[It doesn't take long for John to realize that their room's been effectively abandoned. He has to sneak back for showers and clothes, and presumably Petre does too, but the fact that they never meet tells him that the other boy is spending next to no time here.
So he spends a night in the room, and it's safe. Not like he's scared of meeting Petre on a massive bender, or like he feels badly for causing it, but - he supposes he's just surprised anew by the very real impact he has on Petre's life. It all feels like the game he keeps telling himself it is until he's ordered away from contact with every male on the planet, or until Petre comes right off the rails because of one spiteful comment. This is power, yes, but he suddenly understands why Petre finds no satisfaction in using his mutation to order John into doing the one thing he wants. There's no satisfaction in this, either.
He's out of a shower and dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, hair messily towel-dried, sitting on his bed with a textbook open in his lap when a key clicks in the lock and he freezes in place. Warily, he sets the book aside and watches as the door appears to move in slow motion, Petre's form revealing itself a sliver at a time.]
So. [He keeps his voice mild, no suggestion or implication.] You done yet?
[It's as though Petre was expecting to find the room empty; John calls him out with a question and he looks up like he just realized the room's supposed to have someone else in it. His eyes are a little dazed, lines deeper than usual, denouncing a severe and deliberate lack of proper sleep. His lips are pursed when he sees the other boy, not quite contempt, just something like 'oh. You.' that never quite makes it into words.
Petre doesn't answer, he just walks on over to his bed and drops the key and takes out whatever he's been keeping in his pocket. Just one condom, a phone, loose cigarettes and a cheap plastic lighter. They took his prized golden one.]
Am I done yet? [He motions his head with a slight mock-tone, words paced and eloquent. I don't know, John. What am I supposed to be done with?
[Honestly, he was expecting this disdain. Petre's had time to build up the whole charade, even if John's presence was sprung on him. Maybe he really is just that unconcerned with the fact that John's here and speaking to him, but he feels like he can see the effort behind it - just a sense that Petre's nonchalant dismissal tends to come more naturally.]
You tell me. [Now his gaze is a bit more pointed, but he's still keeping his tone even.] Whatever you're doing right now. Proven your point?
[With a small, biting smile, he lifts both hands at his sides, as if to show he's holding nothing in them anymore.]
My work is never done.
[Which is a cheap way out of John's actual question. Has he proven his point? He thought he did that when he laid that order on John. He's eager to know how much it's been eating him up inside, and why, but that's not something he's going to voice so soon.
It could all just be another provocation, but matter of the fact is that he's still bitter. And it's plain to see.]
[He leans his elbows on his crossed legs, like it's storytime. And now the edge is creeping into his voice.]
Taking the school down? Appreciated, but I had more planning to do first. Looking for attention? Doesn't seem like your style, any more than crying for help. Actually losing your shit on a grand scale? That's as close as I can figure it right now.
[And his lips keep stretching and pressing with tension, until the smile that sits on his face turns ugly.]
Fuck you, John. I already have a shrink.
[And so he moves into the bathroom to wash his face - hopefully look a little more alert - and drink from the faucet. All that booze makes one thirsty once it's gone from your system.]
Not playing shrink. [If the door's closed, he'll shout to be heard - if not, just raise his voice.] Just a concerned roommate and friend here, wondering if it's intervention time.
[Goddamnit, he didn't intend to be this cruel when it finally happened. But he feels like he needs to get Petre somewhere even uglier before any of the truth will come out, and maybe they can finally hit something in the vicinity of truce. Full truce is never happening, neither of them really wants it, but this is absurd.]
[Which is really not supposed to mean what it literally means, but this is Petre, so one never really knows. Translated from his language it should be something along the lines of I'm not listening to your bullshit.]
[There's a part of him that really, really wants to simulate the best orgasm he's ever had right in that moment, moans and wails that'd shake the school, but that's exactly that kind of thing that'll keep them static. Without any best instincts to speak of, he just needs to ignore his worst instincts and hope that works.]
