The Longest Day: Not Forgotten

On Love and Lust at Mutant High #30

by jenn

Author Notes: I was asked. ALOT. I gave in. But seriously, I've been meaning to add more, I just got distracted. <g> Thanks to those who wrote asking for more. I appreciate it.

Dedication: To Stella, because she's sent me ALOT of emails and I figured I probably wouldn't have written this so soon if I hadn't stared at them guiltily yesterday. So thanks. I promise, I'll be nicer to this series than I have been to some of the others.
*****

Bathroom floors sucked, no question. Cold, immaculate white tile; plain, bright orange rug; him and Bobby. Alone.

Okay, so the floor itself was fine--the fact that he had to sit on it at eleven at night just to get some decent conversation with his lover was not.

"Bobby--"

And saying it was 'conversation' was a stretch.

The blonde head lifted, shoulders stiffening briefly--enough so St. John knew that nothing he could say would probably do much in this instance but piss off/hurt/anger/wound Bobby further. He'd seen him when he and Jubilee had come in, the flicker of a white t-shirt on the landing, a glimpse of ice-blue eyes before he disappeared back upstairs.

He'd been waiting.

Jubilee had squeezed his arm and darted to the elevator to see if Rogue was being released into the general population anytime soon. Leaving St. John the highly unenviable task of going upstairs alone and confronting his lover. Which, granted, probably would be better than going up *with* Jubilee if Bobby was in a mood. But still.

Damn.

So he tried again.

"Look, she was just--"

"You don't owe me any explanations, Johnny," Bobby said quickly as he went about his usual nightly ritual. Brushing teeth, washing face, straightening the bathroom, disinfecting the toilet--okay, so not so usual. Hmm. Not good. Not good at all. "Can you hand me the bleach?"

Disinfecting and whitening. Double whammy. With a brief shudder at the variety of cleaning he was in for, St. John took a breath and let it out slowly, reaching under the sink to find the spray-bottle of whatever bleach-based cleaning fluid Bobby had picked out of the housekeeper's closet this time.

"I wasn't trying to cut you out--."

"I understand, buddy. It's okay." Oooh. Buddy. Not a good sign. "Damn. We're out." A quick, convulsive shake of the almost-full bottle, and Bobby might as well have said, get your ass outies, like, now. "Can you go down and get me some more?" The white and purple plastic container was brandished with a frightening parody of a normal-Bobby smile, disturbing enough that St. John nodded and backed out the open bathroom door, grabbing his cigarettes off the bed as he passed.

Bobby was back scrubbing the underside of the toilet lid before Johnny even got out the door. Ouch.

Which was how it came to be that, at three in the morning, he was sitting outside in the garden, chain smoking through a once-full pack of cigarettes. His head ached from the effects of the half-empty bottle of rum that he'd stolen from the downstairs liquor cabinet. Drinking was bad. Yes, watch the after-school specials, they are all so right. But secret effect not mentioned--it was bad, but frankly, it worked. Or at very least, the nasty feeling in St. John's stomach was doing wonders to distract him from his extraordinarily screwed-up emotional life.

Oh yes, he was Pyro, murderer and practicing teen alcoholic. Let all cower in fear. He hooked the bottle in one hand and took another swallow.

"Mind if I join you?"

Dropping the bottle (which miraculously remained upright), St. John looked up into Mr. Summer's visor, shock wiping out all comprehensible thought, and for a moment, nothing would emerge from his mouth but an undignified and rather shaky squawk. Smooth, Johnny, very smooth, show off those adult tendencies of yours.

Taking this as tacit permission, his teacher sat down on the grass beside him, picking up the bottle and studying it with interest.

"Hmmm. I guess lecturing you on the dangers of drinking at this stage would be rather pointless." Glancing at the label, Mr. Summers gave it a thoughtful look, then took a shot, placing it back down on the grass between them.

St. John wondered if he'd been slipped some hallucinogens in the last few hours.

"Sir?"

Mr. Summers shrugged.

"We'll keep this between us." A pause. "Bobby just started cleaning the gym showers."

St. John winced. Those showers were filthy.

"I considered sending him to your room, but I'm guessing it's already spotless. I've always thought that coping mechanisms were interesting--everyone has their own specific ritual they use to get through difficult times." A slight smile and St. John remembered that Scott had been on Logan-sitting duty and witnessed Logan's concept of coping. Poor man. "Alcohol doesn't rate high on the list, Johnny."

