FDoE: Ketel & Skyy, Part 2/2
TITLE: Ketel and Skyy, Part 2/2
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
****(((****(((****(((Ketel and Skyy, Part 2/2)))****)))****)))****
They lifted the shot glasses, clinked them without the Russian toast, and downed them. Silence fell between them. St. John was uneasy because by the rules of friendship and roommates, Bobby should have been with them. He owed it to the guy who routinely put up with his shit, who doggedly tried to be his friend. Damn, St. John needed to hear a joke or something, because even a nervous Bobby saying something stupid would have eased the tension.
His own attempt was lame, but -- fuck -- something had to be said. "Your uncle…" St. John's tongue felt more than a little heavy as he set the glass down. "What is 'uncle' in Russian anyway?" because in his lessons, St. John never had asked and Piotr never had volunteered to teach him how to address family members.
"Dyadya," Piotr replied as he placed his glass next to his. "Or affectionately, dyadyushka."
"Okay, so your dyadya is right about the creamy thing," he said. "This vodka… is thicker, like cream instead of thin, like water."
"Ah." Another nod, this time probably in recognition of his effort to change the subject to something more comfortable. "It is thicker tasting."
"Yep." He glanced over again. "So what does, 'za vashe zdorov'ye' mean?"
A light laugh, the same as earlier except twinged with even more amusement. "To your health."
"And 'tovarisch'?" because St. John had never heard that word before.
"It is the same as comrade," came the clarification, "but with affection. The same as 'Lee-Lee' for Jubilee."
"So… it's the same as Katya for Kitty," St. John said, "and 'Frosty' for Bobby. Shit. I hate to think of the nickname you come up for me."
"You are John, tovarisch," Piotr replied. "That is enough." He then dug around in the cooler again. "Twinkie?"
"What?" St. John stared at his friend. Well, if that wasn't proof enough that Bobby went on booze expeditions, he didn't know what was. "You've got to be fucking kidding me. Twinkies? With… how much is this stuff per bottle?"
Piotr asked, "American dollars or Russian rubles?"
"American dollars, comrade," he said. "I don't have a currency converter on hand."
"Fifty or so," said casually, as if the price didn't matter.
"Shit. So you're serving imported, expensive vodka with the only foodstuff that could survive a nuclear holocaust?" And damn, that sounded kind of Bobby-esque but not quite, but still…
"Seems appropriate," Piotr laughed and stretched again, "that the beverage of the Evil Empire go hand-in-hand with the American icon of snack cakes."
He snickered. He couldn't help it. Damn, the vodka was potent. "You do realize that there's that whole sugar-thing when it comes to booze. That it makes you absorb the alcohol faster or whatever."
"Oh… See? You do pay attention."
"Yeah. Well. No. This is from experience, dude. My old man? Hershey's bars before a fifth of some shit. Got him drunk off his ass in a hurry." He realized the last part was slurred and that he'd revealed a shit-load of information that he would have never said if it wasn't for a particular liquor in a soft-sided cooler. "Fuck. My tolerance is shot."
And there was silence. Finally, softly yet firmly, "I will never betray you."
"I know." Because St. John did. It was one of the one things he realized about Piotr that second night he was at the Mansion, when they had returned to the room they had had shared at the time. That had been the day that Lee-Lee had taken him in, the evening he had sat at the Good Kids' Table for dinner, and the evening they had congregated in Bobby's old room to study.
Piotr had said the same thing, in the same tone of voice that brokered no argument. It had been a declaration that had unnerved him at the time, but now, given the revelation about 'organized' time on the streets, it made perfect sense. And while some part of him knew he should be worried because… well, shit… Wasn't it all just a too bit damned calculated? -- another part of him welcomed the connection he and Pete had now.
An act of trust.
Damn. He needed Bobby here because of all the shit that his roommate had put up with, the time of understanding was now. Because when it came to issues of betrayal, simply, "Bobby… he wouldn't either."
"He is loyal. He is good friend. He is rare."
