hackthis_archive | The kids are not all right.

I have no idea what's happening to LJ right now. It's almost as temperamental as Bobby.

When reading do not forget this image.

Movieverse: X2
Words II: Less Talk

Which now brings us to the present:

Taking a shower with Johnny is good idea. In theory.

Okay, maybe not a good idea as much as the stuff of fantasy, legend, and jerking off for the next several lifetimes. Bobby’s never denied being a geek. Or horny. However, the Titanic was also a good idea, in theory, and Bobby knows what happened there.

Everybody knows what happened there: it sank like… like the Titanic. Okay. Bobby’s slightly scatty and not a bit babble-happy. Apparently he’s also turned into Jubilee, but it’s only to be expected. He’s in a locked room and sitting on an unmade bed. Okay, his room and his bed, but there’s just a slight hitch.

This is all Post Date.

See, first there was the Pre-Date, with all the arrangements and stuttered invites, and then there was The Date, with the McDonalds and groping in bushes, and now they’re at the Post-Date. Which really isn’t post anything and kind of an extension thereof.

Wow. Lots of words.

Bobby’s thinking way too hard.

If he worries at the hole in his jeans any more they’re going to unravel, but what’s another hole anyway? Especially after all that talk about easy access. Oh, that wasn’t him who said that. That was Johnny. Johnny who’s somewhere in there. ‘There’ being the bathroom. ‘There’ being that little eight by ten room with tiling and soap. Soap. Shower.

Bobby can hear the water running. Johnny’s turned on the shower. Maybe he’s getting undressed.

Jesus H. Christ in an igloo.

The sweat on Bobby's palms is crystallizing, and it’s not coming off when he rubs his hands on his comforter. Shit. Stupid mutations.

He’s nervous.

No, nerves are what you get when you steal one of Logan’s beers, because you have a death wish. Yes, those are nerves. The whole concept of taking a shower with Johnny? That’s not nerves. That’s… that’s ice.

No. Really. Bobby’s frozen his feet to the floor. Nice trick. Certainly saves the worry about tapping his feet in anxiety, but really. What’s there to worry about? Kissing. Groping. Naked boy. Correction: naked boys. Hormones. Premature ejaculation. Ejaculation, period.

Oh, fuck this. Bobby’s going to go hide, like now. As soon as he takes off his shoes, because frozen shoes are not conducive to walking.

A few seconds to unlace his dress shoes and slip out of his socks. Bare feet are much easier for making a quick get away, but the creaking of the bed when he gets up is ominous. It sounds like squawking. Chicken.

“I was wondering when you were coming in.” Click. Fwoosh. Damn.

Well, it would look like Bobby was getting undressed to the casual observer. Or to the observer named St. John Allerdyce who’s currently standing in the doorway to the bathroom, grinning. Actually, no. That’s not what Johnny’s doing. What he’s doing is lounging against the doorframe. Is lounging even the right word? He looks like he’s molesting it. He’s definitely leaning on it, lighter in one hand and the other in his pocket.

Is Bobby’s jealous of a doorframe?

Sad. And also? Big dork.

“I um. I was...” Bobby’s voice drops off as St. John caresses the lighter in his hand. “Coming?”

If Johnny notices the question mark at the end, he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead he flicks the lighter shut and slides it into his pocket.

Bobby opens his mouth again and shuts it when St. John reaches down and pulls his soccer jersey over his head. Eh. Bobby can feel the size of his eyes growing as Johnny tugs the shirt off his arms and tosses it onto Bobby’s bed. Marking territory. Yes. Shit, who is he? The Crocodile Hunter?

Wow. There’s that other shirt that Bobby hadn’t anticipated earlier. Black Oxford. Nice. Bobby’s not sighing. He’s just watching Johnny kick off his Adidas like he hasn’t done it himself thousands of times. Is it cold in there? Why can’t he move? He has he’s frozen himself to the floor again?

He’s such a geek. And there’s Johnny in that shirt. And those pants. Barefoot and walking towards him.

Bobby’s not old enough to play with the big kids.

“It works better with fewer clothes,” Johnny says, taking hold of Bobby’s tie and pulling him directly into St. John’s personal space. Right. Personal space. There is such a thing as personal space, which Johnny is not observing because he’s close enough to push the jacket off Bobby’s shoulders.

He was still wearing that?

Also, there are hands at his throat. Normally this would be a bad thing, but Bobby doesn’t have enough brain cells to process this. St. John is right there, and he still smells like vanilla ice cream and caramel. Bobby has this overwhelming urge to lick him.

“Are you all right?” Johnny asks just Bobby leans forward and licks at the corner of his mouth. And then everything stops. Or freezes.

