FDoE: Ketel & Skyy, Part 1/2
TITLE: Ketel and Skyy, Part 1/2
SERIES: Fundamental Difference of Experience
AUTHOR: Kuria Dalmatia
CODES: Pre-X1, John and Piotr
SUMMARY: When Bobby goes to Boston for the weekend, Piotr shows John the proper way to drink vodka. Declarations are made. A pact is sealed.
RATING: R, profanity, underage drinking
Cross-posted to dry_ice
ARCHIVING: onomatopoetry and dry_ice.... anyone else? Let me know.
Feedback always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: Marvel owns the X-Men, 20th Century Fox owns the movie. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head.
SERIES: This is the ninth story in the Fundamental Difference of Experience series. There are a lot of references to previous stories so it does help to read them first if you haven't already. The previous stories can be found at Fundamental Differences of Experience hosted by Onomatopoetry
THANKS… to Mikhale for pushing me to take it a step further and really strive for a better and more complete ending. I think I accomplished that. To onomatopoetry for commentary, pointing out inconsistencies, and reminding me that I don't have to beat points into the ground. To Taral, for the very thorough beta reads, correcting my grammatical problems and challenging me on wording. Any mistakes that are left are mine.
COMMENTS: "Za vashe zdorov'ye" is transliterated Russian courtesy of Learning Russian Phrases. Other Russian terms are from Russian-English Online Dictionary. Damn. I can't find my dictionary or notes from when I took Russian for two semesters at university. Damn again.
Ketel One (Holland) and Skyy (U.S.) are two brands of premium vodka. Currently, my freezer is stocked with Grey Goose (France) and Three Olives (England). For those non-vodka drinkers, the more expensive brands are corked, not screw-capped. Also, vodkas produced in the U.S. do taste differently than those imported (at least to me). For more info on the finer points of vodka, visit Vodkaphiles
Piotr's English at the end is dicey for a reason.
****(((****(((****(((Ketel and Skyy, Part 1/2)))****)))****)))****
It had gotten easier over the past few months to set aside his cynical inner-thoughts and simply allow himself to be, well, free. And tonight, it wasn't just the lure of contraband vodka that led St. John on a twenty-minute hike into the woods after Friday-night lights out. It was that ease of friendship, that recognition of the 'let's be reckless because I'm bored off my ass' quirk in Piotr Rasputin's smile, that had made St. John put on his shoes, pat his jeans pocket for his Zippo, and grab his jacket.
His friendship with Piotr was unlike the one cultivated with Bobby, because Piotr didn't court his company. The Russian had absolutely no need to. People worked at becoming Piotr's friend, not the other way around, and while Piotr could have been a prick about it, he wasn't. His offer of friendship had been there on the first day and had never been rescinded. It had always been up to St. John on where he wanted to go with it.
Their core understanding of each other, he supposed, had really been forged those first few days after the Kitchen Incident, when Piotr had stayed down in the MedLab with him. Other guys might have pestered him with questions on what had happened, but Piotr had simply resumed teaching him Russian curses, patiently correcting his pronunciation. There were no questions about St. John's past and no pressure to discuss anything he didn't want to. In turn, St. John had made an earnest attempt to learn conversational Russian beyond insults or ordering booze.
And while St. John had carefully maintained the 'mutual respect'-type of friendship with Piotr for the three months after the Kitchen Incident, it hadn't been until the day after he had emotionally spazzed out in Scott's office that St. John had purposefully tracked down Piotr. In the privacy of the garden maze, St. John had only been able to get out 'Thank you' because he couldn't list all the things that his friend had done for him. At least he had said the phrase in Russian, which he supposed had been a hint as to what he was getting at. Piotr had set aside his sketchpad, nodded once and replied in the same language, 'You're welcome'.
It was why there had been no fear, no mistrust, and no hesitancy as he had trailed close behind the tall Russian, who had effortlessly moved aside the brambles, forging the way to a destination known only to Piotr.
It hadn't been as dark as it could have been, the moon bright in the humid-cool, after-midnight of Spring. The canopy overhead had not filled in yet, leaving patches for the full moon to shine through. Up until that evening, St. John had never ventured past the tree-line, only getting that close to retrieve a homerun ball (there should be a rule against mutant Russians hitting with aluminum bats) or the one and only time he had ever ridden a horse, the latter solely on a dare by Guthrie.
"Poison ivy?" St. John asked as his friend began pushing aside branches. Although he wasn't into the whole hiking and nature thing, he had paid attention to Ms. Munroe's talk about potentially dangerous plants around the Mansion and its grounds.
"Nyet. A little too early," came the reply, tinged with appreciative amusement. "The same for sumac."