Alright. No more crap. I know this isn't all about what I said, because - [Well, it just can't be.] - that'd be stupid even for you. So what the hell is going on?
[He wipes his mouth when he steps out of the bathroom, using his index and thumb in a manner that's nothing less of suggestive, eyes set lazily on John. Any apparent boredom is just a front; it's obvious there's irritation brimming beneath that skin.]
And suddenly you care because-?
[No, John doesn't get the chance to answer before he continues. That ugly smile makes a comeback.]
Besides, I thought you'd appreciate the vacation. Or were you too busy playing Sleeping Beauty in the infirmary?
[He clenches his jaw against the nasty retorts that leap to the tip of his tongue, hundreds of them, thousands, none of which he wants to say right now. For once. But god, the knee-jerk reaction is strong. There's a muscle actually twitching in his cheek as he works to calm himself.]
I told you. I don't actually hate you.
[And he sits up straight again.]
You're literally fucking self-destructing here, Petre. It's kinda hard to miss.
[Needless to say Petre sees right through him, and part of him is further aggravated by the fact that John doesn't even take the bait. He doesn't even play ball like his usual self so Petre can throw it right back with a jab to his stomach.
Taking the calm approach. He could be sick right now. Fighting would actually make him feel better for how miserably it'd play out for the both of them. Tearing down is so much easier than building up.]
How's this any different from what I normally do?
[It's more a test to John than a question about himself.]
[John gives him a flat look. He's got a point, but he's still evading like crazy, so John will state the obvious.]
Scale. You went from staying under the radar to blowing it up. Someone's meant to be watching, and since you obviously don't give a shit if the staff notices, I've gotta assume it's me.
[He spreads out his hands, eyebrows up, fully expecting to be told that's sheer vanity and preparing not to believe a word of it.]
So. I'm here. I see you. Say whatever you've got to say.
[That makes him pause, even if just for a moment. Something bitter still present in his lips, in the way they twitch just slightly to the side before he hides the lower one behind teeth.
He looks to the side, down, leaning against the door frame. He shrugs one shoulder, quieter than before, but no less tense. John's being the sensible one now? Let's see what that really looks like.]
[He rubs wearily at his face, scrubbing a hand over one eye. Maybe Harry's right - he's doing most of this to himself by willingly poking the sleeping dragon over and over and over again. But he keeps expecting this dragon to breathe fire, which will never harm him, and it keeps reminding John that it also has teeth.
Fucked if he'll sit back and let Petre walk all over him, though. That's just the core issue when you deal with Petre: dishing out exactly the amount you take and then getting twice the shitstorm in return.]
Can I get a flowchart of what counts as rules of the game and what gets taken personally? 'Cause I'm really losing track here. Seems like you can say whatever you want to me, but I'm offending your delicate sensibilities every time I fight back. [No, okay, pull back. Ease off.] Yeah. There were better ways to tell you about that. But maybe if you didn't force my hand, it would've played out better.
[But John pulls back, eases off. Or at least he thinks that's what he's doing. Petre sees it all as the same. Petre's eyes are narrowed when they return to focus on him, like he's trying to spot a lie. John thought it was just another swipe at their ping-pong-like match? He must've missed the ball flying way over his head.]
So - how should it have played out? What was I supposed to say to you? Yes, please, thank you. Sorry I ever bothered with acknowledging who you really are. I'll take those cigarettes now.
You've got me backed into a corner with this order on me. You don't expect me to lash out? I could've just told you, not held it over you 'cause it was all I had left.
[Alright. If he's doing this, he's going all the way.]
None of it was a joke. But the thing about pitying you was a lie.
[It's even more visible now, the anger from when John first said it. The worst thing you can do to Petre is pity him, something he discovered when he first had a taste of it in someone's eyes. He doesn't remember how accurate what he told John was. It makes him sick, and that feeling sinks right down to his stomach all over again.]
