Part Twenty-Five
Bobby made a point of calling home when he knew only his mother would be in. The probability either of his parents would recognise Jean Paul's name was low, but if they did, he wanted his mother to catch on first. Though she'd probably catch on too much: "Hi, mom, I'm bringing this famously gay man home for Christmas because I feel sorry for him. What do you mean, am I gay too?"
Christ, it really would all just get easier if he came out. At least he'd know where he stood. But that thought clutched at him, and for a brief moment he wondered if the ice was back. He stood, holding the phone, waiting for the panic to subside. Not yet. He couldn't do it yet. They'd be furious. They'd be upset. They'd be worried.
They wouldn't - and he knew this, rationally, knew it when he thought about it with his brain instead of his heart, and yet he couldn't believe it, didn't have the faith - stop loving him.
Jean Paul rounded the corner in the corridor, and frowned. Bobby forced a smile, and lowered the phone, though he didn't let go of it.
"I was about to call mom," he explained. "Let her know you're coming."
"That is very thoughtful of you," Jean Paul said, looking at the carpet. There was a faint blur, and Bobby watched his suddenly ruffled hair float back into place. "If it is too much trouble..." Jean Paul began.
"It's not," Bobby said, and sternly reminded himself that it wasn't. "It'll be great. Mom will love having another mouth to feed." That hadn't come out quite right, but he stretched his mouth a little further, to try and indicate he was joking. Jean Paul gave him an odd look. Bobby's faux-smile failed.
"I will not come," Jean Paul said.
Bobby dropped the phone to grab Jean Paul by both arms. Jean Paul looked a little startled. Bobby felt like an idiot. He did not let go.
"I want you there," Bobby said slowly. "For all the wrong reasons, I'm aware of that, but there's a few right ones in there too, I'm sure of it. I don't... I can't bear the idea of you sitting here being miserable all holiday. There will be good things about coming, I swear. Better food, for a start."
"And better company," Jean Paul said, a faint smile gracing his lips. Bobby wanted to kiss them, badly.
"And some worse," he made himself say. He was under no illusions about his father's potential reaction. "I'm sorry."
"Do not be sorry for other people," Jean Paul told him. "Let them be sorry for themselves, or if they are not, let them be condemned for it."
"That's..." Bobby's face twisted, "... quite harsh. He is my dad."
"I apologise, I did not mean-" Jean Paul looked concerned.
Bobby shook his head. "Nah, you're right. I condemn him for it myself sometimes; really it was just that guilt talking. The thing is, if you can get him to see past that - or not see it at all, but I know you won't stand for that - you two could really get on well."
Jean Paul tensed under Bobby's hands, and Bobby let go of him. Something flashed across Jean Paul's face, but Bobby had given up trying to decipher his too-quick emotions. Besides, he had a sinking feeling it was regret, or maybe longing, and there was only so much temptation Bobby could put up with.
"Maybe I could-"
"No." His own vehemence surprised Bobby. "Don't, just for his sake. If you're going to start doing that, you might as well stay here, because it really would be more painful to watch you pretend to be someone else for my sake. You know I don't deserve that." He was angry. He was angry with Jean Paul. How could he imply he might be forgiving Bobby? How could he be so fickle, how could he let go of his principles so easily? How could even the faintest hint that there might be hope for the two of them yet escape his lips?
"You do not deserve the attempt to mollify your father, or you do not deserve the pain?" Jean Paul asked.
Bobby stared at him.
Jean Paul sighed. "I shall come, and I shall be myself. Are you satisfied? I shall probably ruin your Christmas. Will that assuage your guilt, your self blame, your little festering martyr complex? Will you be able to live with yourself again?"
"I can live with myself. I live with myself every day," Bobby blurted. "I don't know how. I shouldn't!"
"Robert, if you had not reacted so violently, I would be the one mired in guilt. You would have broken up with me, for betraying you like that. Instead, I have been wandering these halls, allowing myself to remain angry at you because I do not wish to look at my own actions. You overreacted, but I did provoke you."
"And what if it happens again?" Bobby asked, the feel of hot tears behind his eyes almost comforting, even though he had purportedly been cured for some time now. "What if you, or someone else, says something that pisses me off? Betrays me for my own good? If I had iced you, I could have killed you. Frozen you and shattered you."
Jean Paul looked faintly alarmed. "I had not realised your powers had quite that scope," he admitted. "Regardless, you did not. You must take into account your own mitigating circumstances. You were very sick."
"Did I have ice on the brain? Was I incapable of rational thought?" Bobby demanded. "Of course not. That was me, JP, all me, and don't you dare forgive me for it. Don't be that weak."
Jean Paul swallowed. "Maybe this is not such a good idea," he said softly. "I will spend-"
Bobby grabbed the phone from where it was still hanging against the wall. He dialled the number still glowering at Jean Paul. The ringing only made him tenser, until that sudden, blessed, never-so-appreciated click and recorded voice of the answering machine.
