fifthcurriculum | INTRO LOG

[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.]

[He sees all of it happening, the approach, feels the soft touch on his face, but it all seems to be happening to someone else. Like this can't be real - he can't have been roomed with Petre in the first place. The entire setup to this evening can't have happened. Petre can't exist.

Petre certainly can't be caressing him, touching him in that sweet, intimate way with which he's so unfamiliar. So much harder than a fist to the face, so much scarier. He's afraid, that much was true.

And then his lips just seem to get caught on Petre's, like feet tangling together so badly they can't come untangled until both people hit the ground, and he can't pull away. He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, finally aware at the very least, but still caught. Magnets. Orbit. A million metaphors and no idea what's really happening.

When he finally grabs Petre by the shoulders, pushes him back, he doesn't look angry. Confused, yes, and very much scared, but not angry.]

Don't do that again. [It sounds more like a plea than a warning or a command.]

Edited 2014-09-19 00:48 (UTC)

[the look in petre's eyes is almost dull, but that's a lie. His skin is flushed, be it from alcohol or some ghost of an emotion, and the hand that was left free rests on top on John's wrist, thumb brusbing like it's another caress. Like he's quietly telling him it's okay. No need to be afraid. This won't hurt.

Without answer he leans in again. Should John let him and the kiss this time won't be as still. It'll be just a little hungrier. A little sloppy. No tongue save for the instances in which it brushes only slightly, lips parting and pressing together again. One kiss after the other until they're left staring at each other.]

[At some point, he starts leaning in rather than away - he never moves the hands from Petre's shoulders to touch him, never crosses that line, but his head tilts ever so slightly to improve the angle and he accepts those light brushes of tongue against his lips without drawing away. Never opens his mouth to them, either, but there are subtle hints of reciprocation; still, he's being kissed more than kissing.

And this this time he's flushed as well when they break apart, mouth still damp, trying to process what's happened. He has no idea if he liked it, if it's something he'd want again, but he didn't jerk away. He didn't darken that bruise on Petre's eye. That's enough to send his mind into overdrive.

(They do feel good. His lips. As soft as he would've imagined, if he had ever imagined such a thing.)]

This isn't - [He swallows.] - this doesn't mean - [Licking his lips nervously, tasting the alcohol from Petre's mouth and shivering a little.] - this is never happening again.

Edited 2014-09-19 04:54 (UTC)

[he doesn't mind. The small, subtle gestures are enough to keep him going, not encouragement, just justification. He isn't running after all. He isn't punching him again or aggressively denying there was ever anything between them. There's no denying it anymore. He's here, lips wet from the kiss, heart beating just a little faster in his chest.

And immediately Petre wants more. It's a lazy want, though. He doesn't act on it, instead imagines crawling onto the bed to press himself between John's legs. More kissing. More touching. Making him draw out sounds he can't control from that gorgeous mouth. They barely fit together on the bed, but he just needs enough room to straddle him. Roll his hips, make him come without even taking his clothes off.

It's a wonder Petre isn't hard. But then he is hopelessly drunk. And part of him tells him that's wrong. To want something is wrong. Who knew?]

I didn't do that, did I? I didn't make you.

[it's a genuine question, like suddeny Petre wants to remember he didn't cheat and force John to stay still.]

It was real.

[John grits his teeth - he can tell it's not a point being made, not Petre rubbing his face in it, but it still irritates him to have to say it.]

It was real. [Quiet and defensive. But at the same time, he's starting to wonder if he'll even be able to sleep with things left like this; after those light, just barely seductive kisses, he's still lost. Utterly confused. And while part of him is saying that he should never fucking find out if he's been stupid enough to let it get as far as confused in the first place, there's another that just needs things settled. On his terms.]

You didn't make me do any of this. [Which now includes leaning back in and grabbing the back of Petre's head for a real kiss, mouth open from the start and tongue prodding at his lips much more pointedly. The chorus of no screaming through his mind and body is overwhelmingly loud, but he never pulled away. He never pulled away. He needs to find out what's underneath all that screaming.]

[his turn to be confused - because as much satisfaction as John's answers give him, he still doesn't expect that hand to move up and clasp around him, doesn't expect yet another kiss, this time on his terms.

(he didn't do this. He didn't say 'kiss me'. He thought it, but he didn't say it, and in a second he wonders if his desires are more powerful than he thought. Would a thought alone be enough to make someone do this?)

He releases a shudder and a breath just before they connect, murmurs with both surprise and pleasure when he turns his head and leans into the kiss. If he wasn't hungry before he certainly is now, fingers clenching around the fabric of John's shirt. God, he wants that hand to be between his legs, but that would put an end to what they're doing now. John would just be the second person he'd have tried to have sex with tonight, and it makes him sick. Why? He shouldn't care. And this is why he needs John, to figure out these thoughts no one else provokes. He's never debating with himself as much as he is now.

There's a soft whimper when the kiss stops. He didn't think it would ever end. His lids are half-closed, his lips parted and breathing hard. He leans in again. He likes John's taste. Don't let it end. Don't let him think.]

[Well, now he knows. When his tongue slips into Petre's mouth; when Petre grabs onto him like that, like he's some kind of anchor that will keep him from just drifting aimlessly forever; when his whole body floods with a kind of heat he can only feel from inside and he wants to slide his hand down Petre's neck, slide his mouth down Petre's neck and just follow this as far as it'll take him; now, without question, he knows.

And he's fucking terrified.

That attempt at another kiss is blocked finally, fully, as John shoves him away again and actually gets off the bed himself. He's shaking, face all drawn in hard lines.]

Get out. Get - no, fuck it, y'know what? I'll get out. [And he's grabbing his pillow, tugging on the top blanket to try and pull it loose and throw it over his shoulder. He's getting the fuck out of this room and whatever weird, insane energy Petre's created here.]

No - [he swallows, head low and subdued, fingers curling into John's shirt again.] Don't leave.

[it's... Not an order. He doesn't use his power. He's actually asking. Trying to pry the blanket off John's back, but his movements are slow, sloppy. He's still very drunk, pressing his lips together because he's lost his focus and wants to regain it.] I don't want to stop.

[God, he can't even think of their game anymore. Of how much power he has right now, with Petre looking entirely small and sounding meek and subservient despite the words still being phrased as a demand rather than a request. The tone says everything that needs to be said, reshapes them into the question they really are.

No - the plea.

He turns around at the door, his expression more conflicted than angry now. It's no goddamn fun wielding power over anyone, not even Petre, when the very thought of what he'll have to do to use it causes a massive slippage of reality in his head. It's not even a cataclysmic shift like his manifestation, one he'll never be able to ignore; he can use a night on the common room couch to craft a brand new wall of denial and make himself safe again. But for how long? And who is he doing it for?]

I need to stop. [And there's his own plea in return, his throat working with another hard swallow at the way Petre's looking at him. He feels like everything in Petre's world right now and it's not at all as satisfying as such a thing should be.] I need to get my head together. I'm - not moving out or anything, just one night. Sober up. Then we can actually talk.

[He touches Petre's upper arm very gently, lets his hand fall again. A tiny whisper of comfort. One touch that won't bruise.]

Edited 2014-09-19 15:14 (UTC)

INTRO LOG

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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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