Part Five – How do you define 'friend'?
Bobby stared around him. He'd had some conception that Quebec was one of the colder parts of Canada, but it hadn't really sunk in. No wonder Jean Paul was good at withstanding low temperatures. Bobby was knee deep in snow and no one seemed to see that as particularly abnormal.
Well, he told himself, at least if I lose it here no one's going to notice. I doubt I could drop the temperature much lower if I tried. The snow was never going to be a barrier to someone who could walk through it like Bobby could, but he'd forgotten the language barrier entirely. Hailing a taxi didn't get him anywhere, especially when he realised that he wasn't certain of where he was going. Shrugging and shaking his head at an uncomprehending driver he waved the man away.
He'd been to Alpha Flight's headquarters before, but that hadn't seemed like an appropriate place to start. He knew they were probably looking for Jean Paul as well by now, and he knew they probably had a considerably better chance of finding him, but Bobby couldn't bring himself to ask for help. He wasn't even certain he wanted to see Jean Paul at all. He'd just found himself halfway to the airport, passport in hand, before he could really think about what he was doing.
Jean Paul had freaked out, he reminded himself sternly, frowning at the frozen landscape. He'd fled. He'd even gone so far as to move to another country. But right now, he was the person Bobby wanted to see, and it had yet to make sense to the young man.
How was he going to do this? Pick a direction and start walking? Ask directions to deserted houses, since god knew Jean Paul wasn't the most sociable of people? No, that wasn't quite true. He was just one of those people who managed to be alone when surrounded by people. He distanced himself. It kinda made him attractive. That whole mysterious loner skit.
Was he thinking of Jean Paul as attractive? What had he said to Annie... Good kisser, funny, attractive. Yeah, Jean Paul was attractive. And not just 'for a guy'. Bobby began to wander through the small town surrounding the airport. Okay, Jean Paul was attractive. Bobby was attracted. That could explain why he was in the middle of bloody Canada. Bobby Drake was attracted to a man.
New concept: Bobby Drake was attracted to men.
Okay, let's see. Well, not unfeasible. Had chosen a job working with attractive men in lycra. And there had been that point, hadn't there, when he'd dreamt about Warren a few times? Real, strong dream, powerful and mind-numbing and had had him unable to look at his team mate for months. Could have been a crush. Probably had been a crush.
He hadn't gone running to Warren, though, had he? Of course, they weren't nearly as close as they had been. Though Bobby still counted him among his best friends, didn't he? And he hadn't even told Hank, who he was still very attached to. And had left in a corridor at the institute. It had been easier to let Jean Paul know what was going on than either of his friends. Even easier to let Annie know. Perhaps he'd been less scared of getting hurt?
No, that couldn't be it. When Jean Paul had flown off it had ripped his heart out. Comparable to seeing Lorna in her wedding dress. He hadn't expected it to be that painful. And he'd kind of admitted then, hadn't he, that he found Jean Paul attractive? He'd been willing to take a chance and show Jean Paul, because there was a possibility of getting something out of it. A relationship. A relationship with Jean Paul.
Thought: relationship suggested more than physical attraction.
Bobby stopped in the middle of the street and shoved a hand through his hair in utter frustration. Why was he even bothering? He could have just gone back to his parents. Sure, his dad would have freaked out, but he was used to that. It wasn't like Jean Paul freaking out. He could have gone to Japan, and found Opal. Sure, that was a shit idea, but look at where he was. Quebec. At least Opal had had a real reason to reject him, not some superficial thing like this.
He was standing outside a public building, some town hall or other, when his cell rang. For a moment he was tempted to stick it in a snow bank and watch, but he kept it in his hand. The number was that of the Xavier Institute. God help them if they thought he was going to answer it. Annie had probably told them everything by now. He rubbed at the corner of his ice-affected eye as the small thing buzzed and rang and lit up. He really ought to change the ring tone.
Eventually it stopped, but Bobby waited patiently, watching. It wasn't long before the little voicemail icon appeared. He might not want to talk to them right now, but Bobby supposed he ought to hear what they had to say.
"Bobby?"
The nervous voice was female. Not Xavier, by any stretch of the imagination, though Bobby cracked a grin at the idea.
"Bobby? Oh honestly, Bobby." Nervousness snapped to irritation in a millisecond. "If you're angry with me, you're an idiot," Annie sighed. "Everyone's looking for you now. I don't know where you are, but making an educated guess, I'll say you're in Canada."
Wow. Bobby stared at the box of circuits. How did Annie...
"That's where Carter thought you might be."
Oh, of course.
"I have Jean Paul's last address. It's old, and I doubt he's there any more, but it's a starting point. I'm going to give it twenty four hours before I tell Xavier my suspicions. Guess I feel a bit guilty, I don't know, but I've never known someone as pigheaded as you, Bobby, when it comes to asking for help."