"Hi, mom, it's Bobby," he said, trying to keep his voice under control. "I'm just calling to let you know I'm bringing a friend back with me for Christmas. He's got nowhere else to go. I hope you don't mind; you always said I was welcome to. Call me if there's a problem. Love to you and dad, bye."
And he put the phone back on the hook, turned his back on Jean Paul, and walked away.
"Have you ever considered the damage your ice slides might do?" Jean Paul asked.
The silence had been painfully awkward, it was true, but that really hadn't been how he intended to start a conversation.
The New York countryside rambled away below them, hints of heavy frost visible even from up here. It had't snowed yet, but the air was crisp and the clouds heavy. A white Christmas was nothing too special for Jean Paul, but even he liked the idea.
And that would have been a far better conversation opener. Way to break the ice, so to speak.
Rather than criticising Bobby's only method of mutant transport in mid-use. It must have sounded like he was hoping to carry Bobby.
"I melt them as I go along," Bobby replied. "See?"
Jean Paul glanced back, to see the sweeping, roller-coaster-esque curve dissolving in the weak light. Not merely to water, either.
"Not that it could make much difference at this time of year," Bobby said, "but your point is duly noted."
"I suppose it also prevents a person from following you so easily," Jean Paul commented.
Bobby shrugged. "A bit, but I'm still not intending on sliding right up to the front door, you know? Just because the world knows who I am is no reason to go inviting trouble."
Jean Paul had a sneaking suspicion that he was being goaded. Of course, he agreed with Bobby here: no matter what the parallels, there were some differences between being outed as gay and outed as a mutant, especially as a superhero. Jean Paul couldn't quite see Magneto hunting down Bobby's parents just because of his sexuality. Jean Paul had met people who would, but most of them didn't have their own country.
He hadn't decided yet quite how he would approach the situation in Bobby's house. If asked, he would be honest, obviously. He had no intention of lying. But whether, should the conversation take such a direction, he should simply keep his mouth shut? It wasn't like him, and he knew it. But what were his alternatives?
It turned out, he didn't even have that one. Bobby's father was standing on the porch, and frowned at him as the two of them approached.
"Northstar," he said, with a voice that suggested he knew more than enough about Jean Paul already.
"Hey, dad," Bobby said, dropping his case on the step. "How's things?"
Mr Drake took his eyes from Jean Paul long enough to give his son a tight hug. Bobby visibly relaxed.
"Things are good," Mr Drake said. "You know, when you invite a guest to our house, it's polite to tell us his name."
"Sounds like you already know it," Bobby said. He pulled away from his father, and picked up his case again. Jean Paul swapped his to his other side and offered Mr Drake his hand.
"William," said Mr Drake.
"Jean Paul," said Jean Paul.
"You are that... skier, from Canada, aren't you?" William Drake said.
Jean Paul nodded. "Though not for some years now."
William turned, and led them into the house. "You're in the guest room," he said. "Bobby will show you."
Jean Paul followed Bobby up a narrow flight of stairs. At the top, Bobby turned to him, and pointed along the landing.
"Mom must have told him to watch his language," he said. "That's your room. Bathroom's opposite. Just dump your stuff for now; mom'll be wanting to meet you."
"How did he learn that it was me who you invited?" Jean Paul asked, moving in the indicated directions. Bobby was leaning around a door to chuck his bag into a room that still had "Bobby's Hideout: Private" on the door.
"Dunno," Bobby said. Jean Paul opened the door to his own room, and stepped inside. Bobby followed him. "Oh, new sheets," Bobby said.
It was a nice room: large and airy, inoffensively magnolia. The bed, chest of drawers and wardrobe were painted white; the carpet, curtains and sheets were pale green. There was a print on the wall by an artist Jean Paul recognised, but couldn't name, and some wax fruit on top of the chest of drawers. There was a pine-tree-shaped, apple-pie-scented room freshener hanging from the wardrobe door knob.
"Dad does watch a lot of sports," Bobby said. "Maybe he recognised you from the Winter Olympics, whenever you last participated."
"That was a very long time ago," Jean Paul sighed. "Even I would not recognise myself from the publicity shots then. No, Robert, he knew I was coming before we arrived. I am sure of it."
"Maybe I mentioned you in a previous call, or something, and mom figured it out." Bobby shrugged. "Is it really a big deal?"
"He must know that I am gay," Jean Paul said.
Bobby rolled his eyes. "I figured that out. Mom obviously has him on a bit of a short leash about it, so what are you worrying about? Oh, I know where he recognises you from! The court case, remember? After the first time we had coffee."
Jean Paul nodded, unable to help the smile. "Oui," he said, "that must be it. I suppose it does make things easier, overall."
"Of course it does," Bobby said. "Come on, we better get downstairs. Um. Mom's cookies are not something to be missed."
That 'um', Jean Paul thought, contained Bobby's complete recognition of the problem they now faced. Jean Paul hoped Bobby was ready to come out to his parents, because it didn't look as though he was going to have a choice, before this vacation was over.