DISCLAIMER ~ All characters specified herein belong to Marvel and KidsWB, not me. This fic is written for fun, not profit, and I doubt they'd want it anyway.
A/N ~ This was written in response to Nemain's Slashtacular Challenge, and I almost hate myself for it. Not because I don't like slash, but because I don't write it very well. In past attempts, all characters sound like soppy lovesick girls straight our of Point Romance novels (if you can call them that), and so the fics invariably ended up in the recycle bin. However, this time the appeal of the challenge prize was just too strong, and I've been feeling the need to stretch my writing muscles. The main problem I ran into, however, was how to write about a pair of characters that, to my mind, are screamingly heterosexual. The result was this fic. Hence, I give you this. My one and (possibly) only m/m slash. Feel free to throw things, just not the pointy kind.
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'Driving With the Brakes On' By Scribbler
March 2004
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I never thought of myself as… that way, before. It's never really crossed my mind in relation to myself. Me. Not someone else, but me.
He was my best friend. Well, my best mutant friend, that is. So I guess that could be considered 'best' even over school friends. We could talk about the forbidden stuff – having to hide our powers, DR sessions, Logan's 'exercises' and overuse of all-terrain training, and other junk like that. Being an X-Man is such a big part of my life that it tends to creep into most other aspects, and since I can't bring it up in casual conversation it tends to put a damper on social verbiage with non-mutants. I can just imagine Mrs. Vasquez's reaction to that kind of excuse - "Sorry, teach, I couldn't do my homework because I was battling an evil shapeshifter who used to be our principal whilst simultaneously make sure my entire team stayed alive in the face of a cerebrally-triggered earthquake. You know, that old chestnut."
It's… it's weird. There's no other word for it. See, in all of it, I never wanted to jump his bones or anything, but there was definitely something there beyond simple friendship. It freaked me out when I worked out why I was watching him more than anyone else, both in and out of the Danger Room, but… my reaction was all emotion and none of the physical stuff. Like my head was in like-like mode but my body was still stuck in first gear.
Do you understand? Good, because I'm not sure I do.
I checked out a ton of psychology books from both school and central library, looking up that sort of thing, and there seems to be a pervading theory of… Hang on, I wrote it down somewhere. Here we go; 'teenage emotional confusion and subsequent sexual experimentation to bleed off the afflicted psyche'. Like, when you hit your teens and the hormones start pumping you begin taking a fancy to anyone, regardless of gender, age or whatever. The way the books put it, I'm just lucky I didn't start noticing Logan or the Professor that way – and now I'll have to take the mental equivalent of carbolic soap to my brain before I get home. No way is Jean getting her head-hopping mitts on that thought.
Jean. Jeez, talk about an added complication.
I've known her since I was thirteen. We practically grew up together. It always seemed like we'd end up together, too. I remember hearing Ororo talk about how cute we were to Logan when he dropped by from his travels – about how we were like an old married couple by the time we were sophomores. And with Jean… things are easier. I *know* I like her. She makes me feel good inside in all the ways that count. There's none of this wishy-washy, is-this-thing-I'm-feeling-real-or-all-in-my-head problem. After the psychology textbooks I was more than a bit worried I'd convinced myself I was bisexual – power of suggestion, you know? I knew I wasn't completely gay because of the way she made me feel, but by the same token he made me feel something, too. And even if you can love more than one person, you're not supposed to be *in* love with more than one, right?
I started thinking things about him I'd never thought before. When he went into one of his acrobatic routines, I'd be fixated on the way his fur fell across his face in the updraft. At school, I found myself fascinated by the doodles on his workbooks, or the pictures of Amanda he kept in his locker. I liked seeing him with her because he always looked so happy when he was holding her hand, but at the same time I wondered what it's be like to have him hold *my* hand like that. Even though I didn't mean to, I memorised the sound he made when crunching Cheerios in the morning, or the way he ran his hands through his hair when frazzled about impending mid-terms. I liked to watch him instead of the TV, and I enjoyed his laughter at stupid cloth puppets when they shouted "Stop slapping me with that fish!" every five minutes, like it was the comedy genius of the year.
