ended eventually, Jesus. It had worked. And now, game over.
"Hey."
"What?" he barked, looking over his shoulder to see whose head he needed to bite off for interrupting his quiet (nervous) drinking in the corner.
It was some guy. Dark-haired, all in black and red like a Hot Topic reject. He even had a chain on the wallet hanging out of his pants…
Nice pants though, actually. Or nice… whatever was in them.
"Um…," the guy smiled at him. Pietro thought he clutched at his drink (something clear and non-girly-looking, good sign) a little tighter. His knuckles paled. But he kept talking anyhow. "Just saying hey. Aren't you that guy—"
Pietro cut him off after looking him over fifty times or so. "Yeah. I'm famous."
"Quicksilver!" Almost-hot (Pietro decided he was almost hot. Not like Jean-Paul hot but then again no one was and that was probably a stupid thing to think right then anyhow, wasn't it?) Guy smiled brightly. He was awfully happy for a goth kid, Pietro thought. "You're better looking in person."
Pietro narrowed his eyes at the guy over his glass. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
Almost-hot Guy's mouth fell open and he sputtered for a second. Well at least he was smart enough to know he was a jackass…
"I mean you were hot on TV, but yeah. Way better in person."
Pietro considered him for a moment, eyes still narrowed. Well… that was better anyhow, but still… this guy wasn't hot enough to come and talk to him like this. What the fuck was he…?
Something over Almost-hot Guy's shoulder caught his attention suddenly. Movement. A familiar face.
Jean-Paul was making his way through the crowd easily. He had that look on his face. Determined. He didn't look angry anymore.
God, ohgod, he was so fucking hot. He was so fucking hot and he was going to leave and go be a Smart Guy and join a fraternity and wear a sweater with Greek Letters on it and fuck all the other hot fraternity guys. God, ohgodno.
Pietro grabbed Almost-hot guy's arm with greedy shaking hands and turned away from JP. Cutting him off. "What's your name?"
Guy kept smiling. "Ant. Well, Anthony, but—"
Yeah whatever. Shut the fuck up. "I'm Pietro."
"Hey is that Italian?"
What the fuck was up with this guy? Zoloft or something?
"Sorta," Pietro humored him—whatever it took to get a patsy right now. A few more minutes and Jean-Paul would crack and then it would be over with and he could… he could go home alone and…
Maybe he needed this guy for more than a few minutes, actually. "Want a drink?" he offered.
Ant nodded and chugged the rest of the one he had in his hand. Good man. "Yeah." And then, for some reason, he caught sight of something over his shoulder and looked back.
Pietro looked with him. Jean-Paul was almost there, not five feet behind them. Staring right at him and starting to look just a little bit angry.
Ant looked back at him now, chewing on his bottom lip. "Um… that guy you were dancing with before. Is he your—"
Pietro looked back again. Jean-Paul wasn't three feet away.
And he said, "He's no one."
JP stopped in his tracks.
Pietro turned his back and started dragging Almost-hot (Ant, whatever, who cared) faster toward the bar. "What were you saying about how hot I am?"
It wasn't an hour later. If he'd been quick to get undressed (partially, anyhow), Pietro was even quicker to put his clothes back on, now that he'd… done what he could do. He felt a little sick to his stomach, but told himself that was just because the contents of said organ right now would probably compare to the contents of Lil Kim's on a given Friday night.
"I gotta go."
Ant was still pulling his clothes on, fumbling, awkward. There wasn't much light in the room. (Pietro had turned it off when they gotten to his apartment.) "Is something wrong? I mean…"
Pietro's thoughts went immediately to his possible inadequacy. Had Ant noticed that he wasn't… that interested in what was going on here? Was it normal? Was he weird? "What's that supposed to mean?" he snapped.
Anthony looked utterly lost. He shook his head. "I mean… you know. You seem like… weirded out. I thought—"
Pietro sighed and buttoned up his jeans. "No. It was good."
Actually… that was true. It wasn't the best he'd ever had but…
Goddammit. That was annoying too. What the fuck was wrong with him?
"Yeah it was." That stupid bright smile appeared again.
"Yeah well I've had a lot of practice. It's been real, okay?" Shirt on. Hands through hair. One last look around. Wallet check.
"Wait," Ant was protesting, groping for his jeans and trying to stand up at the same time. He looked fucking ridiculous. But kinda hot. Just kinda. "I mean, can I have your number or something? We could—"
Pietro took one last look at him, said, "No," and was gone.
He was done with that guy anyhow. Whatever.
By the time he got home (roughly three seconds later, as a matter of fact), he was well and truly pissed off. Hot-headed pissed right-the-fuck off.
The first thing he did when he came through the door was slam it. Hard. The bang echoed through the foyer and up the stairs. Pietro hoped it woke them all up. Stupid clueless bastards, sleeping like everything was right with the world.
The second thing he did was step into the living room, grab the nearest breakable thing (an empty ceramic ash tray Freddy had made in one of his retard classes), and throw it… hard. It hit the wall and shattered into a thousand pieces with a not-quite-satisfying-enough crack. Pietro watched in his own personal version of slow motion, enjoying the thrill of his random little act of violence, righteously livid and breathing hard. His chest was getting hot now, too… motherfucker.
He looked around the room, noticing with a new and strange kind of detachment that pretty much everything in it was total crap, just waiting to be shattered or dismantled or, better yet, completely destroyed. He spotted a tacky lamp on one of the end tables—it was shaped like a girl in a dress.
He hated that fucking thing. Goddamn grandma's kitchen piece of crap. Who told people they could put this kind of kitsch in his house anyhow? He sped up, reached the table, hefted the lamp in one hand and slammed it against the nearest wall.
It shattered a little better than the ashtray had—the base was porcelain and made a nice tinkling sound. Pietro watched with sickly not-quite-pleasure as it blew apart on impact and the little porcelain cloud dissipated and gave in to gravity.
More. He needed more.
The other end table. There was a matching lamp. He hated those fucking lamps.
"Pietro! What the fuck?!"
He forced himself to slow down, to see the world like the rest of the jackasses he was forced to live with every day. It made him even angrier. By the time he looked over his shoulder and saw Lance in the doorway, scratching at his hairy stomach like some kind of bear out of hibernation, Pietro was ready to pick him up and throw him.
