Part two – What happens when we die?
Bobby didn't much feel like questioning his sexuality. He'd probably die soon anyway, so it was a waste of time, and what was the point in working out he liked guys if he was only going to face the same problem he had with girls, primarily that he was turning into a block of ice. Hardly attractive.
Still... he probably wasn't quite as straight as he'd liked to think he was. Or he was far more desperate than he'd given himself credit for. And the dreams increased in intensity too, moving further than simple kisses. Was he going to sneak around at night to find Jean Paul and demand he wrap a hand around his cock, or suck his balls, or take him up the arse? Bobby didn't think so. Fine, the man was physically attractive, but he was still the most arrogant and pompous twit Bobby knew.
Jean Paul seemed to be avoiding him now. Good, Bobby thought vehemently, but when he noticed Annie giving him a speculative look his heart sank. Of course Jean Paul had told her. Probably laughed about what an atrocious kisser he was. He just hadn't had as much practised as he would have liked, that was all, and it was hardly through lack of trying. Unless girls had a better sense for this things and he was really, properly gay and then it was no wonder Lorna had never slept with him. Again, not through lack of trying.
It was raining outside, maybe a week later, and Bobby was wandering aimlessly through the house. His stroll took him to the school library. Mostly textbooks, with the occasional thesis by Hank or the Professor. And oh, what was that over there? Well, lookit. A book with Jean Paul on the cover. Bobby snorted and picked the copy up from the floor. He frowned at the blurb on the back. Jean Paul had written a book about being a gay mutant? No wonder he hadn't felt the need to actually tell people.
Bobby was completely engrossed when Jean Paul found him.
"I... we need to talk."
Bobby ignored him and raised the book slightly.
"Bobby, I want to talk to you about the other night."
Bobby held the book directly in front of his face so he could see nothing but it. Jean Paul ripped it from his hands.
"Robert Drake, could you act like an adult just for once? We need to talk," Jean Paul insisted.
"When someone is reading, and makes a point of continuing to read, it's generally a sign they aren't interested in idle chitchat," Bobby said frostily, retrieving the book and trying to find his lost place.
Jean Paul's eyes widened when he got a proper look at the book cover. Bobby smirked at him. "You have a very engaging writing style," he informed the Canadian gentleman. "I forgot to eat lunch."
Actually, he'd forgotten to eat several meals recently. He just wasn't hungry any more. But thirsty? He was drinking like a fish. He'd tried to stop, to see if it slowed the growth of the ice, but he'd almost passed out from dehydration. Even now there was a large glass of water next to him, and he drank from it, not taking his eyes off Jean Paul. One advantage of being the Iceman was the ability to draw water molecules out of the air to form ice, which eventually turned to nice chill water.
Jean Paul visibly swallowed. It had probably taken him a long time to work up the nerve for this, Bobby figured. Still he was doing the guy a favour, really. From the chapter he'd reached in the book, it seemed he didn't tend to take it well when people he cared about died. Gotta be cruel to be kind, and all that.
"Iceman," Jean Paul seemed more comfortable with the codename, "we can't just leave this hanging."
"It was a week ago," Bobby pointed out calmly. "If there was anything significant to say, it would, I'm sure, have been said by now."
"Iceman, I need to know why," Jean Paul said, self composure hanging by a thread.
Bobby rearranged his legs and curled them beneath him. "You sound like a girl," he said. He could feel Jean Paul's glower without looking at him. He turned a page.
"I'm not asking much, Robert," Jean Paul said coolly. "I'm just... curious."
Like fuck, Bobby thought. It made his heart beat faster though, knowing that the kiss had affected Jean Paul. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly.
"Robert, Bobby, I just want to talk like adults about this."
"You caught me at a vulnerable time," Bobby half-lied.
"Because of Lorna," Jean Paul guessed.
"Yeah, her," Bobby shrugged. "But there's more, okay? So don't go around telling people I'm all upset just because of some girl. I've got my own things going on."
"I suppose it's no secret, now, that I'm... attracted to you," Jean Paul said in a deep voice. Bobby's stomach flip-flopped. "I like you a lot, Bobby Drake. Something is upsetting you and I want to help, you understand?"
"You find me attractive?"
