Fanfic- Theme from "Cheers" - Pietro/Jean-Paul, X-Men Evolution, (Quicksilver/Northstar) - Part 1/2
Title: Theme from “Cheers” - Part 1/2
Author: kelly1
Verse: X-Men: Evolution
Characters/Pairing: Jean-Paul Beaubier/Pietro Maximoff (Northstar/Quicksilver), mentions of Lance, Kitty, Evan, Wanda, Todd, Fred, Magneto, Mystique, and a brief Jeanne-Marie Beaubier cameo.
Summary: I'm going to put the devil inside me to sleep if it takes all night. So let's get fucked up; let's pretend we're all okay. If you've got something that you can't live with, save it for another day. Pietro goes to blow off some steam in Montreal. Who should he meet but Alpha Flight’s own resident snarky speedster? Banter and sexytiems ensue. Pietro/Jean-Paul. (Quicksilver/Northstar)
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel. The songs referenced belong to Titus Andronicus, The Guess Who, 2 Live Crew, and Blur respectively. No offence is meant: Americans, Canadians, French-Canadians, citizens of the fake country of Transia from which the Maximoff’s hail. The characters are merely poking gentle fun. I love you all.
Warning: This contains some explicit M/M Oral and HJ, and, since I was riding the NC-17 train anyway, some casual drug use. And swearing, lots of swearing. (In two languages!)
Thanks: Extended to moonys_autumn and lithiumlaughter who vaguely indicated they might consider reading this (which is all the motivation I need, apparently heh), and to you, dear reader, if you make it through this.
A/N: Uh... so this is a 2700 word PWP not so cleverly disguised as a 14000 word fic. Maybe make yourself a tea before you sit down and read this. Really, it just got away from me because I love Evo!Pietro and extendo-verseEvo!Jean-Paul entirely too much. (So much that I drew a cover for this, for chrissakes...) :: shifty eyes :: Also, I fear this is kind of waff-y, but in the way you would expect incredibly acerbic jerks to be waff-y with each other. Um... feedback to me is like Twinkies to Tallahassee. :: waves and scurries away ::
Hey look, a cover!
Quicksilver and Northstar by ~kelly1-watxm on deviantART
(giant version here.)
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Pietro sees him of course. Pietro sees him seeing him, assessing Pietro and the silly little girls that have surrounded him. He has a similar group around himself, on the other side of the dance floor. (Though it’s larger, Pietro notices with some disdain.) “Hello, stranger,” the dangerous cock of the eyebrow seems to say, the wry smile. “Nice harem.” He looks absolutely bored out of his skull with the girls and Pietro can relate.
“All the way from New York?” asks one of the girls (Jessica? Janessa? Vanessa? Vanessica? [That’s not even a fucking name, Pietro, that can’t be it.]) “How did you get here?”
Pietro takes another sip of his beer (not because he particularly likes beer but because it’s cheap, and it’s stronger in Canada, and he’s already dropped too much of his cash on a hotel room.) “I ran.” He’s not really paying attention to anything but the dark haired guy.
She laughs like it’s the fucking funniest thing anyone has ever said, and Pietro is annoyed. Honestly, he could sleep with any of these girls, but that’s not why he came to Montreal. (Lance. That’s the reason. “We’re adults now Pietro....this just feels fucking weird, you know? We’re too old for this shit. It’s not an experiment anymore. I just... this isn’t what I want.” Fucking repressed Lance in fucking repressed Bayville.) Progressive. Montreal is progressive. (Montreal’s drinking age is 18.) And, more than New York City could ever be, Montreal is anonymous. Who the fuck knows him in Canada?
Certainly not Vanessica. And certainly not that dark haired guy looking him up and down so fast that, to anyone but Pietro, he would have appeared uninterested. (Maybe Pietro was imagining it.) But the former, at least, could be useful at the moment. “That guy over there... I think I’ve met him before.” This is an outright lie, but Pietro can coat shit in his smooth voice and make it sound like honey. “Do you know him?”
She rolls her eyes. “Jean-Paul Beaubier. Big shot skier a few years back, won a gold medal in the Olympics. Coasting on his fame. He’s such a tease.” That much is obvious, but Janessica seems to be speaking from experience.