And what do you expect me to do now? Take it off because you had a change of heart?
I get it. I get it better than anyone. I was dragged in here off the streets, weeks since my last shower, lice, clothes nearly falling off, with pneumonia and negative body fat. You think I didn't get my fair share of pity before people figured out I wasn't some fucking case for them to take on and feel better about themselves? That's why I used it. Like you ever use anything but the best weapons you've got against me.
[And now he sighs, running a hand through his messy hair.]
I don't expect anything anymore. Just calm the hell down, Petre.
[He knows what John went through. He knows the look in people's eyes.]
They look at you like their sadness means shit. But they aren't sad. They're embarrassed. Uncomfortable. That's why they want to change you, make you feel better. None of it's for you, not really. That's what pity really means.
[And selfish as he is, he'd never take what he doesn't want. He curls his upper lip.]
I'd never pity you, John. I know who you are - who you really are. I don't ever want you to change.
Then why should anyone else? [a pause. He's relaxing, if that means anything. Turning the tables so he's the one scrutinizing John, not the other way around.] They don't deserve you. They don't care about who you really are. They want the light version of what's inside your head.
[This is so fucked up, but he just needs to keep talking like it's sensible. Try to see the world through Petre's disturbed eyes and come up with something that will resonate with him.]
I'm just messing around. No one's gonna have me the way you want, Petre. This isn't a game anyone could win.
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So he spends a night in the room, and it's safe. Not like he's scared of meeting Petre on a massive bender, or like he feels badly for causing it, but - he supposes he's just surprised anew by the very real impact he has on Petre's life. It all feels like the game he keeps telling himself it is until he's ordered away from contact with every male on the planet, or until Petre comes right off the rails because of one spiteful comment. This is power, yes, but he suddenly understands why Petre finds no satisfaction in using his mutation to order John into doing the one thing he wants. There's no satisfaction in this, either.
He's out of a shower and dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, hair messily towel-dried, sitting on his bed with a textbook open in his lap when a key clicks in the lock and he freezes in place. Warily, he sets the book aside and watches as the door appears to move in slow motion, Petre's form revealing itself a sliver at a time.]
So. [He keeps his voice mild, no suggestion or implication.] You done yet?
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Petre doesn't answer, he just walks on over to his bed and drops the key and takes out whatever he's been keeping in his pocket. Just one condom, a phone, loose cigarettes and a cheap plastic lighter. They took his prized golden one.]
Am I done yet? [He motions his head with a slight mock-tone, words paced and eloquent. I don't know, John. What am I supposed to be done with?
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You tell me. [Now his gaze is a bit more pointed, but he's still keeping his tone even.] Whatever you're doing right now. Proven your point?
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My work is never done.
[Which is a cheap way out of John's actual question. Has he proven his point? He thought he did that when he laid that order on John. He's eager to know how much it's been eating him up inside, and why, but that's not something he's going to voice so soon.
It could all just be another provocation, but matter of the fact is that he's still bitter. And it's plain to see.]
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[He leans his elbows on his crossed legs, like it's storytime. And now the edge is creeping into his voice.]
Taking the school down? Appreciated, but I had more planning to do first. Looking for attention? Doesn't seem like your style, any more than crying for help. Actually losing your shit on a grand scale? That's as close as I can figure it right now.
[Slowly, he cocks his head, all curious puppy.]
So what is it?
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Fuck you, John. I already have a shrink.
[And so he moves into the bathroom to wash his face - hopefully look a little more alert - and drink from the faucet. All that booze makes one thirsty once it's gone from your system.]
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[Goddamnit, he didn't intend to be this cruel when it finally happened. But he feels like he needs to get Petre somewhere even uglier before any of the truth will come out, and maybe they can finally hit something in the vicinity of truce. Full truce is never happening, neither of them really wants it, but this is absurd.]
