Scott's door was unlocked. He paused, listening. No one appeared to be inside.
He wasn't sure why he'd come. After all, the man hated him. To be fair, he didn't like Scott, either. He was self-righteous, arrogant, and blind.
All right, he told himself. I should be honest. I do know why I am here.
He pushed the door open. Darkness greeted him. He swiftly shut and locked the door, then moved over to the bed.
Moonlight streamed in the window. After a minute, his eyes had adjusted. He saw Scott lying on the bed, fully dressed, curled up into a ball. His visor had slipped off and was lying a few inches from his face.
He bent over the other man. Scott's eyes were closed tight. There was a large damp spot under the man's forehead, as if he had cried himself to sleep, and not too long ago. He knelt by the side of the bed and looked at him.
Dieu. He felt pity. Scott looked very young, alone, and hurt. His arms were held up as if to ward off a blow. He also felt a little guilt. He had known about the plans for the play, but he didn't know it would hurt the man so badly. Didn't care, either.
Another tear slid out of the man's closed left eye, dripping over the bridge of his nose to the bedspread. His mouth moved and his arms tensed. Jean-Paul remained where he was, waiting, until Scott gave a melancholy sigh and stopped moving.
He shouldn't wake Scott. He probably needed all the rest he could get. He gently put the man's visor in front of his eyes, sprang to his feet, and his knees let out a loud crack.
Scott twitched awake with a gasp, keeping his eyes closed and grabbing for his visor. "Who? What?" He adjusted the visor over his eyes and tensed. "Tell me."
Jean-Paul turned on the bedside lamp and sat on the edge of the bed. Scott's face twitched, then went still. His head bowed and he looked at his hands. "Go ahead. I deserve it." A muscle in his left cheek twitched, but otherwise his face remained immobile.
"It is possible you have been punished enough tonight."
Scott didn't move.
"Bobby visited me earlier. He said he … told people you were gay."
Scott sniffed. "Yeah."
"Is it true?" He waited, one arched eyebrow raised, watching Scott.
Scott sat up, wiping off his face with one sleeve. He winced at the sight. What that could do to a good sweater …
"Yes." He sat erect, defiant, waiting for the hammer to fall.
"He also told me you …" Merde. He did not want to have to ask about it. "He said you might have something of mine."
"Bobby said I was a thief, too?" The corners of Scott's mouth turned down and trembled.
"Not exactly." He paused. "Something I lost about two months ago."
Scott sat, frozen, resting against the wall behind his bed. A tear trickled from his right eye down his cheek, catching in his slight beard stubble along the way. "He would have to talk about that." His voice was unsteady.
"That was when you got much worse, wasn't it?" It all started making sense now. How easy it was to simply believe Scott was an ass, like most English speaking cretins. He still wanted to, to be honest, because he still felt hurt. But it was getting harder to maintain that belief.
"I'm sorry." The tear was joined by another, slowly slipping down, forming its own trail. "I know it's not enough. But I am."
"Why did you do it?" He took Scott's tough hand in his slender one. Scott tried to pull away, but he held on.
"Didn't Drake the Town Crier already tell you?"
"Let us just say I do not believe everything Monsieur Drake has to say is true without hearing it from you, first."
More tears ran down Scott's cheeks as he sat in the dim light. He looked to his left, away from Jean-Paul. "I don't deserve that, but thank you anyway."
"So, why?"
He shook his head. "I just…look." He turned and faced Jean-Paul. "You've accepted this whole, I mean … for a while now. I never have. I wished I could, when I saw you …" He paused. "It was still hard to take, but I finally had some hope that maybe someday someone would understand, when I was ready to tell. Then, to read that beautiful story, and know I wasn't at all what you had in mind, I couldn't take it. I had no more hope. Do you understand that?"
The Canadian mutant shook his head. "Not really."
Scott turned away. "It doesn't matter."
"Oh, it matters." Jean-Paul turned off the lamp, plunging Scott into darkness again. He bent to kiss the man's forehead, one knee planted on the bed.
Scott stretched, trying to get comfortable. His right leg brushed up against Jean-Paul's, unsteadying him, and he felt gentle pressure against his lips. He froze for a moment, then did one of the few impulsive things he had ever done. He reached up and pulled the man closer. After all, if he had to get the teasing, the shunning, the other negative reactions now that he was known to be gay, he was damned well going to get something good out of it.
Jean-Paul, unsettled, found his mouth on Scott's and stopped. What was going on here? Then the man pulled him closer and enfeu, if Scott wasn't gay, he was giving an Oscar-worthy performance. He went with it. The intimacy, the closeness, the sheer heat was wonderful.
Both men were breathing hard by the time they separated. Jean-Paul cleared his throat. "You know," he said casually, "you are going to have to apologize a lot in the next few days. You should. You have a lot to make up for. Never apologize for this, though." He unlocked and opened the door, then walked through it, adjusting his collar.
The door closed and Scott got up to lock it, then laid awake in his bed for a while, thinking over what had just happened.