Disclaimer: I own nothing.

And Then There Were Two

Bobby/Iceman

"Get off." I stand still for a moment, wondering what the shit just happened. Then, as no explanation is forthcoming, my fists tighten, my jaw clenches. I turn, and stalk out, furious and confused. I barely notice Marie. I just keep walking, faster and faster.

I find myself in my room, and pull my hands from their resting place in my pockets. I begin to pace back and forth, circling like a caged beast. I open and close my fists agitatedly, my breath comes faster. I reach for the wall, possibly to punch it in my frustration. Then I set both palms flat against the wall and set my forehead between them, closing my eyes. My breathing slows down gradually, and I notice with disbelief that the air is freezing in here. I breathe out and it wafts about the room before dissipating.

I don't get it.

I don't understand and my pride stings and I love him and I hate him and I want, so badly, to make it better somehow. I don't know what to do.

It's probably a cold day, but that's not exactly a concern for me. I leave the building, and set off in the direction of the nearby town, about 45 minute's walk. I could drive, but that wouldn't really hep me blow off steam, so I walk. I don't know what exactly I'll do when I get there. Maybe just walk back.

The winds picks up, stirring the dead leaves and dirt into the air. I spread my arms, throw my head back and spin around once or twice, revelling in the biting air as it rushes past my face. I probably look like a lunatic, but I don't really care. No one ever comes up this road unless they're coming to the school, in which case they've got better things to worry about than a crazy guy by the side of the road.

I feel a little crazy anyways.

I come to an intersection, and past it buildings start to appear. I keep walking, following this road. Eventually I reach what could, in a pinch, be called downtown. The sun looks like it's getting ready to set. It must be almost 6. I look around.

Strip mall (closed), grocery store, bar, pool hall, and some sort of government building. Apartments, Chinese restaurants, McDonalds. My, what a plethora of attractive possibilities. I consider the pool hall, but it smells like weed. I refuse to be one of those people weeping into their burger under a fluorescent McDonalds light, leaving me with the choice of alcohol or Chinese food.

I approach the bar hoping that I look old enough, then walk in and realize I shouldn't have worried. The guy behind the bar looks like he wouldn't care if I shot someone in the bathroom, as longs as I didn't leave too much of a mess. I ask for a beer and then go sit at a table in the corner. I note with disgust that it looks as though it hasn't been cleaned since before I was born.

Inspecting my fellow patrons, though, they seem like the types that don't even notice the settings as long as the alcohol keeps coming. There's one hairy giant at the counter that appears to have melded with his too-small barstool. I shudder and look away.

I guess this is what the general population has to do to get drunk and miserable, if we aren't blessed with the miraculous ability to liberate large quantities of alcohol without any apparent effort. I smile bitterly at the thought, and take a mouthful of my beer, then wince as it scalds my taste buds. It tastes like I imagine horse piss would. Looking unobtrusively around for a plant to dump this swill into so I can leave, I notice the man/mountain is shifting. Fascinated, I watch, wondering if he walks or rolls.

It turns out that it is a combination, as he lumbers over to another table attempting to hit on some girl, who looks like she'd rather be anywhere but there. She also looks like she has no objection to the piss-beer, judging by the three bottles in front of her. Jumping at the opportunity to leave the drink behind, and do my good deed for the week, I walk over to her table, apologizing for my lateness.

I'm amazed that it worked. I didn't think that sort of thing happened in real life, but she smiles falsely at the mountain and says "I told you my boyfriend was coming. Sorry." Rumbling his regrets, he turns and rolls out the door, presumably in search of another bar, or his own private supply perhaps. She turns to me and actually smiles. "Thank you for that. I'm Charlie."

"Bobby." I hold my hand out and we shake. She laughs lightly, sounding drunker than she looks. "He tries that every other week, and I'm running out of excuses. This should keep me going for another few weeks at least." Her eyelids lower and she looks at me speculatively, "Unless you'd actually like to be my boyfriend?" This catches my attention, and I actually look at her. She has long, dark hair, although I can't tell the colour thanks to the terrible lighting, with murky blue eyes and reddish lips. Her skin looks soft and she's quite pretty, but I'm not interested, which worries me a bit.

"Ah, sorry Charlie, I'm…" I trail off, wondering what I am. Not taken anymore, from the way John was snarling at me, not exactly gay. What am I?

"Oh," she says, looking unsurprised. "Well, it seems like all the good guys are these days. Thanks anyways, Billy." I don't bother correcting her.

"No problem. I have to go." I beat a hasty retreat.