I'm not sure when he noticed the way I was acting. He's always been good at reading body language – he once said something about learning because he needed to be able to tell when people were going to hug him or throw a rock at his head. Maybe I was being less subtle than I thought, because he started leaving the room not long after I came in and picking the opposite team in training sims. He made excuses so he wouldn't have to go bowling with us on Friday nights, and most of the weekend, when he wasn't mall crawling or at Gut Bomb, he'd migrate to his little 'church' – that glade he discovered in the forested part of the grounds on his first evening here – and he'd do homework if the weather was good enough.
I'm still undecided about whether his behaviour screwed up my head even more. I missed seeing him, yeah, but without him around so much the remnants of the psychology blurb started fading, too, and I found myself missing my best friend more than… whatever it was he'd started becoming to me.
There were a few hairy moments when Jean caught me staring out the window with my shields slipping, and once when Kitty phased into my room while I was staring at the old team photo from last year. It was taken the Summer before the New Mutants arrived. The original X-Men, all lined up and dressed up in costumes that leave practically nothing to the imagination. I told her I was thinking about how much had changed since the picture was taken, which wasn't completely untrue, I guess.
Long story short; I knew things weren't going to clear up on their own, so I decided to take the situation in hand and go confront the little hairball. It was a Saturday morning, in between breakfast and lunch. He'd migrated to his church again and taken a sandwich with him, so I knew he wasn't planning on coming home until dinner. Lots of people would be around, then – two of them telepaths. So I put on my sneakers, dug out my bramble-retardant jacket and set off.
I never would've known the glade was there if he hadn't found it and showed me, like some delighted child who'd worked out a facet of a new toy the grown-ups hadn't known about when they bought it. Sure, Jean and I used to go exploring as kids, but the furthest we usually got was the lake. If we were feeling especially adventurous, then maybe we'd walk along the cliff top, but either Logan or Ororo would come drag us back inside when we did that, so the idea was more of a chore than an expedition. You don't take Logan's idea of clean-up detail lightly.
He was sat on the rock 'pew' when I came crashing through the trees. To me, I was being pretty quiet, but to him I must've sounded like a herd of disco-dancing elephants. He was already looking up when I reached the edge. He had a workbook open in his lap and a ballpoint clutched in his hand in that concerted way that said he was in neat-writing-mode, as opposed to fast-writing-mode. He's only marginally better at writing than typing. At least he doesn't have to tape pencils to his fingers with longhand.
"Scott."
"Kurt. Mind if I sit down?"
"Not at all. Pull up a boulder." He bent his head back to whatever he'd been working on.
There was a loaded second when I counted the lack of available 'seats', before moving forward and pulling myself onto the rock next to him. I spent the next few minutes kicking my heels, wishing I'd brought a book or something else to pseudo-justify being out here.
I peered over his shoulder. He was writing a paper on Shakespeare's sonnets for English class. I took that class before, and I knew all the connotations of those sonnets. He'd barely written anything yet, so laborious was his script, but I suspected that he did, too.
Maybe it was a sign.
"This for next Thursday?"
"Week on. Hell trying to find textbooks for it, though. Apparently, since the Internet is so readily on hand, the library doesn't think it sensible to buy more books for those who find word-processing difficult."
"Bummer."
"Jawohl."
Silence. That kind of stagnant silence where you think something died in front of you and that's why nobody wants to talk.
I watched a pair of crows blow past, and took almost obsessive interest in the machinations of a squirrel in the uppermost branches. It dodged and weaved and leaped about, and suddenly I was reminded of him working out on the rig, all sweaty and full of satisfaction when he got things right. I had to look down to wipe my mind of the image.