Beaubier. He repeats it in his head, to get the pronunciation right. He never paid too much attention in French class (or any class.) “Mmm,” Pietro reassures her. “Nope, not who I thought it was. Must’ve been mistaken.” He takes her glass from her. “Another vodka-cran?”
Pietro is saved the four dollars (two toonies... what the fuck kind of money system is that? Pietro wonders idly if Canadian men have to wear tighter pants simply to combat the weight of the change) when the roof of the club is ripped wide. A Sentinel. Maybe Montreal isn’t as progressive as he thought. And he notices, with a twinge of something that’s almost amusement, that the guy is gone in a flash-so fast, again, that anyone but Pietro would have missed it. He looks so damn... heroic as he bolts out the door that Pietro just has to jump in. This Beaubier guy can’t have all the fun.
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Tabernac. A Sentinel? A Sentinel. Honestly. (And Jean-Paul really liked that club. Or, at least, he could tolerate it, which was more than he could say for most places.) Their programming often went somewhat askance and they drifted over from the States, not particularly concerned about borders or clearing customs.
Alpha Flight was authorized to destroy-on-sight by the Canadian government, but still; it's terribly inconvenient on a night off. Jean-Paul wonders briefly if he should call for back up. Jeanne-Marie is less than ten minutes away at their shared apartment (five, for Jean-Paul, but he's a little faster) and Hudson might be around. But it's only one, and he'd just been thinking about how bored he was. At least it was an opportunity to get away from those girls, with their talons and their trite laughter and their pharmacy bought perfume. Besides, there was a good chance that the guy he had been eyeing (impossibly high cheek bones, impossibly sharp features) was long gone now. Sentinels tended to clear out a room (or club, or street.)
That makes Jean-Paul grumpy, (which Jeanne-Marie always teased was his natural state. That is simply untrue; his natural state is 'smugly amused by how pathetic everyone else is') a good half an hour of eye-fucking gone to waste. Not to mention that he's wearing his civilian clothing, which could never really stand up to his speed without tearing. This is his second favourite pair of jeans. That also makes him grumpy, which means that the Sentinel doesn't really stand a chance.
Jean-Paul goes to cut in, between the legs and then around (the trick was to confuse the processor and move so fast that, in firing at him, it ended up hitting itself) and catches something out of the corner of his eye. The silver-haired guy from the club is matching pace with him easily, loping along with confident, almost lazy strides. He smiles, a little bit dangerous and a little bit wicked-he looks impish up close, mercurial-and Jean-Paul knows he is in a world of trouble; he can already feel the want bubbling low in his stomach. Jean-Paul cocks his eyebrow questioningly at him, haughty curiosity one of the expressions he has down to an art form.
“Quicksilver,” the other boy supplies, arching a perfect dark eyebrow right back in a look that clearly adds ‘and who the hell are you?’
Ah, they’re playing the code name game. I’m far too important to tell you who I really am. “Northstar.” Jean-Paul has to admit, (but only to himself, of course) that he likes the name ‘Quicksilver’ better.
“Nice evening for a jog, huh, Northstar?” The accent is American (the ‘huh’ confirms it) and something vaguely European. He’s so casual about it, conversational-mimes checking his pulse, timing it on a wrist watch that he doesn’t have, nodding thoughtfully-that Jean-Paul almost laughs in spite of himself.
“You know how important exercise is.” Jean-Paul ticks it off on his fingers as he talks, faux-pensive, “Arms and elliptical trainer on Tuesdays and Thursdays, legs and recumbent bike on Mondays and Fridays, back, chest, abs and fighting sentient robots on Wednesdays and Saturdays. It’s nice to have a routine.”
“Mmm, and I find the Sentinel destruction classes fill up way slower than Pilates or spin.”
“And have less soccer moms.”
“Always a bonus.”
They’re running zigzags, complicated spirals, complex loops, the hiss of hydraulics above them the ever present ambient noise to their conversation. Jean-Paul is lead, directing their movements still, but Quicksilver has been speeding up incrementally, such that it’s just starting to become difficult for Jean-Paul. Not that he’s outmatched; he’s simply inappropriately attired. (He can feel the seam on his outer right thigh begin to split. He ignores the fact that Quicksilver is also in jeans.) Quicksilver, two strides ahead now, cocky smirk thrown over his shoulder, is watching him. “Do you want me to slow down?” Infuriating and handsome.