I should have jumped at the offer Charlie was making. She was pretty and tipsy, and I'm feeling angry and vaguely lonely. We would have made an excellent pair. Well, no matter, I'll try the smelly pool hall next. Maybe a gorgeous blonde will proposition me there.

I look around and see a disheartening lack of gorgeous blondes, and a surplus of high school age, pimpled teenage males. Just about to lose hope and go home, I notice a guy standing with a friend and someone who could only be the friend's girlfriend, considering the way she's hanging off of him. He looks to be a couple years older than me, and adequately gorgeous to make up for the lack of the blonde damsel in distress that I came in here seeking. He has black, spiky hair and dark eyes and just then he laughs at something the girlfriend says, and the sound makes the back of my neck heat up.

I'm still not interested. I mean, in a purely physical sense I am, and I was slightly with Charlie as well. But I'm not interested.

This is worse than I had thought. I'm feeling the onset of chronic monogamy, and it is all his fault.

I returned with the intention of starting a fight or at the very least demanding an explanation. By the time I got back, it was dark out, but no one seemed to have noticed my absence yet. I reached the infirmary just as Logan was walking out, talking to Thorpe (Thorn?), who nods to me uneasily and walks away. Logan stays for a minute, asking, "How're you, Drake?"

It must have been tremendously painful for him, expressing concern. It certainly looks that way. I smile bitterly, "I was fine with things before all this shit." I usually only swear when I'm in a bad mood. This qualifies.

He looks at me slyly. "Not a shit disturber then, are you?" This surprises a laugh out of me.

"Well, that might incite the shit to hit the fan." He chuckles, and delivers the final blow. "Well, kid, shit happens."

"Thanks for that, Logan." He continues on his way with his hands in his pockets. Despite the care-free picture he presents, it looks as though something is bothering him. I decide that I can barely deal with my own problems and should keep my nose out of other people's. I walk in.

And stop. He's sleeping (I hear a voice in the back of my mind saying 'that's what people do at night, Bobby') and from the looks of it, in the grip of a nightmare. I think, vindictively, good. Then I wonder what the nightmare might be. I think about what he might be thinking. I feel a chill as I realize how he must feel, and most of my anger dissipates. I move to sit beside his bed, and look at him again. There's a bit of moonlight filtering into the room and not much else, making him seem faint and unearthly. That's not to say angelic, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he doesn't seem quite natural in this light. It sends shivers up my spine, and I'm not sure whether they're good shivers or bad ones.

He shifts around and makes a distressed noise, and I put my hand on his forehead, running it through his hair slowly. It's a knee-jerk reaction, something I do without thinking, but it seems to have worked. I take my hand from his forehead and lay it over his hand. He smiles in his sleep and turns slightly towards me. A feeling of warmth rises from the pit of my stomach to fill my chest, and a thought rises unbidden from the depths of my subconscious.

It is not entirely ridiculous to think that I love him.

Trying to explain the thought away, I think that it is also possible that I am sleep-deprived. I distract myself by examining the scars left on the palm of his hand with both of mine, and he murmurs something. I determinedly refuse to wonder what it might have been. Instead, I gently deposit his hand back on the bed and go back to my room to get some sleep, and hope that my thoughts will make more sense in the morning.

They don't. They keep telling me to go talk to him, when I want to do anything but. Unfortunately, that is getting difficult because people keep asking me where he is, since he disappeared rather abruptly a few days ago. Finally I give in and go, offering Kitty a feeble excuse about a visit to something and fleeing.

I walk in and he is looking at the heart-rate thing as if he wonders how loud it would be if he threw it at a wall. He keeps his back to me, which is fine. I'm antsy and keyed up and filled with nervous energy, trying to convince myself not to do what I'm about to do, that it'll be a mistake, and then I've done it and it's too late.

I grab his shoulders and turn him around to face me, watching as fury flares up and then abruptly dies on his face, encouraging me. Then he breathes in and I cover his mouth with my hand because I have something to say this time, although I'm not sure yet what it is. "No, shut up." Okay, bad start. Keep going, fast.

"I know you're angry. You sure as hell should be. Just, don't be angry with me, don't do that again. I couldn't take it a second time, and then I think I might walk away, and I really don't want to. Not after all the stupid shit we've had to deal with." That was more heart-pouring and soul-baring than I wanted to do, but probably necessary. I leave my hand where it is for a moment, memorizing the feel of his skin and lips, just in case this doesn't work and this is the last time I touch them.

He looks at me, almost blankly. I wait. And wait some more. Then I turn, disappointment a hot, bitter lump in my throat, threatening to rise up and choke me. The room twists around me as I walk away.

