Resolution

Two hours to midnight found John in a pub in Syracuse, chewing the end of a paper blowout and wearing a ridiculous pair of over-sized plastic sunglasses given to him by the girl buying his drinks tonight. He was on a mission to get quite drunk, and it felt good just to contemplate it. He had been on the move since Alcatraz, altering his appearance here and there to shake things up, sticking with the sort of cities and establishments that were large enough, but not so large that security was tight.

Tonight, though, he was going to take a risk and let loose a little, and if it was surrounded with perfectly typical humans who didn’t know his face from the next guy’s, so much for the better. In his head he heard Magneto’s voice, muttering things like "mingling with apes" and "dreadful breach of decorum." It was too bad, then, that Magneto had disappeared, powerless and no better than the rest of humanity.

It had been just long enough since that horror, and John had drunk just enough, that he grinned to himself at the idea of Magneto doing anything with his own hands.

“What are you so happy about?” The words broke through his musing, and he looked to see tonight’s companion setting a pitcher down on the table. Holly, he thought he’d heard, or something equally cheerful.

The ridiculous sunglasses hid the shift of his expressions, and he smiled smoothly back up at her. “Just remembering a few things from this past year,” he said as he filled their mugs from the pitcher. He clicked his glass against hers, then took a long swallow.

She joined him, then leaned forward a little across the tiny table, clumsily offering an eyeful of cleavage. “Let’s hear it,” she said, and he looked at her, a little surprised that she would ask. “Okay, I want to know what you’ve done over the past year. You can ask me, too.” His silence made her roll her eyes, as much at herself, it seemed, as at him. “Okay, we’ll start easy… How many people have you slept with this year?”

His mouth twisted in a wry smile, and he laughed a little, which only made her giggle. She wasn’t bad looking, really, even if John had only chosen to take her up on the first drink because he was feeling nostalgic and she happened to be a blonde. And if her conversational skills made her sound a little desperate, perhaps, or over-eager, at least she seemed bearably intelligent.

John took another slow sip while she waited, and for a moment, the question made him consider the slip of paper in his back pocket, the one that had been burning a hole in his brain since he’d received it a week ago. His awareness of it made him certain it was going to burn his flesh, and it took some concentration to appear as if he were trying to recall the answer to her question, instead. “Six,” he finally said, and if he knew it wasn’t true, he still didn’t know the honest answer.

It had been a long year, and while he had remained celibate for most missions for the Brotherhood, these recent travels had him doing what he could to supplement what little pay he had saved from his services to Magneto, whether that meant a free meal and a place to sleep, or just a chance to get close enough to someone’s wallet.

“That’s a lot for a year,” he heard Holly say, but she was tuned out when John looked toward the doorway to see a familiar face.

His pulse quickened and his mouth went dry and it felt as if all the breath escaped him. “Shit,” he muttered to himself, just in time for that pale gaze to finally find him. He was suddenly feeling very silly in his stupid sunglasses. He excused himself as politely as possible and made his way to the men’s room, skin prickling with the feel of those eyes on him.

He ducked into the restroom, head swimming too much for it to be just the alcohol. He briefly eyeballed the area, taking time to see it was empty of other residents, noting the small window on the outer wall. He had time for little more than that before Bobby Drake followed him in, effectively locking the door with a thick coat of ice.

“You look stupid,” was what he said.

“You look good,” John said automatically, and if it wasn’t the wittiest thing to say, it was at least honest, which was not a virtue John typically adhered to. He pulled the sunglasses off, tossing them into the sink. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Bobby exhaled slowly, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “I wanted to see you.”

John barked a laugh, feeling as if his throat were tightening up. “Last time you saw me, you gave me a concussion.”

“Why are you here, then? It could have been a trap, or I could be planning to hurt you.”

John shrugged then leaned back against the sink, mouth twisting wryly. “Masochistic, I guess,” he said.

“Yeah, I remember,” Bobby said quietly. John saw it, then: Bobby almost looked like he always had, his quiet laugh just a little embarrassed, eyes cast downward, and John felt lust hit him like a punch to the gut, almost enough to knock the breath out of him.

“Is that why you’re here, Drake? Memories got you so wound up you risked letting the Brotherhood know exactly where you would be tonight, all alone?” John’s voice had dropped low, almost a purr, and he watched the Iceman melt.