Jean-Paul gives a burst of speed and takes a hard right around one of the massive robot legs, between parked cars whose owners were likely to be rather distraught when they saw the state of their vehicles. He’s breathing heavier now; he can feel the sweat gathering between his shoulder blades on the cool November night, but at least he has outpaced Quicksilver. (Really, Jean-Paul hadn’t been worried) That will knock that smirk off his face. (Jean-Paul has a monopoly on smug superiority.)
And then, somehow, he appears in front of Jean-Paul, running backwards on the balls of his feet, jaunty and grinning fiendishly. “So...I’m a little confused. Was that a yes?” Jean-Paul thinks he might like this guy.
And Jean-Paul smiles back, sardonic and measured, before shooting three metres up into the air above Quicksilver. (Surprise slows him down, Jean-Paul notices with some satisfaction.) “No, thank you. That’s quite alright.”
Quicksilver actually laughs at this, boisterous and loud. It echoes off the buildings in the empty street. And then he’s off, fast, impossibly fast, so that he blurs a bit even to Jean-Paul’s eyes. Jean-Paul streaks upwards.
Now that they’ve completed comparing proverbial penis sizes, they make short work of the Sentinel. Within less than a minute, it’s a heap of crackling electricity and oozing mechanical fluids and shattered metal. Jean-Paul’s jeans are in a similar state of disrepair. Quicksilver has torn his shirt. As Quicksilver pushes his hair out of his eyes (two pieces that seem to have a sort of sentience) Jean-Paul catches the slightest glimpse of downy soft chest hair, of a dusty pink nipple against pale white skin. Jean-Paul is no longer certain all the crackling electricity is coming from the destroyed robot.
“Well, that was fun.” Quicksilver is inspecting the hole in his shirt thoughtfully.
“I suppose, if murderous machines are your thing.”
He grins again at Jean-Paul, disarmingly sexy, not off-put by Jean-Paul’s acerbity one bit, and then he pulls the ruined garment over his head. “Aren’t they everybody’s, Northstar?” He tosses it into a nearby garbage can with the practiced grace of a basketball player.
What Jean-Paul had initially interpreted as scrawny is actually lean-muscles longer and flatter than Jean-Paul’s, but gloriously well defined. Everything about Quicksilver seems to follow this pattern: long limbs, long fingers, as though a lifetime of running has stretched him around the edges. Jean-Paul is... appreciative. “Jean-Paul, please. Jean-Paul Beaubier.” Because he feels vaguely ridiculous being called Northstar, and because he wants Quicksilver’s real name.
“Pleasure, Jean-Paul Beaubier.” His tongue bruises the French syllables but doesn’t utterly murder them, and Jean-Paul is sufficiently mollified. (And not thinking about the other things that tongue was capable of in the slightest.) “Pietro Maximoff, a.k.a. the guy who saved your slow ass.”
Of course he wouldn’t have a common name; there is nothing common about him. “Hrm, odd, I don’t quite remember it that way. Then again, I suppose your perspective was rather limited from the ground.” He flashes a devastating smile. “Perhaps you’d be interested in discussing it over a drink?”
Pietro laughs, (he has a habit of that, Jean-Paul has noticed, laughing before his own jokes. It’s strangely charming.) “Well I would, but don’t bars around here have a ‘no shirt, no Sentinel grease, no service’ policy?”
“Fair. You’d be surprised at what some people try to pass off as appropriate attire, though.” Pietro has a point. Jean-Paul could use a new pair of pants and a quick shower himself. He notices that there is a pub still standing across the street, miraculously untouched in the Sentinel’s wake, and points to it. “Perhaps we freshen up and meet back there in an hour?”
“An hour? Are we taking the subway? Are we Amish? Twenty minutes.” And Pietro’s gone in a streak.
“Crisse.” The things Jean-Paul let his libido get himself into.
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Should he shave? Maybe Pietro should shave. Fair-haired guys couldn’t work the unkempt look (Lance always called his stubble ‘peach fuzz.’ I will not think of Lance. This has nothing to do with Lance. This has everything to do with the famous, sexy, French-Canadian man who wants to jump his bones. Or, you know, have a friendly beer. Regardless, fuck Lance.) He wasn’t going to shave. He liked his stubble. His face was too narrow at the jaw line; he still looked like a sophomore without it.