The snap of the book closing snagged my attention. He had one of those looks that said he was thoroughly fed up with something and verging on irritated. I'd seen it a hundred times before – usually when he messed up some infinitesimal part of a gymnastics routine that nobody but he could find fault with.
"You've become increasingly uncomfortable around me, lately. Why?"
Boy, did that cause a response in my head. What was I supposed to say? Was I supposed to lie? I'd come out here to clear the air; to get things out in the open, but now all I wanted was to go back inside and pretend like nothing had ever happened. Yet, at the same time, I wanted to be truthful to him. Like I said, he was my best friend, and best friends don't keep secrets from each other. Especially secrets like that.
"I…"
He looked at me expectantly, and all the words dried up in my throat. I was about a quarter-second from squeaking like a little girl – hardly the macho, fearless leader image I'd spent so long cultivating. I thought of a thousand different ways to say what I thought I felt, but none of them sounded appropriate. In every scenario I sounded like either a love-struck puppy or a stuttering idiot. Professing some strange hybrid-love-thing to a confirmed Catholic in his own personal church? Oh yes, Scooter, you can really pick 'em.
The words wouldn't come, so instead I leaned close to him, waiting for a sign that he wouldn't reject me just like I'd seen in those Italian short films they show on late night cable. I didn't even get that close, really; but it was enough. I could smell that special soap he uses on his fur and the minty toothpaste that everyone else deems too sweet.
He just stared back at me with those big soulful eyes of his, and I knew that he knew what I was implying. Catholic though he may be, he's incisive and worldly enough to be considered what Logan calls 'savvy'.
Then he frowned. Just a small frown; no more than a slight downturn of the lips, really. Maybe a vague decline of the eyebrows, if I remember properly. Those soulful eyes tapered a little, and he said simply, "You haven't brought any lunch. I think you should go back inside, now. It's getting late."
So that was that. No fits, no heartfelt confession, no outrage at the very idea another male could find him attractive – let alone that male being me. I left, and we never spoke of it again.
And you know the weirdest part? Even after all the time that's elapsed since then, I'm still not sure whether I'm relieved of regretful about that.
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FIN.
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A/N ~ This was written in response to Nemain's Slashtacular Challenge, and I almost hate myself for it. Not because I don't like slash, but because I don't write it very well. In past attempts, all characters sound like soppy lovesick girls straight our of Point Romance novels (if you can call them that), and so the fics invariably ended up in the recycle bin. However, this time the appeal of the challenge prize was just too strong, and I've been feeling the need to stretch my writing muscles. The main problem I ran into, however, was how to write about a pair of characters that, to my mind, are screamingly heterosexual. The result was this fic. Hence, I give you this. My one and (possibly) only m/m slash. Feel free to throw things, just not the pointy kind.
=========
'Driving With the Brakes On' By Scribbler
March 2004
=========
I never thought of myself as… that way, before. It's never really crossed my mind in relation to myself. Me. Not someone else, but me.
He was my best friend. Well, my best mutant friend, that is. So I guess that could be considered 'best' even over school friends. We could talk about the forbidden stuff – having to hide our powers, DR sessions, Logan's 'exercises' and overuse of all-terrain training, and other junk like that. Being an X-Man is such a big part of my life that it tends to creep into most other aspects, and since I can't bring it up in casual conversation it tends to put a damper on social verbiage with non-mutants. I can just imagine Mrs. Vasquez's reaction to that kind of excuse - "Sorry, teach, I couldn't do my homework because I was battling an evil shapeshifter who used to be our principal whilst simultaneously make sure my entire team stayed alive in the face of a cerebrally-triggered earthquake. You know, that old chestnut."
It's… it's weird. There's no other word for it. See, in all of it, I never wanted to jump his bones or anything, but there was definitely something there beyond simple friendship. It freaked me out when I worked out why I was watching him more than anyone else, both in and out of the Danger Room, but… my reaction was all emotion and none of the physical stuff. Like my head was in like-like mode but my body was still stuck in first gear.