So St. John shut up until they reach the clearing, and damn if the small area didn't fit the description of "pastoral". It even had a fallen log with a few smooth, flat stones lined along the side, creating a place to sit that wasn't in the mud. It was almost creepy in its perfection, but then St. John spotted a block of wood and another stone at a carefully angled distance from the couch.
"You draw here," he said as he wandered around the small area.
He saw Piotr's grin in the moonlight and heard the light laugh, "You are the first to notice."
It was the moment for a joke, a tease about just many girls Piotr had lured out here under the guise of 'painting their portrait'. But that was Bobby's department, and their erstwhile jokester had left shortly after classes had ended for a weekend in Boston. Still, St. John made the effort, if only to be his expected, smart-assed self.
"Dude, if I'm here for a fucking midnight sketch…" he threatened as he brushed a few leaves off of one of the stones and sat down.
"Nyet." Again, a chuckle. "The lighting is too poor." Piotr plopped down next to him, stretching out his legs and leaning back against the log. "And, to have a 'fucking sketch', you would need a companion who is not with us, and I would have to have brought my pencils and sketch book, not good Russian vodka and shot glasses."
St. John let out small snort. It was kind of a weird comment from Piotr, because "companion who is not with us" sounded way too… well… formal for a teenaged guy. Maybe it was an attempt at humor. Piotr's English was always a bit more awkward when making a Bobby-esque joke.
Still… it wasn't the same, really, not to have Bobby there with them because he handled all the jokes. It wasn't the first time since they began sharing a room that his roommate had gone home for the weekend. However, this time it had seemed as if Bobby were more self-conscious about it, because when he had asked Scott if the train was still on time, it had been distinctly without enthusiasm. It had almost seemed to have been asked with dread, and St. John had been a little offended by the whole thing because he certainly wasn't going to hold the whole 'going home' thing against Bobby. His roommate was considered one of the lucky ones, one of the few to be in good standing with his parents.
Piotr then pawed through the small, soft-sided cooler he had brought. "Good vodka," he declared as he pulled out a glass bottle and then two shot glasses, "should always be served frozen. Without Frosty, preparation is more difficult but it is possible."
"Whoa. Bobby joins you on your drinking expeditions?" Of course, St. John asked it with just the right amount of incredulity because Bobby was the Mascot, the Quintessential Good Kid at the Mansion, and drinking vodka in the woods qualified as Quintessential Bad Kid behavior. But there was another part of him suddenly jealous, that he hadn't been invited along sooner.
Then again, when had Bobby had the chance to sneak off since they had started sharing a room? Not that St. John monitored his roommate's every move, but he certainly would be aware if a) Bobby disappeared in the middle of the night or b) he came back smelling like booze. Of course, Bobby could have snuck out while St. John went on his walks with Lee-Lee, but such a venture would require incredible timing and St. John was never out longer than forty or so minutes.
"Haven't been on one since you arrived," Piotr replied calmly as he uncorked the bottle. "Before the Kitchen, there was concern that you would leave unexpectedly."
It was a polite way of confirming St. John's suspicions from those early days, that they had been watching him closely and waiting for him to bolt. Yet the way it was said meant that they would have made the effort to coax him back to the Mansion. It was also the first time that Piotr had ever directly mentioned the Kitchen Incident since that morning after in the MedLab.
"After the Kitchen, there was that concern as well," Piotr continued almost conversationally. "Frosty became protective of you." He poured two shots. "He insisted that you should be part of this." He held out a glass. "Frosty does not insist often."
And goddamn if that didn't feel like he was smacked with a clue-by-four hard against the jaw. He remembered what Lee-Lee had told him about how Bobby had fought for someone to stay with him in the MedLab. He remembered Bobby being covered in powdered sugar and confirming later it had been because he argued about the finer details of celebrating St. John's birthday.
There were a ton of signals he got from Bobby, but they so mixed that he really didn't act on any of them. He wasn't sure if it was Bobby making a pass at him, which he would welcome of course, or Bobby just trying like hell to be his friend.
"For you, tovarisch," Piotr said and wiggled the glass. St. John accepted it, noting how cold the shot was. "Now, in Russia, this is how we toast formally: Za vashe zdorov'ye!"
He looked over, realizing that Piotr was expecting him to repeat that mouthful of syllables. He tried, knowing that he was butchering it from the way Piotr's eye twitched a little, but after his second try, "Za vashe zdorov'ye" rolled off a bit easier, and Piotr tapped his glass to St. John's, downing the liquor in one gulp.
St. John did the same, surprised at the cold yet silky flavor racing across his palate. "Smooth," he said stupidly, because it didn't burn at all and the vapors from the alcohol didn't overwhelm him.
"Of course." Piotr grinned. "Good vodka is always smooth. My uncle says creamy, but I have never thought vodka as creamy. Smooth, yes. Perhaps even soft. Your first good vodka, eh?"
He shrugged. "Quantity, not quality. Drink for the effect, dude, never the taste."
