Title: Hope that starts
Fandom: X-Men movieverse.
Warnings: Angst. And various 'jobs. And angst.
Rating: M. For language, and sex-type things.
Notes: This is old as hell. It was sitting on my computer for at least a year. Or longer, actually, because I remember starting to write it the night the second movie came out. Whoops.
Bobby was average, until he wasn't. It all happened very suddenly.
One day, his friend asked him if he had ever thought of jacking off another guy. Bobby lied and said he hadn't, but his friend continued. "What if you, you know, pretended like your hand was wrapped around his dick, and his around yours, so if you imagined hard enough it was like someone else was getting you off?"
That night, Bobby came so hard that he triggered his first mutation. His come splattered across his stomach and hand, and froze in seconds. Shaking and scared, Bobby scrambled into the shower. The hot water made him feel better, and he thought more clearly — he decided to sleep it off, because there was no good way to tell anyone that he was touching himself and suddenly, his ejaculate was frozen. He slipped into bed, stayed there, and vowed not to tell a soul.
The next day, he awoke to the whisper of voices in his head, a thin layer of frost on his skin and bedclothes, and to his mom banging on his bedroom door, saying a Professor Xavier was here to see him.
Bobby understood enough from his conversation with Xavier that he was a phenomenon that people would fear, and he must gain control of his abilities. Neither mentioned what Bobby was sure both of them knew had happened, and why, but Xavier did stress that he was to know that he was not alone in anything he was feeling, or what was happening to him.
Two weeks after Bobby went to Xavier's Institute, two week after he met his roommate John, Bobby gave away another first to John: John was his first mutant friend. Bobby wasn't John's first mutant friend; John had a couple from home, but they were mostly tiny telepaths, John said.
"I had a friend, Lisa, said she could see people's—um, I guess they'd be colors or auras or something. She'd kind of squint at you, then she'd say you were a color or something." John said, one, and waved a graceful hand at himself. "I was always a sort of pale orange, she said. Like..." John snapped his fingers at Bobby, as though Bobby had, at John's convenience, a second mutation of being telepathic. "I know you know this, man. It's one of those frozen things—" Of course Bobby would know what John was talking about now; Bobby, having so recently discovered his powers, immediately knew all popsicles and frozen treats ever created. It came with the frost. "You know this. The orange kind, with the cream?" John asked, and Bobby snorted because even with all of his internal ranting, he did know.
"A Dreamsicle? That what you mean?" And when John smiled because Bobby got it right, Bobby's stomach did a flutter, and Bobby knew that never boded well.
Bobby's first kiss had been with Jessica, in the back of the coat closet, in 5th grade. He'd just helped her a bit with her spelling, and she'd simpered and followed him back when he was getting his jacket. She sort of surprised him when he turned around, with a kiss, before he flailed, backed up and then ran forward past her. The next time she asked for help with spelling, Bobby refused, wondering why he got a funny feeling in his stomach whenever he thought of the kiss, and decided it couldn't be a good thing.
Bobby's first kiss with a guy had been with John, nearly a year after they had been roommates. All that year, Bobby had been flipping back and forth between the desire for his roommate, and the happiness he had at having a friend who knew him. Bobby could wake up in the morning with a layer of frost on him, and the only reason John would snort at him in the morning was because Bobby had lost control sometime during the night, and what other reason could that be, other than a provocative dream of some sort? Bobby could try his best to comfort John after certain nightmares—or dreams of a different nature, Bobby could never get a straight answer out of John—caused his body temperature to scorch the sheets and made his heart beat erratically.
He had John pinned against the couch, because they had fought over which movie to watch. John insisted that since James Dean was the epitome of awesomeness, they should watch the one John picked out. Bobby was keen on watching something, anything, other than that. He didn't want a James Dean-induced hard-on with John in the room, because that was like—
"Fuck, Bobby." John said, and Bobby felt John relax underneath him. "What do you have against the movie, anyways? I'd have thought you of all people would have liked it." John's hand, impossibly hot, rested on Bobby's arm. Either holding him there, of keeping him at a distance, however small.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Bobby asked, and sat up suddenly, as though realizing that he was nearly lying on top of John. John looked startled, confused, and then a little bit upset.
"Nothing, nothing." John said, and grinned. "You won, so pick out your movie." Bobby just looked at John, and all he could think was that maybe, just maybe—and if John didn't kill him, then hopefully—but if John wanted it, he'd have had the balls to do it before Bobby ever got them—but Bobby, sitting so close to John (nearly on top on him), didn't want to wait anymore.