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[Which is really not supposed to mean what it literally means, but this is Petre, so one never really knows. Translated from his language it should be something along the lines of I'm not listening to your bullshit.]
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Alright. No more crap. I know this isn't all about what I said, because - [Well, it just can't be.] - that'd be stupid even for you. So what the hell is going on?
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And suddenly you care because-?
[No, John doesn't get the chance to answer before he continues. That ugly smile makes a comeback.]
Besides, I thought you'd appreciate the vacation. Or were you too busy playing Sleeping Beauty in the infirmary?
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I told you. I don't actually hate you.
[And he sits up straight again.]
You're literally fucking self-destructing here, Petre. It's kinda hard to miss.
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Taking the calm approach. He could be sick right now. Fighting would actually make him feel better for how miserably it'd play out for the both of them. Tearing down is so much easier than building up.]
How's this any different from what I normally do?
[It's more a test to John than a question about himself.]
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Scale. You went from staying under the radar to blowing it up. Someone's meant to be watching, and since you obviously don't give a shit if the staff notices, I've gotta assume it's me.
[He spreads out his hands, eyebrows up, fully expecting to be told that's sheer vanity and preparing not to believe a word of it.]
So. I'm here. I see you. Say whatever you've got to say.
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He looks to the side, down, leaning against the door frame. He shrugs one shoulder, quieter than before, but no less tense. John's being the sensible one now? Let's see what that really looks like.]
You said plenty enough for the both of us.
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[He rubs wearily at his face, scrubbing a hand over one eye. Maybe Harry's right - he's doing most of this to himself by willingly poking the sleeping dragon over and over and over again. But he keeps expecting this dragon to breathe fire, which will never harm him, and it keeps reminding John that it also has teeth.
Fucked if he'll sit back and let Petre walk all over him, though. That's just the core issue when you deal with Petre: dishing out exactly the amount you take and then getting twice the shitstorm in return.]
Can I get a flowchart of what counts as rules of the game and what gets taken personally? 'Cause I'm really losing track here. Seems like you can say whatever you want to me, but I'm offending your delicate sensibilities every time I fight back. [No, okay, pull back. Ease off.] Yeah. There were better ways to tell you about that. But maybe if you didn't force my hand, it would've played out better.
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[But John pulls back, eases off. Or at least he thinks that's what he's doing. Petre sees it all as the same. Petre's eyes are narrowed when they return to focus on him, like he's trying to spot a lie. John thought it was just another swipe at their ping-pong-like match? He must've missed the ball flying way over his head.]
So - how should it have played out? What was I supposed to say to you? Yes, please, thank you. Sorry I ever bothered with acknowledging who you really are. I'll take those cigarettes now.
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[Alright. If he's doing this, he's going all the way.]
None of it was a joke. But the thing about pitying you was a lie.
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And what do you expect me to do now? Take it off because you had a change of heart?
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I get it. I get it better than anyone. I was dragged in here off the streets, weeks since my last shower, lice, clothes nearly falling off, with pneumonia and negative body fat. You think I didn't get my fair share of pity before people figured out I wasn't some fucking case for them to take on and feel better about themselves? That's why I used it. Like you ever use anything but the best weapons you've got against me.
[And now he sighs, running a hand through his messy hair.]
I don't expect anything anymore. Just calm the hell down, Petre.
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[He knows what John went through. He knows the look in people's eyes.]
They look at you like their sadness means shit. But they aren't sad. They're embarrassed. Uncomfortable. That's why they want to change you, make you feel better. None of it's for you, not really. That's what pity really means.
[And selfish as he is, he'd never take what he doesn't want. He curls his upper lip.]
I'd never pity you, John. I know who you are - who you really are. I don't ever want you to change.
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Don't you? If you really know me, you know I'll never be owned.
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Maybe not. But you still won't have me the way you want me. Really want me, beyond all the sexual crap.
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I'm just messing around. No one's gonna have me the way you want, Petre. This isn't a game anyone could win.
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