This story takes place at an ambiguous moment in the comics continuity. I'd say that Bobby is around 30, Warren is around 35, and Northstar is in his late 40s. This is before young Bobby shows up but after Northstar's marriage to Kyle, yet somehow Jean is still alive. Magic.

Warren frowned, looking serious. "I know everyone else thinks it's a big joke. I don't."

"It's no joke," said Bobby. "My last girlfriend called me uncouth. I need your advice because you're very couth. You're the couth-est person I know!" Bobby had – true to form – fallen hard for a woman who was way out of his league, dated her briefly, gotten dumped, and fallen into a fugue of moping and despair. In an attempt to cheer him up, Bobby's friends at the Institute had set him on a quest to ask all the male X-men for their finest dating secrets. This had been only intermittently effective, so when Betsy went to England to visit family, Bobby had shown up on Warren's New York penthouse doorstep, insisting on a guys' weekend.

"Yeah," said Warren. He sounded sad. "Did the others give you good advice?"

"What's your problem, Warren? It's all just for fun, you know. It's not like I'm going to hold you responsible if I can't get a new girlfriend."

Warren rolled his eyes and set out some fancy cocktails and a bowl of wasabi peas, his newest craving. "Did you ask the Professor?"

"Nah," said Bobby. "I figure all his advice is restricted to wooing alien princesses with Yul Brynner fetishes."

"Not a situation you're likely to encounter."

"Exactly."

"But he must have selling points," said Warren. "I imagine he can hold his breath for a very long time."

Bobby considered that before making a face. "Ew," he said.

Warren frowned disapprovingly. "Cunnilingus isn't gross, Bobby. It's an art form."

"Now the Professor's sex life and carpet munching have both been mentioned in the same conversation." Bobby shuddered. "I hope your charitable work involves paying for my therapy."

"I'm guessing Hank suggested poetry?" asked Warren.

"Yeah. He said something about comparing women to summer or something like that."

"That works for Hank. It won't work for you."

"Thanks," said Bobby. He was very slowly eating bringing a wasabi pea to his mouth, looking for all the world like he would rather be eating Pringles. Which he probably would.

"What about the others? Did you ask Wolverine?"

"He told me to fuck off." Bobby actually put the wasabi pea in his mouth before promptly spitting it out.

Warren smiled and ate a handful of the hateful things, just to rub it in. "You're such a wuss about spicy food. What did Gambit say?"

"He said," Bobby paused to put on a mockery of the Cajun's accent, "You have t' let your love know dat she have your heart. It don' matter if she don' have you body. Your heart is de really important t'ing. Sex is just bodies, Rogue! She mean nothing to Remy! I love you, Rogue! You have to forgive me! A man has needs!"

Warren laughed. "I hope by this point you were beginning to see the flaw with the Get-Romance-Advice-from-the-X-men plan."

Bobby shrugged with an acknowledging nod. "Scott was…we'll, I mean he's in a long-term relationship, so that's got to count for something."

"That doesn't mean he knows anything about women."

"That's too bad, because he gave me advice I might actually follow."

"Two words, Bobby. The key to a happy relationship."

"O-kay?" This really sounded like Scott was joking, but Scott never joked.

Jean walked into the room, pausing to give Scott a hug. "I just got off the phone with my mother. We're going to have dinner with my parents tonight. Rizzo's, 8pm."

"Yes, dear," said Scott. Jean's arms will still around Scott, pulling him toward the door. Scott smiled and mouthed TWO WORDS at Bobby while Jean led him away for whatever the two of them did for fun.

"Why I am not surprised that Scott Summers' go-to relationship strategy is unquestioning obedience?" asked Warren. "To be fair," he mused, "unquestioning obedience is really the primary move in Scott's playbook regardless of circumstance."

"And it's never a good idea to piss off Jean," agreed Bobby. Despite himself, he was enjoying catching up with Warren, poking fun at his teammates.

"Has Cable been around?"

"Yeah, right, like I'm going to ask him for advice."

"Did you ask Jean? Rachel?"

"No, I think it was supposed to be just the guys," said Bobby.

Warren wondered if Bobby was aware that he had skipped all the telepaths. He sipped his drink. It wasn't very strong. He'd probably have to have at least two before he felt it at all. He swallowed the rest in an undignified gulp. "Bobby, do you ever think that-" Warren stopped himself. He wasn't sure whether his decision to cut the question off was an act of respectful self-control or simple cowardice.

"Think what?" Bobby had barely touched his drink, with the exception of a single swallow to wash out the wasabi flavor.

"Never mind."