"Piss off, Alvers," he warned.
Lance, apparently oblivious to the ridiculous picture he made in his boxers (they had little hearts on them) and with his mullet sticking up in every direction, didn't appear impressed. "Stop breaking all our shit and then we'll talk. What the hell is wrong with you?"
Right. That was it. Pietro sped up, grabbed the other offending lamp, and chucked it at Lance's head.
Well, okay… he chucked it five inches to the right of Lance's head in a last millisecond decision. But for about a tenth of a second there, he'd seriously considered it.
Lance jumped with his usual lack of reflexes while it whizzed by him and shattered against the wall. Actually it was even worse than his usual sluggishness, since he'd apparently just been dragged out of bed and had come downstairs expecting to find a burglar or some other stupid shit.
"Jesus, Pietro!" He looked down at the shattered lamp, then back at him, starting to turn red. "You could've killed me!"
Pietro set his jaw and glared. "Yeah. I missed."
What the fuck was with people not taking hints tonight?
Lance started his snarl now and took a few steps forward, "I don't know what your fucking problem is, but it's almost five in the morning and if I have to call Jean-Paul to calm you down—"
Graaaaaaaaah!
Pietro grabbed the end table—taking two legs in his hands and dumping off all the stupid junk from on top of it. He flipped it over and let it slam down wherever (which ended up being on top of all the junk that used to be on it). The crap-ass thing cracked dangerously when it landed. "He's not my goddamn boyfriend!"
Lance was still coming toward him "What is your damage?!"
"He's not my fucking babysitter!" Pietro grabbed the table again, this time jerking it so quickly he pulled one of the legs off. He looked at it for a split second, growled, and then pitched it across the room. It punched a hole in the wall next to the television with a loud crack and crumble of drywall.
That was the kind of sound he'd been looking for! It was so loud that Lance even stopped in his tracks. Pietro glared at him, shaking just a little bit. Hoping.
Hoping Lance would be stupid enough to fuck with him right then. For once in his life, Pietro wouldn't be running away from a fight. It was stupid and wild and panicky but he wanted it.
But Lance just reached up and dragged one hand through his disastrous hair. It didn't help—he still looked like an idiot, but it seemed to calm him down. "Okay rockstar, chill the fuck out." He held out both hands after he said it, like he was going to surrender.
Goddammit! Pietro turned around, grabbed the nearest chair, and flipped it over backwards as hard as he could.
The wooden back snapped in half, but didn't even give him a little rush. It was passing. Son of a bitch … he needed something else…
But what?
Fuck. There wasn't anything else. The living room was completely wrecked already.
He sighed and threw himself at the couch. "Go away, Lance."
Lance looked doubtful, scratching at his happy trail again and wrinkling up his nose. Weirdly enough, he didn't look angry anymore. Just a little confused. "You're not going to do anything crazy are you?"
Pietro sprawled his legs out in front of him, sliding down in the cushion. He waved one hand in the air dismissively. "What, like slit my wrists? Hang myself from the plant hooks?"
What did he look like, some kind of goth kid?
"No," Lance said. "Like break more of our shit."
What an asshole. Well, fine then.
Slowly, deliberately, Pietro reached out for the remote on the next cushion over. He picked it up… held it out as if weighing its philosophical importance… and chucked it hard at the nearest framed thing on the wall.
Glass shattered and the frame fell off the wall with a thud.
Now Lance was angry. "That's it," he growled, taking the last few steps to the couch.
Pietro watched calmly as Lance moved closer, came to stand just in front of him, bent over, reached out, and grabbed him by the front of the shirt. He didn't move a muscle to get out of the way or fight back. Hell, he almost smiled as Lance jerked him forward and up to standing, then jerked him again just for good measure.
He actually did smile when Lance pulled back his fist like he was going to punch him in the face.
Jesus. Finally. What the fuck does a guy have to do?
But Lance stopped suddenly and looked Pietro right in the eye. Still growling, his face pink, his teeth clenched. He was doing that lip twitchy thing, too.
Pietro just stared at him expectantly. Any day now, motherfucker.
With one last growl, Lance shoved him backward and took a step back himself. Still staring at him, but now with serious suspicion in his eyes. Like he'd only just noticed that something about this scene was abnormal. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Godddammit. He'd really been depending on Lance's testosterone poisoning to do the job before his stupid fucking conscience caught him. Pryde was clearly a worse influence than he'd thought before.
Pietro thumped back down on his ass, right where he'd been before, and snorted derisively. Well that was disappointing… but at least his heart was slowing down a little. Didn't make him feel any less vindictive though. "Shouldn't you be cleaning out someone's carbonator?"
Lance blinked. Some of the pink was draining out of his face. "Carburetor."
Pietro rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Whatever it is you losers who go to vocational schools do. How's DeVry treating you?"
"Um, actually I'll be at Bayville Tech for a few months after graduation…" Lance looked really confused now. Standing there like a dumbass, blinking the sleep from his eyes and watching Pietro have a fucking nervous breakdown without knowing it.
The idea struck Pietro as pretty funny. He'd laugh about it tomorrow, he decided.
"Yeah, autobody, real impressive. You sure have climbed high out of the trailer park swamp you came from, Lance. Careful, it's a long way down."
Now Lance just shook his head. Confusion had completely chased off his anger by that time. Another great chance wasted. Goddammit. "Is that supposed to bother me?"
Pietro shrugged and suddenly wished he hadn't thrown the remote. He'd like to watch some TV or something to distract him from this boring asshole. "No. Someone with a mullet like that probably thinks being a carbonator—"
"—carburetor—"
"—jockey for rich bitches is a good life."
For just a minute, Lance stood there taking up his field of vision with his stupid hairy self. Pietro was annoyed with this state of affairs, but refused to show it.
And then Lance surprised him. He sighed, flopped down on the other end of the couch, and proceeded to scratch himself some more.
Pietro watched with a weird fascination, feeling his own anger pale in light of this unfathomable behavior from someone he thought he knew pretty goddamn well. Not that they were friends. Because Lance was a Stupid Trailer Beast (that was a good one, he'd have to use that this week). But he'd known him awhile… and… stuff.
