Satellite- (n) A subservient follower; a sycophant
John was breathing in Bobby's shampoo smell. It was clean. God, what when Bobby woke up? What if Bobby had just been high? He rubbed the metal tear drop of his necklace with one hand, daring to leave his other on the seashell of Bobby's shirt covered shoulder blade. He was such a bloody galah. Honestly, thinking Bobby would ever- "Morning." John choked on his own tongue as Bobby kissed his cheek and sat up, stretched. Not sure what else to do, John followed, crossing his legs Indian-style to face Bobby's side, feeling the muscles in his back tighten and loosen.
"Um, Bobby? You... it wasn't just the mull?"
"The what?"
"The weed, you bloody Seppo."
"Bloody what?"
"American! You and me... pashing on- kissing- that wasn't... that was more than mates?"
"No. I mean, it was fine. I...." John grabbed Bobby's chin and turning it, he kissed him. Right then, so it wasn't a bad thing if he were to do this. When they broke apart, Bobby kissed John's ear, pursing his lips as if he were about to whisper.
"You kiss as if you were about to tell a secret."
"What?" Maybe it was a bad thing to confuse Bobby so much in the morning.
"Your lips. You make them as if you were about to tell me a secret."
"Oh."
"So tell me another one."
"Another secret? Um...." Bobby bit his bottom lip and John, biting his tongue moved his hand to rest on top of Bobby's. Bobby twisted his fingers to entangle. Maybe this was all a substitute for Marie but there was no way John was going to ask that. "Um, I'm bi?" John wants to say he'd root anything that moved, just to see Bobby's mouth make that perfect little circle again but Bobby is only 15 and impressionable, whereas John is 16, so maybe it'd also be wrong to say that he thinks he's gay. Is Bobby waiting for a secret now? John solves his dilemma by kissing Bobby again. This time Bobby breaks away to ask, "Is this an open thing?"
"What?" John is feeling a bit like déjà vu.
"Openly dating? Cause, I mean, my parents don't know about the whole bi thing. I mean, they don't even know about the whole mutant thing and..."
"We don't have to tell anyone." Something about kissing Bobby was making him revert into Oz slang, which didn't help to make anything more concise. Bobby smiled, that half grin he does sometimes, and kissed him again.
Time went by. Two weeks. Three. John and Bobby would let their hands rub in passing in the corridor, and kiss on the couch when they had the TV to themselves. John couldn't help smiling when he didn't think anyone was looking. Looking back it was strange that his natural pessimism didn't better warn or prepare him for what was coming.
He was leaning against the brick wall to try and catch his breath before walking inside and showering, grabbing a bite to eat. He didn't necessarily like the morning runs but they were demanded and as long as John went once or twice a week, Scott didn't nag so much. Besides, it was better to run in the morning- no one to watch you or anything. He watched as a cheap rent-a- car came through the gates, the company logo spelled out in blue on the hood. A man stepped out from the driver's side and started forward. John couldn't move. He was still built like a shit house and he still looked pissed. London to a brick, John was dead.
The reunion wasn't that bad really. Only a few one-two slaps to the side of the face until Scott came out and started yelling and waving his arms about. John took this moment of distraction, the moment in which his dad was caught off-guard and Scott was still stunned from hearing 'I'm his bloody father and I'll do whatever I want!" to bolt for the woods.
In retrospect, he knew that he couldn't have possibly stayed in the woods forever and that it would be impossible to construct some sort of a George of the Jungle tree house because New York isn't in Africa and his father wouldn't just let be. Besides, he didn't have any secret animal communication skills. Just really good at burning things down. He still ran for a bit, tripping over roots and logs and slipping on oak tree leaves. He also knew (in retrospect) that it would be impossible to run forever because at some point he'd have to piss or sleep or he'd get lost and end up running into an ocean and be convinced it was a lake or something. But a lake doesn't flow into anything, really.