Hell. Somehow, he has managed to cut a patch into his cheek while he was thinking, his hands faster than his head. Nothing to do but shave now. He curses himself for packing too quickly, remembering a razor but forgetting the shaving cream. (He had been in a rush. Angry.) Even with water and soap, it stings like a bitch, and he hops back and forth between his two feet. Then he curses himself again because, really, he is staying in a three hundred dollar a night hotel right in the thick of Le Village and it has a legitimate concierge (who had looked down his nose at Pietro when the [admittedly sweaty from his run] teen had checked in) and what else is a concierge for if Pietro can’t ask him for shaving cream. God, sometimes he was so new money. "Nouveau riche," he tests aloud to his reflection.
But really, that's a lie. He's not nouveau riche or old-veau riche or any riche at all. He's just a stupid kid whose father has fucked off again indefinitely, left them with enough for a year's rent, utilities, groceries; forgot all the extraneous shit -- gas for the jeep, new shoes (Pietro goes through a pair a month at least.) Lance stocks shelves on overnights at the grocery store (and Pietro suspects, accepts more than a little charity from Pryde), Wanda has her scholarship money (she's taking Design at the community college, makes dresses that are more art than function, rife with torn fabric, mismatched patterns, black with bright bursts of angry colour, beautiful and damaged as she is. It breaks Pietro's heart sometimes, watching her work on those damn dresses,) Todd and Fred are still in high-school, seniors, (Freddy is on a victory lap to get his final two credits; Todd's already apprenticing at an auto shop, has a goal, has an exit strategy) and get some sort of state kick-back Mystique set up years ago, and Pietro steals everything he needs (he would go crazy in a real job. He's going crazy in Bayville as it is, rotting. The brief encounter with Jean-Paul has set his nerve endings on fire, more alive than he's been in months.)
No matter what he told Evan all those years ago, cash is much more difficult to come by than objects. He thinks of the forty dollars pressed into his wallet, the two green bills (the only Canadian money that makes any sense) and how they will have to last him the night. (He thinks of Evan. How long has it been since he’s seen him? Slow, stupid, beautiful Evan. How, at fifteen, Pietro had confused sexual frustration for rivalry, want for hate. Everything was a challenge then, everything was a game. Still was. Doomed to repeat patterns. This is Lance's fault, why he was thinking like this, for interrupting the glorious blur that Pietro needed to live in to survive. Pietro hated thinking, couldn't slow down, couldn't inspect anything too closely. Lance's fault for destroying the status quo, the on-again-off-again-and-now-back-on-again with Kitty during the day, the desperate, angry, self-loathing fucking with Pietro at night. Enough for Pietro. Enough for the both of them. But now it's not enough. Or too much. Or.... something. Gone. Done. Enough.)
He holds up the two shirts to his bare chest, frowning, wishing he had packed a more comprehensive sampling of his wardrobe. Jean-Paul had been quite well dressed. Well, nothing he could really do about that now, either. Pietro selects a striped t-shirt that he knows fits him well, casual, but tight and flattering in all the right places. His own devilish good looks would have to suffice.
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“You met a boy.” Jeanne-Marie perches herself on the corner of the tub, meeting Jean-Paul’s eyes in the reflection of the mirror as he works a dollop of mousse through his hair. She seems completely comfortable with the fact that he’s only wearing a towel slung low over his hips. (Jean-Paul is less comfortable with the draft she has let in.)
“What makes you say that?” It’s eerie, sometimes, when she does that. They’ve only known each other for several months; she should not be so adept at reading him. (That is Jean-Paul's forte: keen observation, distance, brilliance at facades. [Maybe it was genetic.] Jean-Paul excelled at reading people, keeping them close, opening them bit by bit, knowing exactly what words to say to destroy them, if needed, and still giving nothing away of himself. Nothing of consequence, anyhow. A glorious, necessary defence mechanism, as deadly as a scorpion’s sting or a cobra's venom. What did anyone know of Jean-Paul Beaubier? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. And that was the way he preferred it.) He frowns at his reflection; he desperately needs a haircut.
“You’re using your good cologne. You threw your favourite pair of jeans over the back of the couch to put on as you walk out the door so they don’t crease.” She smiles at him. “You were singing in the shower.”
He narrows his eyes, but holds no real heat to his stare. “I don’t sing.”