See, while Bobby’s been working his olfactory senses, Johnny’s been helping him remove his tie. He was still mid-removal when Bobby decided to play Lick The Hot Guy, ergo, he’s still holding onto Bobby’s tie when Bobby tries to move away Post-Licking. “Given up talking in favor of licking, Drake?”

“Mmm,” seems a rather appropriate answer to Bobby, but he doesn’t get time to consider it or even to move away before he’s being yanked forward again. And yes, St. John still tastes like caramel, too. The taste isn’t as strong as it was an hour ago; but when Johnny parts his lips, and Bobby begins to kiss him in earnest, his tongue does a good job of seeking out every trace of caramel it can find. For the sake of science. Even though Bobby’s not really interested in science. Except maybe the basics regarding gay sex.

If that counts as a science.

Bobby pulls away thoughtfully, his eyes slightly glazed, and bats St. John’s hand away so he can remove his own tie. “Better,” he announces with a wry smile, as he unfastens the top button his shirt.

Good. Better. Hot. Cold. Monosyllables, well, except for better. Very Cro-Magnon though.

It's all Johnny's fault.

Cool.

Bobby's smile is met with a grin on St. John’s part, and Bobby can’t remember exactly when his nerves-anxiety-whatever-they’re-called went away. He figures they should be ten-pin bowling in his head right now though, because Johnny has taken it upon himself to finish unbuttoning Bobby’s shirt for him.

St. John is very good at it: the getting Bobby undressed thing. Perhaps he’d like to do it more in the future.

He’s pulling Bobby’s shirt out his jeans like it’s nothing, and if Bobby weren’t peering very closely at Johnny’s face he might miss the twitch in his left eye.

It’s like someone turned on a neon sign in Bobby’s head announcing ‘First Date Jitters - Free For All.’

One minute Bobby’s the clumsy virgin and the next his hands are everywhere: angling St. John’s head, working at his shirt, moving in a blur of action without thought.

Bobby’s been so busy freaking out he’s pretty much skipped over the logistics of what he was freaking out about. That’s left his body a very good chance to shut his brain down and do what it wants. Plus, even though Bobby considers himself to be a geek, what with the whole inexperience thing, he’s finding out that instinct counts for a lot more than people give it credit for.

Buttons are buttons no matter who’s wearing them.

Plus, no one told Bobby that Johnny might like him sucking on his lower lip or biting at that soft spot behind his right ear. However, since St. John is making all these noises and yanking off Bobby’s shirt, Bobby’s thinking maybe he’s stumbled onto a good thing.

Stumbling turning into a literal thing, when Bobby tries to remove St. John’s shirt while St. John’s fingers are hooked into his belt loops.

Once again, the teenage Lack of Finesse rears its ugly head and their tangle of bodies goes careening into, and straight though, the bathroom door.

The shower is still running, and landing on tile while half dressed? Painful.

Having your knee connect with a porcelain toilet while falling at 9.8 meters per second per second? Very painful.

Being sprawled out on the floor with your roommate straddling your lap? Let’s just say Bobby will be a very avid proponent of MasterCard from now on, as soon as he stops seeing stars. Although, if Bobby must see stars in order to also see a now-shirtless St. John, well, then maybe he should carry around a brick or something. Just to test out his theory.

Of course this showering idea was a good theory too, but they haven’t quite made it into the shower yet. “D’you think this is a sign?” Bobby asks, taking a very long time to drag his eyes from Johnny’s crotch, up his chest, to his face.

“Yeah,” Johnny says, giving his hips a shimmy before shifting his weight off Bobby. “Probably,” he amends getting to his feet before offering Bobby a hand up.

This change of speed and contact completely throws Bobby, even though it doesn’t stop him from accepting the hand-up. He might have head trauma, and has their bathroom light always been this bright?

Bobby’s trying to figure out how to form his query, while Johnny pulls him to his feet. His head really fucking hurts, and he can’t stop staring at the bathroom light. How did all those spit balls get up there? Why did he never notice them before?

Bobby’s so occupied looking up that he completely forgets to look down or even straight ahead. Meanwhile, Johnny’s gone back to his prior task: divesting Bobby of his jeans.

Bobby’s brain is still counting spit balls until the second it computes the sound of a zipper being undone and a whisper of air in places it wasn’t .235 seconds ago. Bobby's head immediately drops down, and his eyes soak up the sight of St. John on his knees attempting to remove Bobby’s jeans without Bobby’s assistance.

Bobby can feel the ice forming on his hands again, and he clears his throat when Johnny taps his foot with his rather warm fingers. It’s only when Johnny looks back up at him that Bobby can remember what his own name is and that spit balls are not important.

“It’s a sign all right,” St. John clarifies. “It’s a sign you need to shut up and take off your clothes.”

-finis-