The smile dropped from Piotr's face, and a concerned look appeared. "Was this…" he held up the glass again, the words very carefully chosen, "a bad idea?"
"No," St. John replied as he brushed his palm over the pocket of his jeans. Whenever he and Lee-Lee broached uncomfortable subjects during their walks, he would palm a flame and sparks would dance between her fingers. He wasn't sure why he was clarifying his comment to Piotr, because if there were rules of friendships and roommates, St. John supposed that Bobby should be privy to this information more than Piotr. "That was my old man's crutch."
"Ah," said softly, with a slight nod. "Does it bother you?"
"Nope," he replied. "And before you go off on some shit about peer pressure, it's not that either." He pulled out his Zippo. Snap! Click-click!…click…fwoosh! The whole motion took longer than a Bic, but the feel of it was beyond words. He palmed a very small ball of flame before flicking the Zippo shut. "Just wondering what the fuck took you so long to invite me into your damned club."
A light laugh again. "We are friends, da?"
"Yeah."
"And when I asked this evening for you to join me, you did not make a cruel comment, you did not mistrust me," Piotr said plainly, without criticism. He reached over, poured himself another shot, and then beckoned for the second glass. St. John pulled the fire in, snuffing it in his palm, before picking up his glass and holding it out for Piotr. It was filled as Piotr continued, "We drink for friendship, tovarisch. That and… you looked like you could use some company this evening." He saluted with his glass, "Za vashe zdorov'ye."
St. John repeated the toast, tapped his glass against his friend's, and they downed the shots in unison. Damn. That was good vodka. It was a bit more edgy this time, probably because it wasn't as cold; no wonder Piotr had enlisted Bobby in his booze campaign. But still it was smooth. Damn. He licked his lips, allowing the flavor to linger in his mouth. Yeah, he could see where the descriptor of 'creamy' came from, because it was thick on his tongue.
However, Piotr's last comment before the toast bugged him. "What do you mean, that I could use the company?" St. John asked as he set his glass down. "It's not the first time Bobby's gone home to his parents."
"It is the first time you looked so…" Piotr trailed off, which was par for the course sometimes. On those very late nights when it was just the three of them sprawled out in his and Bobby's room, their resident Russian slipped into his native language without thinking and sometimes it took longer for him to put together sentences. "… Upset is not the word. Concerned, maybe? Offended? Unsettled? I am not sure."
Proof that the booze was loosening his tongue, St. John snapped, "Fucking hell, Piotr." He deliberately used the Russian's given name. Out in the woods past midnight and drinking vodka, it was the appropriate name to use. "I'm not gonna fry him for having a goddamn family."
"I know." Then, there was a very long pause, followed by a long sigh. St. John heard the bottle open again. He briefly wondered how the fuck they were going to get back to the Mansion if they were shitfaced and what kind of hell Piotr would catch for having the booze to begin with. He watched as two more shots were poured into the glasses that were side-by-side between them, but Piotr did not reach for it immediately. "Frosty does not like going to his parents' home. It is beyond being the Mascot. He will not tell me why. He will not discuss it. Even with this," Piotr gestured towards the glasses, "he does not say."
And that made St. John flick his Zippo to create another ball of flame, this time a little larger. He felt the anger brimming up, because Piotr was a hell of an observant guy and he just didn't say things to fucking say them. St. John wanted to snap, 'Never seen a mark on him when he comes back,' because he hadn't and Bobby certainly didn't act like a kid who had been physically abused. Sure, there was some mental shit going on, but that was what all parents did to kids, even good parents like Kitty's.
The only thing that really stood out to St. John was that his roommate always nursed a bottle of Pepto Bismol those evenings he came back from Boston. Bobby had always claimed motion sickness from the train and St. John had never challenged him on it, although it had been so damned obvious that his roommate had been lying. Sure, he could start the self-condemnation game because he had never pestered Bobby about it, but remembered what Piotr had said. Even after a few belts of high-powered Russian vodka, Bobby kept his secrets.
Damn. Maybe Bobby had the secondary mutation of alcohol-tolerance. Doubtful, because Piotr was smart enough not to get an ice-manipulating mutant who had control issues drunk. So, his roommate's reasoning for not liking to go home was One Of The Big Ones, the ones that aren't given up except maybe upon severe pain or death, but even then it was questionable.
Suddenly, St. John realized that the drinking session in the woods was not as impromptu as he had initially thought. Piotr wanted information and St. John was the only logical source for it; after all, the Russian had never shared a room with Bobby. Piotr had used the guise of friendship and the lure of vodka to get it.
Fuck. To be bamboozled by a Russian.
Shit. St. John had to respect it. It wasn't a cheap payoff either; the vodka was damn good and the whole outing appealed to the Bad Kid in him. In the pale orange glow, he met Piotr's stare. It was now that he said, "Never seen a bruise on him."
