[Lips spread, showing teeth. It's an amusing thought - a vision he wouldn't have mind experiencing for himself. John making a fool of himself is always a good source of entertainment.]
So tell the teachers you don't like to be touched. No one's gonna blame the minor who got picked up off the streets.
[He watches John while he leans in, smiling all throughout the comment. And then he blows some smoke to the side and does as he promised, lips against John's ear.]
I want you in my bed. And I get to do whatever I want to you.
[And he's fully confident that John's going to say no in some other comical way, so he's ready for another good laugh. It shows on his lips.]
[It's odd: until that moment, John doesn't realize that Petre has really backed off the aggressive flirting since that first drunken night. John's been watching him more closely, been caught in guilty looks, moments of observation that could be used to put the lie to his continued objections, but nothing's come of them. It took the threat of someone else, not a flat rejection, to push Petre to the point they're at now.
And now he's playing his full hand, laid out on the table more explicitly than it's ever been before, and John's response is to flush so hotly that he knows it'll reach his face this time.]
That's what you've always wanted. You couldn't pick something more original?
[There's his comical no. Delivered with about as much force as a slap with a de-boned fish.]
[And he leans back. There's more of a sense of victory to hearing his rejection than there would've been otherwise, and that's smack plain on Petre's features.]
[Of course there is. He's tied John's freedom to the one concession he can never make - the only acceptable exchange for him is one tiny freedom for the loss of every other one.
Why in god's name couldn't Petre just wake up sane someday? Wake up as something he could actually desire without dreading and avoiding the fact for his own sanity?]
You're only fucking yourself over right now. [His laugh is cold, but not arrogant. He knows he's been caught in checkmate again.] That's the best part, that you don't even get that.
So no one getting what they want is the best outcome? How fucked up is the inside of your head, anyway?
[Not that anything could really change the situation, but Petre's actually enjoying it. He's guaranteed that John will never, ever give in, and he's enjoying it.]
[He's finally been pushed far enough to break the lock on a secret he swore he'd never tell. That's how much he needs leverage right now. This time he's the one who leans in, whispers in Petre's ear.]
You almost had it. You were just so drunk that you can't remember, and now you can't make good on any of it because every time you open your mouth, you make things worse for yourself. But keep it up. Keep feeling superior 'cause you're digging your own grave. That really is the best part.
[And he makes to walk away, sure that for once, he's struck the ultimate blow.]
[Well. That makes the smile fade, even if it just gives place to mild puzzlement, because he's pretty damn sure he can remember the night in question. He really must have been drunk if there's any detail from that mess he's missing.
(It's the wrong night. He doesn't even think about it, but he's got the wrong night.)]
Think hard enough, you might get it. [He pauses, glances over his shoulder.] Won't do you any good now, but it'll be something to keep you occupied in the shower.
[Nothing happened. He's frowning and thinking about it while he tells himself there's nothing there, because - nothing happened. And his cigarette's almost over.]
[This is too good. Finally, finally Petre is off-balance, and it really is true that the scene holds no power anymore. Even if John gave in then, so many nails have gone into that coffin since that saying so won't mean shit.
He walks back up to Petre, cups his cheek gently.]
Petre - I've never needed anyone. I need you.
[Then he laughs harshly and turns to leave again.]
[He feels the stab, though he doesn't know where it's coming from. Eyes shift down at his hand when it reaches for his face, and he doesn't react save for the parting of tense lips. It doesn't even make sense, and John's spilling it out like it's the greatest weapon he could have ever used against Petre. He actually gets back on his feet, not to watch him leave, but to make sure he's staying.]
You never said that. [And if that's not enough, he's saying it again.] You never said that.
You did. [And sure enough, he does stay, turning around once more to jab a finger at Petre.] You did, and I ate myself inside out over it for ages, because I had no fucking idea what it meant or if it was even true. But it was true - it was just another sick chunk of your mind that I didn't know how to process yet.
All you need is to control me. Maybe I'm the only thing you actually feel like you have control over, because doing it with your mutation makes everything else worthless. Well, now you've got the control, but you'll never get anything else. I hope it's worth it.
[It's plain to see on Petre's face just how much he's liking this - less and less by the second, by the passing of each word coming out of John's mouth. He can't possibly mean the night they spent together, that'd have to be one elaborate lie to play on the memories he does have, which means -
He's playing the memories he doesn't have. Of the night he met Jon and came back to the room drunk. He'd asked about it, he remembers, but he never thought he'd - actually have done anything. Maybe make a pass at John, but talk to him like that? And make John believe it?