"I know," St. John said quietly, and Oh God did he know how rare it was to find someone like Bobby. No wonder he had earned the nickname of 'Mansion Mascot' because Bobby was the epitome of a mascot. "What did you mean earlier? That I should be part of this?"
"This." Again, a vague gesture. "Patience. You were not ready before. Now you are. It is hard to explain. All things are with time. Me. You. Frosty. It is time now."
"Shit." Because the chill he got from those words, well… hell… it felt as if Bobby had lost control again and ice crept up his spine.
"You miss him."
"So do you."
"Not the same."
"What the fuck does that mean?" and it was definitely asked as a challenge, because St. John had let the earlier one pass without comment. Now, after three belts of high-powered vodka, he wanted the answer.
"He seeks your company. You seek his," Piotr said plainly. "He courts your laugh. You cajole for his smile. He is protective of you as you are of him. It is beyond Fire and Ice, tovarisch."
Snap! click!…click…fwoosh! St. John shaped the flame, or at least tried to. He settled on a wobbly ball of fire as he looked over, making sure to meet Piotr's gaze. "You warning me off?"
Piotr raised an eyebrow at him. "Nyet."
"You warned him off?" because that was an interesting twist. It would explain why Piotr had never done anything more than look at Kitty, the stupid fuck. Granted, the Russian played his hand close to his chest always, but St. John would have never pegged the artist to be interested in boys.
Stereotypes aside, Piotr's focus was always at least peripherally on Kitty, and it was beyond 'must protect innocent girl' instinct. Hell, the guy had a notebook full of Hebrew calligraphy. It was one thing to learn a foreign language to be able to curse or order a beer. It was something else to be able to write in the language, without the benefit of formal classes or direct tutoring.
However, the Russian's expression didn't change. "Nyet."
Relief, yes, but it was because his instincts hadn't failed. St. John instead demanded, "Then what?"
Slowly, deliberately: "We will not judge."
St. John pulled the flame back in, because the last thing he wanted to be explaining to The Powers That Be was 'I was drinking vodka with the Tin Man and I set the woods on fire.' Still, the comment made him mentally step back. There was way too much to read into that statement. "Judge what?"
"What you choose. Whom you chose." Again, another sigh came from Piotr. "I do not wish for you to be hurt. You are good friend, John Allerdyce. You are balance to us. You are needed here, else we lose sight of things. We cannot lose you. We will fight for you, tovarisch. You must understand that."
It was one thing, he supposed, to have the Mascot insist that he was important. After all, he was Bobby's roommate and Bobby desperately wanted a roommate. Therefore, St. John had a ton legit reasons to dismiss Bobby's claims.
To have the Mansion Mediator say that he was needed.
Shit.
That was something else.
It also forced him to challenge, "What if I choose your Katya?" Dead silence answered that. So he bullied on, because he was St. John Allerdyce. "Show 'em, Tin Man, because that's what we're fucking doing here right? What if I made a play for your Katya?"
"What if I made a play for your Lee-Lee?"
"Irrelevant, dude. Lee-Lee chooses her own."
"As with Katya. She chooses her own."
St. John laughed, but it was sharp and bitter. "Dude, no guy in the whole fucking Mansion will go near her. Flirt with her. Tell her she looks nice. Fuck. Don't you see that? They all think you've staked your claim so they're respecting you. Shit. She thinks she's ugly or unworthy or fuck… too damned Jewish, which is complete and utter bullshit. The guys? They ain't gonna poach your girl."
"Oh."
"So all I have to do just fucking smile at her. Shit. Something as fucking simple as ask her about that pendant. Tell her how pretty it is. Say that it suits her." St. John picked up his shot glass. "Your Katya would smile. She would blush. Next thing you know, we'll be holding hands. I'd score the first kiss and the take it from there. Oh, and Tin Man? I know how to corrupt Good Girls. I've had lots of practice."
The tone was even, crisp almost. A fair but edgier imitation of what the Professor used when drawing out answers from students in class. "The reason you don't?"
