(Revised version posted 22/03/2009)
A/N
i. I'm an English writer, and by that I mean from England, so as much as I tried to make it American (because of the characters) I guess the slang/spelling might have snuck in in places, so I'm sorry if you don't get something.
ii. To do this story, or at least aspects of it, I wrote myself a big long list of all the clichés I could find about Johnny and did everything I could to avoid them. As far as I know, going by movieverse, his parents aren't necessarily dead; he just comes from a broken home (and even that's just implied), so that's what I did.
iii. I am obsessed with backstories. For every character I meet I instantaneously start wondering about their motives, when they first met, what their first words are to each other – especially with minor characters (which I always like). So this is my backstory for Johnny, and I can only hope I did him justice.
iv. I'm not happy with the ending. Not at all. I think it's too abrupt, but when I tried to mess with it it came out worse, so here's the original, and I hope it comes out okay.
TRIGGER WARNINGS for homophobia, abuse.
I
Johnny was staring at what had to be the biggest asshole he'd ever seen.
The kid had already seemed a bit pathetic, to be honest. I mean, what teenager spends his Saturday afternoons with his Mom in a supermarket? But nope, he'd trailed along with a trolley smiling happily in a way that screamed of wanting to hold her hand. He'd then gone off to pick up the toiletries, and had there found the typical small, screaming child that always seems to hang around supermarkets to get kicks by pissing people off.
It wasn't like Johnny was following him or anything. They just happened to both be shopping for the same stuff.
He'd squatted down in front of said shrieking child with an almost pathetic look of despair on his face, mixed with an intolerable amount of pity. Johnny rolled his eyes. "What's your name?" he asked in an equally annoying soft voice.
The child sniffled loudly and unpleasantly. "Simon," he replied.
Another sickening smile. "Hey there, Simon," he crooned. "Are you lost?" This caused the small child's brain to rewire, as he wailed loudly again, causing the pair of them to receive some rather disapproving looks. The kid began to panic, fishing around in his pockets for something to satiate the whining and finding nothing but a half-eaten cereal bar; he glanced around, causing Johnny to take a dive into the feminine hygiene. The looks he got were almost as filthy as the kid's. Peeking around again, Johnny saw the kid had clasped his hands together, and another nervous smile was gracing his face. "Hey, I bet you like cars, right?" Simon stopped his morbid howling and sniffled once, wiping his nose on his sleeve before nodding. The clasped hands glowed once and then parted; inside, the smallest car he'd seen was sitting in the palm of the right hand, curving beside his lifeline, small and translucent, made of glass.
A mutant. Well, that changed things.
Simon gasped most dramatically and picked it up, eyes sparkling almost as much as the glass itself. "S'cold," he mumbled eloquently, wiping his nose again, and the kid absentmindedly pressed a tissue into his hand.
"You bet," he grinned. "How about we go talk to the security man, and he'll find your Mom for you, huh?" Simon, too enraptured by the small vehicle, wasn't particularly bothered which way he was lead off to.
Johnny followed, not because he was interestedin buying a new dishwasher, but because the kid was a mutant. Which meant he was worth following.
The kid appeared to want to avoid any emotional reunions, as once he had safely delivered Simon he grabbed a couple of bags off some shelves and hurried back to his Mom, who was standing by the checkouts and fretting about tuna or salmon or some such crap. Johnny turned on his heel and waited by the exit, pulling his lighter out of his pocket (for comfort, naturally) and flicking it irritably. The kid walked out, laden with shopping bags and chatting to his Mom. He did a rather lovely double-take at the sight of Johnny slumped by the wall, and hurried to dump the bags in the car before scrambling back along to stand a few feet in front of him, smiling a tad more nervously than before.
Swish, click.
"Hi," he smiled. "I'm Bobby." Swish, click; the extended hand was ignored. "Uh, are you new here?" This kid was worse than the Samaritans. Jesus. "Are you going to school?" Swish, click. "What's your name?" He wondered how long before the kid gave up; Mom behind him gave a hesitant honk and a smiling wave. Bobby sighed, smiled apologetically (apologetically? Apologetically!) and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, pressing it into Johnny's hand before running off.
Johnny twirled the piece of paper in his fingers, memorized the number and threw it away.
The heating was off tonight, and Johnny was fucking freezing. This gave him a blatant excuse to motivate his fingers into pressing the keys of his crisped phone. He punched in the seven digits irritably, before adding the kid's number to his phonebook and pressing send.
A yell and a thud on the door which had it rattling had him reaching for his lighter; a prompt to turn the music down. He yelled an eloquent 'fuck you!' before turning it up; the handle was shaken a few times before his Dad slunk away from the door, cursing loudly and going back to whatever his latest fad was – snooker, football, soccer, whatever. He curled up in a shivering ball on his bed and wished he hadn't spent the next ten minutes staring at his phone and wanting it to go off.