His friend's eyes widened for just a second, either in surprise that St. John had given up the information or relief in the confirmation that Bobby hadn't been touched. From the twitch in Piotr's eye, he knew that it was both.
"The Powers That Be… they would not let things happen." Yet the declaration was not as convincing as St. John expected. It was more said as a reassurance for both of them.
Still, there was that little thing of faith. How long had he been at the Mansion now? Oh, St. John still counted the days every morning, but he didn't know the number off the top of his head. It was long enough, however, to know that Xavier wouldn't allow that shit to happen under his watch; the old man had said as much those first few days St. John was at the Mansion. And even though Scott played down the whole 'knowing Bobby since he was twelve' angle, Bobby was still considered family, and 'Lo! He who toucheth my Kid Brother shall feel the wrath of my optic blasts.'
And while there were the promises of mental privacy and all of that, St. John did remember Bobby's explanation of 'projecting' and how telepaths could pick it up quite easily. There was no way in hell that Xavier would willingly allow Bobby to return to an abusive home.
No fucking way.
Piotr's hushed voice interrupted his thoughts. "Spasibo balshoye, tovarisch." The only part of it that St. John recognized was the 'thank you.' Then, in a very measured tone, his friend said, "You notice a lot of things. You are like me in that."
It could have been considered an odd comment - creepy despite what had just been said. Yet it was an acknowledgement of the exchange of information. In the privacy of the woods and the solitude of the evening, it was a compliment. Perhaps even an even more understandable 'thank you' than the one before.
"Habit," St. John replied, but it wasn't an evasive comment. It was the truth. If he didn't pay attention to what the fuck was going on around him, he would be vulnerable and vulnerability made him an easy target. St. John refused to be an easy target.
"Da," which was an unexpected affirmation, but St. John let it pass because, well, he knew the conversation was going to take a turn for the weird. "They…" Piotr gestured vaguely; St. John supposed it was in the direction of the Mansion but wasn't sure, "they think I observe things because I paint. Yes, that is part of it, but not why I am aware of the details to begin with."
And he blinked, surprised at the revelation. To some, such an admission wouldn't be significant, but to him, it was a measure of friendship. Piotr didn't share that often; he and Lee-Lee were as ambiguous about their respective pasts as St. John was. Still, it was a curious statement. It was payment for his earlier confession about his observation of Bobby.
Aha, he thought triumphantly, Rules of the Streets do apply at the Mansion! But only past midnight, after two shots of very potent Russian vodka. St. John raised the flame to chin level, puckered his lips, and inhaled sharply at the same time he used his power to reabsorb the flame. One of these days, he was going to impress the hell out of someone with that trick. Problem was, Piotr wasn't even looking. Damn. He'd have to do it again. Bobby would be telling him that he was crazy and then proceed to do some ungodly ice trick; St. John wondered if his roommate realized how many phallic symbols he created with ice.
Still, it was surely the booze in his system that forced him to ask, "You spent time on the streets?"
It was, of course, inappropriate to ask, but Piotr had opened the door to the conversation and St. John was curious enough to follow through. He could always claim two shots of vodka in quick succession as his excuse. Piotr turned and met his gaze; in the bright moonlight, he could see a certain measure to the look. "My time was more…" There was a distinct pause, but he didn't blink as he said, "…organized."
'That, ladies and germs,' St. John could hear his father slurring out, 'is what we here at the poker table call All In.' Because, Holy Fucking Shit, a big, nasty revelation was just tossed into the center ring with the huge implication that could only lead to one or two ugly truths. St. John supposed he could react several ways.
He could recoil in disgust, yelp and run away. But, he had no idea where the fuck he was in relation to the Mansion, so he would be lost.
He could say 'no fucking way! You? Mafia? Nah! How the fuck did Xavier spring you?' and go into a list of reasons why it just wasn't possible. Maybe it wasn't Mafia because that was too fucking dramatic, but something along the lines of drug running, because Piotr was a big guy and no one would fuck with him. Else he had spent that kind of time on the streets; Piotr was an attractive guy but St. John did not want to go down that particular path of logic.
Pre-Mansion, St. John would have used the information to his advantage. He would have been ruthless with it, calculating ways to make the tidbit last as long as he could. Yet now, it was perhaps in acknowledgment of St. John's earlier revelation about his father. It put them on even ground.
Yet the only response that made sense to St. John was a slow nod of understanding. It was an ugly truth, confessed in the privacy of the woods, but it was a gift, he knew, all the same. This is my past, was what Piotr was saying, accept me now or leave it. It was also saying, I know what you've been through.
His gesture wasn't much, but neither were the words that Piotr had spoken. Yet he didn't blink. Neither did Piotr. Then, an ever-so-slow nod in return. "You understand."
