fifthcurriculum | INTRO LOG

[He slips back into the room, humming some tune he remembers from - somewhere. Maybe it's something that he had from before the amnesia? No, unlikely. He must've picked it up somewhere along the way here. He doesn't know the lyrics, doesn't care for them. He just wants an excuse to make sure John's awake.

He can barely walk a straight line to his bed, and when he falls down he falls heavily on his back, arms spread across the mattress. He sighs happily, eyes closed, licking his lips because he can still taste the alcohol.

Petre is very drunk.]

Shut up.

[It's a low, cranky mutter from beneath John's pillow, which he crammed over his head the moment he heard the humming. From outside the door. No chance Petre will be shutting up; this is very deliberate, meant to wake him up, and he can smell the alcohol on him from here.

Could've invited him, he thinks, then decides that would've been the worst idea ever. He wouldn't do that much for an evening of freedom and a drink.

More cranky rustling from his bed as he resettles himself, presses the pillow over his head even harder, and then he's quiet.]

You shut up.

[it's a joke. Ha ha. Laugh, John. Petre chuckles but it's a low sound that comes from the back of his throat.]

I had a good night. Did you have a good night? Mine was great.

[He gives up surprisingly early, if that's enough to make up for no laugh, tossing his pillow to the end of the bed and sitting up with a quick, violent rub of his eyes. In response to the question, he gestures to the book on his nightstand: Assertiveness vs. Aggression: The Secret to Peaceful Resolution.]

Ten pages by tomorrow. "How to speak your mind and assert your boundaries without resorting to violence." You wanna break the news that it's never gonna work here, or should I?

[he clasps his hands on his stomach. Realizes John is up and wants his attention after all. Did he say something important? Yadda yadda. Ten pages. He laughs again. His words aren't completely slurred, but they lack the quickness and eloquence.]

Never gonna work out. [he lifts a finger, arches his brows.] Never say never. Nunca digas nunca.

[and he repeats it in Romanian and Cantonese.]

I met a guy called Jon. No 'h'. He was hot. Almost as hot as you.

Great, you really are tanked. [Scrubbing his hand over his face again.] I don't need a play-by-play, man. Just get to the passing out stage ASAP.

[His eyes are puffy and rimmed with red, deep bags under them, his own voice still low and husky with recently disturbed sleep. The picture of someone who stayed up too late working on a bullshit assignment and snatched about an hour of sleep before Petre came in. Absently, he runs a hand through his hair and huffs when it all falls right back over his forehead and ears; if only sleeping with the gel in didn't destroy his pillowcases so fast.]

Nooo. Stay - talk to me, man. Sing me a lullaby. I really like your voice.

[he looks at John, finally. Squints at him in the darkness.]

Or a story. Tell me a story.

Even if I did sing, I don't know any lullabies. [That's not a dismissal - he just really is straight up useless on that front. Although he's never heard that about his voice before, and it tickles his ego the way any unexpected compliment would.]

If you insist. Lemme read you a passage from Assertiveness vs. Aggression, it's good shit. [That has to be enough to shut him up.]

What? No, not that. [he drags himself back up into a sitting position. His tone is set to childish complaint mode.] One of your street rat stories.

[He lies down as Petre sits up, on his back with his hands behind his head, trying to dredge up a story that might satisfy Petre. The one that comes to mind surprises him, but hell, it might just shut him up about John's horrible loneliness. It's one of the few connections he made out there, brief as it was.]

I met this redhead, about my age. Siobhan. Still had a bit of the accent, Irish or Scottish or whatever. We always ended up in the same shelters when there was room, and I thought she was stalking me. Another mutant, the worst fucking empath you can possibly imagine - nearly all broadcasting. You know how annoying it is to feel shit like it's totally real when it's actually coming off someone else? Like a constant nervous breakdown.

But she was weird. Nothing got her down. Not a single goddamn thing got her down. People who couldn't get their mouths around her name just called her Sunshine. I probably don't need to tell you there wasn't exactly a shitload of that kinda affection going around a bunch of desperate starving people, but she got it. And I guess she figured she could turn me around if she just shone hard enough at me.