Bobby had his phone on vibrate. When the text came through he actually thought his leg was having a spasm; he shot upwards from the table, slammed his knee into the hook thing he'd snapped off when he was six, howled with pain and fell forwards onto the tabletop. Ronnie started laughing; his Dad didn't look up; Mom sighed. "Ronnie, leave your brother alone," came the monotone from the kitchen. The protestations began as Bobby dug his phone out of his pocket, frowning at the unfamiliar number.
1 new message. Open now?
Yes … Cancel
Probably just one of Louise's friends, he concluded with a sigh, and slipped his phone back in his pocket. Ronnie had started catcalling the second it'd become visible; the familiar and predictable shrieks of delight that "Bobby had a girlfriend" were met with cynicism and kicks under the table. It didn't occur to him till around ten minutes later, when he slumped on his bed and pulled out his Biology report, that the weird guy from the supermarket might have actually not burnt his number on first sight and sent him the text. He wriggled it out of his pocket again, unlocking it and pressing open.
I'm Pyro.
Bobby sat and stared and wished he didn't feel like squealing. His thumbs began working rapidly, almost automatically;
Wow, that's awesome! What is it, Latin?
He began to idly focus on the report again, doodling roses in the corner of his table of enzymes, before clasping his hands together and concentrating; what emerged looked more like a dilapidated shrew, and he sighed, shattering it easily and spilling the fragments into his glass of Coke. For some reason, petals eluded him. As did Biology, it seemed, because he couldn't even remember what lipases were. Then his phone went off again, and it was a welcome and well-timed interruption.
Greek.
Bobby found himself smiling, and immediately glowered at himself in the mirror, forcing himself to be more sombre.
It still sounds cool, he persisted, grinning again inevitably as he hovered over the send button; however, just as he was about to his Mom knocked on the door and peered round. The phone shot under the covers, accompanied by a sheepish smile onto his face and his textbook into his hand as he blinked innocently at her figure in the doorway.
"Lights out, sweetie," she smiled, and he nodded once as she left.
Fishing his phone out of his pocket he found his half-written message, and sighed. He needed his sleep, he knew; his Mom expected him at church tomorrow, which meant a six-thirty start in a cold chapel which his, um, power didn't really help with. Mom's bugging me, I gotta go to bed, text me tomorrow? he thumbed in, before slouching off to the bathroom and leaving his phone on top of his abandoned report.
Johnny, clasping his lighter in one hand and his phone in the other, was curled in a ball on top of his bed. He stared at the message on the screen as the pounding on the door increased, pulling the pillow over his head. The metal of his lighter cut into his palm and the blood smeared across the screen of his phone as he wrote a half-hearted reply, decided against it and threw the phone against the wall, turning over and trying to sleep.
Bobby was rather pleasantly surprised when texts with Pyro became commonplace. He had to admit that he'd really not expected much from him at all; the first response had been more than brilliant, the fiftieth was encroaching on fantastic. Still, here they were, fifty replies later and Bobby still had to smuggle his phone into English.
Bobby worried about him more than he ought to. He was a worrying person naturally; any problem his friends faced he'd spend an undue amount of time fretting over, usually more than the concerned friend did. He didn't particularly like this habit but it wasn't one he'd been able to shake, and even though Pyro never said anything was wrong Bobby still found himself worrying. His parents, for instance, or his house; both, never mentioned, whereas all Bobby's friends always had something to complain about. Did he have siblings? Was he living with his parents? Did he go to school? How old was he? Bobby worried and questioned and texted and had his phone confiscated twenty-three times in two weeks and his parents in to see the Principal twice. Ronnie thought it was all hilarious, really, but unfortunately his parents did not, and Bobby's heart nearly broke when the phone was banned for a whole three days.
He idly found himself wondering whether Pyro had missed him as he thumbed in his apology, but when Pyro's reply came the thought was forgotten and the messages progressed as ever.
He would have liked to say they followed a familiar pattern, and he supposed they did; he'd prattle on about something, and Pyro would respond, and it would generally be cynical or less than eloquent in reply. But every now and again something would come along and fuck up their system – they'd run out of credit, or battery, or have the phone confiscated again – and whatever they had been talking about was lost in the scramble it took to set up to re-establish communications.
But then one of those big, horrible, imposing fuck-ups happened that life is so fond of happened; Pyro wanted to meet him.