"John?" Bobby asked, and when John turned Bobby leaned forward, his hand coming up to catch the back of John's head, barely registering the shock on John's face before their lips met. In the last few seconds, Bobby realized, John knew what was happening. John had met him, and once their lips met, John moved forward to get a better angle. Bobby opened his mouth and John was quick to follow.
John, Bobby quickly found, was an aggressor. He pushed Bobby to lie back on the couch and positioned himself comfortably on top of him, running a hot, dry hand up under Bobby's shirt, turning the kiss into something more–something Bobby had never done with anyone else. In retrospect, Bobby probably should have insisted they go slower, but who the hell could refuse John Allerdyce, when he is trying his damned best to get his hot, hot hand down your pants?
That was also his first hand-job, on the giving and receiving. John's hands worked Bobby's flannel shorts down as far as his bent knees would allow, smoothed across cool skin and finally—finally—reached his cock. It was nearly painful how good it felt. Bobby was used to his hands, cold and soft, usually clammy. But John's—John's were warmer than anything Bobby had ever felt, dry until John licked down his palms a couple of times, and had callouses that felt great against his skin. Bobby was on fire, John was literally radiating heat and Bobby just pressed up, pressed closer and thrust faster. As Bobby's hands tried to work out the buttons of John's jeans Bobby wondered how he had never, ever been as warm as this, and how he'd ever lived without it.
When John was finally in Bobby's hand, when John gasped out all those fuck yes's and drawn out Bobby's and God's, Bobby came in John's hand. John gasped at the feel of the cold come, and within a few more strokes of Bobby's hand, John came, hiding his groan against Bobby's chest. When Bobby looked down to see him grinning, Bobby grinned too.
John, surprisingly, wasn't the one to push for anything further. Once John had what he wanted, Bobby mused, he was content.
But Bobby wasn't. Well, that wasn't true—he was the happiest he had ever been. He could use his powers without feeling like a freak, he had a boyfriend who didn't keep his hands off Bobby—in the good way. He had good grades and understanding teachers, and a best friend who—who was everything to Bobby. He'd had friends, sure; he still kept in contact with a few of them. They'd never been as important to him as John had, though. It almost scared him, caring about one person that much. John knew him inside and out. They were so young, and their outlooks on life were so different, and yet. He wanted everything, even though he felt like he had everything he could ever want.
Once Bobby made it clear to John that he wanted to go further, John dropped to his knees and unzipped and untucked Bobby, and licked Bobby's cock into his mouth.
Getting hard in John's mouth was immediately and irrevocably at the top of Bobby's Oh Fuck Yes Please Again list. His first blowjob, John's impossibly hot mouth and tongue and lips and fuck, Bobby probably lasted less than two minutes, but John just licked his lips, sat back on his heels, and looked up at him. Bobby grinned, and John grinned back, looking for all the world like a post-canary cat, as his hands busied themselves with tucking and zipping Bobby back in.
John had made it clear, when they first started the sexual aspects of their relationship, that under no uncertain circumstances did he ever want to discuss he sexual history. He said he was clean, and then he waved away Bobby's assurances that he was as well.
As Bobby was still dazed and languid from his orgasm, even as he pulled John up to kiss and fondle about with, he wondered (worried) just how it was that John got so good at giving head, at a little under 17 years of age. Bobby chalked it up to his inexperience, because how could he judge when that was his first? It was bound to be fucking heaven, nearly literally.
Two days later, Bobby once again stubbornly ploughed straight through his nervousness and insecurities, asking for what he wanted. Blunt, like the head of a cock, he asked, "So, can I—do you want me to suck you off?" The way he was blushing probably tipped John off to his feelings, but John just grinned and nodded, his hands moving eagerly toward his groin.
The first time Bobby gave head he was on his knees and elbows, in between John's spread legs, his clammy, cold hand spread flat on one of John's shuddering thighs, the other wrapped around John's erection at the base. He opened his mouth, licked his lips, and hesitantly leaned down, moving his tongue against the underside of John. John groaned, and then suddenly, John was talking, and it was one of the fucking hottest things Bobby had ever heard.
"Bobby, yeah, use your tongue. Ah—ah, yeah, that's it. Oh, mmm, cover your teeth with your lips, and fuck..." John gasped, his hand coming to rest on Bobby's shoulder. "You don't have to take me that deep, just—yeah, use your tongue like that, around my head—move your hand at the same time as you move up and down—" John groaned as Bobby's mouth, untrained though it was, left his cock before returning to curve around the base of it, licking and sucking wetly. "Yeah, that's good," John gasped again as Bobby's hand, damp from saliva, cupped under his ass.