"What the fuck else can I do, Pietro?" He suddenly decided to speak. "Jesus, I can't even get a mechanic job out of high school without that stupid course at Tech, I don't know how the hell I'm gonna—"
"Oh yeah," Pietro cut him off, making a great show of rolling his eyes and sounding bitter. But… yeah, actually… he wasn't shaking anymore… whatever. "Sure, get your fancy education. Then you can go and get a job and move out and marry Kitty fucking Pryde and start pumping out stupid mullet babies. Great. Sounds fucking sweet."
Lance shifted, a little… uncomfortable-like.
Pietro tried not to watch, but was too interested in what the hell was going on. And yeah, creeped out. That too.
"… Um… well Freddy and Todd still have another year."
Pietro blinked. Had he… misheard that? Lance actually wanted to stay in this POS house just for those two losers?
Wow. That was… well he'd never admit it, but that was actually kind of cool. In a big fat dumbass way… but cool anyhow.
"And…," Lance continued, oblivious, "I was kinda thinking… maybe we should call Fury."
Pietro tried to tell himself not to perk up, but he could feel the last of his angry rampage was fading. Because… Fury had said they should call when they were done with school. He'd said he might have a job.
Pietro hadn't thought he was serious, but if Lance had… well, maybe he was. "… yeah?"
Lance shrugged, "Yeah. I mean… let's face it, man. Being a carburetor jockey my whole life will suck. I mean I like working with cars and stuff…" He shifted and caught Pietro's eyes again. "But what good is this mutant shit if I can't make money off it? You know, talk is cheap, man. But if we got paid for it… like Fury said…"
Pietro nodded slowly (for him.) The guy had a point, possibly for the first time in his heretofore completely useless existence. Money was pretty much the only validation anyone could expect in life, rationally. This pro bono X-Men hero bullshit was… well, bullshit. But if they could maybe make money…
A sharp and sudden anger pain abruptly reminded Pietro that he was busy having a nervous breakdown and had more important things to think about. He smirked. "Kitty would never marry you anyhow. She'll go to college and find some smart guy."
Lance shrugged again. "Yeah. I know."
Pietro sat up a little straighter, eyeing Lance up and down for signs of sarcasm.
Nothing. Lance was just sitting there, staring at his feet.
"You do?"
He not-quite-smiled and looked back at Pietro. "I'm not as dumb as you look, Maximoff."
Wow. That… was even more unexpected than anything else about this whole little performance, actually. How could he not… care?
Not that Pietro cared. But he'd at least expected to get a rise out of Alvers over it.
Wow. He really needed to go to bed or something. His mind was blown.
"You should call Fury."
Lance actually smiled at him, although it wasn't terribly pleasant. "Why? Afraid you'll end up like me?"
"No," Pietro shot back immediately. Yeah well maybe that was the problem, maybe it'd just be him and Lance living like two grouchy old men down in Florida in their old age, remembering the old days when they'd actually been fucking Northstar and Shadowcat.
There was a depressing fucking thought.
Pietro crossed his arms over his chest and slid back down again. He wouldn't give Alvers the satisfaction, even if that was the problem. "Asshole. As if."
"So you're fighting with JP?"
"Fuck him," was the automatic reply.
"Yeah well if you were fucking him you wouldn't be breaking all our shit. He saved your life, you know."
Pietro tried to disappear into the cushion. Yeah thanks for reminding me, cockbag. Too bad he'd do the same for you… or anyone else on the goddamn planet. Too bad he's just like everyone else in the world and he leaves. "Fuck you."
"Yeah, I don't think so." Lance laughed humorlessly. Then he stood, stretched his arms upward (again with the hibernating bear act) and started out of the room. "I'm gonna go look for Fury's card, since some motherfucker woke me up." When he got to the doorway he stopped, turned, and looked at Pietro again. "You better start researching DeVry."
This time Pietro threw a pillow at him. And didn't miss.
Sunday was fucking miserable once he finally got out of bed. Wanda had to drag him out of his room to get him to watch a movie. Five times she started bitching at him about how he should stop being an idiot and talk to Jean-Paul about whatever it was. Five times he got up and left and locked himself in his room again. And five times she came banging on his door to drag him back out.
The fifth, he'd told her that Jean-Paul was going to leave.
"Pietro, you knew he was going to college. What did you think?"
"I thought… just classes is one thing. Living there… it's different."
He wasn't sure why, but she hadn't argued. She'd just given him a strange look, then asked him to come back downstairs and watch another movie. And said she'd stop bothering him about Jean-Paul if he wanted. (For now.)
So he had. And it had been god awful, but at least she hadn't left him all day. If she'd abandoned him for that stupid redneck boyfriend of hers (with whom she'd been locked in her room with for like a week straight since that brain-scarring fight of theirs, a fact that gave Pietro migraines every time he tried to ignore it), he would've had another nervous breakdown. He was sure.
Monday was even worse. People in his classes were idiots, his teachers were dumber than dog shit, and for some reason everyone seemed to want to either talk to him or just stare at him more than usual, and it was pissing him off. Every time he saw an X-Jerk in one of his classes, even the ones who talked to him (which was a few of them now, scarily enough), he wanted to beat them over the head with textbooks. Or throw them in lockers and leave them there to rot. Or… one then the other.
So he passed through most of the day in a furious haze until lunch, and then it got even worse. When he looked up from his locker what did he see but a smiling Jean-Paul Beaubier, looking like the hottest shit ever to grace the halls of Bayville High, with his arm around one (also irritatingly hot) Alex Summers.
Pietro clutched at his locker as his heart started to freak out inside of him again. He pictured steam coming out his ears. He pictured leaving Little Summers on top of a flagpole in the middle of a desert somewhere.
He punched the locker next to his without looking and ended up hurting his finger instead. But he didn't really care.
"So I hear there's trouble in paradise."
Pietro sniffed out of habit, still watching Jean-Paul and Alex walk down the hallway together, just as chummy as best friends could be. Now they were laughing.
"Stuff it, frog," he snapped.