Bobby’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, then he began to approach. John steeled himself against the sink, nerves gripping him, before he let his body go languid and inviting. “Maybe you’re worth the risk,” he said with a quiet laugh, so close now that John could feel what little heat emanated from his body. His hands moved low, one on the small of John’s back and the other on his ass, pulling him hard against Bobby. “Or maybe this is, at least,” Bobby murmured, breath cool against his neck. John could feel Bobby’s dick pressed against him, hard like he’d been thinking about this for days, and John had to brace himself against the sink again.

It finally hit him that this really was all Bobby came for, and it was so out of character; it was too rash, too unreasonable, and definitely too big a risk. “Did you really miss fucking me that much, or would none of the X-Men let you do it the way you like?”

Bobby tensed, then he pulled John harder against him, his hand kneading so hard it hurt. “We’re not going to talk about the X-Men,” Bobby said, that warning note in his voice that said John should stop pushing buttons now.

So John got free of Bobby’s hands, moved around him, and he pushed the one button that had always worked. “Marie’s not one of the X-Men,” he purred, and Bobby glared at him. “What happened, Drake? Now that you can touch her, you realize you never wanted to?” Bobby had that look on his face that usually meant he was going to deck John. Instead, he twisted John’s arm behind his back and shoved him face-first into the nearest wall. “Oh, yeah,” John murmured, more to make Bobby angry than anything else. “Or did she run when she realized you liked it like this?”

In response, Bobby shoved his full weight against John, making his arm feel like it was about to come right out of its socket, but John could feel Bobby’s breath against the back of his neck, could feel his hard-on pressed tight against his ass, and so the rest of it hardly mattered. “Don’t piss me off,” Bobby growled, and John arched back against him.

“You live for me to piss you off,” he said, almost panting now, and Bobby’s hand was fumbling at John’s belt, at the zipper of his jeans.

There was a moment where nothing was said, where John’s entire body throbbed with expectation, and he felt so very aware. The brick wall bit into his cheek, and he could feel the chill coming off the window, hear noises from the bar, and he wondered, briefly, if Holly had found someone else to keep her company tonight. Then Bobby’s hand wrapped tight around his cock, and he didn’t give a damn about anything but this.

Bobby gave him a few slow, deliberate pulls that made John’s toes curl then slid his hand around one thigh and behind him. Prying fingers slid down the crack of his ass, then he felt the tip of one finger come to rest on his hole. “Trying to tease me, Drake, or having second thoughts?” John asked in a low voice.

“I like watching you squirm,” Bobby said, and John knew it was true. Bobby had never had it in him to do anything really terrible, especially when he knew John preferred it this way, and he had quickly learned how to regain the control he lost when he let John make him angry. “I’ll let go of your arm if you promise to stay right where you are.”

“Whatever.” Bobby seemed to think that was good enough, because he moved both hands off of him, and the ache returned to John’s shoulder when he moved his hand to the wall. He moved just far enough away to rest his forehead on one hand, feeling blood trickle from the scrape on his cheek. Bobby sounded like he was fumbling for something, and for one brief moment, a shock of panic hit John hard. It would be so easy for Bobby to do something now, with John’s pants around his knees and back turned.

Then he felt Bobby’s hand return, slimy with lube, and the slow press of what had to be his thumb. Bobby slid his other hand into the collar of John’s shirt, fingers splayed between jugular and collar bone. The panic melted away, though the adrenaline remained, a red-hot rush that only worsened the tight coil of desire.

John pressed back against the shallow thrusts of Bobby’s thumb. “You keep wasting my time, Drake, I might just leave,” he said, and the choked sound of his voice was enough to give away the lie. The hand at his neck tensed, pressing dangerously against his pulse, but Bobby cooperated for once, replacing his thumb with first one finger, then another, and John felt the stretch of his skin, the delicious pressure and suction as they slid slowly in and out.

“You’re tighter than I expected,” Bobby said. “I thought you’d be whoring yourself around for a proper bed.” The statement filled John with a strange cocktail of shame and anger and violent need, and for once, he had no retort except a moan. Bobby kicked John’s legs farther apart, and John arched his back prettily. He heard the hitch in Bobby’s breath, the quiet noise he made in the back of his throat. “You should see yourself,” he said hotly, the rhythm of his fingers gaining momentum as he spoke. “You still spread like a slut.”

John bit back a groan, meeting the thrust of his fingers eagerly. “You’re talking a lot, Drake. Couldn’t find anyone as good as me, could you?”

“Couldn’t find anyone as filthy as you,” Bobby snarled back. “Look at you, spread wide for the enemy in a public bathroom.” His fingers moved fast and hard now, and John could tell by the sounds Bobby made that he was watching again. “Fucking filthy,” he said again, though this time it sounded more awed.

