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Does it ever.

[And he can't use it. Anything he tries to pull out against Petre will lead right back to him. Every single event and word of that night is entwined.]

Breaking curfew to do it, in case you forgot. Do anything to get me in detention and we're gonna be right back in there together again.

Wow, touchy. [he lifts both hands. You got him.] What did I do to piss you off this time, anyway?

D'you ever have to do anything? [Rubbing at his temples. His head is pounding from the strain of keeping this up and the lack of sleep. He hasn't even gotten a coffee yet, since he was trying to sneak in before Petre woke up.] It's how we work. You tried to make a move against me, I had a counter-move. You're the one who likes it that way.

Against you or on you?

[he crosses his arms, curls the corners of his lips, almost knowingly. Only in the sense that he knows himself well enough to guess he did try something. Two boys alone in a bedroom, one of them completely drunk and prone to being more physical than the other will ever be comfortable with. Of course something happened.]

But then my face doesn't hurt, so I didn't even do anything that'd earn me another punch. The mystery's killing me.

[Shit. If he gets too curious, he could pull the truth right out of John. He won't meet his physical desires that way, but he'll still use it for little details like that.

Okay. Spin it. Slowly, wearily, he opens his eyes, one arm thrown over his forehead now.]

Yeah. Of course you made a move on me. And of course I left. That shit's so standard by now that I don't see why I have to tell you.

[Predictably enough, there's laughter. He walks back over to his bed, but - he doesn't want to sit down. He feels like he's slept for the past ten days.]

It is, isn't it.

[He picks up his pillow, lets it drop on the other side, then hops on the mattress and scoots back until he's against the wall, legs crossed by the ankles.]

Man, I was drunk. Was I sloppy? Don't tell me. I have a reputation to keep.

[And as is his way, John just rolls his eyes over to look at Petre instead of his whole head.]

How would I know if you were smooth? I'm not interested. Nothing would work. [He feels like he has thumbtacks on the roof of his mouth, the lie takes such effort now.]

Don't be ridiculous, John. You can still know.

[Or was he just so blindly afraid he wouldn't take it either way? Heterosexual men these days.]

You know what they say about guys like you?

Oh god, I'm dying to know.

[He doubts "they" hold any opinions he gives any kind of shit about, but let him prattle on. He's off the scent, anyway.]

That you're afraid of guys like me. Because I treat you the same way you treat women.

[pause. Then a laugh.]

One problem with that. [Finger up in the air to punctuate his point.] I'd never work as hard as you do on me for any chick.

And if that's not a sign of true love, I don't know what is.

[... that's laughable, too. Or it would be if there wasn't a mess of emotion - is it emotion? - somewhere whenever John's involved. Petre doesn't fucking know, but he doesn't let himself think about it, either. What's there to think about? He's decided long ago it was just a game.]

[It's clear from the sound of it that he's fighting the laughter that bubbles up, but he just can't help it. I need you. I've never needed anyone. He hears it again and again, cycling through his head, and his laughter becomes closer to hysterical.

True love. Jesus. This is almost fucked enough that he could believe it. And he has no idea what's true and what isn't, so it's not even a joke anymore, but he keeps on laughing.]

[Petre only thinks he knows why John's laughing. Hell, he can even laugh along with it, as quiet as he is on the other side of the room.

Just a joke. It's all a joke.]

Anyway. I fucking stink. You don't mind if I call dibs on the shower for the next three hours, do you?

[He takes a deep breath, stills the laughter before it goes over the edge into - screaming, he doesn't even know. Some release of all this new, awful tension.]

Oh good, I can get in some sleep. Make it four.

[John's not even done talking before he's already stripping off his jacket, slipping it off his wrists before he brings a hand up to mess up his otherwise impeccable head. At least he thought it was; apparently the guy from last night already did a number on the back. Who cares.

He takes off his watch, then the phone from his pants pocket. Removes his shirt and undoes his trousers.]