The invitation was, as usual, short and to the point. The place was somewhere he'd barely ever heard of and had to actually Google to find; all in all, it was a bit of a weird experience. Bobby decided that cutting class would probably only end up with him in detention (or worse, his phone gone again) and managed to persuade Pyro to wait till he could actually get out of school; he'd figured some time ago that the other obviously didn't bother or was too old for it. Bobby was still in his rather unflattering uniform when he found the other's profile pacing between two sets of swings, hands fidgeting by his sides – through his hair – in his pockets – and rather wished his stomach hadn't done the ridiculous schoolgirl flip it always found necessary in such situations.
Johnny was pacing and fidgeting because it was the only thing stopping him torching the whole place, only he couldn't, he fucking couldn't and this just made him angrier so he paced harder and walked faster and his feet thrum-thrummed in the ground deeper as he wore away another layer of tarmac, biting through the cheap soles of his shoes.
He should have been worried by the way he calmed down when Bobby came into view; should have, but his thoughts were rather elsewhere as he continued his infrequent, unstructured pacing. Bobby hung a few feet off, chewing on his lip nervously and watching him pace uncertainly; Johnny wasn't about to elaborate further. His mouth had always tripped on the words, and besides, if he wasn't clever enough to figure something was wrong he wouldn't have come in the first place. Eventually, it rushed out in a torrent of cursing and more profanities than he'd intended to use in front of the kid.
"Bastard took my fucking lighter, took and pawned my fucking lighter!" he screamed, causing Bobby to jump back about half a foot and an old lady reach to hit him with her umbrella. Let her, let her, I'll fucking burn her into a pile of fucking ashes, fuck, fuck, he was in trouble now, because the thing in his head that told him to destroy everything was whispering a little louder than usual – and he had no way of doing it anymore, and he was spiralling out of control and fuck if it didn't scare him what he'd turn into.
Bobby was chewing on his lip again, a little recovered. "Your Dad… sold your lighter?" he tried tentatively, and Johnny snarled at the mere mention of him, pacing more frantically. The kid was fumbling in his pockets again, and a blush was gracing his cheeks – not a good sign. He held out a tentative hand, and something small and silver nestled in it, and Johnny stopped and stared. "Um, I remembered you had one, and I saw it and I thought of you and well, it's dumb, but I thought that if we, I don't know, well, just, here – "
Johnny's fingers were scrabbling at the cool metal desperately, parched, thirsty, needy, and he flicked it open and the little yellow strip was like a fucking chorus of angels, and he leant his hand to it with care, with need, with overwhelming joy. The design was enough to make him cringe (were those shark's teeth? Ouch, so much for décor) but it was his and it was fire and it felt fan-fucking-tastic. The flames licked and curled and swept around his fingers and it was gorgeous, it was better than drugs and music and sex and it was his and it was all just because he'd been given this little silver scrap of metal.
When he looked up from the fire it winded him so much more than slightly to see that Bobby had gone.
Pyro was a mutant.
Pyro was a mutant.
And suddenly – and he knew it was dumb, because mutants were on the news all the time – he didn't feel quite so alone anymore.
He did wonder, for a bit, whether there was such a thing as fate. He'd been lead to his antithesis (come on, fire and ice, what kind of crappy cliché is that?) in the middle of a Boston supermarket. It all seemed a bit unlikely. But if mutants were as prominent as the media would have them believe, it was quite probable. Besides, for all he knew, his best friend could have been a mutant; it wasn't something you generally revealed, but the way Pyro had been pacing and the way he gleamed when the fire danced over his fingers Bobby realised he must have been desperate. He'd sat in the bath later that night and twirled ice over his fingers and was so, so glad he didn't have to rely on anything to do what he could do. The thing about Pyro's Dad had been interesting, yes, but had also confirmed his worst suspicions. There was something wrong with him and worst of all he knew that there was nothing he could do to help.
His phone went off, and even after all these weeks he couldn't stop himself jumping up in surprise. (It was, to be fair, what gave him away more often than not.) He pulled it out of his pocket and, chewing a lip, stared at the illuminated screen.
My dark side didn't send you screaming for the hills, did it?
Bobby felt himself wanting to chuckle in relief. Pyro could have taken his departure in so many different ways, and he was just so glad he hadn't lost a friend. Insufferable worrying.
Of course not. I… guess I should tell you… I'm a mutant, too
Bobby found himself waiting for a reply, sitting and biting a nail, a finger, checking the phone screen as soon as the screensaver kicked in. The eventual reply was more than thought-provoking; simple, plain letters illustrated the phrase
I know.
There was a moment when Johnny realised he'd lost Bobby, and it came something along the lines of this;
There's this guy… Xavier… and I think he can help us.