"Out with it, Birdbrain," said Bobby playfully, "or I'll freeze all your good wine."

"Your threats have gotten better," mused Warren. He glanced at Bobby, to see if the younger man had accepted the joke and moved on from their prior topic of conversation. He clearly had not. "It's not for me to say. It's one of those things you have to figure out for yourself."

"Oh my god," whined Bobby, "that is such bullshit."

Warren shrugged with his most charming half-smile, the one that usually made people melt, but Bobby was still glaring daggers. "Fine," said Warren, "I don't like this whole advice game because maybe their advice isn't made for guys like you and it's like they're stringing you along." He sighed. "It's like this. A lot of people, when they're stressed, they want a nice warm bath. But not you. You hate hot water."

Bobby nodded in acknowledgement. "Feels like I'm melting."

"Right," said Warren. "You'd rather have a cold shower. And that's fine. You don't have to do things the way everyone else does. And if you don't want to put labels or limits on that right now, then that's fine too. But I think it's cruel to kick you down the other path."

Bobby was squinting his left eye nearly shut while leaving the right at normal size. The effect was to look comically skeptical. "Riiiiight," he said, as if he were humoring an elderly relative. "Showers. Paths. Glad we had this talk, Angel."

Warren raised his glass in silent toast.

Bobby momentarily looked sulky, but then clinked glasses with his old friend, taking another hesitant sip of the cocktail. "What's in this, anyway?"

"Wheatgrass," said Warren. "Very trendy, very healthy."

"It tastes like cow vomit. Do you have any children's cough syrup I could drink instead?"

"Culture is wasted on you," said Warren with mock disdain.

They watched old action movies while Warren served three more trendy, nutritious (read: disgusting) snack options before they settled on ordering pizza. Bobby was unusually quiet compared to his normal gregarious demeanor, but at least he wasn't openly brooding anymore. He seemed distant, though, idly generating paper-thin swirls of ice and then letting them melt.

It was around 11pm when Warren got a call from Betsy, leaving Bobby alone to pick vegetables off his pizza in the dark. When Warren returned, Bobby was standing by the window, hand on the rapidly frosting glass, facing away.

"Hey," said Bobby softly, his voice sounding thin and brittle, "you know the city better than me. If I guy was looking for…for some cold water, where would he…?" By the last words, he could barely be heard.

Warren grabbed a notepad from the kitchen table. He quickly jotted down three addresses. "The top one's a coffee shop. Range of ages. Nice place to get to know people. Carter's is a sports bar, pretty standard. The last one's called the Happy Rooster and it's exactly what it sounds like." He tore out the page and handed it to Bobby. He felt like holding his breath, like one wrong move on his part would cause Bobby to snap out of his brief flirtation with his actual sexual orientation. After a decade of repression, it was hard to believe that Bobby was finally going to consider it. "Do you want company?"

"You're not…" said Bobby. "You like hot showers."

"True, but I'd go with you as a friend."

Bobby shook his head, the movement almost imperceptible. "No," he said, "at least not this time."

To both their surprise, Warren hugged Bobby, perhaps buying himself time so he could think of something to say. Warren stepped back. "You have a key," he said, trying to imply without stating that it would be fine if Bobby stayed out all night. "I have to go into work tomorrow morning, but you know the rules: my house is your house and if you touch anything, I'll kill you."

Bobby shut his mouth tightly before an, "I'm not-" or "How did you know?" slipped out. His mind was racing uncomfortably. How long had Warren thought this about him? Was it obvious? Did everyone know? Did Bobby himself know for sure? Or was this just a test run, a way to prove to both Warren and himself that he was straight?

Bobby looked down at the addresses. There was no way the coffeeshop was open at this hour. He really hated sports bars, but the Happy Rooster sounded a little…advanced for this stage in the game. Was he actually going to do this? Walk into a bar where anyone could see him and sit down and maybe talk to some people who might ask his name and might remember it and who knows who they might know and what if someone took his picture?

Warren had no right! He had no right to say those things and think those things! It was just supposed to be some friendly bonding, not some kind of fucked-up reverse intervention. Bobby knew he wasn't…not straight. Sure, he'd had thoughts. But everyone had thoughts. That didn't count. He was only walking into a gay sports bar because he was adventurous. He had a good sense of humor. Everyone said so. Well, everyone who counted anyway.

He leaned on the bar, waiting to be recognized by the bartender. It was a normal sports bar, not a raucous dance club. ESPN was playing on every TV, showing some basketball game. There were small tables and booths as well as some crowded pool tables. Pool made Bobby think of Scott, who perhaps would not approve of this venture. He had to consciously press his feet to the floor to prevent himself from walking away.

