An Interlude

On Love and Lust at Mutant High #26

*****

"Johnny?"

Wrapped all the way around him--long pale legs tangled between his, the blonde head on his chest, too-long hair brushing his chin.

He should feel something. Something--something good about this, about having Bobby so close he can feel the coolness of that long body, feel the ribs expand and contract with every breath. Bobby's hip sharp beneath his hand, Bobby trying to give comfort with physical closeness, the way they all did. Humans did it too, St. John supposed, but mutants did it differently. Touch was an act of pure faith. It meant something more than physical closeness. It meant trust.

Four hours, as Bobby led him to their room, stripping off the remains of his uniform, careful of that injured knee. Too far from human emotion to be embarrassed when Bobby started the bathtub, lowering him in, careful of the bandages. Wrapped up in soft towels, redressed like a sleepy kid, led to bed, where Bobby pressed him down with a kiss, then twisting all around him beneath the blankets until he didn't know where he ended and Bobby began. Lights off, door locked, with a chair Bobby placed in front of it, just in case, sending every visitor away with a few words about rest and shock and quiet.

He should feel something. He knew he should. Fingering the fine bones of Bobby's face, running down the curve of his throat--it was good, like this, it always had been, even before they were--'them'. Just closeness through those horrible nights when he'd first arrived, when Dr. McCoy had given him a physical and smiled at Bobby and sent them both away, and Bobby woke him at midnight and crawled in the bed with him while he shook, his own cold body a foil for Johnny, who had no control then, only fear and hate and need. Going to sleep wrapped in too-warm sheets against a cool body.

Five years was a lifetime, he guessed. But not long enough.

"It wasn't your fault she was there, Johnny. Just because you know her doesn't mean she's your responsibility."

Mr. Summers had said that too. Murmured it to him, trying to give quick, chicken-soup comfort because he couldn't do more, he couldn't leave Logan alone. Logan, who wanted to be alone, who'd rip apart the Mansion if he could because the only enemy was encased in Rogue's too-pale skin and hidden behind Rogue's too-green eyes. Because there was no one else to fight and hate and Mr. Summers, somehow, understood, and at least Logan would listen to him. With Dr. McCoy staring at Rogue in that tiny room where they had to lock her again, when she's gasped out her request on the medical bed, because Carol was too strong.

That bitch was too strong. Even dead, she fucked up every life she touched.

"Yeah," he whispered, more because it was something to say than because he meant it. He closed his eyes and Carol stared back. Carol took his childhood and now she took Rogue too. "I hate her, Bobby."

"I know." Gentle hands on his chest, stroking, and he caught them, rolling over and Bobby on his back stared up at him. "Johnny--"

"I wanna forget."

Sex had never been about love for Johnny, even now. Sex was separate, and could be anything at all--fun, pleasure, revenge, pure physical release. Leaning down to kiss the silky cool lips, feeling Bobby's momentary resistance, unsure where this mood had come from, and St. John tried to temper the rising in him. Slipping long fingers through the blonde hair, gentling his approach as much as he could until Bobby could match him, until Bobby could respond, hoping to God Bobby understood that he needed this. Then the cool lips opened, and Bobby tasted like mint when his tongue slid inside, over the front teeth, brushing against a willing tongue. Burying himself in Bobby's mouth, in the taste and scent and feel of him, cool and real and--and here.

Pure sensation and instinct. Fuck reality.

Bobby's hands strong against his shoulder blades, kneading slowly down his back, Bobby responding with a leg wrapping around his thigh, Bobby whispering something when he left those cool lips, staring down into clear blue eyes. Distilling everything into pure sensation, he ducked his head toward the silky skin of his throat, pale skin, tasted faintly of ice and cold days in January.

Bobby jerked when he bit him and he looked up, a little startled. But there was nothing in those blue eyes but surprise and he shut his eyes, finding the muscular shoulder, biting lighter this time, soothing with the tip of his tongue. Working slowly down the strong chest, running his tongue briefly over the hard nipples before nipping gently, carefully, the convulsive clasp of Bobby's hands on his waist enough of an invitation. Dropping his head to the flat stomach and mapping the lines of muscle, and Bobby moaned softly, fingers running through his hair.

"Let me," he heard himself whisper, and let his hand drop to Bobby's erection, encased in flannel. His uneven breath was almost an answer. But not enough of one, not for this. "Bobby--"

A pause, rough breath trying to even, pull out of sensation enough to give decent consent, and something in St. John was surprised he was even able to think of that. Met the clear blue eyes and a slow nod.

"I've never--"

"I have. Trust me."

For a second, an eyebrow arched, eerily reminiscent of Logan--oh, no, don't think of Logan, that leads to thoughts of rooms downstairs where girls you hurt are fighting for their souls--before a teasing smile.