When John stopped running, convinced he was going to trip and be impaled on some trap for mountain lions or outsiders, he slid to the base of a tree trunk, feeling brittle, frosted moss break and chip off. The pieces were probably sticking to his shirt but right now, he really wanted a cigarette. Bobby fell next to him a few minutes later, their shoulders touching as they filled a corner of the tree. Perpendicular, in two directions. When he gasped out, there was a small cloud of frost. It dissipated. "Where. Are you. Going to go?" he managed to get out. John shrugged. If Bobby did all the talking right now, that was fine with him. "You can't go back with him."
"Do I have a choice?"
"Yeah! Stay here with me, in the woods. We'll run away or something but John you can't back to him. Remember what you said how-"
"I remember what I said, Bobby. It happened!" John blew out, half expecting smoke, really wanting to try a blow a ring. His fingers were in his pocket, working the lighter case between pads and swirls, calluses and whorls. "I don't know. Either way you look at, I'm screwed. I stay out here, they'll come get us. I go back, he'll get me and Bobby..."
"We could run."
"We can't. Bobby I'm..." John paused and tried not to look at Bobby. "Let's.... we should just go back. I should." Bobby kissed his cheek and John stood, taking care not to turn his head towards Bobby. They walked back. Logan met them.
"Listen kid, you..."
"I know." Logan didn't say anything else but turned and walked back with them. No one was touching and John kept his eyes on his feet. He didn't bother to head for the front of the school but walked inside the kitchen door and up the back stairs to the hallway where his room was. He went into the closet and pulled out an old knapsack he bought from an op shop and started to pile in clothing, rolling them so more could fit.
Bobby watched him, sitting cross legged on his bed and John knew that everyone else was standing in the doorway. With out looking up, he asked, "Remy, can I bum a cigarette?"
"I don't-"John looked up at him. Marie was crying and John didn't know why. He never really thought she liked him all the much, didn't think anyone did really. Remy reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn pack, tossing it onto John's bed. "Take the pack chere." John lit one.
The flame in his lighter shook.
He stacked comic books, the few books and DVDS he had come across in his little under two years at the school and let them dent his covers in. It didn't take him long to pack his clothing- it was only two pairs of pants and a few T-Shirts, some boxers and socks. His sweatpants and a pair of shorts were in the laundry and what was the point in bringing those wherever he was going, wet? He took up the pile of personals and turned, handing them off to Bobby with out taking too many steps, still aware that everyone was watching. "Here. These are yours."
"No they're-"
"They're yours Bobby." John tired to open his eyes wide enough that Bobby would get the hint. He would've liked if Bobby could have come closer and stared deep enough that he'd fall in, so maybe John could bring him back to Australia with him. Bobby didn't move closer, and John had to step forward to push the stack into his hands. He turned back awkwardly and made sure he had put all his clothing and small things into his bag. His watercolor pencils and sketchpad were pressed between pairs of jeans. Hopefully his father wouldn't find them there, wouldn't look.
John wasn't sure what exactly to do now, so he stood and continued to poke his fingers into his bag, waiting; he dragged again and tapped the ash off the cigarette and onto the floor. He killed the flame and flicked the cigarette into the trashcan when he heard footsteps. You needed to be in the mood to have a lecture on the evils of smoking beamed into your head and John definitely wasn't in it.
"You ready?" John looked up and nodded. His father was standing in the room now, watching him but not really looking. John knew he was looked at the paneling or the crown molding on the windows; he was running a tally in his head of how much the panes of glass cost, the computer on the mahogany desk. "Well, let's go." His father turned and John swung his bag onto his shoulder. His father stopped and turned his head to Scott. "Thank you again, Mr. Summers, for finding me my son."
John knew his eyes were probably big right now and his mouth falling open but he still jerked his head to Scott. He had told his father where he was? He had- why? How? His father was walking out the door, Scott, Professor, Marie they were all following. Like he was Noah or Moses or maybe just a drunk. "Wait." said Bobby quickly, quietly, and harsh. John turned, knocking his hand into the door so it swung shut for a moment. Bobby iced the bottom to the ground.