Bobby was focusing hard on the game when dark-haired man, not much older than Bobby, but with a prematurely receding hairline, strode up to the bar next to him. The man set his stein down and extended his hand. "Lloyd," he said.

Bobby consciously made sure his hands weren't freezing cold when he returned the gesture. "Bobby," he said in return.

Three Days Later

"Why are you here?" groused Bobby, still wrapped in a down comforter. (Moping at Warren's had its advantages.)

Jean Paul Beaubier was leaning on the doorway of Warren Worthington's guest room. "Because you have been moping around this penthouse for several days."

"If Warren wants to kick me out, he should do it himself."

"I told him the same thing. For reasons not entirely clear to me, he would rather you stop moping than have you brood somewhere else."

"That still doesn't explain why you're here."

"Because I owe Mssr. Worthington a favor.

"Weren't you a terrorist at one point?" groused Bobby.

There was a whoosh and before Bobby's eyes could register the movement, Jean Paul had gone to the kitchen and returned. He was now was peeling an orange. Ignoring Bobby's irrelevant objection, Jean Paul said, "I have no desire to be here all day with this nonsense. What went so wrong with your evening out?"

"I'm…uh…actually new to this."

"Well, then I'm both satisfied and honored," said Lloyd, still stroking Bobby's thigh. "And suitably impressed. You suck dick like a champ."

In post-orgasmic relaxation, Bobby blushed at the compliment. The sex had been good. Really good. Much less awkward than he had been anticipating. In fact, much less awkward than sex had ever been with a girlfriend. It made him feel bold and confident. "You want to see a trick?" he asked.

"Sure."

Bobby raise his hand, fingers crooked upward as if he were gripping a light bulb to unscrew it. He twirled his fingers inward, trailing ice behind, leaving a delicate sculpture of swirling ice, rather like a Christmas ornament. It was an easy move, not flashy, but intimate and elegant. Just the right thing to show a partner after making love.

Lloyd had backed out of the bed. He raised a trembling finger at Bobby. "You're…you're one of them! You're a mutant! I can't believe I- oh god, I feel so dirty. How could you hide that from me, make me think you were normal? Oh god, get out of my apartment." When Bobby didn't move immediately, Lloyd repeated himself. "Get out!"

Another whoosh and the orange peel was gone. A slice hovered at Jean Paul's mouth. "Let me see if I understand the situation," he said. "You were unhappy with your love life, so you elected to take advice from some of the most neurotic, unsophisticated, emotionally immature people on the planet, which naturally led you to Warren's doorstep. You then accepted Warren Worthington's recommendation of a good gay bar, whereupon you allowed the first man you met to pick you up. You went off for a one night stand with said individual and lo-and-behold, he was not precisely a 'winner'." Jean Paul stroked his chin thoughtfully and said in his most condescending manner, "Now Robert, where do you think you went wrong?"

"Wait, why are you doing Warren a favor if you think he has such bad taste?"

"He loaned me quite a sum of money several years ago, at a very reasonable interest rate, when no banks would do business with me due to my being a gay mutant and – as you so kindly pointed out – ex-terrorist. So you see, although he has been paid back in full, I owed him a debt as a fellow businessman. As a man of refinement, however, I lost all respect for him when he started dating that child."

"You mean Paige? That wasn't…well." Actually, Bobby had criticized Warren quite a lot for his decision to date someone so much younger. "They broke up," he said finally.

"Oh, did they? And how is Paige these days?" asked Jean Paul with the air of a lawyer, asking questions to which he already knew the answers.

Bobby frowned. "Point taken."

Jean Paul clapped his hands together to signal they were moving on from that topic. "All right," he said, "first things first. You know to watch your drinks, right? Straight men get too used to slacking on personal safety. If you're going out to gay bars, watch your drinks being made and keep them in sight at all times. And condoms. Every time. Don't be stupid."

"Yes, mom." When Bobby was uncomfortable with a topic, he got bratty.

"With the new medicines, people have been getting overconfident. They don't fear AIDS like they used to. Don't be one of those idiots." Jean Paul looked distant for a moment, before his face returned to its usual haughty mask.

Bobby wasn't exactly sure how old Jean Paul was, nor was he particularly well-versed in the history of the AIDS crisis, but he knew the other man had lived through the worst of it. Not a topic to make jokes about. Bobby nodded with what he hoped was solemnity.

They were both quiet for a moment. Then, Jean Paul popped an orange wedge into his mouth, offering another one to Bobby.