"I almost killed her. I also saved her life." It was St. John's turn to raise an eyebrow as he met Piotr's gaze. "She's not mine. I don't poach. God fucking help you if the next guy who comes in ain't as nice as me, and we both fucking know I ain't a nice guy."
"Love is patient," Piotr quoted softly. "Love is kind."
"That's New Testament, Tin Man. She's Old Testament all the way. Fuck. As much as you two debate your faith, you should fucking know."
"Ah."
"You could let Kitty know you've been practicing Hebrew, jackass."
Piotr actually sat up and stared at him.
St. John only grinned. "You said yourself. I notice things." He settled against the log. "There's you're opening. Right there. Calligraphy. Makes Kitty realize that you really give a shit about her religion beyond some philosophical shit. Fuck. Maybe even talk to her about the scrolls again. Fucking ask her if you can do one for the outside of her damned door. That'll be a no, mind you, but fuck. It's the damned thought that fucking counts. Do the whole 'art' angle thing until… well…" He eyed his glass. "Shit, I sound like some stupid fuck from a Lifetime movie."
"Nyet. You sound like your Lee-Lee." He plucked the glass from St. John's hand. "You also sound like no more or you will regret this."
Regret? Well, fuck. He'd already confessed to Piotr in one hour what had taken him months to share with his own roommate. Fuck. "Bobby should be here."
"Da."
"I mean it, Tin Man."
"Of course."
That grated on his nerves particularly badly because an omniscient Rasputin was almost annoying as Lee-Lee's being 'godly' about what she knew. So he ground out, "What's that shit about hurting me?"
"Because Frosty does not know what he wants. He wants to please so many. He is pulled so many directions. He is puppet. You know this. You listen."
And fucking hell did it surprise him because someone else had picked up on the same damned thing. Yes, St. John had trust in his instincts, but the Mansion had always operated above and beyond his instincts. To hear confirmation, from the Russian no less… "Shit, Piotr, get it right. He's a marionette. All those damned strings. His dad pulls him one way. Xavier pulls him the opposite. The Mansion is his stage. We're the chorus. Aw, fuck. It's fucking Shakespeare for Mutants."
His friend let out a snort, but then his tone was serious. "Frosty does not want this place to be taken away from him."
"Who the fuck does? Christ, Piotr, this is fucking Mutie Heaven."
"Then tell me… describe for me how he sounded when he asked about the train."
"That'll cost you, Tin Man. Round'em up."
A hesitation. "You'll be ill."
"You want info. Info is a commodity. Commodities require payment, comrade. This is the land of capitalism. What else you got?"
"Twinkies."
"Dude. Do I fucking eat Twinkies?"
"According to Frosty, no."
"You got your damn answer, then. Ante up."
The vodka was uncorked, the glasses filled, and the bottle set aside. Neither of them touched their glasses.
"You first, Tin Man. You've known him longer. Does he say he's going 'home' or to 'my parents' house'?"
"Parents' house."
"He still says that. Dude, he's really specific about saying that," he told him, rubbing the side of the Zippo with his thumb. "Did he ever bring stuff back from there for his room?"
"Nyet. Frosty too fearful of ruining things."
He traced the rim of his glass with his finger. "He brings stuff back now. Important stuff, you know? None of that trophy-type shit, but personal things. His granddad's cuff links and pocket watch. Ice skates that don't fit anymore. Talked about his snowboard last time, but fuck knows where we're gonna put it."
"Ah. Very domestic."
"Bite me, Tin Man."
"Just observation."
"And observation tells me I don't fucking like him going home."
"It is because you love him."
The comment struck him hard. It was true, he supposed, that the emotion he felt was 'love', but he'd never really felt like that about anything or anyone before. To have Rasputin identify it with such ease annoyed the hell out of him. It wasn't fair, really, for someone else to tell him how he felt even if the identified emotion was correct. Or as correct as St. John supposed it could be.
He wasn't sure quite how he sounded. Fearful. Pissed. Unsure. Angry. All of them, probably. He still snarled out, "Listen, Tin Man, I could set the fucking woods on fire. Then, you'd have to drag my ass outta here because you're the Good Guy. Then you'd have to explain why you and me ain't sober. So back the fuck off on that shit, okay? Or I swear to God I'll…"
"Understood."