Bobby pulled his shirt in and kissed him, gasping into him. John dragged his fingers along Bobby's cheekbone. "Stay. Please?" John shook his head. He didn't want to meet Bobby's eyes but he did. He kissed his cheek again, starting at Bobby's ear and tracing but never picking his mouth off Bobby's skin; his lips ended up pressing against the space between Bobby's eyes, a hand pushing against Bobby's left cheek, his right hand holding onto Bobby's shirt pocket. Bobby was pressing cold, frosty fingers into John's jugular and dotting the corner of John's collarbone with his mouth and for a moment, John wished Bobby to freeze his blood, to freeze him into a statue, or sculpture that would melt and be nothing.
"Here." Bobby turned away and went to his comics. He pulled out one and held it to John.
"I can't take that." Bobby pushed it against his chest. "That's a signed Sandman. I can't take that." Bobby took John's hand and put the comic it, then pressed his fingers onto it, raising the hand and kissing each knuckle. John kissed Bobby again, quickly and turned away. Don't look back, he thought. Don't do it. He walked out of the room and down the hall and didn't wait. He concentrated on the floor. Then he was staring at grass stems and then gravel and then the inside of the trunk as he put his bags inside. John slipped the comic into his messenger bag, sliding it into a binder.
Reaching into his pocket he pulled and lit another cigarette and watched his father shake hands with Scott, Jean, Logan, Ororo and the Professor. He didn't lean against the car. Marie hugged him and he gently patted her back. Pieter wished him luck and Remy nodded. John didn't say anything. He looked up to see Bobby jogging awkwardly, running over, comics clutched in his hands. "These. Are. Yours. Damn it." John took them, balancing the cigarette between his teeth. They were a mix of Wooden Soldiers and Yoricks and Ultimates, tied together with a plague that killed all the men.
He got into the car before he'd have to shake anyone's hands. As they drove away, John watched the side view mirror, tapping the cigarette against the outside of the door, Bobby's comics sitting on his lap and shuffled into one pile without distinction to ownership or series. Bobby raised his hand, his fingers wilted slightly, goodbye.
*** Author's Note: I admit that I stole the quote 'A lake doesn't flow into anything, really' from Kafka. Only because I couldn't think of how to work in his quote about crows.
Vocab: London to a brick: expressing certainty Op shop: second hand/ resale shop Galah: fool (after the bird of the same name which flies south in the winter - a silly thing to do in the Southern Hemisphere
John was breathing in Bobby's shampoo smell. It was clean. God, what when Bobby woke up? What if Bobby had just been high? He rubbed the metal tear drop of his necklace with one hand, daring to leave his other on the seashell of Bobby's shirt covered shoulder blade. He was such a bloody galah. Honestly, thinking Bobby would ever- "Morning." John choked on his own tongue as Bobby kissed his cheek and sat up, stretched. Not sure what else to do, John followed, crossing his legs Indian-style to face Bobby's side, feeling the muscles in his back tighten and loosen.
"Um, Bobby? You... it wasn't just the mull?"
"The what?"
"The weed, you bloody Seppo."
"Bloody what?"
"American! You and me... pashing on- kissing- that wasn't... that was more than mates?"
"No. I mean, it was fine. I...." John grabbed Bobby's chin and turning it, he kissed him. Right then, so it wasn't a bad thing if he were to do this. When they broke apart, Bobby kissed John's ear, pursing his lips as if he were about to whisper.
"You kiss as if you were about to tell a secret."
"What?" Maybe it was a bad thing to confuse Bobby so much in the morning.
"Your lips. You make them as if you were about to tell me a secret."
"Oh."
"So tell me another one."
"Another secret? Um...." Bobby bit his bottom lip and John, biting his tongue moved his hand to rest on top of Bobby's. Bobby twisted his fingers to entangle. Maybe this was all a substitute for Marie but there was no way John was going to ask that. "Um, I'm bi?" John wants to say he'd root anything that moved, just to see Bobby's mouth make that perfect little circle again but Bobby is only 15 and impressionable, whereas John is 16, so maybe it'd also be wrong to say that he thinks he's gay. Is Bobby waiting for a secret now? John solves his dilemma by kissing Bobby again. This time Bobby breaks away to ask, "Is this an open thing?"
"What?" John is feeling a bit like déjà vu.
"Openly dating? Cause, I mean, my parents don't know about the whole bi thing. I mean, they don't even know about the whole mutant thing and..."