"So," said Jean Paul, "are you gay? Bisexual? Heteroflexible?"

"I…Warren thinks I'm gay."

Bobby was sitting on the floor beside the couch, so he couldn't see Warren's face and vice versa. "How did you know? Do I give off a vibe or something?"

"Lots of things. You're mostly interested in women who are unattainable. You obviously try hard not to stare at Gambit's ass. Whenever the subject of sexual orientation comes up, in any context, you act really weird."

"I never say anything about-" Bobby cut himself off as he realized his mistake. Silence – for him – was uncharacteristic.

"We both know what I think of Worthington's judgment," said Jean Paul.

"I've had girlfriends. And I…it wasn't just an act. I did like them."

"But were you attracted to them?"

"I don't know! It's like, if I'm gay now, what does it mean for them? Do I apologize? Did I waste my life? Did I waste their time?"

"Robert, I am what they call a 'gold-star' gay. You know what that means?"

"Canadian preschools are really, really progressive?"

"It means I have never slept with a woman." Jean Paul paused to let that sink in. "This is uncommon enough that there is a special word for it. In my generation, very few have their gold stars."

"What made you so special?"

Jean Paul shrugged. "I was never interested in women. And I was never interested in being ordinary." He separated the last two wedges of the orange. "My point is, sleeping with women does not disqualify you from being gay. It is, in fact, the norm."

"Are you going to be really offended if I say that I don't want to be gay?"

"Why would I be offended? Just because you prefer an endless string of miserable and unfulfilling heterosexual relationships to the possibility of acknowledging that you might be like me?"

"I know you get hate mail," said Bobby. "I know people show up at your publicity events and say terrible things. How do you handle it?"

"I remind myself that I have more Olympic medals than they do."

"I thought you were stripped of your medals."

"Yes, Robert, that is a very important point to make right now. Thank you for that very useful comment."

"You don't get it," said Bobby. "I know this stuff just rolls off your back, but not mine. Someone spray paints Die Muties on a billboard twenty miles away and I feel like shit for a month."

"You think I am immune to others' bigotry?"

"You just put on that damn arrogant smile."

"Of course I do!" snapped Jean Paul. "What other option do I have? Should I just hide like you? Should I cry and beg them to forgive me for existing?"

"Excuse me for wanting to be liked!"

"If you want to be liked more than you want to be happy, you deserve what you get!"

"Are you happy?"

That cut Jean Paul's rant short. "I'm…I'm happy now, yes."

"Now?"

"No one is happy all the time. And yes, Robert, it hurts. I smile, cold and arrogant, because that's what works for me, not because that's the truth. Some days, I'll admit that I want to hurt them back, but even that is not the truth. What I want to do is point a finger to their chest and say, 'How dare you! How dare you give free voice to your ignorance! How dare you stab at my soul!'" Jean Paul gestured at the imaginary homophobe with his left hand, while indicating his own heart with his right. "Perhaps one day, my words will break free and I will say it. But I don't want to show weakness to these people. I won't. I can't. So, I smile."

They were both quiet after that.

Finally, Bobby said, "Can we talk about coming out? What it was like? I mean, I don't think I'm going to go the press conference route, but-"

"Coming out is not an event," said Jean Paul. "It's the rest of your life." He tipped his head to the side and explained, "Last week, I was waiting in line at the ATM when two young women, quite intoxicated, began loudly commenting to one another that they found me attractive. Then, one noticed my wedding band. She pointed it out to the other, who spoke directly to me, saying, 'Your wife is very lucky'." Jean Paul smiled fractionally at the memory. "At that moment, I had many options. I could ignore the comment, could say something vague, could outright lie, or I could say, 'I have no wife, but I will gladly tell my husband that he got the better end of the deal'."

"What did you do?"

"The latter, of course. And I've been teasing Kyle about it all week."

"What did the women say?"

"They squealed and were incoherent, which I suspect was more due to the alcohol than anything else."

"But people don't always react well," said Bobby.

"You're thinking there are two options: they accept you immediately and fully for who you are or they are intransigent homophobes with whom there is no reconciling. In reality, nearly every person I have come out to has fallen somewhere in between those two poles."

That wasn't exactly comforting. Bobby had been hoping that Jean Paul would say that bad reactions were very rare, confined to unimportant strangers, or perhaps a remnant of the past.