Bobby slid up closer and, even though he had to arch his back to make it work, he slipped John's cock back in his mouth again. John caught himself as he nearly bucked up, still talking. "Bobby, fuck, yeah—I'm going to come soon, don't," John tried to pull Bobby off of him, but Bobby distinctly remembered coming in John's mouth. He thought about how good that felt, and about how good John tasted—like he did when Bobby was kissing him, his throat or his mouth, but more sexual, more innately him, somehow—and brought his arms around the back of John's thighs, pushing his mouth further down John's cock. John moaned and tried not to thrust, and failed. Bobby tried to relax his throat as he slid John's cock further back, and swallowed repeatedly to overcome the gag reflex, only that didn't work completely. "Bobby, shit, I'm—" John groaned, and brought his arm up to bite his sleeve.
John came as Bobby moved his head and hand up, into Bobby's mouth. Bobby tried to swallow, and got most of it, but a little seeped out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin. After John caught his breath he pulled Bobby up and, with a finger, wiped up the bit dribbling down Bobby's chin. Bobby opened his mouth reflexively and John grinned, and slipped his finger into Bobby's mouth. John's finger pressed down on his tongue before slipping out of his mouth.
John grinned again, lazily, and said "Pretty good, Drake." Bobby snorted, embarrassed. "Of course, you need more practice." John said, and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Bobby laughed, and wanted to kiss John, so he went to brush his teeth while John caught his breath. As he stood up, John kicked a leg out and hooked Bobby's, causing Bobby to fall. John caught him, and pulled him up to suck at his neck while his hand opened Bobby's pants. Bobby groaned when John's hand wrapped around his dick, and thrust helplessly into John's spit-slicked hand.
His relationship with John was actually his first relationship, too. He'd had girls consider themselves his girlfriend, sure, but a kiss didn't mean they were in an exclusive relationship. Or, he didn't think that was what it meant, but some of the girls did. He wasn't interested in that, much, with everything else going on.
John laughed his ass off when Bobby told him that the first time he had ever gotten slapped, by anyone other than his mom, was because Laura had told Mandy about their kiss, and Mandy told Laura about his and Jennie's kiss. And then John asked (casually, of course) if he knew that their relationship, his and Bobby's, was exclusive—and Bobby was shocked.
"Of course I do!" Bobby glared at John, and John didn't even bother to glare back, so Bobby added, "You are aware of this fact, aren't you?" John smirked and nodded. They were quiet for a while, before John started talking again.
"I can't believe your mom actually hit you." He said as though fishing for something, and Bobby blinked.
"She only did it when she was pissed about something I'd done, or after Ronnie had just lied about something that happened." Bobby explained, not liking the shadow that crossed John's face as he nodded. It made Bobby wonder how much John was truly keeping to himself when he never discussed his family, or barely ever his history. Bobby knew he had friends, knew he was from the New York area, knew he still kept in contact with some of those friends though he never saw them anymore, knew he hated his parents, knew he had more than likely had some traumatic sexual encounters that he thought would scare Bobby off, and he knew that John had a record. Six things, countable on two hands, no more.
Bobby tried to soak up as much knowledge about his boyfriend. When, for some reason, John brought up the subject of leaving, he mentioned he could hot-wire a car. "Anything, really. If I wanted to, I could hot-wire a fucking tractor. But that would be pointless." Bobby recalled the information that John had a record, and added car theft as a possible explanation for that. John was cocky, too, and a shit-disturber, so that probably didn't make things better.
When Bobby, offhandedly, mentioned how some of his friends back in Boston were planning a party complete with kegs and shit, John got agitated, and said, "I hate alcohol." Bobby asked why, the shock plain on his face because didn't all 'bad kids' like drinking? Hell, didn't all kids like it? He'd never really tried it himself, but that was only because he'd never had the chance. "My parents were alcoholics. Fucking retarded disease—it's you who are poisoning yourself, so why the fuck would someone keep drinking? Do they actually like waking up with splitting headaches, puking their guts out, ruining their lives and—?" Bobby sat their, shocked, until John came out of his anger enough to be embarrassed at how much he had said.