"Yes, Bobby. Yes, I do. Must you sound so incredulous?"
"Do I look gay?" Bobby wondered aloud. "Maybe I give off gay vibes. Do I?"
Jean Paul looked like thunder.
"It would explain why women tend to go off me," Bobby went on. It was easier than thinking about Jean Paul's offer to help.
"Lorna told us the two of you never had sex."
Bobby's eyes snapped open. "She what?" he exclaimed. "Bitch!"
Jean Paul ran a hand through his hair and glanced away. "I shouldn't have mentioned it."
Bobby let his head fall against the back of the seat. If Jean Paul thought telling him something he already knew was going to hurt him he had another thing coming. Bobby was the queen supreme of hurting people right now. "Well, fine, you know. At the bachelor party thing, right? Well, I kissed Annie." Even in his mind, that sounded disjointed.
"Oh," Jean Paul said weakly.
"You told her we kissed, didn't you?"
"Oui. She never told me that the two of you..."
Bobby shrugged. "I was feeling vulnerable." It seemed like a good blanket statement. No one would question it. And it was hatefully true too. As hard as he wanted to push people away he wanted to draw them to him as well. Didn't want to hurt or get hurt, but wanted those special moments. What would people think of a guy with a real heart of ice? Dying didn't bother him as much as it first had, but the loneliness never abated. He wasn't Nightcrawler. He couldn't love a life of celibacy.
"Are you feeling vulnerable now?" Jean Paul's voice was a husky whisper.
Bobby stared at him. He clutched the book like a shield across his lap. "D-don't take advantage of me," he swallowed. Oh god, please. Please do. Take me now. Please.
Agony flashed across Jean Paul's face and Bobby was alone in the room. Please, Jean Paul, please.
That night Bobby sat on the roof and tried not to cry. He locked the access and unbuttoned the front of his shirt, leaning on the rough stone and trying to ascertain whether he had any feeling in the spreading ice. It made a temporary distraction. One hideous part of his life to distract him from another. He could spend weeks alternating the two and getting by being merely depressed instead of mind-numbingly suicidal.
He'd tried to seek Jean Paul out, but Jean Paul was gone, missing lessons and everything. Bobby wasn't sure how to tell people that it was his fault. "I may have accidentally implied I thought he was going to rape me" wasn't going to inspire a lot of confidence.
"Bobby?" an accented voice emerged from the darkness behind him. Bobby couldn't believe in coincidence anymore, not after being an X-man for so long. It was a mansion full of telepaths, for heaven's sake. Who knew, maybe even Jean Paul was a mind reader. Or just chock full of bad timing.
Bobby couldn't summon the courage to turn around. "Jean Paul, what I said earlier... I didn't mean it the way it sounded."
"How did you mean it?" the voice was emotionless, but closer.
"I... I took advantage of Annie when I kissed her. I know you're attracted to me. I'm vulnerable now, so fucking vulnerable you can't imagine it. If you try and take advantage of that... I'll get hurt. Or you will, I'm not sure. Either way, it's not going to be good. So just keep your hands in your pockets and walk away, okay, because I can't promise that I've got the control to do the same." Bobby took a deep breath and let his head droop. That had taken a lot of saying.
"I'm afraid I don't understand," the polite voice said. Before Bobby could turn around and start flinging ice he saw a pair of arms brace themselves either side of his body and felt Jean Paul, so close and not quite touching, warm his back. He whimpered.
"Perhaps I should have said don't let me take advantage of you," Bobby attempted to explain. "You have no idea what's going on right now. It's just a really bad time for there to even be a hint of anything."
"Ah," Jean Paul's breath tickled his ear. Jan Paul had those pointy ears, didn't he? Bobby wondered what they felt like.
"It would be best if you just flew away right now," Bobby said, a hint of pleading in his voice.
"What did you mean, the other night, when you said I kissed like that? Like what?" Jean Paul kissed his hair. Bobby felt a touch of anger at his presumptuousness. He wasn't even gay, for heaven's sake.
"I had a dream," Bobby said stiffly. "It was bugging me, because it seemed very unrealistic, the kiss."
"Was it us, kissing?" Jean Paul asked cautiously.