"Good."
They eyed each other for a few seconds before picking up the glasses, clicking them together, and downing the liquor in unison. The silence stretched out far longer than St. John expected, but he had no inclination to break it.
A thought then struck him. St. John twirled the Zippo before tapping it against his lips. "Maybe Bobby's parents think he's being cured of being a mutie. Wouldn't put it past the old man."
"Possible."
"Probable."
"The Professor encourages us to use our powers."
"Fuck, Tin Man. You've seen how Bobby can get. His parents probably fucking freaked the first time he farted at the dinner table and something got iced up. Shit. So they sent him off to Mutie School and, fuck, he still has problems."
Piotr let out a harsh sigh. "He is terrified he has not good control."
"Fuck yeah. Shit… If that kid brother of his is a punk…"
"He is a punk."
"Okay, then Punk Kid Brother probably fucks around with him. The fucking shithead."
"Da."
"There. Why Bobby hates going home."
Piotr scrubbed his face with his hand. "If he loses control, his parents think he failed. If he failed, then he be taken from Mansion. Why Frosty hates going home. Could lose Mansion. Mansion where he is…"
"Shit, Tin Man. I don't like this."
"Neither do I."
"Swear to God, if something happens…"
"We fight for him. That is the end. We will."
"Damn straight, Piotr. Damn Straight. You? Me? Don't fucking matter which one of us and don't fucking matter the damned consequences. This is our pact. Tonight. No matter what, his parents give him shit about his powers? We give them shit right back."
St. John Allerdyce held out his hand.
Piotr Rasputin grasped it firmly and shook. There was a pause. Then, "You love him."
"As do you."
"Not the same."
"Don't fucking matter. Oh, and Tin Man?"
"Da?"
"Fucking do something about Kitty. Lee-Lee's wondering if she can weld you together, and there's only so much I can fucking do to stop her."
"You are drunk."
"Just being honest, Tin Man, and dude? We all know that ain't that fucking often."
****((( Finis )))****
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
****(((****(((****(((Ketel and Skyy, Part 2/2)))****)))****)))****
They lifted the shot glasses, clinked them without the Russian toast, and downed them. Silence fell between them. St. John was uneasy because by the rules of friendship and roommates, Bobby should have been with them. He owed it to the guy who routinely put up with his shit, who doggedly tried to be his friend. Damn, St. John needed to hear a joke or something, because even a nervous Bobby saying something stupid would have eased the tension.
His own attempt was lame, but -- fuck -- something had to be said. "Your uncle…" St. John's tongue felt more than a little heavy as he set the glass down. "What is 'uncle' in Russian anyway?" because in his lessons, St. John never had asked and Piotr never had volunteered to teach him how to address family members.
"Dyadya," Piotr replied as he placed his glass next to his. "Or affectionately, dyadyushka."
"Okay, so your dyadya is right about the creamy thing," he said. "This vodka… is thicker, like cream instead of thin, like water."
"Ah." Another nod, this time probably in recognition of his effort to change the subject to something more comfortable. "It is thicker tasting."
"Yep." He glanced over again. "So what does, 'za vashe zdorov'ye' mean?"
A light laugh, the same as earlier except twinged with even more amusement. "To your health."
"And 'tovarisch'?" because St. John had never heard that word before.
"It is the same as comrade," came the clarification, "but with affection. The same as 'Lee-Lee' for Jubilee."
"So… it's the same as Katya for Kitty," St. John said, "and 'Frosty' for Bobby. Shit. I hate to think of the nickname you come up for me."
"You are John, tovarisch," Piotr replied. "That is enough." He then dug around in the cooler again. "Twinkie?"
"What?" St. John stared at his friend. Well, if that wasn't proof enough that Bobby went on booze expeditions, he didn't know what was. "You've got to be fucking kidding me. Twinkies? With… how much is this stuff per bottle?"
Piotr asked, "American dollars or Russian rubles?"