"You better fucking believe it, Piotr."
*****((( End Part 1)))*****
SERIES: Fundamental Difference of Experience
AUTHOR: Kuria Dalmatia
CODES: Pre-X1, John and Piotr
SUMMARY: When Bobby goes to Boston for the weekend, Piotr shows John the proper way to drink vodka. Declarations are made. A pact is sealed.
RATING: R, profanity, underage drinking
Cross-posted to dry_ice
ARCHIVING: onomatopoetry and dry_ice.... anyone else? Let me know.
Feedback always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: Marvel owns the X-Men, 20th Century Fox owns the movie. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head.
SERIES: This is the ninth story in the Fundamental Difference of Experience series. There are a lot of references to previous stories so it does help to read them first if you haven't already. The previous stories can be found at Fundamental Differences of Experience hosted by Onomatopoetry
THANKS… to Mikhale for pushing me to take it a step further and really strive for a better and more complete ending. I think I accomplished that. To onomatopoetry for commentary, pointing out inconsistencies, and reminding me that I don't have to beat points into the ground. To Taral, for the very thorough beta reads, correcting my grammatical problems and challenging me on wording. Any mistakes that are left are mine.
COMMENTS: "Za vashe zdorov'ye" is transliterated Russian courtesy of Learning Russian Phrases. Other Russian terms are from Russian-English Online Dictionary. Damn. I can't find my dictionary or notes from when I took Russian for two semesters at university. Damn again.
Ketel One (Holland) and Skyy (U.S.) are two brands of premium vodka. Currently, my freezer is stocked with Grey Goose (France) and Three Olives (England). For those non-vodka drinkers, the more expensive brands are corked, not screw-capped. Also, vodkas produced in the U.S. do taste differently than those imported (at least to me). For more info on the finer points of vodka, visit Vodkaphiles
Piotr's English at the end is dicey for a reason.
****(((****(((****(((Ketel and Skyy, Part 1/2)))****)))****)))****
It had gotten easier over the past few months to set aside his cynical inner-thoughts and simply allow himself to be, well, free. And tonight, it wasn't just the lure of contraband vodka that led St. John on a twenty-minute hike into the woods after Friday-night lights out. It was that ease of friendship, that recognition of the 'let's be reckless because I'm bored off my ass' quirk in Piotr Rasputin's smile, that had made St. John put on his shoes, pat his jeans pocket for his Zippo, and grab his jacket.
His friendship with Piotr was unlike the one cultivated with Bobby, because Piotr didn't court his company. The Russian had absolutely no need to. People worked at becoming Piotr's friend, not the other way around, and while Piotr could have been a prick about it, he wasn't. His offer of friendship had been there on the first day and had never been rescinded. It had always been up to St. John on where he wanted to go with it.
Their core understanding of each other, he supposed, had really been forged those first few days after the Kitchen Incident, when Piotr had stayed down in the MedLab with him. Other guys might have pestered him with questions on what had happened, but Piotr had simply resumed teaching him Russian curses, patiently correcting his pronunciation. There were no questions about St. John's past and no pressure to discuss anything he didn't want to. In turn, St. John had made an earnest attempt to learn conversational Russian beyond insults or ordering booze.
And while St. John had carefully maintained the 'mutual respect'-type of friendship with Piotr for the three months after the Kitchen Incident, it hadn't been until the day after he had emotionally spazzed out in Scott's office that St. John had purposefully tracked down Piotr. In the privacy of the garden maze, St. John had only been able to get out 'Thank you' because he couldn't list all the things that his friend had done for him. At least he had said the phrase in Russian, which he supposed had been a hint as to what he was getting at. Piotr had set aside his sketchpad, nodded once and replied in the same language, 'You're welcome'.
It was why there had been no fear, no mistrust, and no hesitancy as he had trailed close behind the tall Russian, who had effortlessly moved aside the brambles, forging the way to a destination known only to Piotr.
It hadn't been as dark as it could have been, the moon bright in the humid-cool, after-midnight of Spring. The canopy overhead had not filled in yet, leaving patches for the full moon to shine through. Up until that evening, St. John had never ventured past the tree-line, only getting that close to retrieve a homerun ball (there should be a rule against mutant Russians hitting with aluminum bats) or the one and only time he had ever ridden a horse, the latter solely on a dare by Guthrie.
"Poison ivy?" St. John asked as his friend began pushing aside branches. Although he wasn't into the whole hiking and nature thing, he had paid attention to Ms. Munroe's talk about potentially dangerous plants around the Mansion and its grounds.
"Nyet. A little too early," came the reply, tinged with appreciative amusement. "The same for sumac."
So St. John shut up until they reach the clearing, and damn if the small area didn't fit the description of "pastoral". It even had a fallen log with a few smooth, flat stones lined along the side, creating a place to sit that wasn't in the mud. It was almost creepy in its perfection, but then St. John spotted a block of wood and another stone at a carefully angled distance from the couch.