“You can say that again.” Jeanne-Marie laughs at him, getting up to ruffle his hair. It falls perfectly after that, what Jean-Paul has been trying to achieve for the last twenty seconds. He doesn’t know whether to be grateful or annoyed. “So he’s American. Is he cute?”
“Attractive in a very sharp sort of way. Striking, not cute.” Jean-Paul raises an eyebrow at her. “And when did I say he was American?”
“When you were not singing in the shower?” She opens her eyes wide, faux-innocent. “So, do you plan to tell him upfront that you don’t need his war machines or his ghetto scenes? Or is that more of a third date topic?”
The word stings unintentionally. Jean-Paul has not been on a date in almost four years. Awkward, horribly awkward, that dinner with his teammate. Josh, from Whistler, easy-going, grinning Josh, seventeen and blonde and ruddy from the slopes, confident in everything but most of all his sexuality, and Jean-Paul, fifteen, dark and pale and nervous, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands. (What a difference a few years could make.) The clumsy kiss. Désastre. And then, after the debacle with the IOC, he had drifted, slipped through the cracks, self-destructive, needing no one and certainly not a date. Encounters in bathroom stalls with a string of others, loosing himself to faceless entities made entirely of mouths and dicks and sweat, terrifying and wonderful and real. (Bites and moans and scratches that would ring in his ears, would hurt for days.) Something to feel, to know he was still alive. And then with the Front he was much too busy, much too terrified (so awful, some of the things they did, but it was somewhere, somewhere to go, something to believe, the same thrill as the slopes, as the stalls) for dating.
He'd been with Alpha Flight since July; Jeanne-Marie entirely to blame, Jeanne-Marie entirely to thank. To learn he had a sister, had someone, after all these years of being self-sufficient (alone) had filled him up and made him greedy. Once he had tasted it, the casual intimacy between siblings, he had wanted more, different, intense, prolonged, someone, an other who was not faceless. Significant. He'd felt that same tide pulling at Pietro behind his eyes at the club (imagined it perhaps, deluded himself, Pietro will just be for an evening, another in a long line of shining beautiful distractions), a cocky grin for Pietro, a bored stare for Jean-Paul. (The same. What did anyone know of Jean-Paul Beaubier? What did anyone know of Pietro Maximoff? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.) He wants to open him up, bit by bit, but not to take apart, not to assemble the knowledge to destroy...simply to see, to know, to understand his own inner workings (expects he will find a mirror, the same, the same, inverted, and reflected, but the same. He’s over-thinking things again.)
“It’s not a date.”Jean-Paul grumbles, pulling the dress shirt off the hook on the back of the door. He had hung it there to relax some of the wrinkles as he showered. He has no time to iron under Pietro’s scheduling regime. (Twenty minutes, honestly. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Jean-Paul would just have to be fashionably late.)
“Sure, Jean-Paul.”
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Jean-Paul arrives fashionably late. Pietro is already half-way through his beer. (It’s his fourth of the night; he’s starting to feel an undeniable buzz.) He had debated leaving simply out of principal, annoyed at being kept waiting. Did Jean-Paul think Pietro had nothing better to do than sit around anticipating his arrival? (Of course he didn’t. Where else was he going to find a ridiculously attractive guy who could keep up with him in Montreal? Hell...anywhere else. He was at Jean-Paul’s uber-sexy mercy, but he didn’t need to know that.)
Jean-Paul slides easily onto the stool across from Pietro, setting down the beer he had acquired from the bar as he walked in, (not that Pietro had been watching him,) and removes his coat. The time that he had taken appears to be well spent. Jean-Paul is dressed painstakingly chic, some sort of combination of GQ-hipster-50’s-sitcom-dad in a dress shirt and cardigan; completed right down to a skinny black tie and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses peaking out of his breast pocket. Pietro is marginally jealous, and also willing to accept his tardiness in the face of fantastic fashion sense. No one dressed like that in Bayville.
He plucks the glasses out of Jean-Paul’s pocket, inspecting them and then trying them on. The lenses are fake, clear plastic. “Girls don’t make passes at boys who wear glasses, Jean-Paul,” Pietro admonishes.