John all but writhed for him, because God, it felt good, but he needed more. Now. “Is this why Marie didn't want to fuck you?” Just the name got him a painful jab of the fingers and Bobby’s hand twisting around his neck. “Talk so much she got tired of waiting for dick?”

That got him a swift removal of those fingers, making him flinch and leaving him feeling terribly open and vulnerable. It was the matter of a few panted breaths, a few pounding heartbeats, before the slick head of Bobby’s cock was pressed tight against him, slipping inside and stretching him wider, lube easing the way. “Gonna fuck you so hard it leaves you gaping like the slut you really are,” Bobby breathed, and John felt him slip past the tight ring of muscle and in with a snap of Bobby’s hips.

He pushed John harder into the wall again, one slick hand sliding over his hip and then against the brick, and Bobby began to move in earnest, fucking John in hard, long thrusts. “You talk real big, Drake,” John said between gasps. “When are you gonna live up to it?” Goaded, Bobby’s hips moved faster, and John could feel the slap of balls against him. He groaned, but he kept pushing, because Bobby still had too much control, even now. “God, Drake, it’s no wonder Marie—”

He never got a chance to finish. Not with Bobby’s fingers curling into his hair, pushing his face into the brick again, body pinning him to the wall and cock piercing him to the core. “Shut up! Don’t say her name again,” Bobby warned, voice low and choking and hotter than the Iceman had any right to be.

John let off a string of curses strewn with Bobby’s name, breath caught in his throat. This – this – was how it was supposed to go, all sweat and grime and violence, and the only thing he had cause to regret was that he couldn’t see Bobby’s face all twisted up in anger, with gritted teeth and eyes hard and hot and uncharacteristically cruel. John’s fingernails scraped the wall, his eyes screwed shut and mouth opened, though only sounds escaped now, and then he came in a blinding, deafening rush of heat and light and power.

When he grew aware of his surroundings again, he realized he had missed Bobby’s orgasm, and he realized, too, that he didn’t much care. Bobby’s cock slowly softened, and it stung when he pulled out, leaving John feeling a little sloppy and a little abandoned. Well. That was nothing new. He sagged against the wall without Bobby’s weight to pin him there, and he turned his head to see Bobby sliding to the floor to sit, fly still open and looking entirely too peaceful after all that anger.

“Jesus Christ,” John breathed, once his mouth was wet enough to allow words again. “Got a lot pent up, Drake?”

Bobby just nodded silently, fishing around in his jacket pockets for something. John turned on one shoulder, still using the wall for support, and pulled up his pants with shaking hands. He could worry about clean-up later. For now, he just wanted to be off his legs, and he slid to the floor, shifting gingerly until he wasn’t too uncomfortable. It was then that he realized Bobby was offering him a cigarette.

John took it and let out a quiet, dry laugh. He had been trying to quit under Magneto’s suggestion that the need for a crutch made one weak, but he was pretty sure this situation justified it. He pulled a plastic Bic from his jacket, lit the thing, and sat in silence for a moment, until the fuzziness in his head had cleared enough. “Lube and cigarettes? I’d say you weren’t expecting any opposition.”

Bobby laughed a little at that. “Not really, no.”

And back to the silence. They sat there, side by side, while John smoked. When he was finished, he lit another, mostly as an excuse not to have to move yet. It was then that he heard the clamor coming from the bar, something rhythmic and very, very loud. Bobby laughed again, and John’s attention went back to him. “My resolution this year was to forget about you,” Bobby said, and it was probably the last thing John had expected.

“How did that go?” John asked, following it with a stream of smoke.

Bobby turned to look at him, eyes bright, if exhausted, and he smiled dryly, a smile that would have been more at home on John’s own face. Instead of answering, though, Bobby leaned in quick and kissed him. John went stiff with surprise, then relaxed enough to return it. It was quick, and there was something strangely innocent about it, despite what they had been through, what they had just done. It reminded him of the Bobby he had known when they were fifteen and best friends and still getting into fist fights and wrestling matches as an excuse to touch one another.

John wondered when this would end, when Bobby would walk out, claiming loyalty to the cause and his duties as an X-Man. He wondered if maybe he would end it himself, break the spell and go back to being a pariah. And they sat there, neither wanting to break the spell.

“Happy New Year. You taste like an ashtray,” Bobby finally said and leaned back against the wall, and for another few, precious moments, they were best friends again.