Bobby just pulled him into a hug, and John patiently let him, until he got bored and turned it into a Bobby-molesting time. John somehow knew that if Bobby didn't get a chance to try and comfort him, he'd feel guilty and act weird, even if John was fine. Bobby realized he knew John, probably better than anyone, after that. John was with him most of the time, and acted oddly around other people. Bobby felt more like himself around John, so why not vice versa? He didn't need to know everything about John to know him.
Their first fight was one about how little they knew about each other. It was Bobby's first fight within a relationship, and his first actual fight with John.
That night, when Bobby went to bed, he couldn't sleep. He heard John's parting comment, more of a reasonable explanation said in a scathing, horrible voice than a parting shot; "My life is different now—I don't think you need to know what happened back then, because I'm not letting it affect me now. Just leave it well-fucking-enough alone, Drake." As reasonable as that was, Bobby's excuse for not telling John much about his family and his past—the stuff that really mattered—was just as unreasonable. It was because he didn't want John to know that he was a coward for never telling his parents he was a mutant, or that they didn't know he was with a guy who was also a mutant. And so, so many other things.
When John came back into their room late, way later than curfew, Bobby hoped against hope that John would have forgiven him and would climb into bed with him and curl about him. John just ignored Bobby's presence (that may have been because Bobby was pretending to be asleep) and got into his own bed, but he didn't seem to be able to sleep either. By the time Bobby had the sneaking suspicion that John knew he was awake, Bobby was already falling asleep.
When Bobby woke up, John was next to him, leaning against his headboard. John noticed he was waking up and said, "You are an idiot. A fucking idiot, you know that?" John's voice was tired but not unkind, despite the words said. Bobby just nodded and moved over to use John's thigh as a pillow, and smiled as John sighed and slid his fingers through Bobby's hair. And then he ruined whatever moment they might have had by smacking the side of Bobby's head to get him up, so John could slid down next to him to sleep.
It was after their fourth (third, according to Bobby, but neither were counting, of course) fight—about, of all things, Bobby being jealous when John kissed Kitty at a game of Spin the Bottle (and about John's jealousy nearly all the time, Bobby said, and about Bobby's tendency to overreact, and eventually, after John stormed off to go burn things, about John's tendency to storm off instead of talk things through)—that John decided he'd had enough.
Bobby's first breakup was also his first heartbreak, which was also the first time he really and truly felt sure that he loved John. He told John so, and that was also the first time he was hit by John. But maybe he was lucky John didn't light him on fire.
"Don't fucking lie to me." John, true to habit, left as soon as he could get his foot out the door. Bobby sat where he landed, shocked and in pain—his heart hurt so much it was nearly physically painful, not to mention his eye—and tried to figure out what he had done wrong. John came back fifteen minutes later with a raw steak, which was thrown at Bobby, and a muttered "From Scott. I told him you were Iceman, and ice would work better, but what-fucking-ever." before he started packing his bags. Bobby's stomach plummeted.
"Where are you going?" He asked, panicked, standing up quickly. "You can't leave."
"The Professor said I could move to a different room, so I am. Don't worry, Drake, no one knows it was a lover's quarrel that caused our fight. Bet the Prof. knows, though." John was talking in a voice that Bobby had never heard—it was hateful and unhappy and it made Bobby want nothing more than to hug him, kiss him and make him know that Bobby loved him. Bobby felt sure that if he tried to touch John he'd be set on fire, so he tried words.
"I'm sorry, John, I'm sorry. If it means that much to you, if you'll stay, we'll tell everyone. I don't want you to leave. Please." Bobby had never begged before, never had to, but tonight was a night of firsts, so why not. He held out a hand to John, who hesitated, staring at Bobby.
"I mean that much to you?" John asked, as though testing unknown waters. He was searching for something that Bobby didn't know he could help him find, and he felt so helpless. Bobby nodded and moved forward, and John shook his head, backing up. "I think we're done here, Drake."
As Bobby stared at the door, which shut behind John, Bobby couldn't concentrate on anything except the stupid, inane thought, that he had never realized John didn't ever say (or deny) that he had feelings for Bobby. He didn't understand why all the choices, all the truth, had been wrong.
He tracked John down the next day, and instead of spouting his never-ending love, he spoke of friendship. He talked about the movies they had watched, the time when Bobby tackled John because he and Piotr were playing keep-away with Bobby's ice-cream, and the time when John tripped Bobby because he had hidden his cds—he hadn't really, John had put them in a safe place and forgotten where that safe place was.
John wasn't having any of it. "Drake, what the fuck is this?" He asked, and gestured around at the both of them. He glared at Bobby as though daring him to lie. Bobby had no desie to be punched in the face again.