No. He wasn't in possession of himself. For the first time Petre recognizes that, and it makes him feel sick. He needs that control back.]
No. [It's just plain denial in a word.] Why would I say that?
Apparently you can only feel things properly through me. [He never would've dreamed that it would be such a pleasure to spill this all out. Even now that he knows it's Petre's lies, just watching his reaction to them makes John feel about ten feet tall.] Sociopath, that's the clinical term. But I give you some kind of conduit, and you want me to help you figure it out.
[Sociopath. That's a term he's only discussed with his counselor, one he's more convinced he should be diagnosed with than otherwise, even if they never disagreed. Their description of someone incapable of feeling the same way other people do, incapable of processing cognitive situations with any empathy - that's what he is. He's known it for a long while, now, he's just never bothered to discuss it with anyone else. Anyone who could use it against him.
But now, he finds, he is very much feeling this. It's a nervousness that translates into anger. Fear, maybe? Fear of humiliation. There's nothing that might concern John there, just the worry of what else he might have heard from a mouth that didn't know what it was doing.]
It's so much better if it's true. You'd get that better than anyone. A good lie can freak someone out for awhile, you'd know that too, but the truth - that really makes them fucking squirm.
[Now his smile's almost playful.]
I'm not lying, Petre. That wouldn't be half this much fun.
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So tell the teachers you don't like to be touched. No one's gonna blame the minor who got picked up off the streets.
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Okay, just once, level with me. Is there anything I can do to convince you here?
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[And he cuts off there. He's going to make you ask for it.]
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Can I get a hint? Buy a vowel?
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Come here.
[He'll whisper it to you.]
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[Whispering as an excuse to get him closer? But he'll play along, stepping in to meet Petre and leaning in slowly and deliberately.]
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I want you in my bed. And I get to do whatever I want to you.
[And he's fully confident that John's going to say no in some other comical way, so he's ready for another good laugh. It shows on his lips.]
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And now he's playing his full hand, laid out on the table more explicitly than it's ever been before, and John's response is to flush so hotly that he knows it'll reach his face this time.]
That's what you've always wanted. You couldn't pick something more original?
[There's his comical no. Delivered with about as much force as a slap with a de-boned fish.]
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So that's a no, then.
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Why in god's name couldn't Petre just wake up sane someday? Wake up as something he could actually desire without dreading and avoiding the fact for his own sanity?]
You're only fucking yourself over right now. [His laugh is cold, but not arrogant. He knows he's been caught in checkmate again.] That's the best part, that you don't even get that.
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[cigarette goes back between his lips.]
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[Not that anything could really change the situation, but Petre's actually enjoying it. He's guaranteed that John will never, ever give in, and he's enjoying it.]
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[He's finally been pushed far enough to break the lock on a secret he swore he'd never tell. That's how much he needs leverage right now. This time he's the one who leans in, whispers in Petre's ear.]
You almost had it. You were just so drunk that you can't remember, and now you can't make good on any of it because every time you open your mouth, you make things worse for yourself. But keep it up. Keep feeling superior 'cause you're digging your own grave. That really is the best part.
[And he makes to walk away, sure that for once, he's struck the ultimate blow.]
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(It's the wrong night. He doesn't even think about it, but he's got the wrong night.)]
What on Earth are you talking about?
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You're full of shit.
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He walks back up to Petre, cups his cheek gently.]
Petre - I've never needed anyone. I need you.
[Then he laughs harshly and turns to leave again.]
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You never said that. [And if that's not enough, he's saying it again.] You never said that.
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All you need is to control me. Maybe I'm the only thing you actually feel like you have control over, because doing it with your mutation makes everything else worthless. Well, now you've got the control, but you'll never get anything else. I hope it's worth it.
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He's playing the memories he doesn't have. Of the night he met Jon and came back to the room drunk. He'd asked about it, he remembers, but he never thought he'd - actually have done anything. Maybe make a pass at John, but talk to him like that? And make John believe it?
No. He wasn't in possession of himself. For the first time Petre recognizes that, and it makes him feel sick. He needs that control back.]
No. [It's just plain denial in a word.] Why would I say that?
[What did you do.]
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Anything yet?
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But now, he finds, he is very much feeling this. It's a nervousness that translates into anger. Fear, maybe? Fear of humiliation. There's nothing that might concern John there, just the worry of what else he might have heard from a mouth that didn't know what it was doing.]
I told you that. While I was drunk.
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[Now his smile's almost playful.]
I'm not lying, Petre. That wouldn't be half this much fun.
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[A pause. Where John's playful, Petre's all edges. Quiet, waiting in the shade.]
What did you say?
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