She recited the address and said a brief goodbye, but lacking anything to write on or with Bobby simply saved the message. He probably wouldn't have been able to spell half of it anyway. Now the problem arouse, yet again, of asking directions.
He listened to the message again and turned around slowly, surveying the street. He wondered if there was any way to tell someone who only spoke Joual from someone who could cope with a bit of English. As he completed his turn he found himself staring at a map. Heh. Weren't town halls wonderful? This one apparently doubled as a tourist information board, the tourist information consisting of a map showing where the airport was.
Bobby kicked the ground when he realised it wasn't even the right town. And for a moment there he'd been so hopeful. A bunch of leaflets were jammed under a plastic case, and disinterestedly Bobby pulled one out. Hey, English! 'Welcome to Quebec' it read, and Bobby felt the place was rather more welcoming.
The map on the inside helped him find the town, which wasn't so far from here. And the map behind him seemed to indicate some kind of bus route. Go Bobby! Now all he had to do was work out if Jean Paul still lived there. He pursed his lips. Now, where would he find bus times? And more detailed local maps?
He wandered through the town, oddly elated. For the first time in ages he felt like he had some control over his life. He was in charge, finding things out and making plans. It wasn't some block of ice in charge. He wasn't taking orders from someone who'd barely been with the x-men ten minutes. He wasn't being forced to think about absolutely everyone else. Selfishness was a good feeling, once in a while. Being alone.
He stumbled across a post office and stepped in, surprised at the warmth. Was he so far gone he didn't notice the subzero temperatures outside?
"Bonjour!" the clerk behind the counter greeted him cheerfully.
"Ah, oui, bonjour," Bobby managed.
"You are American," the clerk observed in English.
"You speak my language!" Bobby beamed and strode over to the counter. "Thank you!"
The man laughed. "Thank my high school teachers," he said, almost fluently. "Are you on holiday?"
"No," Bobby shook his head. "I am looking for a friend."
"He lives here?" the man smiled.
"Sort of. I have an address, but he might have moved."
"This is the sorting office for the local towns," the man informed him. He laughed at the shock on Bobby's face. "It is much larger behind."
"Oh, I see," Bobby smiled. "So, you can help me?"
"I can try."
Bobby repeated the address, trying not to mangle the pronunciation too badly, to the helpful young man. He was blond with dark eyes and a scar along his cheekbone. Cute, Bobby decided, practicing his newfound bisexuality, but not my type.
"Ah yes, we have a forwarding address for that one. He came in only a few days ago to change it." The man smiled. "Monsieur Beaubier, oui?"
"Oui," Bobby breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm not a crazy fan, you understand. I actually know him."
"Of course you do," the clerk smiled. "How would you have known he was here otherwise?"
"Of course," Bobby said, feeling slightly helpless in the face of all this cheerfulness.
"I will give you his forwarding address, friend of Monsieur Beaubier. How are you planning to get to him?"
"Bus, I guess. I don't know."
"He lives far from any bus. You might take a taxi cab," the man mused, scribbling down the address left-handed. "I write it down," he explained, "so you can show it to people rather than say it."
Bobby grimaced good naturedly. "Screwed it up, didn't I?"
The young man laughed. "Bad, yes, badly."
Bobby shrugged. "I tried. So, is it far?"
"Closer than his old house. Five miles North of here, maybe?"
"Huh, that's not so bad. I could walk that," Bobby thought aloud.
The clerk looked horrified. "You will freeze!"
Bobby sighed, not even finding it funny any more. "Perhaps," he shrugged.
"Perhaps? You do not care?"
Bobby picked up the paper and turned to go. "Thanks for all your help. Do I owe you?"
"Nothing," the clerk stuttered. "Just do not walk, okay? I shall call him to make certain you arrived, you know."
Bobby glanced over his shoulder as he pushed open the door. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "a few days ago I would have said that's probably more than most of my friends would do for me, but that's not really true."
"Perhaps you should call your friends," the clerk offered.
"I will," Bobby promised. "Hey, Comme tu t'appelle?"
The clerk laughed and Bobby figured he'd screwed up again. "Je m'appelle Claude."
"Je m'appelle Bobby," Bobby said. "It was nice meeting you."
"I will call," Claude said firmly. "Don't walk."
"Thanks," Bobby grinned. "Means a lot."
The door swung shut behind him and it occurred to Bobby that he hadn't felt so liked in a long time. He hadn't liked any one so much for a while either. Perhaps when you were friends with someone for a long time you took them and your feelings for them for granted. It occured to him that when he got back, he'd put a bit more effort in.
It also occurred to Bobby that he had no idea which direction was North.
It was a small house, one story, built with the door far above the ground. The paint was peeling and one of the shutters was lying on the ground, but it looked well used rather than unloved. The shutter was just waiting patiently, not abandoned.