"Yes," Bobby croaked. "Yes, it was," he said more firmly. "It's not as though it implies anything important. I dream about kissing a lot of people. It's just one of my standard dreams. In fact," he went on triumphantly, "I'm more likely to dream about kissing someone I'm not attracted to."
He could feel Jean Paul's body stiffen as he spoke. "I see," the Canadian mumbled. "You just wanted to... check."
Bobby stared over the wall. The ground was a beautifully long distance away. Jean Paul's arms gently wrapped themselves around Bobby, just missing the patch of ice.
"Bobby... Just tell me to back off. If that's what you want, if you're really not interested, I will."
Bobby ground his teeth. Why was Jean Paul not getting this? He didn't want him to back off. It wasn't anything about Jean Paul in particular. He just happened to be making himself available, that was all, and he had to stop that before Bobby could even think the words 'back off'.
"I'm interested in everyone," Bobby ground out. "Don't take it personally, okay?"
Jean Paul stepped back and Bobby began to breathe a sigh of relief. Still sucking air in he felt Jean Paul's firm hands on his shoulders and he was turned around, shirt gaping. The world stopped spinning
"Bobby," Jean Paul breathed, taking a hasty step back. "What..."
Bobby looked down. "It is a bit much, isn't it?" he agreed, voice empty. "Rather more than you were bargaining for, I suppose."
Jean Paul stared overtly, and Bobby obligingly opened his shirt still further. "It's spreading," he added. "It might kill me."
Jean Paul launched himself into the air and, though Bobby stayed on the roof all night, he didn't come back.
The exhaustion hit Bobby in the library. He hadn't been able to sleep after Jean Paul left. It was stupid, he knew. He'd been waiting for that to happen, hadn't he? He'd known it would not matter who he tried it with. So why did it hurt so much? It didn't look that repulsive to Bobby, but then, maybe he had just become used to it.
He glanced down at the book in his hands. Each page hurt, but he still wanted to finish it. Maybe there'd be some cue in it as to why Jean Paul had been so disgusted. Why else would he fly away? Well, there was fear, Bobby supposed. Maybe he thought it was catching. Or maybe he was just too freaked out to cope. Bobby had been, but there was no nice place to fly away from it for him.
Bobby's head nodded. People were still wondering where Jean Paul was. Bobby didn't bother tell them that he'd reappeared for a short time last night. He probably wouldn't come back now. Why should he? He'd never liked the x-men much in the first place.
What if Jean Paul had flown away because he knew someone who could help? The nagging hope never left Bobby, and he hated himself for it. Why did he keep torturing himself with these questions? Who can I go to? What can I do to stop it? Where will it spread next? When will it kill me? Why me?
He screwed up his eyes and let his head fall onto the desk with a solid thunk. He'd been doing a pretty good job of pushing people away recently. Warren was barely talking to him, Hank kept shooting him these looks that Bobby couldn't stand, Kurt had been hurt enough to avoid him, and now Jean Paul had flown away. He was going to die lonely and alone. That was the whole point, wasn't it? It was what he'd been trying to do. Stupid self-destructive impulses.
Sleep, Bobby begged wordlessly. Sleep, please! Just a few minutes' relief. So tired. His head began to pound relentlessly, each heart beat loud and solid and... slower? There was a rushing sound in his ears and his vision swam. He wondered if he was going to faint, but a coldness like he'd never felt clues him into what was happening.
"This is it," he said thickly, addressing an empty room.
It was so cold. Sometimes he couldn't even remember cold; it was something he hadn't really felt since he'd been a young child. He was the Iceman. He created ice, he held it and shaped it and walked on it and owned it. Now the cold was burning him. Maybe, he thought giddily, it's getting its own back. His breaths were quick and shallow and the air smoked each time he breathed out. He took in less air each time, no matter how hard he tried. The thump of his heart that made his brain pulse was overwhelming. Since his sight was shot anyway, all heat waves and static like you get on a television with bad reception, and his hearing was nothing but an increasing roar, he closed his eyes and let the pain in his head and the pain in his chest take his whole attention. At least he didn't have to think. No last words, no final grand statement. He'd die unable to think, drowning in the white pain. White, like snow. Like the killing ice.
Ice.
Bobby collapsed over the table, lungs empty and heart still.