"Sorry I don't live up to your expectations, sir." He was surprised by the bitterness in his voice and lit his cigarette quickly, taking a drag to cover the unexpected emotion. He didn't like anyone seeing him like this.

Mr. Summers' head turned sharply, the smile fading.

"You've rarely disappointed me, Johnny, adolescent rebellion aside." A pause. "It can't be easy for you--I do understand that."

"I'm sure you mean well, sir--"

"Scott." A pause. "On the field, I'm just Scott. You've earned that much." Surprise after surprise--St. John was certain he'd be utterly floored by this if he was just a little less drunk. Mr. Summers--Scott--pushed the bottle over. "Come on, take a drink. God knows, you can't get very drunk off this--we don't keep the good stuff where you kids can find it."

Numbly, St. John picked up the bottle, taking a quick drink, setting it down as the muted heat worked its way down his throat and settled in his stomach.

"It's never going to be easier, Johnny. To tell the truth. Sitting out here isn't going to miraculously produce a solution to your problems, and I can guarantee that bottle won't help either. That's experience speaking."

St. John couldn't imagine Scott Summers ever drinking. Just wouldn't compute. Though some cool imagery of the older man doing drunken Karaoke at the bar did meander into his mind and he had to struggle to stop the laugh that threatened to emerge.

"He's pissed. He doesn't understand."

"Why you didn't tell him about what happened to you?" Scott picked up the bottle, taking another drink. "Do you blame him for that?"

"No. Yes. Maybe." St. John pulled his knees up, trying to think of a way to explain. "It's not that simple, it's not a yes or a no. He--he had it easy. I mean, he has you and Hank and Jean and Warren and everyone, you know? All I've ever had is him and Jubes and Carol, and Carol I didn't want. How do I tell him what I was before I got here?"

"You have us too, Johnny."

"Not the same way. Like Rogue has Logan. Just for her, you know? Yeah, you all like the rest of us, and I'm not saying--I don't mean you've neglected us. But it's different. Bobby--he was with you at the beginning."

"Actually, I do understand that." A longer, more thoughtful pause. "And now that he's moved to lover, it complicates things. When you were just friends, it was easier to share--you didn't have as much to lose."

"Yeah." He meditated on his answer. Yes, he would have told him this time, definitely. He'd told Bobby everything, except that past. Except that encounter with Rogue. Except--well, that wasn't everything anymore. The second he translated Bobby to boyfriend material, he'd made the switch in his head but--well, Bobby didn't know that. Blinking, he stared into the grass. It didn't inspire any deep thoughts, but it did smell nice.

"You know, it's okay to have secrets, Johnny."

"Not from someone you say you love."

"You think I tell Jean everything?" A longer pause, and St. John sensed Mr. Summers was trying to work something out, something difficult. "It's the problem with relationships in the Mansion--you live and eat and sleep with your lover. New relationships need space, and you can't get that here."

"That why Logan's taking Rogue away for awhile?"

Scott smiled a little sourly.

"Probably one of the reasons, though neither of them will admit it. The Mansion is pure pressure on even normal friendships. I suspect, however, at least half the reason Logan wants to take Rogue out for awhile has a great deal less to do with their interpersonal relations and more with her need to get away from this." A general gesture taking in the Mansion, the grounds, everything. "She was used to being on her own for a long time, and both--all three of the people in her head were loners, for the most part." Another slight twist to Scott's smile. "And Logan's never seen her as a child or a student, as we do."

No, St. John suspected that Logan wouldn't be looking at Rogue as if she was an entree in a much-needed dinner if he'd ever thought of her as a child.

"Yeah."

"Whereas you've always seen Bobby as your best friend and confidante, and you feel like you can't have that now, because you also happen to share his bed. That the gist?"

He had to give Mr. Summers--Scott--points for good comparisons. Damn him.

"Sort of."

Another pause, as they both watched the moon over the far trees. St. John tapped the ashes off his cigarette on the ground and thought about what Mr. Summers had said.

"You're afraid Bobby will judge you now."

"Yeah." Definitely. Very much so. Like, totally. St. John shifted a little on the grass, suddenly wishing he'd brought a blanket to sit on.