"You draw here," he said as he wandered around the small area.
He saw Piotr's grin in the moonlight and heard the light laugh, "You are the first to notice."
It was the moment for a joke, a tease about just many girls Piotr had lured out here under the guise of 'painting their portrait'. But that was Bobby's department, and their erstwhile jokester had left shortly after classes had ended for a weekend in Boston. Still, St. John made the effort, if only to be his expected, smart-assed self.
"Dude, if I'm here for a fucking midnight sketch…" he threatened as he brushed a few leaves off of one of the stones and sat down.
"Nyet." Again, a chuckle. "The lighting is too poor." Piotr plopped down next to him, stretching out his legs and leaning back against the log. "And, to have a 'fucking sketch', you would need a companion who is not with us, and I would have to have brought my pencils and sketch book, not good Russian vodka and shot glasses."
St. John let out small snort. It was kind of a weird comment from Piotr, because "companion who is not with us" sounded way too… well… formal for a teenaged guy. Maybe it was an attempt at humor. Piotr's English was always a bit more awkward when making a Bobby-esque joke.
Still… it wasn't the same, really, not to have Bobby there with them because he handled all the jokes. It wasn't the first time since they began sharing a room that his roommate had gone home for the weekend. However, this time it had seemed as if Bobby were more self-conscious about it, because when he had asked Scott if the train was still on time, it had been distinctly without enthusiasm. It had almost seemed to have been asked with dread, and St. John had been a little offended by the whole thing because he certainly wasn't going to hold the whole 'going home' thing against Bobby. His roommate was considered one of the lucky ones, one of the few to be in good standing with his parents.
Piotr then pawed through the small, soft-sided cooler he had brought. "Good vodka," he declared as he pulled out a glass bottle and then two shot glasses, "should always be served frozen. Without Frosty, preparation is more difficult but it is possible."
"Whoa. Bobby joins you on your drinking expeditions?" Of course, St. John asked it with just the right amount of incredulity because Bobby was the Mascot, the Quintessential Good Kid at the Mansion, and drinking vodka in the woods qualified as Quintessential Bad Kid behavior. But there was another part of him suddenly jealous, that he hadn't been invited along sooner.
Then again, when had Bobby had the chance to sneak off since they had started sharing a room? Not that St. John monitored his roommate's every move, but he certainly would be aware if a) Bobby disappeared in the middle of the night or b) he came back smelling like booze. Of course, Bobby could have snuck out while St. John went on his walks with Lee-Lee, but such a venture would require incredible timing and St. John was never out longer than forty or so minutes.
"Haven't been on one since you arrived," Piotr replied calmly as he uncorked the bottle. "Before the Kitchen, there was concern that you would leave unexpectedly."
It was a polite way of confirming St. John's suspicions from those early days, that they had been watching him closely and waiting for him to bolt. Yet the way it was said meant that they would have made the effort to coax him back to the Mansion. It was also the first time that Piotr had ever directly mentioned the Kitchen Incident since that morning after in the MedLab.
"After the Kitchen, there was that concern as well," Piotr continued almost conversationally. "Frosty became protective of you." He poured two shots. "He insisted that you should be part of this." He held out a glass. "Frosty does not insist often."
And goddamn if that didn't feel like he was smacked with a clue-by-four hard against the jaw. He remembered what Lee-Lee had told him about how Bobby had fought for someone to stay with him in the MedLab. He remembered Bobby being covered in powdered sugar and confirming later it had been because he argued about the finer details of celebrating St. John's birthday.
There were a ton of signals he got from Bobby, but they so mixed that he really didn't act on any of them. He wasn't sure if it was Bobby making a pass at him, which he would welcome of course, or Bobby just trying like hell to be his friend.
"For you, tovarisch," Piotr said and wiggled the glass. St. John accepted it, noting how cold the shot was. "Now, in Russia, this is how we toast formally: Za vashe zdorov'ye!"
He looked over, realizing that Piotr was expecting him to repeat that mouthful of syllables. He tried, knowing that he was butchering it from the way Piotr's eye twitched a little, but after his second try, "Za vashe zdorov'ye" rolled off a bit easier, and Piotr tapped his glass to St. John's, downing the liquor in one gulp.
St. John did the same, surprised at the cold yet silky flavor racing across his palate. "Smooth," he said stupidly, because it didn't burn at all and the vapors from the alcohol didn't overwhelm him.
"Of course." Piotr grinned. "Good vodka is always smooth. My uncle says creamy, but I have never thought vodka as creamy. Smooth, yes. Perhaps even soft. Your first good vodka, eh?"
He shrugged. "Quantity, not quality. Drink for the effect, dude, never the taste."