"Hey look," Toad moved to stand directly in front of him, blocking his view, at least, of Alex. "Are you gonna be talking to him any time soon? I feel kinda weird talking to him if—"
"I don't give a fuck who you talk to." Pietro finally looked down and met Todd's eyes, nose wrinkled up in distaste at the faint swampy smell the younger boy always carried around. "Go stink up someone else's locker."
Todd made the stupidest looking sad face Pietro had ever seen. "Jeez, all right, yo. Just tryin' to brighten up your—"
Pietro cut him off with a growl and slammed his locker. He smiled when Todd jumped back a few feet to keep his nose from being caught in it.
But when he looked back up, he caught Jean-Paul looking at him.
Pietro's hands started to shake a little.
For just a second, a second no one else would've thought was real, JP looked almost sad. And then, just like that, he turned and went around the corner with Alex.
"If you lose him, it's your fault." Wanda was somehow standing behind him, talking quietly into his ear.
Pietro bit down on his tongue to keep from screaming and just barely managed. "Thanks for the support Wanda. I'm trying to lose him."
She stepped around to stand next to Todd, who was still cowering just in front of him. "I'm your sister. It's my job to tell you things no one else will. Don't be an idiot."
"Yeah, an idiot!" Todd piped up, elbowing at Wanda.
She arched an eyebrow at him dangerously and he backed off… a little.
Pietro glared at them both. "Why don't you two go bother Lance?"
"'Cause Lance ain't an idiot," Todd suggested, grinning like a jackass.
Wanda threw him a rare smile for the comment, but said, "I wouldn't go that far." Then she looked back to her brother. "Think about it, Pietro."
Todd, encouraged by the smile, piped up again with, "Yeah, think about it."
Pietro glared a little harder.
Wanda nodded at Todd, "Hey can you… go somewhere else for a minute?"
True to form, he did exactly as she asked, practically bowing (the most awkward, ridiculous bow ever, but a bow nevertheless) as he scampered away.
Wanda grabbed his arm, and leaned in very close. She just looked at him for a moment, intense and serious.
Pietro felt his stomach flip over. But his hands stopped shaking again somehow.
After a long second, she finally said, "Not everyone is Magneto."
He wanted to jerk out of her grip and run, run extremely far away and never, ever have to look anyone in the eye ever again. He wanted to scream and yell and break more stuff and act like a five year old. He wanted to…
His stomach hurt.
Long split seconds passed before Wanda let go of him, kissed his cheek, and walked away. They turned into seconds, minutes stretching out forever in front of him, twenty, thirty, fifty times longer than any normal human would ever know. And he just stood there, perfectly still for the first time in a very long time, and looked at the spot where she'd been.
Finally, long after the tardy bell rang, he had a single coherent thought: Wanda had just dissected him and stuck neatly labeled pins in all his vital organs with four fucking words. And it had sucked.
0
"Pietro."
Pietro tried to hide the shudder the sound of that voice sent up his spine. He turned his head as slowly as he could to meet Jean-Paul's eyes. Pietro didn't think about how good-looking he was, or how much he wanted to… right, he didn't think about that. He just said, "I got nothing to say to you."
Kids rushed past them, out the side entrance and on their way to buses or just home. Jean-Paul spoke quietly, probably so none of them would hear. His face was hard and cold and he looked paler than Pietro remembered him. "Look, if you don't want to speak to me ever again, fine, but I need to talk to you."
Pietro didn't want to talk to him—he wanted to run away hard and fast. Wanda's words were still bouncing off the inside of his skull. He hadn't eaten lunch and was half certain he was going insane from hunger.
But there was never a real chance that he'd run away right then and he knew it. Horrifyingly enough, there was nowhere to run to. "What?"
"You're a complete asshole."
Pietro stared, surprised for a split second. "You wanted to talk to me to tell me that?"
Jean-Paul squared his shoulders like the superhero he was. "You're fucking right I did. I tried so hard to tell you that I wanted to be with you the other night, I practically begged you—"
Why was he doing this? Why did he have to say all this stupid shit that they both knew was complete crap? "Yeah right," he snapped.
Jean-Paul shoved a finger into his chest. "Shut the fuck up."
Well if he was going to get violent, all right. Pietro sneered. "You said you wanted to talk."
Jean-Paul smiled his most unpleasant smile. "Yes, I want to talk. I did everything short of swearing eternal devotion to your sorry—"
Gah! Not. Listening! Jesus Christ, why did he have to start saying shit like this now? Was his constant battle with his crack head sister finally getting to him or what? "Whatever."
JP ignored him. "—ass, and you are still being a complete idiot. And when you're alone at night, I want you to think about that, you little prick. I want you to think about he fact that I've always been there."
Pietro swallowed hard, but kept his smirk in place as best he could. It was shaky but he could do it…
Shut up, Wanda. Shut up shut up shutup!
Jean-Paul leaned forward just slightly, still smiling. "And I want you to think about how when I tried to tell you I still wanted to be there, you threw it away so you could fuck some raver kid."
Pietro managed not to wince. No, he hadn't thrown it away to fuck some raver kid, as a matter of fact. He'd thrown it away to not fuck some raver kid and think about Jean-Paul the entire time. Oh, and then there had been the part where he'd trashed his own living room.
He swallowed the sugarsick panic that was killing him quickly and managed to say, "Jealous?"
Jean-Paul didn't crack even a little—he just shrugged. "Why would I be? I didn't spend the night alone."
Pietro felt his throat close. And his heart… oh god, god his heart… "What?" he choked out, totally unable to hide the indignant squeak in his voice.
Jean-Paul wouldn't… he couldn't have… why would he…?
Jesus. Oh Jesus, his heart. Fluttering inside him like a moth trying not to get sucked into a goddamn oscillating fan and he was going to die if this kept up. Just drop dead right here and now and no one would know that Jean-Paul Beaubier, hero and X-Man and hottest shit ever, had killed him with words.
"You think I don't have people waiting in line too?" JP asked.
Motherfucker. Wonderful, terrible motherfucker, he was enjoying this.
Pietro balled his hands up into fists to try and keep them under control. He couldn't let Jean-Paul see the shaking. "Who?"
JP only shrugged. "Why should I tell you anything? I'm no one to you."