"American dollars, comrade," he said. "I don't have a currency converter on hand."
"Fifty or so," said casually, as if the price didn't matter.
"Shit. So you're serving imported, expensive vodka with the only foodstuff that could survive a nuclear holocaust?" And damn, that sounded kind of Bobby-esque but not quite, but still…
"Seems appropriate," Piotr laughed and stretched again, "that the beverage of the Evil Empire go hand-in-hand with the American icon of snack cakes."
He snickered. He couldn't help it. Damn, the vodka was potent. "You do realize that there's that whole sugar-thing when it comes to booze. That it makes you absorb the alcohol faster or whatever."
"Oh… See? You do pay attention."
"Yeah. Well. No. This is from experience, dude. My old man? Hershey's bars before a fifth of some shit. Got him drunk off his ass in a hurry." He realized the last part was slurred and that he'd revealed a shit-load of information that he would have never said if it wasn't for a particular liquor in a soft-sided cooler. "Fuck. My tolerance is shot."
And there was silence. Finally, softly yet firmly, "I will never betray you."
"I know." Because St. John did. It was one of the one things he realized about Piotr that second night he was at the Mansion, when they had returned to the room they had had shared at the time. That had been the day that Lee-Lee had taken him in, the evening he had sat at the Good Kids' Table for dinner, and the evening they had congregated in Bobby's old room to study.
Piotr had said the same thing, in the same tone of voice that brokered no argument. It had been a declaration that had unnerved him at the time, but now, given the revelation about 'organized' time on the streets, it made perfect sense. And while some part of him knew he should be worried because… well, shit… Wasn't it all just a too bit damned calculated? -- another part of him welcomed the connection he and Pete had now.
An act of trust.
Damn. He needed Bobby here because of all the shit that his roommate had put up with, the time of understanding was now. Because when it came to issues of betrayal, simply, "Bobby… he wouldn't either."
"He is loyal. He is good friend. He is rare."
"I know," St. John said quietly, and Oh God did he know how rare it was to find someone like Bobby. No wonder he had earned the nickname of 'Mansion Mascot' because Bobby was the epitome of a mascot. "What did you mean earlier? That I should be part of this?"
"This." Again, a vague gesture. "Patience. You were not ready before. Now you are. It is hard to explain. All things are with time. Me. You. Frosty. It is time now."
"Shit." Because the chill he got from those words, well… hell… it felt as if Bobby had lost control again and ice crept up his spine.
"You miss him."
"So do you."
"Not the same."
"What the fuck does that mean?" and it was definitely asked as a challenge, because St. John had let the earlier one pass without comment. Now, after three belts of high-powered vodka, he wanted the answer.
"He seeks your company. You seek his," Piotr said plainly. "He courts your laugh. You cajole for his smile. He is protective of you as you are of him. It is beyond Fire and Ice, tovarisch."
Snap! click!…click…fwoosh! St. John shaped the flame, or at least tried to. He settled on a wobbly ball of fire as he looked over, making sure to meet Piotr's gaze. "You warning me off?"
Piotr raised an eyebrow at him. "Nyet."
"You warned him off?" because that was an interesting twist. It would explain why Piotr had never done anything more than look at Kitty, the stupid fuck. Granted, the Russian played his hand close to his chest always, but St. John would have never pegged the artist to be interested in boys.
Stereotypes aside, Piotr's focus was always at least peripherally on Kitty, and it was beyond 'must protect innocent girl' instinct. Hell, the guy had a notebook full of Hebrew calligraphy. It was one thing to learn a foreign language to be able to curse or order a beer. It was something else to be able to write in the language, without the benefit of formal classes or direct tutoring.
However, the Russian's expression didn't change. "Nyet."
Relief, yes, but it was because his instincts hadn't failed. St. John instead demanded, "Then what?"
Slowly, deliberately: "We will not judge."
St. John pulled the flame back in, because the last thing he wanted to be explaining to The Powers That Be was 'I was drinking vodka with the Tin Man and I set the woods on fire.' Still, the comment made him mentally step back. There was way too much to read into that statement. "Judge what?"