The smile dropped from Piotr's face, and a concerned look appeared. "Was this…" he held up the glass again, the words very carefully chosen, "a bad idea?"
"No," St. John replied as he brushed his palm over the pocket of his jeans. Whenever he and Lee-Lee broached uncomfortable subjects during their walks, he would palm a flame and sparks would dance between her fingers. He wasn't sure why he was clarifying his comment to Piotr, because if there were rules of friendships and roommates, St. John supposed that Bobby should be privy to this information more than Piotr. "That was my old man's crutch."
"Ah," said softly, with a slight nod. "Does it bother you?"
"Nope," he replied. "And before you go off on some shit about peer pressure, it's not that either." He pulled out his Zippo. Snap! Click-click!…click…fwoosh! The whole motion took longer than a Bic, but the feel of it was beyond words. He palmed a very small ball of flame before flicking the Zippo shut. "Just wondering what the fuck took you so long to invite me into your damned club."
A light laugh again. "We are friends, da?"
"Yeah."
"And when I asked this evening for you to join me, you did not make a cruel comment, you did not mistrust me," Piotr said plainly, without criticism. He reached over, poured himself another shot, and then beckoned for the second glass. St. John pulled the fire in, snuffing it in his palm, before picking up his glass and holding it out for Piotr. It was filled as Piotr continued, "We drink for friendship, tovarisch. That and… you looked like you could use some company this evening." He saluted with his glass, "Za vashe zdorov'ye."
St. John repeated the toast, tapped his glass against his friend's, and they downed the shots in unison. Damn. That was good vodka. It was a bit more edgy this time, probably because it wasn't as cold; no wonder Piotr had enlisted Bobby in his booze campaign. But still it was smooth. Damn. He licked his lips, allowing the flavor to linger in his mouth. Yeah, he could see where the descriptor of 'creamy' came from, because it was thick on his tongue.
However, Piotr's last comment before the toast bugged him. "What do you mean, that I could use the company?" St. John asked as he set his glass down. "It's not the first time Bobby's gone home to his parents."
"It is the first time you looked so…" Piotr trailed off, which was par for the course sometimes. On those very late nights when it was just the three of them sprawled out in his and Bobby's room, their resident Russian slipped into his native language without thinking and sometimes it took longer for him to put together sentences. "… Upset is not the word. Concerned, maybe? Offended? Unsettled? I am not sure."
Proof that the booze was loosening his tongue, St. John snapped, "Fucking hell, Piotr." He deliberately used the Russian's given name. Out in the woods past midnight and drinking vodka, it was the appropriate name to use. "I'm not gonna fry him for having a goddamn family."
"I know." Then, there was a very long pause, followed by a long sigh. St. John heard the bottle open again. He briefly wondered how the fuck they were going to get back to the Mansion if they were shitfaced and what kind of hell Piotr would catch for having the booze to begin with. He watched as two more shots were poured into the glasses that were side-by-side between them, but Piotr did not reach for it immediately. "Frosty does not like going to his parents' home. It is beyond being the Mascot. He will not tell me why. He will not discuss it. Even with this," Piotr gestured towards the glasses, "he does not say."
And that made St. John flick his Zippo to create another ball of flame, this time a little larger. He felt the anger brimming up, because Piotr was a hell of an observant guy and he just didn't say things to fucking say them. St. John wanted to snap, 'Never seen a mark on him when he comes back,' because he hadn't and Bobby certainly didn't act like a kid who had been physically abused. Sure, there was some mental shit going on, but that was what all parents did to kids, even good parents like Kitty's.
The only thing that really stood out to St. John was that his roommate always nursed a bottle of Pepto Bismol those evenings he came back from Boston. Bobby had always claimed motion sickness from the train and St. John had never challenged him on it, although it had been so damned obvious that his roommate had been lying. Sure, he could start the self-condemnation game because he had never pestered Bobby about it, but remembered what Piotr had said. Even after a few belts of high-powered Russian vodka, Bobby kept his secrets.
Damn. Maybe Bobby had the secondary mutation of alcohol-tolerance. Doubtful, because Piotr was smart enough not to get an ice-manipulating mutant who had control issues drunk. So, his roommate's reasoning for not liking to go home was One Of The Big Ones, the ones that aren't given up except maybe upon severe pain or death, but even then it was questionable.
Suddenly, St. John realized that the drinking session in the woods was not as impromptu as he had initially thought. Piotr wanted information and St. John was the only logical source for it; after all, the Russian had never shared a room with Bobby. Piotr had used the guise of friendship and the lure of vodka to get it.
Fuck. To be bamboozled by a Russian.
Shit. St. John had to respect it. It wasn't a cheap payoff either; the vodka was damn good and the whole outing appealed to the Bad Kid in him. In the pale orange glow, he met Piotr's stare. It was now that he said, "Never seen a bruise on him."