"Option two is not to tell him--and you lose him that way too, because he'll think you don't trust him. Which is true too. You don't."

St. John craned his head to meet the smooth red visored gaze.

"So I should tell him?"

"You should do what you think is right. I'm only spelling out your options. You know Bobby better than I do--he has trust issues. You need to think about that--if you don't think you can trust him with your past, how can you consider continuing a relationship with him, a relationship that's *built* on trust?"

St. John lowered his gaze. This *wasn't* what he wanted to hear.

"That's not fair."

"No, it's not. But this won't be the only time something like this is going to happen. You've kept a lot of things from him." St. John's head jerked up, but the tone was so mild--he couldn't know about Rogue. Couldn't possibly. "And he deserves to know, just as you deserve to have someone you can feel completely secure with, someone you trust completely. If it isn't Bobby--then you should find someone that you *do* feel that way about."

"I love him."

"And I'll be the first to tell you, love isn't enough. Not even close." The smooth gaze turned away. "Love's great, Johnny, and it's necessary. But it's not the only thing, not even close."

St. John suddenly reflected on a memory--Logan and Jean in the kitchen that long-ago afternoon. And he was suddenly, painfully certain that Scott Summers knew all about it. Taking a breath, he looked away, staring into the shadowy forms of distant trees.

"So I tell him and he asks me how I could let those people die in there."

Scott leaned back on one hand, and St. John watched the long fingers lightly drumming on the neck of the bottle.

"Do you know why?"

"Because I didn't care." Harsh--the truth hurt. Hurt right now, like it hadn't really hurt them, the unreality of what had happened.

"You were twelve, Johnny." A slight smile. "What do you think you'll be called on to do as a X-Man anyway? Rogue killed Carol, and her greatest regret right now is that she couldn't do it without getting her stuck in her head--though from what I saw, she's starting to like the flying."

"They weren't the enemy."

"True. And I'm not going to pretend to you that it's okay. But I am going to tell you that six years of brooding on it isn't going to make them reappear alive and well. You made a mistake--you deal with it and move on. And you haven't dealt with it."

"He won't understand."

"I suspect that he's having a harder time understanding why you feel okay confiding in Jubilee rather than him."

"That's totally different, sir." And he wondered why Scott couldn't see it, why he was deliberately being obtuse about it. "She's--she's a friend. I mean, would you forgive Dr. Grey if you found out she killed five people?"

"Yes."

The devastatingly simple reply took every single argument St. John was able to marshal and answered them, just like that.

"I love her and trust her. Therefore, if she killed five people in an accident when she was a child, I'd understand. There isn't even a question of that." Then a soft sigh. "When I said love wasn't enough, that you needed trust, I was being truthful. But you need something else--you need to be able to forgive. If you can't do that, then there's no point. So here's the question again--do you *want* someone you can't trust and who wouldn't forgive you? You're going to screw up a lot in this relationship. Just trust me on this one. You're going to screw up in ways you don't even know about yet. You're going to screw up and your only real solace is that you *will* be forgiven for screwing up. And your partner is going to screw up, just as badly, and you have to be ready to forgive them too. So ask yourself that while you get over your hangover. Not whether you love him--but do you trust and can he forgive. Then every single question you're asking yourself right now will be answered." Scott Summers paused, and St. John watched him stand up, bottle firmly in hand, a slight smile turning up his lips. "I'll take this in--drink some water before you pass out to avoid a hangover. Logan's putting you back in the Danger Room tomorrow to run a few more advanced simulations. Probably early in the morning--your combat teacher's in the mood for some fun." That was plain wicked. "Night, Johnny."

St. John opened his mouth, shutting it, then tried again.

"Night, sir."

Watching the lithesome figure of his former teacher--Scott Summers now--as he crossed the lawn, St. John glanced down at his cigarette and took a final drag before butting it out on the bare dirt near his hip. Laying back, he stared up at the sky, watching the movement of the constellations that, not for the first time, he wished he knew the names of. Big Dipper? Who the hell knew?

Bobby was probably done with the showers by now. Probably in the kitchen, defrosting the freezer. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that Bobby was going to make him do it this time--talk it out.

Hell if he knew what the hell he was going to say, though. And the rum had been many good and nasty things, but it hadn't managed to help him figure out how to handle this.

The End

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