"It's..." Bobby said, and thought. He had no idea what it was. So he'd throw it at John. "It's whatever you want it to be." And after he said that, John got a crafty look in his eye. "Except nothing." Bobby quickly amended. John looked surprised and resigned all at once.
For a while, John looked at Bobby. For a while, Bobby tried to look sincere, but he realized he didn't really have to. John knew him. John knew how he felt about this. Bobby was beginning to think that for all John knew about who Bobby really was, family and past matters apart, John didn't know who John really was. "Friends." John said, and then continued. "We're just friends." Bobby's grin split his face in half, even as John's lip-quirk of a smile made his heart ache.
Bobby had never thought of John as sadistic, but if he learned anything from John, it was that John was habitually unpredictable, and that there were firsts for everything. It was little things, really; things that Piotr did, too, things that made the girls blush. They'd be at the mall or at the movies on their weekends, and an admittedly attractive girl would walk by. Usually they had short skirts on, with legs that went all the way up, and usually, they had suspiciously absent panty lines. John would twist his head to take a better look, and then he'd elbow Piotr, who was probably already looking. He was just more discreet about it.
It bothered Bobby, because Bobby still thought of John as his. He never even knew he thought of John as his until John started doing this creative sort of torture. John had never even fucking exhibited this behavior until they had broken up, not even before they had gotten together. Bobby was in the middle of wondering what the hell he saw in the guy when, all of a sudden, a quiet and pointy elbow poked him in the ribs, and John, being discreet about it for once, was making a small motioning gesture over his—and Bobby's—shoulder. Bobby looked—
And nearly punched John in the face right then and there, because John had just pointed out another guy to him. The guy was hot, yeah; long legs, jeans that showed his thighs and ass, and a shirt that showed defined biceps, and the guy looked to have strong hands—but fucking hell.
Bobby turned to glare at John, but John was already debating with Kitty about what kind of candy to get, and suddenly Bobby felt like crying. Or screaming. While hitting something.
What didn't John get about Bobby being in love with him? Or was it that love that Bobby had for him that was making him so determined to destroy it? What was he trying to prove, except that he was capable of being a fucking bastard? What was there to love, when Bobby really thought about it?
Without really noticing it, because he was so damned determined to forget about it, Bobby's love for John went away. When he finally realized it, he thought that it wasn't really love at all. Maybe a crush, compounded by friendship and lust. Usually when John and Bobby hung out, there was something else they could concentrate on, so they weren't really left alone together; a movie playing that they both liked, another person they could talk to. Bobby still thought John had cocksucker's lips.
But despite everything, Bobby realized something he just couldn't wrap his head around, and something he couldn't make go away; he trusted John. He trusted him implicitly, and not because they had once been together, or best friends—at least, he didn't think so. Maybe it was, though, because when John said that they could still be friends, Bobby had doubted it, but John had proved him wrong.
Sure, they didn't hang out alone much anymore, but that was because whenever they had hung out alone before, it had been for kissing and dry-humping purposes. Bobby remembered they didn't hang out much alone before they got together, because someone was always around. It was rare that they got any time alone—the night they got together Bobby had been so excited about it, because he could look at John instead of the movie, and no one would be there to notice.
Whenever they were alone now they mostly talked. John talked about music, life, how he hated having to so desperately reign in his power all the time because he could feel every time someone in the mansion lit a match or turned on the oven. He could feel every time Jubilee sparked. Bobby listened, and when it was his turn, he talked about how he was scared to go near water—swimming pools and the like—because he somehow always froze them, usually with people (other mutants, thank God) in them. He talked about how he didn't understand how John's taste in music was so varied, since John seemed like a music snob. John said he was, but he just knew who he liked, and it just so happened he only liked good people, and there were a lot of people he liked. Bobby said he thought John was crazy, and John, in turn, laughed about Bobby's fear of pools. Xavier, after about a month, transferred John back to Bobby's room; he seemed amused as he told them he needed people to room with others, because while this was a mansion, it didn't have an infinite amount of rooms.
Bobby was grateful that things were getting back to normal, and that things weren't awkward.
Whenever John elbowed him in public places, discreetly or not, Bobby steadfastly ignored it and looked straight ahead. Eventually John stopped and Bobby denied he missed the little contact the elbow provided, but Rogue's arrival distracted him, in all the wrong ways. Bobby had a knack for picking out the people with commitment problems, but the first was the best.