Jean-Paul rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his beer, “If only.” (That... clears a few things up. Pietro had been vaguely worried that perhaps Jean-Paul had only been uninterested in those girls at the bar. Pietro, after all, enjoyed the fairer sex on occasion. It had only been recently that he’d been willing to admit to himself his penchant for men as well. [Apparently, it was blatantly obvious to everyone else. Wanda, ever tactful, had actually said ‘Yeah, no shit’ when he’d told her.]) Jean-Paul spins Pietro’s beer bottle around. “Why in God’s name are you drinking Cinquante?”
Pietro had ordered it as ‘Fifty’ and he had honestly picked it because it was one of the few beers (he thought) he could pronounce on the menu without being judged. “What do I know about Canadian beer?”
“Clearly nothing, since you chose the one that tastes like horse piss. Though I guess it would remind you of American beer.” Jean-Paul frowns as though Pietro’s bottle is offending him. Really, Pietro doesn’t think it’s all that bad. “I’m getting you a new one.” Then again, he wasn’t going to turn down free alcohol.
Jean-Paul returns with a dark bottle and a glass, pouring out something heady and the colour of motor oil. He slides it across the table, looking terribly amused. "Chambly Noire."
Pietro eyes it suspiciously, finishing his Fifty-Cinquante-whatever-the-fuck-it's-called. "I don't like dark beer." He thinks back to the one time they had sent Todd to buy beer, when he had panicked because the guy was scrutinizing his fake ID and asked for the first brand he could think of, which was Guinness, which they only sold in $50 cases of tall cans. That had sat in their storage room for ages; it had been an effort to finish.
Jean-Paul heaves a mournful sigh. "The first thing I ever buy you and you so callously reject it outright. Mon Dieu, are all Americans this rude?"
Pietro pulls the glass closer toward him, sniffing it cautiously. It smells kind of like a cross between coffee and chocolate. He smiles and takes a careful sip; it's not bad. "Are all Canadians this passive aggressive?"
Jean-Paul seems to contemplate this for several seconds, biting his bottom lip. The corners of his mouth are turned up, pale blue eyes sparkling. "Yeah, pretty much. Maple syrup, Justin Trudeau, and passive aggressiveness are our main grossing exports."
"And you wonder why you're not a world super power."
"Have you seen Justin Trudeau's ass?"
The conversation and the beer (oh God, so much beer; Pietro hasn't drank like this since prom. Jean-Paul outweighs him by 30 pounds [of muscle] easily and is going to drink him under the table) flows easily after that. The topics range from serious (Bill 104, the proposed Mutant Registration Act in the US, important to Pietro; the dilution of Québécois culture, important to Jean-Paul and fascinating to Pietro. Jean-Paul was so impassioned) to facetious (the obvious superiority of the imperial system to metric, at least in Pietro's opinion; his theory on Canadian-pants-tightness-to-change-weight-ratio; the best way to clean blood out of high durability spandex-Pietro uses Spray-n-Wash and soaking, Jean-Paul swears by club soda) to somewhere in between (how long-lost twin sisters were perhaps some giant karmic joke, the patience required with them a punishment for every time they had tapped their foots in line as someone counted out exact change, sighed exasperatedly when some old lady couldn’t work an ATM.) They have a surprising amount in common, the same sense of humour, and enough differences that Pietro remains engaged. Jean-Paul has a knack for holding his somewhat limited attention span; Pietro doesn't have to slow or dumb anything down.
Pietro is actively following the conversation, but also periodically checking the score of the Knicks game in the bank of televisions behind Jean-Paul (always multi-tasking, though Jean-Paul had caught him at it, sarcastically apologizing for not being interesting enough. Pietro had scolded him for being boring indeed, wondered aloud, really, what he was doing here still, both of them grinning broadly. Pietro continued to check the score.) A news bulletin flashes across one of the screens, looping shaky, grainy footage of the Sentinel destroying a good chunk of property, and two rather attractive blurs (amateur cameras were never fast enough to capture any more than that) taking it down. “Look, Jean-Paul, you’re famous." It's something the Brotherhood would shout to one another when they made the news, a bit sarcastically, especially within the squalor of the boarding house. Pietro almost instantly regrets it.
Jean-Paul's whole face has darkened, his shoulders rounding up and tight. His voice is conversational, too light for the bitterness behind his eyes, for the hardness in his face. "What are they discussing today? How I should be stripped of my medal because I had the audacity, after years of training, to develop a mutation? That I'm a disgrace to Alpha Flight because I dared, once, to fight for something I believed in which happened to be associated with some less than desirable people? Or are they speculating as to the nature of my sexuality as though it's any of their business again?"