"Yeah, I figured."

It couldn't possibly be that easy. How--unexpected.

Half-sitting, he stripped the loose pajama pants away, rolling Bobby over--very willing, he noted--and ran his hand down the long line of his back, the soft bumps of his spine, and licked at the back of his shoulder. Bobby muttered something softly and he slid a hand beneath his stomach, lifting him, bracing his knees correctly (he hoped), then kissed the back of that deliciously cool neck. Shifting just a little, reaching down to feel Bobby's erection--obviously more interested in this phase of the relationship that Johnny had ever given him credit for. Licking the line of his throat, he found the bedside table, knowing exactly what he kept there. Condoms, check, lube, always.

He was always prepared

He knew for absolute fact Bobby had never done *anything* like this before. Or even in the realm. Hmmm. St. John took a breath, and suddenly realized how very *much* his temperature had risen, and he got both items out, keeping up the steady stroking of Bobby's cock. Careful. Gentle. Be careful, he has no idea what this is like. Super careful. Gentle.

Mine. And where the hell did *that* come from?

Pull down the sweats. Easy does it. Condom next, because that was just logic, and St. John's fingers trembled as he got the packet ripped and rolled it on. Now to get this thing going. Okay. And how many times have you done this? Shit, not many, and Bobby expected him to get this right. Can do. This is not a problem. This wasn't engineering. It was simple--er, sex.

Dear God. His whole body began to shake, and it was more than fear--it was raw need.

"You okay?" Bobby sounded worried, and he realized he'd stopped stroking him. Not a good idea. Get back to that, and Bobby was still interested. Okay. Good. Breathe.

Breathe.

Sure, he was fine. Just fine. Suddenly absolutely terrified, but fine. With a grin that Bobby didn't see, he squeezed out some of the lube, working it between his fingers, before upping the speed of his strokes--and God, he felt good. Very good. Delicious. Lowering his head to that silky throat, shoulder, and carefully working a finger inside Bobby.

Bobby's entire body went stiff, but so did the erection under St. John's hand, so he had to assume this was good.

"Wow," Bobby whispered on what could have been a gasp. So far so good--and St. John shifted a second finger and Bobby tensed abruptly, then relaxed, pushing back against him. Even better. "Johnny--"

"Yeah." He was breathing too fast--had to slow it down, had to make this work. A third finger and Bobby moaned as Johnny slowly stretched him. Oh yes, he could do this, this would be sooo good. So damn good. Carefully, he removed his fingers, glad these condoms were lubricated already because any decent fine motor coordination was shot to hell in a handbasket, shifting himself closer--slow, be slow, be careful--and Bobby whimpered at the loss. Quickly speeding up his strokes, he took a breath.

"You ready?" he whispered, just to be sure, and Bobby's enthusiastic nod was all he needed. Carefully, he eased the head in, felt the resistance, and pushed--

--and dear God, it had been *much* too long since he'd last had sex.

Light exploded just behind his eyes and it was a concerted act of will to go slow, to keep moving so carefully, not wanting to hurt him, wanting this to be good, very good, so good--God, this was good. Slowly pressing until he was completely seated and Bobby moaned again--and apparently, he did this right, because Bobby was making those interesting sounds that he always seemed to make right before he came.

"Johnny," he breathed, and St. John drew in a deep breath, bracing a hand on Bobby's hips. "Do it."

Words like that were fantasy-life material, and dear God, he'd said it out loud in reality.

Slow at first, feeling Bobby still adjusting, moving his legs, shifting his body, but never pulling away. The uneven, choked speed of his breathing, and St. John buried his mouth in the curve of his shoulder, skin warming almost instantly beneath his mouth. Faster, be careful, but faster, and sheer instinct was taking over, it was good with every thrust, every movement, ever breath.

He was saying things against Bobby's skin, and it was probably stuff about how amazing this was, how tight Bobby was, how good it felt, whispering in Bobby's ear how much he wanted him, how much he needed him. But the words ran together too fast and didn't mean anything and Bobby was beginning to tremble and yes, it was coming, it was coming, it was--

--Bobby came with a shocked cry that could have been a word and St. John felt himself release the second those interior muscles began to clench, an explosion of heat so bright that nothing could survive it, not even thought, only pure sensation. Giving himself over to it completely, and it was possible he blacked out.

When he came to, he was sprawled against Bobby's side and wondering why on earth he hadn't done this before.

"Wow," Bobby whispered, and St. John grinned a little, feeling Bobby shift until he was laying on his side. With coordination shot to hell, he removed the condom, making a knot and tossing it toward the trash--let it get in there, but he really didn't care. Bobby was staring at him, sweaty blonde hair clinging to his forehead, wide blue eyes staring into his. "Shit, Johnny."

"Yeah." Definitely.

The End