Pietro turned his head just slightly, as if it had been a real slap instead of a verbal one. "I—" But he stopped himself after that one word.
No fucking way. "Who?!" He said instead. "Is it someone I know?"
God… the thought of it. The thought of anyone… how could he just… how…?
Fuck.
Jean-Paul leaned forward a little again, but not enough to give Pietro any kind of hope or fear. Just enough to catch his eyes and hold them there. "Just think about it, Pietro. I would've begged you. I'll never do it again. It's too late, and I want you to think about that." And he turned to walk away.
Pietro clenched and unclenched his fists, watching JP stalk away. For the second time that day, he was completely, sickeningly speechless.
But it was more than he could handle, and finally he just yelled, "Who did you fuck?!"
At least ten people turned to look at him, and he didn't care. It stopped Jean-Paul from walking away any further, but only for a moment. He turned around and, just barely loud enough for Pietro to hear, said, "Not you."
0
God Jesus Mary and Joseph he's going to fucking kill me why would he tell me that what did he want to do to me?
Pietro zipped through the emptying halls of Bayville High on a mission. He couldn't think of anything, anything at all, except the horrible gut wrenching news that Jean-Paul had just delivered and the fact that he was about to have another nervous breakdown and this one just might be the end of him.
He needed an X-Man. Someone in that house who would know all the stupid gossip and bullshit that went on there. They all knew everything about each other, someone would know who Jean-Paul was fucking now.
Pietro had to know. He needed to know. Was it someone from the club that night? Had Jean-Paul stuck around and picked someone up? Was it someone from school? Someone they both knew?
He rounded a corner, eyes skimming the hallway frantically, and finally found his quarry.
"Pryde!"
She stopped, stupid little ponytail swinging, and wrinkled up her stupid little nose when she saw who'd called her name.
He sped himself up again and zipped to stand in front of her.
"What, Pietro?" She sighed. "I'm on my way to the Drama Club meeting—"
Pietro waved one hand in the air in a "wrap it up sort of motion." Then tucked it into his pocket to hide the fact that he was shaking like a junkie going cold turkey. "Yeah, I don't like talking to you either. But I need info."
He couldn't believe he was even doing this. On the one hand, he really hated Kitty Pryde. But on the other, she had to be the biggest fucking gossip in that house, so it was kinda lucky she'd been the first one he'd seen. She had to know.
"What?"
Swallowing a huge fucking chunk of his substantial pride (along with potential vomit—he wasn't exactly sure but he thought he might hurl at any moment), Pietro took a deep breath and asked, "Have you heard about Jean-Paul and… anyoneelse?"
Contrary to his every expectation, Kitty didn't giggle. She just wrinkled up her stupid little forehead and said, "I thought you and Jean-Paul broke up."
"He was never my boyfriend."
"Oh."
"Who was it?" he demanded, somehow managing to keep himself from grabbing her by the throat and throttling it out of her… but just barely.
Kitty bit at her lip for a long, painful second. And when she opened her mouth, all she said was, "Pietro… I'm sure it didn't mean anything… they were just messing around and Bobby and Ray caught them and it got to be this huge joke—"
"What?!" Pietro yelled. "It was someone at Xavier's?"
And then he stopped.
Kitty chewed on her lip. "Pietro, it wasn't—"
But he knew exactly who it was. "Summers."
Kitty shook her head, "Pietro, seriously, everyone knows it was just—"
"Shut up, Pryde," he growled at her. "Next time Lance fucks someone else, I'll be the first to let you know. I owe you."
"What?" She looked genuinely confused. "Pietro, no one said—"
But by the time she finished, if she ever did, he was long gone.
Pietro hopped through Jean-Paul's window five minutes later. Jean-Paul was at his desk, and if the sound of an uninvited visitor bothered him, he didn't show it. Just a slight tensing of his back, and then… nothing.
Pietro could've spat nails. "You fucked that stupid little surfer boy, didn't you?"
Jean-Paul didn't even look at him—just sat there huddled over his homework or whatever. "What if I did? What is it to you?"
He stomped a foot suddenly, clenched his hands up again. "Alex? He's an idiot!"
Finally, Jean-Paul spun his chair around and looked up at Pietro. "He's not. But he is pretty, don't you think?"
His legs felt weak, so Pietro leaned against the wall for support. His heart was always so fast, but this was crazy. "How could you do that?"
Jean-Paul's eyes actually managed to pop a bit. "Are you completely insane? Get the hell out of here, what are you even doing in my room?"
Pietro just stared at him hard, shaking his head, "You fucked Alex Summers…"
He couldn't get over it, couldn't stop thinking about it. Over and over and over he saw it, Jean-Paul kissing that little bastard, Jean-Paul touching that stupid girly hair… Jean-Paul…
Doing all the things Pietro had done with Almost-hot guy… and more.
He'd wanted to get the leaving over with, but he hadn't wanted this.
"You had your chance," was apparently Jean-Paul's idea of a defense.
"Well are you gonna do it again?" he demanded, his voice a little too high for his comfort, but that was the least of his worries. He was dying, he was sure of it. This was terrible… fucking horrifying… what the hell was wrong with him?
"What do you care, Pietro? You found someone else fast enough."
Pietro started to growl, just like he'd growled at Lance that night, and took a few unsteady steps toward Jean-Paul. He wasn't even sure why he just… wanted to… do something to him before he dropped dead of a goddamn heart attack.
Jean-Paul stood up, took a few steps forward as if to meet him. Perfectly fucking in control.
And all Pietro could do was stop cold, try to keep his balance, and let it explode. "I didn't fuck him!"
There was a moment of silence, decades for Pietro. Jean-Paul watched him with those feverish eyes, measured him, weighed him carefully.
Why was he freaking out so badly?
(He knew exactly why. Damn Wanda. God he loved her.)
Finally, Jean-Paul said, "I think you did. You told him I was no one and then you fucked him."
"No, I didn't!" Was the best retort he could think of. Standing there in the middle of Jean-Paul's room, recommencing a two-day old nervous breakdown that never should've happened in the first place. "Goddammit…"
Jean-Paul took a few more steps toward him. "What did you do with him?"