"What you choose. Whom you chose." Again, another sigh came from Piotr. "I do not wish for you to be hurt. You are good friend, John Allerdyce. You are balance to us. You are needed here, else we lose sight of things. We cannot lose you. We will fight for you, tovarisch. You must understand that."
It was one thing, he supposed, to have the Mascot insist that he was important. After all, he was Bobby's roommate and Bobby desperately wanted a roommate. Therefore, St. John had a ton legit reasons to dismiss Bobby's claims.
To have the Mansion Mediator say that he was needed.
Shit.
That was something else.
It also forced him to challenge, "What if I choose your Katya?" Dead silence answered that. So he bullied on, because he was St. John Allerdyce. "Show 'em, Tin Man, because that's what we're fucking doing here right? What if I made a play for your Katya?"
"What if I made a play for your Lee-Lee?"
"Irrelevant, dude. Lee-Lee chooses her own."
"As with Katya. She chooses her own."
St. John laughed, but it was sharp and bitter. "Dude, no guy in the whole fucking Mansion will go near her. Flirt with her. Tell her she looks nice. Fuck. Don't you see that? They all think you've staked your claim so they're respecting you. Shit. She thinks she's ugly or unworthy or fuck… too damned Jewish, which is complete and utter bullshit. The guys? They ain't gonna poach your girl."
"Oh."
"So all I have to do just fucking smile at her. Shit. Something as fucking simple as ask her about that pendant. Tell her how pretty it is. Say that it suits her." St. John picked up his shot glass. "Your Katya would smile. She would blush. Next thing you know, we'll be holding hands. I'd score the first kiss and the take it from there. Oh, and Tin Man? I know how to corrupt Good Girls. I've had lots of practice."
The tone was even, crisp almost. A fair but edgier imitation of what the Professor used when drawing out answers from students in class. "The reason you don't?"
"I almost killed her. I also saved her life." It was St. John's turn to raise an eyebrow as he met Piotr's gaze. "She's not mine. I don't poach. God fucking help you if the next guy who comes in ain't as nice as me, and we both fucking know I ain't a nice guy."
"Love is patient," Piotr quoted softly. "Love is kind."
"That's New Testament, Tin Man. She's Old Testament all the way. Fuck. As much as you two debate your faith, you should fucking know."
"Ah."
"You could let Kitty know you've been practicing Hebrew, jackass."
Piotr actually sat up and stared at him.
St. John only grinned. "You said yourself. I notice things." He settled against the log. "There's you're opening. Right there. Calligraphy. Makes Kitty realize that you really give a shit about her religion beyond some philosophical shit. Fuck. Maybe even talk to her about the scrolls again. Fucking ask her if you can do one for the outside of her damned door. That'll be a no, mind you, but fuck. It's the damned thought that fucking counts. Do the whole 'art' angle thing until… well…" He eyed his glass. "Shit, I sound like some stupid fuck from a Lifetime movie."
"Nyet. You sound like your Lee-Lee." He plucked the glass from St. John's hand. "You also sound like no more or you will regret this."
Regret? Well, fuck. He'd already confessed to Piotr in one hour what had taken him months to share with his own roommate. Fuck. "Bobby should be here."
"Da."
"I mean it, Tin Man."
"Of course."
That grated on his nerves particularly badly because an omniscient Rasputin was almost annoying as Lee-Lee's being 'godly' about what she knew. So he ground out, "What's that shit about hurting me?"
"Because Frosty does not know what he wants. He wants to please so many. He is pulled so many directions. He is puppet. You know this. You listen."
And fucking hell did it surprise him because someone else had picked up on the same damned thing. Yes, St. John had trust in his instincts, but the Mansion had always operated above and beyond his instincts. To hear confirmation, from the Russian no less… "Shit, Piotr, get it right. He's a marionette. All those damned strings. His dad pulls him one way. Xavier pulls him the opposite. The Mansion is his stage. We're the chorus. Aw, fuck. It's fucking Shakespeare for Mutants."
His friend let out a snort, but then his tone was serious. "Frosty does not want this place to be taken away from him."