Do you understand? Good, because I'm not sure I do.
I checked out a ton of psychology books from both school and central library, looking up that sort of thing, and there seems to be a pervading theory of… Hang on, I wrote it down somewhere. Here we go; 'teenage emotional confusion and subsequent sexual experimentation to bleed off the afflicted psyche'. Like, when you hit your teens and the hormones start pumping you begin taking a fancy to anyone, regardless of gender, age or whatever. The way the books put it, I'm just lucky I didn't start noticing Logan or the Professor that way – and now I'll have to take the mental equivalent of carbolic soap to my brain before I get home. No way is Jean getting her head-hopping mitts on that thought.
Jean. Jeez, talk about an added complication.
I've known her since I was thirteen. We practically grew up together. It always seemed like we'd end up together, too. I remember hearing Ororo talk about how cute we were to Logan when he dropped by from his travels – about how we were like an old married couple by the time we were sophomores. And with Jean… things are easier. I *know* I like her. She makes me feel good inside in all the ways that count. There's none of this wishy-washy, is-this-thing-I'm-feeling-real-or-all-in-my-head problem. After the psychology textbooks I was more than a bit worried I'd convinced myself I was bisexual – power of suggestion, you know? I knew I wasn't completely gay because of the way she made me feel, but by the same token he made me feel something, too. And even if you can love more than one person, you're not supposed to be *in* love with more than one, right?
I started thinking things about him I'd never thought before. When he went into one of his acrobatic routines, I'd be fixated on the way his fur fell across his face in the updraft. At school, I found myself fascinated by the doodles on his workbooks, or the pictures of Amanda he kept in his locker. I liked seeing him with her because he always looked so happy when he was holding her hand, but at the same time I wondered what it's be like to have him hold *my* hand like that. Even though I didn't mean to, I memorised the sound he made when crunching Cheerios in the morning, or the way he ran his hands through his hair when frazzled about impending mid-terms. I liked to watch him instead of the TV, and I enjoyed his laughter at stupid cloth puppets when they shouted "Stop slapping me with that fish!" every five minutes, like it was the comedy genius of the year.
I'm not sure when he noticed the way I was acting. He's always been good at reading body language – he once said something about learning because he needed to be able to tell when people were going to hug him or throw a rock at his head. Maybe I was being less subtle than I thought, because he started leaving the room not long after I came in and picking the opposite team in training sims. He made excuses so he wouldn't have to go bowling with us on Friday nights, and most of the weekend, when he wasn't mall crawling or at Gut Bomb, he'd migrate to his little 'church' – that glade he discovered in the forested part of the grounds on his first evening here – and he'd do homework if the weather was good enough.
I'm still undecided about whether his behaviour screwed up my head even more. I missed seeing him, yeah, but without him around so much the remnants of the psychology blurb started fading, too, and I found myself missing my best friend more than… whatever it was he'd started becoming to me.
There were a few hairy moments when Jean caught me staring out the window with my shields slipping, and once when Kitty phased into my room while I was staring at the old team photo from last year. It was taken the Summer before the New Mutants arrived. The original X-Men, all lined up and dressed up in costumes that leave practically nothing to the imagination. I told her I was thinking about how much had changed since the picture was taken, which wasn't completely untrue, I guess.
Long story short; I knew things weren't going to clear up on their own, so I decided to take the situation in hand and go confront the little hairball. It was a Saturday morning, in between breakfast and lunch. He'd migrated to his church again and taken a sandwich with him, so I knew he wasn't planning on coming home until dinner. Lots of people would be around, then – two of them telepaths. So I put on my sneakers, dug out my bramble-retardant jacket and set off.
I never would've known the glade was there if he hadn't found it and showed me, like some delighted child who'd worked out a facet of a new toy the grown-ups hadn't known about when they bought it. Sure, Jean and I used to go exploring as kids, but the furthest we usually got was the lake. If we were feeling especially adventurous, then maybe we'd walk along the cliff top, but either Logan or Ororo would come drag us back inside when we did that, so the idea was more of a chore than an expedition. You don't take Logan's idea of clean-up detail lightly.