When that didn't work, she took over my cot one night. I tried to kick her out, she said we could share. We were both so goddamn skinny that we could, and these were smaller than hospital cots. We were fourteen, stunk like shit but all pushed together like that, and - you of all people can guess what happened. But the thing is, I didn't just feel what I was feeling. I felt what she was feeling, and what I was feeling rebounded back at me. You know how intense that was?

[He trails off there, staring up at the ceiling without much expression at all.]

[his eyes are lazy, but he listens. Tried to imagine what she looked like. How John looked like so young. And of course he imagines them having sex. Clothes on, hair a mess. Did he call her name?

It interests him, the aspect of what John felt. And he remarks that he's never had an empath. Something to try in the future.]

Fuck.

[he's excited by it all, but still languid. Somewhat listless.]

What happened to her. Did she shine on you?

Disappeared. People did. Not exactly the best place to make lifelong friendships. I thought I'd find her here when I heard about the place, but -

[There's a long silence.]

- like I said. She was just weird. And fucking annoying. Worth one great fuck, but that's about it.

[and he insists that they're nothing alike. Fuck the girl and let her go. How's that different from what Petre does?]

I wonder what she says about you.

[he wonders what John would say about him.]

I've never met anyone like that. Not even in a school full of freaks.

[he forgets John hates that word, and it shows in its lack of intent. He's never met or slept with anyone who left a mark, and he wants John because he thinks he can.]

Jon wanted me to fuck him in the bathroom. I said, sure. [a shrug.] Then he asked me how I got the dark eye. Told him I was in detention. He looked at me like he just saw a ghost. Asked me how old I was. I said, seventeen. Then he started sweating 'cause he was already hard and my hand was in his pants. He didn't know what to do. Let me jack him off or run away before he got caught with jailbait.

[a sigh.]

I could've lied. But I didn't. Guess I wanted to figure out how bad he was willing to be. [his eyes are unfocused. Elsewhere.] Waste of time. Least he bought me drinks.

[That's the first time Petre's missed one of his lies, if he really believes that's what John did. In truth, he'll never forget the first and, so far, only person who looked at a sad, angry, volatile boy and tried to find a way to help instead of laughing or writing him off. The first person who showed her own strange sort of caring.

It would've gone wrong if they'd met again. But He hasn't let her go.]

You think she's alive? You're a bigger optimist than me. [And there's a tiny little twist in his voice at last, but he quickly hops onto Petre's story to escape from his own.]

Everyone's just a test subject for you, huh. Not that a random pervert in a bar deserves any better, but still.

[well, he's drunk. Must've slipped right by him.]

Of course. I don't just let anybody in. They've got to prove themselves.

[leans his head back against the wall, eyes shut, lips relaxed, neck exposed.]

Can you imagne if I'd felt anything for him? I could've thought he was the love of my life. And he left me and ran off like I was a monster. Didn't even tell him I'm a mutant. Didn't even make him stay.

[pause. He exhales, smiles. It's bitter.]

Guess I really am drunk.

[hah.]

[Jesus, what a performance. He considers Petre for a moment, before an inscrutable smile touches his lips.]

Lie down properly. I've got a lullaby for you after all.

[When he starts to sing, his pitch is deep, a bit husky, the pace slow. He never reaches for the song's high notes, never screams, dropping them down to soft murmurs instead; his overall ear for the notes is slippery, but the quality of his voice isn't unpleasant, and this song has got a jittery melody in the first place.

Who knows what he's saying with his song choice? Maybe he's teasing. Maybe it's a random choice. Or maybe he's saying he knows exactly what Petre's selling, and exactly what he hopes to find in John. There's no way to be certain if it's a statement or not. The combination of reliving Siobhan's story and that little outburst about actually feeling brought it out of him.]

[but he doesn't lie down properly. Just leaves a hand relaxed on his stomach and opens his eyes lazily to watch John as he sings. Petre's blatant as ever, but at least he's quiet.

Silence settles in after. Petre can almost see it in the darkness. Like dust. But not quite.]