"Who the fuck does? Christ, Piotr, this is fucking Mutie Heaven."
"Then tell me… describe for me how he sounded when he asked about the train."
"That'll cost you, Tin Man. Round'em up."
A hesitation. "You'll be ill."
"You want info. Info is a commodity. Commodities require payment, comrade. This is the land of capitalism. What else you got?"
"Twinkies."
"Dude. Do I fucking eat Twinkies?"
"According to Frosty, no."
"You got your damn answer, then. Ante up."
The vodka was uncorked, the glasses filled, and the bottle set aside. Neither of them touched their glasses.
"You first, Tin Man. You've known him longer. Does he say he's going 'home' or to 'my parents' house'?"
"Parents' house."
"He still says that. Dude, he's really specific about saying that," he told him, rubbing the side of the Zippo with his thumb. "Did he ever bring stuff back from there for his room?"
"Nyet. Frosty too fearful of ruining things."
He traced the rim of his glass with his finger. "He brings stuff back now. Important stuff, you know? None of that trophy-type shit, but personal things. His granddad's cuff links and pocket watch. Ice skates that don't fit anymore. Talked about his snowboard last time, but fuck knows where we're gonna put it."
"Ah. Very domestic."
"Bite me, Tin Man."
"Just observation."
"And observation tells me I don't fucking like him going home."
"It is because you love him."
The comment struck him hard. It was true, he supposed, that the emotion he felt was 'love', but he'd never really felt like that about anything or anyone before. To have Rasputin identify it with such ease annoyed the hell out of him. It wasn't fair, really, for someone else to tell him how he felt even if the identified emotion was correct. Or as correct as St. John supposed it could be.
He wasn't sure quite how he sounded. Fearful. Pissed. Unsure. Angry. All of them, probably. He still snarled out, "Listen, Tin Man, I could set the fucking woods on fire. Then, you'd have to drag my ass outta here because you're the Good Guy. Then you'd have to explain why you and me ain't sober. So back the fuck off on that shit, okay? Or I swear to God I'll…"
"Understood."
"Good."
They eyed each other for a few seconds before picking up the glasses, clicking them together, and downing the liquor in unison. The silence stretched out far longer than St. John expected, but he had no inclination to break it.
A thought then struck him. St. John twirled the Zippo before tapping it against his lips. "Maybe Bobby's parents think he's being cured of being a mutie. Wouldn't put it past the old man."
"Possible."
"Probable."
"The Professor encourages us to use our powers."
"Fuck, Tin Man. You've seen how Bobby can get. His parents probably fucking freaked the first time he farted at the dinner table and something got iced up. Shit. So they sent him off to Mutie School and, fuck, he still has problems."
Piotr let out a harsh sigh. "He is terrified he has not good control."
"Fuck yeah. Shit… If that kid brother of his is a punk…"
"He is a punk."
"Okay, then Punk Kid Brother probably fucks around with him. The fucking shithead."
"Da."
"There. Why Bobby hates going home."
Piotr scrubbed his face with his hand. "If he loses control, his parents think he failed. If he failed, then he be taken from Mansion. Why Frosty hates going home. Could lose Mansion. Mansion where he is…"
"Shit, Tin Man. I don't like this."
"Neither do I."
"Swear to God, if something happens…"
"We fight for him. That is the end. We will."
"Damn straight, Piotr. Damn Straight. You? Me? Don't fucking matter which one of us and don't fucking matter the damned consequences. This is our pact. Tonight. No matter what, his parents give him shit about his powers? We give them shit right back."
St. John Allerdyce held out his hand.
Piotr Rasputin grasped it firmly and shook. There was a pause. Then, "You love him."
"As do you."
"Not the same."
"Don't fucking matter. Oh, and Tin Man?"
"Da?"
"Fucking do something about Kitty. Lee-Lee's wondering if she can weld you together, and there's only so much I can fucking do to stop her."
"You are drunk."
"Just being honest, Tin Man, and dude? We all know that ain't that fucking often."
****((( Finis )))****