He was sat on the rock 'pew' when I came crashing through the trees. To me, I was being pretty quiet, but to him I must've sounded like a herd of disco-dancing elephants. He was already looking up when I reached the edge. He had a workbook open in his lap and a ballpoint clutched in his hand in that concerted way that said he was in neat-writing-mode, as opposed to fast-writing-mode. He's only marginally better at writing than typing. At least he doesn't have to tape pencils to his fingers with longhand.
"Scott."
"Kurt. Mind if I sit down?"
"Not at all. Pull up a boulder." He bent his head back to whatever he'd been working on.
There was a loaded second when I counted the lack of available 'seats', before moving forward and pulling myself onto the rock next to him. I spent the next few minutes kicking my heels, wishing I'd brought a book or something else to pseudo-justify being out here.
I peered over his shoulder. He was writing a paper on Shakespeare's sonnets for English class. I took that class before, and I knew all the connotations of those sonnets. He'd barely written anything yet, so laborious was his script, but I suspected that he did, too.
Maybe it was a sign.
"This for next Thursday?"
"Week on. Hell trying to find textbooks for it, though. Apparently, since the Internet is so readily on hand, the library doesn't think it sensible to buy more books for those who find word-processing difficult."
"Bummer."
"Jawohl."
Silence. That kind of stagnant silence where you think something died in front of you and that's why nobody wants to talk.
I watched a pair of crows blow past, and took almost obsessive interest in the machinations of a squirrel in the uppermost branches. It dodged and weaved and leaped about, and suddenly I was reminded of him working out on the rig, all sweaty and full of satisfaction when he got things right. I had to look down to wipe my mind of the image.
The snap of the book closing snagged my attention. He had one of those looks that said he was thoroughly fed up with something and verging on irritated. I'd seen it a hundred times before – usually when he messed up some infinitesimal part of a gymnastics routine that nobody but he could find fault with.
"You've become increasingly uncomfortable around me, lately. Why?"
Boy, did that cause a response in my head. What was I supposed to say? Was I supposed to lie? I'd come out here to clear the air; to get things out in the open, but now all I wanted was to go back inside and pretend like nothing had ever happened. Yet, at the same time, I wanted to be truthful to him. Like I said, he was my best friend, and best friends don't keep secrets from each other. Especially secrets like that.
"I…"
He looked at me expectantly, and all the words dried up in my throat. I was about a quarter-second from squeaking like a little girl – hardly the macho, fearless leader image I'd spent so long cultivating. I thought of a thousand different ways to say what I thought I felt, but none of them sounded appropriate. In every scenario I sounded like either a love-struck puppy or a stuttering idiot. Professing some strange hybrid-love-thing to a confirmed Catholic in his own personal church? Oh yes, Scooter, you can really pick 'em.
The words wouldn't come, so instead I leaned close to him, waiting for a sign that he wouldn't reject me just like I'd seen in those Italian short films they show on late night cable. I didn't even get that close, really; but it was enough. I could smell that special soap he uses on his fur and the minty toothpaste that everyone else deems too sweet.
He just stared back at me with those big soulful eyes of his, and I knew that he knew what I was implying. Catholic though he may be, he's incisive and worldly enough to be considered what Logan calls 'savvy'.
Then he frowned. Just a small frown; no more than a slight downturn of the lips, really. Maybe a vague decline of the eyebrows, if I remember properly. Those soulful eyes tapered a little, and he said simply, "You haven't brought any lunch. I think you should go back inside, now. It's getting late."
So that was that. No fits, no heartfelt confession, no outrage at the very idea another male could find him attractive – let alone that male being me. I left, and we never spoke of it again.
And you know the weirdest part? Even after all the time that's elapsed since then, I'm still not sure whether I'm relieved of regretful about that.
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FIN.
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