Pietro shook his head. He couldn't tell him … but Jean-Paul was watching him, electric eyes all accusation and… maybe curiosity? He had to say something. "I… I just…"
He moved even closer, four or five feet away at most, now. "Tell me," he insisted. "Tell me everything."
Pietro kept shaking his head. "No."
"Afraid you'll hurt my feelings?" He was still getting closer, his voice getting lower, every step bringing him a little nearer to his prey.
No. He hadn't wanted to… he couldn't. Pietro shook his head yet again.
Jean-Paul leaned forward. He was so close Pietro could feel his breath on his own cheek. Could smell the faintest hint of that aftershave. It made him dizzy.
"Maybe I'll like it," Jean-Paul almost whispered.
Pietro closed his eyes, suddenly drowning in conflicting emotions. Guilt, fear, ouch and now…
God, that was kinda hot.
When he opened his eyes again, Jean-Paul was still there, inches from his face, waiting.
"I… he went down on me…"
"He was pretty. It didn't take long, did it?"
God… how could he say that?
"I… no," Pietro stuttered. He was definitely going to die. These would be his last words so he'd better make them good…
"Go on." Jean-Paul slid just a little closer, so they were that close to touching. "Was he good?"
The words sounded so good, but they were all wrong. Pietro hated them and he loved them and he wanted him so bad that all his blood was moving into the wrong places and he didn't know what he was supposed to say. "Jean-Paul…," he tried to beg for mercy.
But Jean-Paul didn't seem to notice or care. "Tell me." he insisted.
"Why do you want to know…?"
Pietro felt a soft sigh on his cheek. Warm and incongruous. "I need to know what you did with him. I need to know what isn't mine anymore."
No. That wasn't how it had… he hadn't meant… god, his legs were going to give out. "I didn't…"
The weird soft strangeness was gone that quickly. Jean-Paul straightened up and reached up with one hand, pushed at Pietro's hair un-gently.
Pietro sighed with a mix of happiness and blood rush. It was over and he was up and ready to go and god he was so glad Jean-Paul was touching him.
"If you tell me, I'll tell you about Alex."
Pietro's eyes burned suddenly. He looked down, but Jean-Paul was everywhere now. "I…"
Suddenly Jean-Paul grabbed his hair and jerked his head back hard. A bright flash of pain exploded in Pietro's head, but he was forced to look him in the eye now. JP wasn't letting go. "I'll tell you what I taught him. He's so sweet, Pietro, you can't imagine…"
A shudder ran up Pietro's spine as he tried to turn away and failed. The way he said it… god he was so… "I don't want to…," he stuttered, "I mean…"
His hands had stopped shaking.
Jean-Paul leaned even closer, putting his lips against Pietro's ear now. Pietro closed his eyes again.
"Don't you want to know how fast he learns? What I did to him?"
Pietro sighed again, unable to help himself. He was vaguely disturbed to discover that yes, he actually did want to know. And not just so he could know what parts of Alex's body to break with a sledgehammer. Because… somehow… it was really hot.
It was all wrong, all mixed up and he wanted it to be over. He wanted Jean-Paul to throw him down on the bed and fuck him stupid and tell him it didn't matter anymore.
(She was right, god she was so right and I didn't mean to freak out I didn't mean to I was wrong oh Jesus I can't say that…)
"Tell me everything," Jean-Paul snarled into his ear.
He was breathing more than talking, but he tried. "I couldn't…"
Jean-Paul laughed, more like a low growl, and moved a little closer so they were front to front now. He didn't let go of Pietro's hair, didn't lighten his grip up in the slightest. "Oh I know you could."
"No I mean…"
"Keep going." Jean-Paul's lips were on his ear, his neck, but without kissing him.
"I… I tried to…"
"You got him off?" Jean-Paul pulled him closer suddenly. Pietro could feel it now. They were both ready to go… god… god what the fuck was going on? Was he getting laid or not? "Did you do the things I showed you how to do?"
Unnhhh… if Jean-Paul hadn't been so close, almost holding him up, Pietro would've hit the floor. "Yeah…," he breathed, "but …"
"Oh, I really hope you didn't spit, I'd be so embarrassed."
Gah! "That was all we—"
Jean-Paul jerked at his hair even harder. "Don't lie to me."
"I'm not," he knew he was almost whimpering, it was just that he couldn't stop. It was all he could do not to push closer, reach up and unbutton his pants and start to beg. "I couldn't."
"Why not?" Jean-Paul's other hand slid upward now, starting at his waist and ending up under his shirt.
"I don't know."
"Did you think about me?"
"I… wanted…"
Louder now, more demanding. Jean-Paul slipped his hand downward, tucking his fingers into Pietro's waistband. The hand in his hair tightened its grip slightly. "Who were you thinking of?"
He didn't want to remember it. But that wasn't the point—he wasn't stupid enough to think JP cared about the truth. It was an act of contrition; Pietro just had to say it. "I…"
Jean-Paul pulled his hair. "Tell me."
"You."
Definite confession. Never in his life had he wanted to tell someone his sins so badly. But it was all so confused in his blood-starved brain, seemed so dirty and mixed up and wrong, that he couldn't articulate a goddamn thing but that. Just you.
"And you didn't fuck him…" Jean-Paul pulled back to look him in the eye, that awful smirk curling his lips up. "I'm almost disappointed in you."
"You fucked Alex," Pietro said stupidly. He wasn't exactly angry anymore, because it was hard for him to be angry when he just wanted sex. Somehow that meant that the idea of Jean-Paul fucking Alex, while it definitely wasn't okay and never should've been, had a kind of scary exotic appeal at the moment. He didn't know if he was saying it for one reason or the other, but he couldn't stop thinking of it either way.
"You idiot."
Pietro opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off before he began by the sudden feeling of his pants being unbuttoned. He was still going to die, but maybe it'd be a good way to go…
"I didn't even come close to fucking him," JP whispered, smirk gone. His fingers working quickly, but not quickly enough Goddammit. "You're out of your mind."
"… Kitty said."
The last button came free.
"Did she tell you what happened?" Jean-Paul's fingers brushed almost gently over his belly, up then down.
"She said…," deep breath, do it what the fuck are you waiting for I want it giveittomeNOW. "Drake and Crisp…"
"Yes?" Fingers up.