"We don't have to tell anyone." Something about kissing Bobby was making him revert into Oz slang, which didn't help to make anything more concise. Bobby smiled, that half grin he does sometimes, and kissed him again.
Time went by. Two weeks. Three. John and Bobby would let their hands rub in passing in the corridor, and kiss on the couch when they had the TV to themselves. John couldn't help smiling when he didn't think anyone was looking. Looking back it was strange that his natural pessimism didn't better warn or prepare him for what was coming.
He was leaning against the brick wall to try and catch his breath before walking inside and showering, grabbing a bite to eat. He didn't necessarily like the morning runs but they were demanded and as long as John went once or twice a week, Scott didn't nag so much. Besides, it was better to run in the morning- no one to watch you or anything. He watched as a cheap rent-a- car came through the gates, the company logo spelled out in blue on the hood. A man stepped out from the driver's side and started forward. John couldn't move. He was still built like a shit house and he still looked pissed. London to a brick, John was dead.
The reunion wasn't that bad really. Only a few one-two slaps to the side of the face until Scott came out and started yelling and waving his arms about. John took this moment of distraction, the moment in which his dad was caught off-guard and Scott was still stunned from hearing 'I'm his bloody father and I'll do whatever I want!" to bolt for the woods.
In retrospect, he knew that he couldn't have possibly stayed in the woods forever and that it would be impossible to construct some sort of a George of the Jungle tree house because New York isn't in Africa and his father wouldn't just let be. Besides, he didn't have any secret animal communication skills. Just really good at burning things down. He still ran for a bit, tripping over roots and logs and slipping on oak tree leaves. He also knew (in retrospect) that it would be impossible to run forever because at some point he'd have to piss or sleep or he'd get lost and end up running into an ocean and be convinced it was a lake or something. But a lake doesn't flow into anything, really.
When John stopped running, convinced he was going to trip and be impaled on some trap for mountain lions or outsiders, he slid to the base of a tree trunk, feeling brittle, frosted moss break and chip off. The pieces were probably sticking to his shirt but right now, he really wanted a cigarette. Bobby fell next to him a few minutes later, their shoulders touching as they filled a corner of the tree. Perpendicular, in two directions. When he gasped out, there was a small cloud of frost. It dissipated. "Where. Are you. Going to go?" he managed to get out. John shrugged. If Bobby did all the talking right now, that was fine with him. "You can't go back with him."
"Do I have a choice?"
"Yeah! Stay here with me, in the woods. We'll run away or something but John you can't back to him. Remember what you said how-"
"I remember what I said, Bobby. It happened!" John blew out, half expecting smoke, really wanting to try a blow a ring. His fingers were in his pocket, working the lighter case between pads and swirls, calluses and whorls. "I don't know. Either way you look at, I'm screwed. I stay out here, they'll come get us. I go back, he'll get me and Bobby..."
"We could run."
"We can't. Bobby I'm..." John paused and tried not to look at Bobby. "Let's.... we should just go back. I should." Bobby kissed his cheek and John stood, taking care not to turn his head towards Bobby. They walked back. Logan met them.
"Listen kid, you..."
"I know." Logan didn't say anything else but turned and walked back with them. No one was touching and John kept his eyes on his feet. He didn't bother to head for the front of the school but walked inside the kitchen door and up the back stairs to the hallway where his room was. He went into the closet and pulled out an old knapsack he bought from an op shop and started to pile in clothing, rolling them so more could fit.
Bobby watched him, sitting cross legged on his bed and John knew that everyone else was standing in the doorway. With out looking up, he asked, "Remy, can I bum a cigarette?"
"I don't-"John looked up at him. Marie was crying and John didn't know why. He never really thought she liked him all the much, didn't think anyone did really. Remy reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn pack, tossing it onto John's bed. "Take the pack chere." John lit one.
The flame in his lighter shook.
He stacked comic books, the few books and DVDS he had come across in his little under two years at the school and let them dent his covers in. It didn't take him long to pack his clothing- it was only two pairs of pants and a few T-Shirts, some boxers and socks. His sweatpants and a pair of shorts were in the laundry and what was the point in bringing those wherever he was going, wet? He took up the pile of personals and turned, handing them off to Bobby with out taking too many steps, still aware that everyone was watching. "Here. These are yours."