Didn't know you could sing.

[softy, he brings his hands together. Clap clap.]

Thanks, Johnny.

[And Petre's just as hard to read in return. It's an even score this time, at least. His smile sharpens just a touch as the silence stretches out between them, though, because he thinks that proves that some message has been sent.]

You cheated. It's supposed to put you to sleep.

The lyrics weren't exactly conducive to that, were they.

[he heard every single one. But he heard what he wanted to hear.]

You've been paying attention.

Tell me a secret. I'll tell you one too.

[one arm behind his head.]

[He cocks his own head curiously. There's a lot of rawness in that song, and - is Petre admitting to all of it? Actually admitting he might feel something, as blunted and cold as it is?

Chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip, he looks across at Petre. A secret, huh?]

How deep are we talking here? Gunpoint, or just never came up?

Whatever. I don't care. You'll be the first and only one.

[Alright, he's curious enough to bring up a good one.]

I killed someone. A cop. Didn't mean to - they were busting up a squat, and we had no chance to grab our shit. I torched the place so we couldn't be tracked, 'cause most of us had some kind of record by that point.

The asshole just didn't wait for the fire department. His fault, really. The fire's out of my control once I leave it behind, it does what it's supposed to do. This dickhead telepath in the group just said "one down," and I knew.

[and how much of a secret is that really? Who knows. More than enough dickhead telepaths around could pick that up and gossip. Petre doesn't even need that. He likes the mental images, though. Wishes he knew what it's like to kill someone.

(wonders if he already did. Why did the church burn down?)

Eyes shut again.]

My turn.

[a pause. He sighs.]

Nobody's ever made me feel anything. Happy, sad. I get angry, though. I know I love sex. Violence.

There's a name for that. When you don't feel shit like normal people. I think I'm just sick that way. You know? It's like fire. Doesn't care about what it gets, as long as it gets everything.

[his hand opens while he talks. Not quite gesturing.]

You're like that girl for me. I get what you're feeling.

No one's ever done that for me.

Sociopath.

[He says it quietly, numbly. It was thrown around him more than once, before the school began its very slightly successful taming campaign. That's all he can say, because Petre's drunk, and he can't possibly mean what John thinks he means.

Siobhan was - a landmark. Her disappearance broke off just as large a piece of him as his parents' desertion did, just from a different place. And Petre's saying that he's not just a game, some kind of prey; he's a landmark too, he gives Petre something brand new. And something as massive as emotion, the totality of it.

If it's true, the rules of the game (no, shit, it's not a game) have changed completely. If it's not, if this is all just drunken bullshit - does that mean he'll ever be able to shake the memory of it from his mind? This raw, naked confession? How will he ever really know if it's true or not?]

Petre - [No, he still doesn't have words. His eyes are downcast, his mouth slightly open, a helpless look.]

Yeah. That's it.

[and while john sinks back into his thoughts, petre slides a hand down his tired face, letting it drop on his lap when he tilts his head, looks back at john. Maybe it's the buzz of alcohol giving him warmth in his chest. Petre never feels the need for intimacy, but he does rarely get this desire to connect. To know what it's like, at least. John's the closest he's ever gotten because they're so alike - and even against his will Petre keeps pushing and making him prove he's worth more than a test subject.

Petre -

He recognizes the tone. Sees the shift in John's eyes. He may not ever feel it like he does, but an objective part of him can see it for what it is.

There's a long pause between then and now. Petre draws it out because he's thinking. Thinking whether his thoughts are coming from some place real this time. Can he trick even himself?

He doesn't know. But he shifts to get on his feet and walks the distance between their beds. Reaches for John's face an leans in, angling his head with a pause. He doesn't remember his eye's already bruised, doesn't wonder if John will do it again.]

John - [a whisper. His fingers curl. How does he say this?] I've never needed anyone. I need you.

[and his lips press against his, gently.]

INTRO LOG

idek when. THEIR ROOM. late at night.

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my phone at the tag i want to cry

BUT YOU SOLDIERED ON

and that video isn't available for phones, life is suffering

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