"They caught you two…"
Fingers down, "Doing what?"
How the hell could he remember anything right now? Especially something Pryde had said. She'd said… they got caught… they… er… "… I don't know."
Jean-Paul grabbed the waistband of his underwear and pulled him closer again. "Of course you don't."
Pietro couldn't do it anymore. The sudden change in who was touching who where, the fact that he was about to go off if JP pulled his hair one more time, the fact that he shouldn't have done any of it and he wanted to know he still had him and this was the only way and he…
He just wanted to scream.
But he said, "Please."
Jean-Paul let go of his hair and shoved him backward hard. "Fuck you, Pietro."
Pietro let it happen. He landed on the bed and sat there looking up at him with his jeans unbuttoned and his hair all fucked up and his cock using up all his blood so he couldn't think of anything better to say. "Please."
Jean-Paul's eyes ate him up, but his lips sneered. "Why should I?"
No. Not good. Why was this going all wrong? Somehow his libido had gained control of the situation and he was sure that if he could have him, everything would be okay. No problem. JP was already hot as fuck to get out of those jeans—all Pietro had to do was convince him to take a few little steps and do it…
He had to.
Pietro sat straighter and reached upward. He grabbed Jean-Paul's pants, pulled himself closer so that he was in prime blow job position.
"Because you want to," he risked saying, even though he knew goddamn well telling JP what JP wanted was a fast track to getting bitchslapped.
But Jean-Paul just licked his lips.
Pietro felt a surge of hope. Pushed a little further. "Come on, Jean-Paul…"
Jean-Paul took a deep breath, then leaned downward just slightly, so his face was almost directly above Pietro's. He blinked slowly, his eyelids already getting that heavy look to them. And he said, "You are a dirty little whore, Pietro. You don't deserve me."
Yes, absolutely. Truer words had probably never been spoken, in fact.
But… that couldn't mean… he had to. If he didn't it was over and he'd screwed it up forever and…
Suddenly, Jean-Paul pushed himself into fast forward. Pietro saw it happen, saw him start to vibrate just slightly, saw him launch himself forward and pin him down on the bed. Pietro shifted quickly into the best possible position underneath him, closing his eyes and grabbing both of JP's arms to keep him there. Oh thank god thankgod fuck yes.
"Fuck you, I said."
"Yeah," Pietro agreed. That was the idea.
0
"I feel better."
"Me too," Pietro said. Tired, starving, excited, afraid, weak and maybe still a little guilty… but definitely better. He'd known it would be if he could just get Jean-Paul to do him. That made everything better.
"Listen to me," Jean-Paul said from the other side of the room, where he was on clothing recon. "If you ever touch another human being again while we are together, I will kill you."
Pietro snorted, digging under the bed for his own clothes. They had to be around here somewhere… "What the fuck, not like you've been a saint."
Okay so… the guy had a point. But why should he admit it?
Other than the fact that he obviously should or risk fucking the whole thing up again just when he'd managed to get a few points on his side with the amazing make up sex.
"Please. I kissed him a few times, and it was a joke."
Goddammit where were his underwear? "I don't think it's fucking funny."
And it wasn't. The JP screwing Alex scenario wasn't really very hot anymore, actually. Well… it was a little… but yeah, not like it had been when he'd been gagging for it not so long ago.
But he wasn't mad about it either, he was surprised to find. Maybe because he knew it hadn't happened now, but whatever.
"He didn't know how."
Pietro popped his head up over the side of the bed to look at JP in surprise. "What is he, a retard?" Who didn't know how to make out with someone? It wasn't like it required a college degree, Jesus. Open mouth, insert tongue, grope. Come on.
Jean-Paul just shrugged, pulling his pants on. "He's… Alex."
Pietro considered the scenario again, this time with a mostly-clear mind. Sweet little surfer kid, being all cute and dumb. Jean-Paul being pissed about him being all up on some other guy. Frustration… lots of hotness… really, all the situation needed was a pizza guy, a plumber, and/or a repairman.
So finally he said, "I guess he is pretty hot."
"He's beyond hot. Such a waste that he's not getting any."
Pietro made a face at him. "You enjoyed it."
"Of course I did." He started buttoning himself back up. "We were high as fuck and having fun. Should I say I'm sorry?"
Yeah. Not walking into that trap. Pietro ignored him and spotted his shorts sticking out from between the mattress and springs. He grabbed them and started pulling them on, refusing to open his mouth and shove his foot inside for once.
"Are you?" Jean-Paul goaded again.
"I never said that," he snapped.
Yes. Yes he was. He was extremely fucking sorry. He didn't even know what had happened… he'd only ever had that feeling a long time ago, really. (Shove it down bury it stomp on it never happened.) And it had been so long ago… how was he supposed to deal with things when his body started freaking out on him?
But yeah, even so, not saying sorry. Couldn't, it wasn't done.
Jean-Paul sighed at him from across the bed, crossing his arms over his chest and staring him down. The waist of his jeans was all stretched out from Pietro pulling at it, so it sat so low it was almost obscene. Pietro stared, but somehow managed to listen at the same time. "We've been through too much for this bullshit. You could've said something if you were worried about me leaving."
Pietro looked up at JP's face when he said it. Shit.
Okay well… he'd kinda sorta almost know it'd have to come up, since that was the crux of the recent problem. But that didn't mean he wanted it to happen. "I didn't say that," he argued half-heartedly, turning away like he was looking for his own pants. He saw them hanging off JP's desk chair and started toward them slowly.
"Don't treat me like I'm stupid." JP didn't even sound angry—slightly irritated at the most. "I've already proven myself. I shouldn't have to keep reminding you."
Pietro winced as he grabbed his pants. "I know."
He wanted to explain, tell Jean-Paul that he didn't even know why he'd freaked out so badly. He wanted to tell him what it was like, the way he'd been totally out of control and desperate and couldn't think of where to run.
But he didn't know how, so he didn't try.
"I'm not your goddamn father."
He winced again. Okay… that was like… so wrong coming from him. On so many levels.
And so… gah. Jesus Christ, sometimes he hated this guy—him and Wanda both. Fucking… jerks who knew him way better than he knew himself.