Bobby ran a hand along the side of his face, reminding himself of the growing ice there. It seemed to be growing fast here, almost visibly. The thought terrified him. This wasn't like the deep freezer at home, where he could count on someone finding him sooner or later if anything happened, or where he could step outside and be warm again. This was the middle of nowhere, snow spread for miles in every direction. There was no escape from the cold here.
He stumbled up the steps and thumped the door clumsily, fingers too stiff to curl into a fist. He'd be better off icing up, but the thought scared him. What if he couldn't go back?
There was no answer, but Bobby spotted a light he hadn't noticed before disappear. He knocked again.
"Jean Paul?" he called softly. "It's me, Bobby."
No answer, still. He knocked again and went on, "I saw the light, Jean Paul. I know you're in there." He paused awkwardly. "Or, you know, if you're not Jean Paul, can you tell me where to find him?"
When the silence continued Bobby sighed heavily. He knocked on the door hard enough to dislodge snow from the porch above. "Look, if you don't open this thing I'm going to sit here until you do. A siege. I'll wait until you run out of food."
A muffled voice finally can from within, heavy with French accent. "You have no food."
"I don't need to eat," Bobby said. He climbed down the steps, careful not to slip, and wandered around the house until he found a more sheltered spot. Digging a nest with his boots he settled with his back to the side of the small house.
He figured the Canadian would let him in sooner rather than later. It had started to snow again. And if Jean Paul liked him, he wouldn't let him die. No matter how badly he'd screwed up.
Right?
Bobby sang to himself to pass the time. As irritatingly and as off key as he could manage. Who wouldn't let him in, just to shut up him up? Jean Paul, apparently.
It was when the sun came up the next morning that he began to get really scared. Nights were long here, and cold. Well, pretty much everything was cold. The snow had frozen over in the night. Half of the right side of Bobby's face had done the same. Opening his mouth hurt. He could feel the ice tugging at the corner of his mouth, a tendril curling in at the corner and tracing filigrees across the inside of his cheek.
Lights went on and off inside the house, and for a long time the radio was on particularly loudly. It continued into the next night, starving Bobby of any sleep he might have attempted. At least he didn't need to fear freezing to death. The radio clicked off while it was still dark, apparently keeping the occupier up as well. It made Bobby hope, but no one emerged.
The next morning most of his bottom lip was ice, but that was no longer his main concern. Even though he was in the middle of nowhere, with no one around apart from the house owner who had very firmly closed the curtains over where he sat, he still glanced furtively around before sliding a hand into his pants. Most of his torso was ice now, his abdomen a clear plane down to well below where his trousers hung.
It was cold, but it was still flesh. Bobby traced ice-water veins along the length of his cock. If Jean Paul didn't come out today, there was no point staying. He wouldn't have anything to offer him anymore. Who wanted a lover they couldn't make love to?
Jean Paul didn't come out that day. Bobby made the decision to ice over completely as the temperatures dropped and dropped. What did it matter if he couldn't turn back any more? He would wait until light before leaving. He'd announce his attentions to the house, maybe even explain why so Jean Paul wouldn't think he'd just given up, and then trudge back to the airport. Like he had so many times before, Bobby wished he could fly.
Watching the sun rise through crystalline eyes made Bobby want to cry, but he couldn't like this. So it was over. He knew the end of the story. The brave hero struggled through his affliction alone, and never got the girl. Boy. Anyone. The brave hero died alone and virginal. Maybe he could die in the snow? Maybe he couldn't die at all, Bobby reminded himself. He could fail to pull himself back together, but he wouldn't be dead He'd be a mind without a body, until such time as he chose to have a body again.
"Sucks to be Bobby," he murmured aloud, forcing himself to stand up. His frozen clothes crackled and resisted. He stumbled around to the front of the house. At least the radio wasn't back on.
"Look," he announced, not even bothering climb the steps and knock on the door, "I am now mostly ice. All the important bits. So I'm going home. Or somewhere, I don't know. Anyway, there's nothing left you'd be interested in, so there's no point me sitting out here any longer."
He turned away but paused. This might be the last person he ever spoke to, even if they didn't speak back. The Xavier Institute looked less and less appealing with every passing second. The pity and his own shame for needing to be pitied.
"Say bye to Hank and Warren for me. I'd say Jean and Scott too, but they've got enough problem of their own they won't have noticed I'm gone. The Professor'll know anyway."
No, that wasn't it. That wasn't what he needed to say. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't know what it was. Should he just leave? It would make sense than standing with his back to the house of someone he wasn't even one hundred percent was Jean Paul talking solidly until the right words came out. So why did he want to do that?
"If you're not Jean Paul," he said, "tell him I loved him."
That was it.
He began to walk away, gliding through the thick snow easily. It wasn't parting for him, it was becoming him. Emma Frost had once demonstrated he could do the same with water. Hell, if he lay down he could probably force himself all the way to the airport in a matter of seconds, or anywhere else he wanted to be. Maybe he should go to Japan.