fifthcurriculum | INTRO LOG

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)

[this could be the moment where Petre would laugh, call John out on what he'd done. There was no taking it back anymore - John gave in, John proved he was right all along. All that prying an provoking and pushing until someone finally gave in and gave up. This should be Petre's greatest victory and he should be savoring it, but the thought couldn't be farther from his mind.

No, he feels small and bitter because he's being rejected. Again. He was given what he wanted and now he's being told he can't have it after all. John's running away again and this time it hurts. (like I was some kind of monster. I didn't even tell him I'm a mutant. I could've made him stay but I didn't. Waste of time.)

He licks his lips, swallows hard, presses his mouth in a thin, resentful line. He's hurt, he thinks. He really doesn't like it. Fucking alcohol.]

Yeah. Go. [fingers push against John's chest lazily.] Go, go, go.

[That's pain he's seeing. That's actual pain. He knows the kind of anger and resentment that smother pain all too well, can practically smell them on someone else.

Somehow they've both won the game and neither wants the trophy.

And he's trapped again. He can't leave now, but there's no guarantee of what he'll allow to happen if he stays. He's someone else right now, or very much himself for the first time in - possibly ever, and he can't predict his own movements. But that's not Petre's fault anymore, at least not entirely.]

Listen. [There's a harsh rasp in his voice.] I'll stay. Alright? This is fucking stupid. [It is, dragging his bedding out to the couch and sleeping there because of a few kisses. It's childish.] But I just wanna sleep. We both need to sleep.

No. [this time he presses with the heel of his hand, widening the distance between them. He almost stumbles when he turns away, walking back to his bed. His words are slurred again because his mouth is tense, brows furrowed like a sullen child.] Don't need your - fucking pity. Makes me sick.

[he crawls onto his bed. Doesn't bother with the covers or with his clothes.]

Go.

[Pity. The ultimate insult. God, they are so much alike it's scary.

Quietly, he opens the door, slips out into the hallway. There's a moment where he considers going to someone about this, but really, who is there? He's already talked to Ryan about the campaign Petre waged against his sanity, so how does it look if he comes back and says actually, he was right all along, about everything? Pathetic.

This has to stay under lock and key until he pulls himself the fuck together. Petre's sullen, drunken moods mean nothing to him. All that sweet speech-making

(I need you)

means nothing to him. How many times has he seen Petre twist his own words to mean the opposite of what he said? Creating them from thin air must be even more effortless. John opened the door by admitting someone had touched him and Petre just barged in to take over that place. His new gambit: not the partner in crime, not the rival you love to hate, not the supposed friend, but an actual lover.

How was he so stupid. Halfway down the hall and his head is already clearing. This has to stay under lock and key forever.]

Edited 2014-09-19 15:53 (UTC)

INTRO LOG

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