Of course, with issues like that, Pietro wasn't real sure he wanted to know himself—so maybe he should just be grateful they did the dirty work for him.
"I can't believe you just said that." He turned around, stepping into his pants. "That's gross."
Jean-Paul rolled his eyes, still standing with his arms crossed, watching him. "You think I enjoy the thought?"
Ugggggghhh. Okay that was seriously oversimplifying things—he didn't think Jean-Paul was his father, he just expected everyone to be a jackass like his father because the last two times he'd freaked the fuck out and had no way to run from it was back when his father had taken his sister from him and when his father had ditched him—repeatedly. (Okay stop thinking about it now it never happened it's done get over it.) There was a huge, huge, massive oh my god difference between that and trying to sleep with people who were like your father. Which was just gross and disgusting.
But he didn't even want to argue. He just buttoned up his pants and said, "Fuck you, Jean-Paul."
JP actually smiled and went back to looking for clothes.
Before long they'd both found all the missing pieces of themselves and were tucked in and vying for mirror space in front of the open closet door. And it felt… better. Almost totally okay. But then made the mistake of catching Jean-Paul's eyes.
And he realized he owed more than sex.
The revelation was terrifying and astounding—what could there possibly be other than sex? Did this weird guilty scary feeling mean he should actually try and explain himself? He was having disturbing flashes of so many strange things—accusing JP of not understanding him because he was an orphan (of all fucking things), making up with him just because he'd bought him that book (which was on the night stand, actually), telling him about his plans to head for Transia with Wanda… and a few weeks later, in this same room, having that weird feeling. Not the bruised ribs or the lingering dehydration or even that fear of inescapable death around the bend he'd brought back with him. That feeling that there was… something here that he didn't really get. But liked.
He bit at his lip for a second.
Jean-Paul watched him, silent.
Finally, he said the only thing he could really think of. "You said… you asked me once if I was going to leave Bayville and I said no. And you were happy."
"I remember."
Okay. Here goes. "I just thought… I mean…"
Uh oh, abort mission, it wasn't coming.
But Jean-Paul nodded one more time, eyes narrowing. "I see."
He probably did, which was good. But he was still waiting and that meant it wasn't enough. Goddammit goddammit… okay try again. "Something just happened to me when you said that shit about moving. I wanted to run, but I mean like…"
He couldn't say that part though, no matter what he thought he was supposed to do right then. He couldn't. Moving on.
"My body freaked out on me. I went home and broke the whole living room. Lance almost killed me."
"I didn't know." It sounded, shockingly enough, like an apology.
Pietro hadn't wanted him to know, so that was okay. He dropped his eyes for a second, trying to decide if he'd said enough, and then realized that he had nothing else to say. So he looked back up and said, "You should go to college."
"I have to. I can't do this ridiculous superhero act my whole life."
Yeah. It was kinda dumb. Only, Pietro wasn't good at anything but being fast. And bossy.
"Why don't you?" Jean-Paul suggested.
"I can't," Pietro didn't know how to explain something he'd always taken for granted. It just wasn't for him. He didn't even want it to be. "I'm a hood with a long ass police record."
"Technically so am I," JP insisted. "But if you don't want to, you," he hesitated before finishing, "could just come with me."
Pietro knew even as he said it that Jean-Paul didn't actually want that. He was just offering it as a concession, an act of good will.
But Pietro didn't want it either.
It would be okay if JP lived in New York City. Jesus, he could be there in ten seconds. And if guy got into college life, that was okay. He'd be invited to the parties too, right? "Nah. Fred and Todd still have another year," he said, now convinced that this admirable sentiment had been his idea. "I'd better stick around and make sure everyone comes out alive."
And there was the plan with Fury, but he didn't want to crow about it till he was sure—Jean-Paul would mock. He'd save that one for a surprise later.
"Good." Jean-Paul smiled. "Someone would end up dead."
Pietro laughed. "I'm faster but you're meaner."
Then suddenly JP's face darkened. "I swear to god, Pietro. Never again. I will end you before I see you with someone else like that."
Pietro covered his immediate and irritating embarrassment with bravado, as usual. "Then stop making out with X-Geeks!"
Jean-Paul raised his eyebrows in that weird silent challenge. "I will when you stop sucking random dick, how's that?"
Pietro sighed. "I'm done. I'm…"
Whoa. He'd almost just said it.
Jesus Christ… he was starving, that was the problem. Yeah, starving, that was all and he hadn't really been about to actually apologize.
"…you know," he finished.
"Me too."
Pietro blinked. Um… what?
"I should've known," Jean-Paul chewed on the inside of his cheek for a minute, eyes flicking around for a few seconds before they returned to Pietro's. He actually… was sorry. Jesus Christ.
Okay. So… who the hell had he just screwed? A pod person? "Uh… Seriously?"
Jean-Paul shrugged, but held his eyes this time. "Aurora told me she wasn't going to ESU with me and I… wasn't happy. I understand."
Holy Jesus Christ. Pietro was stunned.
Thankfully, Jean-Paul killed the moment by saying, "But I'm not joking about murdering you."
Relieved, Pietro grinned at him. "Expect the same if I see you with your arm around Summers again." And then he thought about it again and added, "I mean, if I'm not invited."
Jean-Paul laughed. "Yes, you're so good at sharing. I'm sure that'll work out perfectly."
Pietro grinned again. And when Jean-Paul went back to checking his hair in the mirror, Pietro noticed his own. And the ache coming from it. "My head hurts."
"Maybe you should learn to do what you're told, then."
"Never."
"That's what I thought," Jean-Paul said. And then, "I'm starving."
"I could eat a horse. Indian food?"
"You read my mind."
0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
AN: Did JP really make out with Alex? Is this some kind of perversely engineered plan of his to get Pietro back? Will the X-Men have a crazy Roman orgy with wine, wild boar, lots of throwing up and wanton toga sex?
A little, not really, and of course. And one of those answers is a lie! Come back next time to find out! (Also, I read a lot of Asterix. If you couldn't figure that out.)
Also, please excuse the opinions presented herein about DeVry and technical institutions. Characters in these things often express opinions that do NOT coincide with mine—it's just a story and Pietro is a snotty bitch.