"No!" I turn, hope flaring in my chest like a firecracker, but I push it away from my face. He won't see me sit up on his whim like a pet dog. "No, you're right. I'm sorry about…" I nod and he stops gratefully. My eyelids drop wearily and I sigh, suddenly weak with the release of tension. He continues, "But understand that I'm not going to be polite, or, I don't know, well-behaved or anything."

I laugh and reply in high spirits, "That would just be weird. I love," you, I was about to say. A Freudian slip, I guess, but I substitute 'your temper' and that's one big deal postponed until later. Much later. "Just, not when I'm on the wrong side of it." He laughs and rubs the palm of his hand against his jeans, stepping closer as I do. Remembering the gesture from last night, I take his hand and trace the burn marks with my thumb. I see him smile softly for a second.

The next second, his lips are all over my face. I freeze, and then bring my arms up hesitantly, wrapping them around his shoulders. The next time the erratic path of his kissing brings his lips to mine, I kiss back and hold him there. This seems to have been the cue he was waiting for, and his tongue invades my mouth, apparently attempting to taste every surface in it at the same time. I'm starting to feel light-headed. I feel vaguely as though I should be concerned for him, but whenever I try to pin the thought down it flits away.

Eventually, one of us has to breathe, although I can't tell which, and we are separated. I gasp a few times, and am finally able to capture that stray thought. I voice it before it escapes from me again. "Relax. We've got all day," more than that, if I have anything to say about it, "and you're sick."

"I'm not contagious, so no worries," and he laughs, but it is a ragged, wounded laugh. Concerned, I make a bad joke about fainting and kiss him, trying to show him that I have no aversion to touching him. Also, because I really want to be kissing again.

I probe forward with my tongue and he pulls me closer, then his mouth is open and I think we're walking forward but I can't quite tell. Then I'm falling forward with a yelp, and I barely have time to throw my arms out to catch myself. Between my outstretched hands is John, his hair spread out in a halo on top of a bed that I have no memory of approaching, one hand on my neck, and the other spread across my back. He's also too far away, I think, and move closer to him, bending my elbows to accommodate. He grins evilly and I just have time to think 'uh-oh' before the world starts spinning.

He's almost close enough, pulled flush against me, and then he pushes up, or maybe down, with his arms and more importantly, his hips. I groan, glad that I'm not supporting myself on my hands anymore because they've suddenly gone weak, and I grasp half-heartedly at the bed sheets. Then I reach up, threading the fingers of one hand through his hair, moving up to meet his lips again-

The door handle turns, and John shoots up, pulling me up in his wake. Storm enters, turns to look for John and finds instead the two of us. She smiles lightly at me, and my cheeks turn yet redder, then she walks out again. He breathes out shakily and pulls a hand through his mussed hair, sending my heart rate racing. "She has the worst timing in the whole fucking world," he suddenly declares. I turn to face him and would have continued where we left off, but I notice that he's looking really sick.

"You look like you're on the verge of actually fainting. How about we continue this later?" He scowls at me, but then nods. I sit on the bed and shuffle to the side invitingly. They weren't really built to accommodate two people, so it's a bit of a squeeze when he does come and sit. I can't say I mind.

I sneak an arm behind his back and around so my hand rests just above his hip bone and I pull him closer. He stiffens for a second, then breathes out in a short puff and relaxes into my side. "So, I hand in interesting day, yesterday," I say when the silence becomes heavy.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. First, I went to this bar, and there was this huge guy. He was like a mountain. And then he went up to this other girl who was sitting at the bar, and started hitting on her, and she was looking at him, like 'get away, before I poke out your eyes.' So I went over and said, 'Sorry I'm late,' and it actually worked! And then the guy rumbled, and kind of lumbered off. I swear, he was like a troll, I bet he had lichen growing on him and everything."

Then she said 'Thanks, I'm Charlie,' and I was like, 'no problem,' and it really wasn't, 'cause I could have turned him into an iceberg or something, but I could hardly tell her that. And then she said that Mr. Man-Mountain tries that, like, every week or something, which is a little sad, then she asked if I wanted to be her boyfriend," he goes kind of rigid, but I continue, "which was kinda out of the blue, but she sounded pretty drunk. And I said no, sorry." The tension eases from his muscles at my side, and I nudge him lightly. "Frankly, I think this is your fault. I had to ditch poor, drunk Charlie, and I blame you."

He scoffs at me, but I look at him side-long just in time to catch a smile.

I keep talking, not really caring what I'm talking about, and every once in a while I'll look over at him. Most of the time, there is a distant, contemplative look, but sometimes I see a smile, and I hope that I had something to do with it.

Happy Thanksgiving! (or whatever you say, during thanksgiving.)

Colvine