Jean Paul took Bobby's silence for confusion, so he explained. "One of the first people I told was my ski coach. My health was very much his concern. He was invested both figuratively and literally in my athletic success – we won money when I won races. I had a rash on my chest. I had seen pictures of Kaposi sarcoma. It's a cancer that occurs almost exclusively in AIDS patients, causes growths in the skin. I was young and stupid and I panicked. It was nothing, of course. An allergic reaction to penicillin. But less was known about AIDS in those days. The doctors, the scientists, perhaps they knew, but the public? Non. He was afraid I had exposed him, and that he in turn had exposed his family. Training involves close contact, hours sitting next to one another on ski lifts, touching me to show how I could improve my form. He had even allowed me to sleep in his home when I was feuding with my foster parents. He said he felt he could see the germs on me. It didn't bother him in the slightest that I was attracted to men, but the thought I had risked his health and my own? It made him very angry and he refused to train me until I had proof of a negative test, which in those days took months."

"So your message is…things can go wrong in ways I haven't even thought of?"

"The message is that you get to choose how to handle those sorts – the enormous middle swath of people who are neither fully supportive nor fully condemnatory. If you choose, you can be patient and repair the relationship. You can also decide they are not worth your time."

"I get the feeling I know which one you went with."

Jean Paul shrugged in mild agreement. "I may have spit in his face."

"What happened to the guy? Did he ever change his mind?"

"I moved on to a different trainer. He moved on to a different protégé, whom I bested in Commonwealth games, which was terribly satisfying."

"You're not really selling me on the whole 'gay' thing," said Bobby.

"How lucky for both of us that I don't have to. You're already gay, whether you like it or not. All you get to decide now is what you're going to do about it." Jean Paul stretched his fingers. "You've learned that some gay men will not accept you as a mutant, and I imagine you already know that some mutants will not accept you as a gay man. And there are a great many straight humans who will hate you for things you cannot change. They already have these attitudes. They do not accept who you really are. Your hiding affects nothing."

Bobby drew his lips forward, sullen. "I'm wasn't hiding. I didn't even know."

Jean Paul rolled his eyes. "Fairy," he said, with a hint of venom. "Fruit. Faggot."

"Why are you saying that?"

"They're words. And now you know you can survive them."

"You don't mean them," said Bobby, reasonably.

"Shall I call someone who does?" asked Jean Paul. "Some of Jeanne-Marie's more religious friends have quite a lot to say about sodomy and hellfire."

"But sodomy's the best part!" Finally, Bobby was telling jokes. That was a good sign.

"On this, we agree."

They both laughed, then lapsed into silence.

"It's my dad," whispered Bobby. "I mean, it's a lot of things, but that's the big one. He will literally disown me."

"That's it? He's not going to try to kill you or sacrifice you to a demon or sell you to a government testing facility? Many of your fellows among the X-men have much worse parental relationships. Poor Rachel Summers has to suffer the indignity of having Cyclops as a father!"

"You can joke about it because he's not your dad."

"You know, my ski coach wrote me a letter after I came out in the papers. He apologized for his behavior. Kyle's mother was conflicted when he first came out, but she reconciled her religious beliefs with her love for her son. My own sister took some time, at least in her Jeanne-Marie personality, to arrive at a level of acceptance." Jean Paul exhaled mightily. "If your father reacts badly, you owe him nothing, but it may help to think that he could eventually come around."

"I don't think so," said Bobby, sad and serious. "He's had a long time to get used to me being a mutant and he still doesn't…" He trailed off. "I feel like I'm thirteen."

"Of course you do. You are, for all rational purposes, new to this. That is why I am here, being inordinately tolerant, and answering your questions."

"Okay," said Bobby, finally seeming to come out of his miserable haze, "here's one I've been thinking about. I've always been taught that 'nice guys finish last', right? But if you're both guys, what's the etiquette?"

Jean-Paul pursed his lips, clearly considering the question. He'd never really thought about it before. These things always seemed to work out for him. "Many men like to see the results of their work, so some warning is preferred, but if there is no penetration, order really doesn't matter." He paused. "If anal sex is a consideration, the receptive man should ideally orgasm first, but if that doesn't happen, just blow him. No one's disappointed with that."

Bobby looked a little embarrassed, but less resistant than before. "I'm not saying I…I don't know."

"Robert," said Jean Paul, "sex is sex. You will find that sex with a man is not so very different from sex with a woman."

"How would you know?"

"That…is a fair question."

"You're a much nicer guy than you want people to think," said Bobby.

Jean Paul scoffed before his face turned serious. "And you are a much stronger man than you think you are."

"Are you ready for this?" asked Warren.

"Not in the slightest," said Bobby. And before he could let common sense outpace impulsivity, he picked up the phone and dialed. "Mom? Yeah. Look, I want to have dinner with you and Dad on Sunday. There's something we need to talk about."