Johnny's lack of reply to this 'groundbreaking' text prompted a hasty and hurried voice message;
"He knew I was a mutant, Pyro, before I even told him! And he wants to help – and he doesn't even tell your family, it's great, there's this school and it's safe – I didn't mention you or anything – just, I haven't heard from you for a bit. I hope you're okay. Text me, yeah?"
The message was hard to hear over the shrieks of "you fucking asshole faggot bastard – open this fucking door you – " and Johnny had to press the phone right up next to his ear and curse that despite his headphones and his music the word wouldn't get out of his fucking brain.
Faggot.
Jesus Christ, being even slightly inclined to being gay had always been fucking horrible under his Dad's roof, where more than a regular insult – it was worse than murder. Now it was just the fact he felt as dirty as hell when he thought about the kid – he felt like he was betraying something – like a friendship, or some such shit. He'd been better off when he hadn't 'done' friendship, because then he could do whatever the fuck he wanted and it didn't matter when he upset someone. He was losing Bobby to this Xavier guy, anyway. Nobody honestly gives a fuck about mutants enough to give them a private, cosy education in a big posh school, no matter what bull Xavier was feeding him.
His Dad slunk off down the corridor again, and he sighed, staring at the phone in his hand. He thumbed through his phonebook and found the name; he pressed dial and pushed the headset to his ear, familiar sting of agony as his teeth scraped across his swollen, gnawed lips. "I wanna meet you again," he whispered, and hoped his speaking wouldn't bring his Dad down on him again.
Bobby got there first this time; when Johnny arrived he was already perched on a roundabout, idly pushing himself in tiny arcs with his right foot. He smiled in a stomach-wriggling way as Johnny walked up to him, and stood up to quite honestly (and that was what hurt the fucking most) hug him. He was still smiling, and it was then Johnny began to feel uneasy, because there was a guy halfway across the park, and despite the shades he could tell he was staring at him. "What have you done?" he hissed, backing away from Bobby and pulling his bodyweight down low, his fingers curling into a fist round his lighter, thumbing it open.
[Relax, John. I'm not here to hurt you.]
The voice had his nerves on edge already; he'd hear others describe it as angelic, calming, but he only ever found it invasive and disgusting, the most fucked-up kind of mind rape. "What do you want?" he said shakily, the heat of the flame basking his hand comfortingly.
"They just want to help you, Pyro," Bobby shouted soothingly from a few feet away, and even the sound of his voice made Johnny's stomach sting with betrayal; this is what happens when I let myself get attached.
[Calm down, John. Calm down.] It took him a moment to place, but he finally managed to place the voice with the man in the wheelchair, standing comfortingly close to both the guy in the shades and Bobby, and staring right at him – though not as venomously as Shades. "I want to offer you a refuge," he said softly, his physical voice making Johnny feel even more disgusted than his mental one had; he quite eloquently told the man to go fuck himself before marching off firmly in the other direction.
It wasn't till the hand jolted his arm back that he even realised Bobby had followed him; the fire-anger was pounding in his ears again, and his senses were becoming bewitched. "I don't know what the fuck you think you've done, bringing this guy here, but you've just about fucked up everything, so why don't you just get the fuck back to your pretty little school and leave me the fuck alone?"
"Why don't you say fuck again, huh, John, and just keep pretending it doesn't matter?" Bobby hissed, hand clamping down on his elbow more roughly and yanking him round to face him. "I called him here because I give a shit, alright? I was worried about you – " He held up a hand against Johnny's attempt to protest this comment, eyeing him dangerously. " – yeah, I was worried, and I thought that he could help you too."
"I don't need help," Johnny snarled in reply, tugging his arm free. "These people don't just help us for no reason, Bobby, they always want something."
"You're wrong," Bobby said determinedly, and Johnny realised the kid wasn't even joking – he genuinely was that naïve. Johnny simply snorted derisively and spun on his heel.
The kiss was clumsy and sloppy and pretty damn horrible, actually, something out of a movie rather than real life – perfectly timed, romantically executed, but meeting one rather large flaw; this was reality, and Bobby's teeth hit against his agonisingly, and he nearly fell on top of him when he was tugged round yet again. Despite everything, despite the pain and the general embarrassment, he found he didn't have an issue about making out with the kid in the middle of a park with two prospective teachers watching and the entire neighbourhood ready to go report to his Dad.
"Fucking asshole," he muttered rather ineloquently when Bobby pulled away, but the kid grinned at him and soppily laced their fingers together.
It took Johnny less than an hour to pack, less than a minute to finally tell his Dad what he thought and less than a day to go with Bobby to New York. (The kid even sat next to him on the plane, getting excited about nothing whatsoever.)
He found that the bickering started up with the sex; but he was okay with that, really – mainly because of the latter, but still, he was okay.