"No they're-"
"They're yours Bobby." John tired to open his eyes wide enough that Bobby would get the hint. He would've liked if Bobby could have come closer and stared deep enough that he'd fall in, so maybe John could bring him back to Australia with him. Bobby didn't move closer, and John had to step forward to push the stack into his hands. He turned back awkwardly and made sure he had put all his clothing and small things into his bag. His watercolor pencils and sketchpad were pressed between pairs of jeans. Hopefully his father wouldn't find them there, wouldn't look.
John wasn't sure what exactly to do now, so he stood and continued to poke his fingers into his bag, waiting; he dragged again and tapped the ash off the cigarette and onto the floor. He killed the flame and flicked the cigarette into the trashcan when he heard footsteps. You needed to be in the mood to have a lecture on the evils of smoking beamed into your head and John definitely wasn't in it.
"You ready?" John looked up and nodded. His father was standing in the room now, watching him but not really looking. John knew he was looked at the paneling or the crown molding on the windows; he was running a tally in his head of how much the panes of glass cost, the computer on the mahogany desk. "Well, let's go." His father turned and John swung his bag onto his shoulder. His father stopped and turned his head to Scott. "Thank you again, Mr. Summers, for finding me my son."
John knew his eyes were probably big right now and his mouth falling open but he still jerked his head to Scott. He had told his father where he was? He had- why? How? His father was walking out the door, Scott, Professor, Marie they were all following. Like he was Noah or Moses or maybe just a drunk. "Wait." said Bobby quickly, quietly, and harsh. John turned, knocking his hand into the door so it swung shut for a moment. Bobby iced the bottom to the ground.
Bobby pulled his shirt in and kissed him, gasping into him. John dragged his fingers along Bobby's cheekbone. "Stay. Please?" John shook his head. He didn't want to meet Bobby's eyes but he did. He kissed his cheek again, starting at Bobby's ear and tracing but never picking his mouth off Bobby's skin; his lips ended up pressing against the space between Bobby's eyes, a hand pushing against Bobby's left cheek, his right hand holding onto Bobby's shirt pocket. Bobby was pressing cold, frosty fingers into John's jugular and dotting the corner of John's collarbone with his mouth and for a moment, John wished Bobby to freeze his blood, to freeze him into a statue, or sculpture that would melt and be nothing.
"Here." Bobby turned away and went to his comics. He pulled out one and held it to John.
"I can't take that." Bobby pushed it against his chest. "That's a signed Sandman. I can't take that." Bobby took John's hand and put the comic it, then pressed his fingers onto it, raising the hand and kissing each knuckle. John kissed Bobby again, quickly and turned away. Don't look back, he thought. Don't do it. He walked out of the room and down the hall and didn't wait. He concentrated on the floor. Then he was staring at grass stems and then gravel and then the inside of the trunk as he put his bags inside. John slipped the comic into his messenger bag, sliding it into a binder.
Reaching into his pocket he pulled and lit another cigarette and watched his father shake hands with Scott, Jean, Logan, Ororo and the Professor. He didn't lean against the car. Marie hugged him and he gently patted her back. Pieter wished him luck and Remy nodded. John didn't say anything. He looked up to see Bobby jogging awkwardly, running over, comics clutched in his hands. "These. Are. Yours. Damn it." John took them, balancing the cigarette between his teeth. They were a mix of Wooden Soldiers and Yoricks and Ultimates, tied together with a plague that killed all the men.
He got into the car before he'd have to shake anyone's hands. As they drove away, John watched the side view mirror, tapping the cigarette against the outside of the door, Bobby's comics sitting on his lap and shuffled into one pile without distinction to ownership or series. Bobby raised his hand, his fingers wilted slightly, goodbye.
*** Author's Note: I admit that I stole the quote 'A lake doesn't flow into anything, really' from Kafka. Only because I couldn't think of how to work in his quote about crows.
Vocab: London to a brick: expressing certainty Op shop: second hand/ resale shop Galah: fool (after the bird of the same name which flies south in the winter - a silly thing to do in the Southern Hemisphere