[John has his eyes closed, but as soon as he figures out what's going on, they fly open.]

The bathroom's big enough to get naked in there, y'know.

I know.

[a murmur. He isn't looking at John; doesn't need to. As long as he isn't being ignored he continues until all that's left is his underwear. (There's a bruise on his shoulder.) He drops one shoe, then the other. Runs a hand through his hair and gets on his feet, finally stepping into the bathroom to let John have some peace.]

[And damn him, he watches the whole thing, his throat dry. Only when it becomes clear that Petre isn't getting completely undressed does he quickly turn onto his side, facing the wall, and grab the balled up blanket to kick and stretch it over himself.

Naptime, damnit. He'd better make good on that three hour promise.

Except that when John closes his eyes again, he's right back in this room last night. He's got Petre holding his face with one hand, stroking his wrist with the other, and his soft lips are moving more gently than John could ever have imagined. The mere memory of a light flick of tongue is enough to make him shiver.

Jesus christ. He can't do this. No one could be expected to do this.]

[If only he were a mind reader. He'd savor every single thought creeping into John's brain and draw it out, make sure he'd never forget it. Petre would think it was all imagination, of course, incapable of knowing what's a memory and what isn't, seeing as he's been challenged severely in that department. But imagination would be better than a memory, because imagination would imply some kind of volition. Want. Petre understands want. His power's all about it, and he's never, ever felt bad for wanting something.

(That he knows of. John challenged him in that department, too.)

He doesn't take the full three hours, but close. The school should reprimand him for it, wasting their resources to his bidding. But when should he start caring? Not too soon, unfortunately for them.

He comes out without a single piece of clothing save for the towel on his head. Didn't bring any with him inside, and he's barely got any left after John's little revenge on his closet. Petre, again, takes his time picking out today's outfit. Doesn't even bother with underwear until it's all properly decided. From then to buttoning up his shirt is a much shorter process.]

Nap time's over.

[He's in front of the mirror, making last arrangements to damp hair. There. Perfect.]

What do you wanna do today?

[Thank god his closet has him facing away from John's bed, because he yawns and opens his eyes at the sound of hangers sliding against the crossbar, and ends up with a face full of bare ass.

But it could've been worse. It could've been worse.

After that, it's all feigning sleep until Petre speaks up, and then feigning that he's been woken up with another yawn and a long, deep stretch. His eyes are shuttered for a moment - okay, he's dressed - before opening completely.]

Sleep? Not shitting you here, I'm exhausted. [But that won't fly and he knows it, so he sits up and scrubs at his face with his hands.] Any reason you're making it sound like we're spending the day together? Did I make a date I don't remember?

Told you, you were gonna pay for costing me that lay. Now you get to spend the day with me.

[He likes the sound of a date. Only because it's John, and only because the thought would make him cringe. Petre doesn't do dates, anyway. (Except for Meadow.)]

I was thinking sunshine and flowers.

[Last time they had sunshine and flowers they burned the yard down.]

Besides, you're not gonna tell me you're not used to winging the night and going crazy through the day, are you? Street rat.

You can stop calling me that any time. [Even Johnny's better, god.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, still rubbing at his face.]

And I've been here two years. I'm used to at least a couple hours sleep a night now. Just - [Alright. He'll play along, for today, if only to keep Petre distracted from thoughts of what happened the night before. He can't come to the realization himself or decide to coax it out of John.] - just let me have my shower, which will now probably be ice cold.

I didn't even come up with it! You did.

[You you you, John, all your fault.]

Good. That'll wake you up nice and proper.

[He flops down on his bed, picks up the book on his nightstand.]

Chop chop.

[He's not even gonna go into how often he heard that term on the street, how much it was not his creation. Not going to deal with Petre picking the wrong bed. He's just gonna head for the bathroom and try to block every single bit of this out for as long as he can before their magical day together starts.

And he told Ryan he was going crazy before.]

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