His friend's eyes widened for just a second, either in surprise that St. John had given up the information or relief in the confirmation that Bobby hadn't been touched. From the twitch in Piotr's eye, he knew that it was both.
"The Powers That Be… they would not let things happen." Yet the declaration was not as convincing as St. John expected. It was more said as a reassurance for both of them.
Still, there was that little thing of faith. How long had he been at the Mansion now? Oh, St. John still counted the days every morning, but he didn't know the number off the top of his head. It was long enough, however, to know that Xavier wouldn't allow that shit to happen under his watch; the old man had said as much those first few days St. John was at the Mansion. And even though Scott played down the whole 'knowing Bobby since he was twelve' angle, Bobby was still considered family, and 'Lo! He who toucheth my Kid Brother shall feel the wrath of my optic blasts.'
And while there were the promises of mental privacy and all of that, St. John did remember Bobby's explanation of 'projecting' and how telepaths could pick it up quite easily. There was no way in hell that Xavier would willingly allow Bobby to return to an abusive home.
No fucking way.
Piotr's hushed voice interrupted his thoughts. "Spasibo balshoye, tovarisch." The only part of it that St. John recognized was the 'thank you.' Then, in a very measured tone, his friend said, "You notice a lot of things. You are like me in that."
It could have been considered an odd comment - creepy despite what had just been said. Yet it was an acknowledgement of the exchange of information. In the privacy of the woods and the solitude of the evening, it was a compliment. Perhaps even an even more understandable 'thank you' than the one before.
"Habit," St. John replied, but it wasn't an evasive comment. It was the truth. If he didn't pay attention to what the fuck was going on around him, he would be vulnerable and vulnerability made him an easy target. St. John refused to be an easy target.
"Da," which was an unexpected affirmation, but St. John let it pass because, well, he knew the conversation was going to take a turn for the weird. "They…" Piotr gestured vaguely; St. John supposed it was in the direction of the Mansion but wasn't sure, "they think I observe things because I paint. Yes, that is part of it, but not why I am aware of the details to begin with."
And he blinked, surprised at the revelation. To some, such an admission wouldn't be significant, but to him, it was a measure of friendship. Piotr didn't share that often; he and Lee-Lee were as ambiguous about their respective pasts as St. John was. Still, it was a curious statement. It was payment for his earlier confession about his observation of Bobby.
Aha, he thought triumphantly, Rules of the Streets do apply at the Mansion! But only past midnight, after two shots of very potent Russian vodka. St. John raised the flame to chin level, puckered his lips, and inhaled sharply at the same time he used his power to reabsorb the flame. One of these days, he was going to impress the hell out of someone with that trick. Problem was, Piotr wasn't even looking. Damn. He'd have to do it again. Bobby would be telling him that he was crazy and then proceed to do some ungodly ice trick; St. John wondered if his roommate realized how many phallic symbols he created with ice.
Still, it was surely the booze in his system that forced him to ask, "You spent time on the streets?"
It was, of course, inappropriate to ask, but Piotr had opened the door to the conversation and St. John was curious enough to follow through. He could always claim two shots of vodka in quick succession as his excuse. Piotr turned and met his gaze; in the bright moonlight, he could see a certain measure to the look. "My time was more…" There was a distinct pause, but he didn't blink as he said, "…organized."
'That, ladies and germs,' St. John could hear his father slurring out, 'is what we here at the poker table call All In.' Because, Holy Fucking Shit, a big, nasty revelation was just tossed into the center ring with the huge implication that could only lead to one or two ugly truths. St. John supposed he could react several ways.
He could recoil in disgust, yelp and run away. But, he had no idea where the fuck he was in relation to the Mansion, so he would be lost.
He could say 'no fucking way! You? Mafia? Nah! How the fuck did Xavier spring you?' and go into a list of reasons why it just wasn't possible. Maybe it wasn't Mafia because that was too fucking dramatic, but something along the lines of drug running, because Piotr was a big guy and no one would fuck with him. Else he had spent that kind of time on the streets; Piotr was an attractive guy but St. John did not want to go down that particular path of logic.
Pre-Mansion, St. John would have used the information to his advantage. He would have been ruthless with it, calculating ways to make the tidbit last as long as he could. Yet now, it was perhaps in acknowledgment of St. John's earlier revelation about his father. It put them on even ground.
Yet the only response that made sense to St. John was a slow nod of understanding. It was an ugly truth, confessed in the privacy of the woods, but it was a gift, he knew, all the same. This is my past, was what Piotr was saying, accept me now or leave it. It was also saying, I know what you've been through.
His gesture wasn't much, but neither were the words that Piotr had spoken. Yet he didn't blink. Neither did Piotr. Then, an ever-so-slow nod in return. "You understand."
"You better fucking believe it, Piotr."
*****((( End Part 1)))*****