Jean-Paul Beaubier was figuring out his lesson plans for the next semester instead of attending the talent show, though he had worked with Rogue beforehand to help her test out her routine. He was deep in Week Eight (Running on the Margins) when the knock startled him out of his reverie. "Oui?" he called.

"Heya, J-P, open up, would ya?" Bobby Drake was at his door. He looked at his watch, startled. Eleven o'clock already?

He adjusted his collar, brushed a small piece of lint off his navy blue sweater, and opened the door. Bobby rushed into his room. "Close the door, would you? There's a draft."

Jean-Paul stood in the doorway, one eyebrow raised. "What are you doing here?"

Bobby bounced onto his bed. "Oo. Nice. Close the door so we can talk, okay?"

"Merde," he muttered, closing the door. "What do you want, Bobby?"

"Well, it's not really what I want." Bobby stretched out on the bed, mussing up the neat black silk bedspread, and Jean-Paul glared at him.

"Get off my bed." He pulled out his desk chair and held it out in invitation. "Sit. You have five minutes before I throw you out, Monsieur Drake."

Bobby reluctantly got up and moved to the chair. "Okay. I kinda outed Scott tonight. I didn't mean to, but …"

Jean-Paul interrupted him. "Scott Summers." Bobby nodded. "Gay." Another nod. "You told people about it."

Bobby looked at him sheepishly. "Well, I just got it figured out and I was talking about it as I did, and I wasn't really paying attention to who else was listening." He fidgeted under the icy blue stare Northstar was giving him. "Don't look at me like that. I didn't mean to do it. I was just teasing him. I didn't really think he was gay … for God's sake, we've been teammates for eons. I thought I'd know by now if he was."

Jean-Paul folded his arms over his chest. "So what do you want me to do?"

"I don't know. Talk to him. He's thrown Kitty and the professor out so far, and I'm sure he's going to toss Kurt out on his ear, too. He wouldn't talk to me either. Maybe he'd talk to you."

He hesitated, releasing one arm to tap his fingers against the wood of his desk. "What makes you think he would talk to me?"

"Hey. Worst case scenario, he tosses you out. He's done worse than that to you already. Best case scenario, he finally gets some relief from his pain and stops being an ass to you. It's a win-win for you, J-P." Bobby ran his fingers through his hair distractedly. "Besides, seeing that …" He paused and his eyes shifted, then dropped to the floor. "Never mind."

Jean-Paul pulled his chin up. "Never mind what, Robert Louis Drake?" He hated having things hidden from him.

Bobby squirmed. "I shouldn't tell you. It's kind of a secret." He blushed as Jean-Paul's face drew closer to his and his breath became uneven, nervous, eyes shifting from side to side, looking for escape.

"I think you do have to tell me, non?" Jean-Paul worked on staring the other man down, seeing his nervousness at his approach. Bobby was not going to hide important information from him.

Bobby was nearly dancing in his seat, trying to pull away from Jean-Paul's determined gaze. "Well, ScottkindafoundsomefantasyyouwroteaboutmeandgotjealoussomaybeyoucanhelpnowIgottagobye!" Bobby choked out, then turned to ice and slid out of Jean-Paul's hand and sped toward the door.

Jean-Paul was there ahead of him, turning the key in the lock and putting it into his pants pocket. "Say it again slower, please."

Bobby panicked, running to the window and then bracing himself in the furthest corner of the room, a terrified look on his face.

Jean-Paul drew himself up to his full height and tensed. This is just like other times, other places…even mutants don't accept me. "Get out." He unlocked the door and opened it, violently swinging his arm to encourage Bobby to leave.

Bobby relaxed a little and said, "No, no, J-P, I just…"

"GET OUT!" He pushed the frozen body of Bobby Drake through his door and locked it after him in a second, then sank to the bed and trembled. He felt as if he had been assaulted. He hated when people looked at him like he was a monster for being who he was, who he had to be. And hateful Scott had found something he wrote to make himself feel better, about a random person who had shown him some kindness …

Jean-Paul Beaubier pulled away from the bedspread in time to keep from spoiling it with his tears.