Pietro physically reels backwards from the vitriol, not entirely certain how to respond. Luckily, Jean-Paul turns, sees the news feed, goes a little red in the cheeks, giving Pietro enough time to formulate a proper sentence. "They're going to take your medal? That's bullshit." This is the least volatile of Jean-Paul's threads of thought, and also one that Pietro understands acutely. He'd been good at basketball.... better than good. Great. Scouts had been watching him at PS104 when he was still a frosh. Then his mutation had kicked in; he hadn’t even been allowed to play at Bayville the last two years of his high school career. (The school board had a ban on mutants in varsity athletics, some bullshit about the spirit of competition being tarnished and fear of injuring the normals. Pietro spent every chance he could get over that summer in the park, with Lance or Todd or even sometimes Wanda [though she would hex him indiscriminately for quote unquote cheating], shooting hoops, proving to himself that he could do it without his powers. That look on Mr. Aitkin's face when he'd asked in the fall... "I can control it, sir." "You know I'd love to have you on the team, Maximoff, you're a damn good player, but there's nothing I can do. Kelly'll have my job if you do. I'm real sorry." He'd seemed it, too, seemed to realize that he was taking away the only thing Pietro gave a shit about at that whole stupid school.)
But it was more than that... Pietro wasn't just good (great) at playing basketball, he loved playing it-the squeak of sneakers on the court, the weight of the textured rubber in his hands, the precision of dribbling around an opponent, the feel of releasing the ball at the top of a perfect arc and a perfect jump shot and knowing, without a doubt, that it was going in the basket. But his mutation had taken all the fun out of it. It wasn't a challenge. Being able to beat anybody had been awesome for about two seconds, and then he just felt cheap. (No matter what he told Mr. Aitkin, Pietro was never really sure anymore, what was him and what was his powers. He didn't know if he could ever really separate them.)
"It's still under review." Jean-Paul smiles tightly. "Regardless, my days of professional skiing are over. I'm officially a retiree." He pulls at one of his strands of hair, inspecting the light streaks of grey there. “My body appears to agree. Any day now I’ll be buying a condo in Florida, eating dinner at four in the afternoon, shaking my fist at ‘damn kids’ from my porch.”
“Well, if they’re on your lawn, you have to fist shake. Who do those little bastards think they are?” Jean-Paul laughs at this, the seriousness lifted from his expression, his shoulders relaxing. Pietro is relieved. “Though are you implying there’s something wrong with going grey early? ‘Cause I will kick your ass for that.”
Jean-Paul taps his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder how you’re going to accomplish that, though, when I’m ten metres above you and you’re grounded.”
Pietro looks over the top of the frames, coy and devious. “Why Jean-Paul, I do believe you’re the first person to ever call me ‘grounded.’ That testimonial is going in the brochure for sure. It’s much better than ‘Pietro Maximoff is an arrogant, narcissistic asshole whose regard for himself is only matched by his aggrandized ego.’”
“I see we have similar reviewers.” Jean-Paul smiles back. “Though mine generally include something about ‘needlessly cruel in pointing out others’ obvious shortcomings.’” From somewhere within one of Jean-Paul's pockets (dans le pantalon du [de la? de? Pietro could never remember]Jean-Paul. Oh fuck, Pietro's definitely on the verge of drunk, he's certain... needs to stand, needs to move, needs to sweat this out of his system because if they keep sitting here he's doomed) a cell phone rings. "Ohn," Jean-Paul frowns, checking the display, speaking under his breath, "ma soeur."
Sur. Pietro remembers that much, at least, from a French class he hadn’t skipped for once. Ms. (he refused to call her Mademoiselle) Mayakovski even tried to engage them with a little song with actions. Like they were fucking five year olds. Still, it stuck with him: sur, sous, dans, devant, derrière, à côté de. On top of, underneath, inside of, in front of, behind, next to Jean-Paul. Yes, those prepositions all worked rather well in his current situation. Perhaps high school hadn’t been a complete wash.
“I have to take this. My sister gets....overly worried, sometimes.” He pulls a face that would be utterly hideous on anyone else, but just ends up being charming on him. “Sisters; can’t live with them...”
Pietro drains his beer. “Amen.”
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Having also, apparently, been watching the news, Jeanne-Marie has called to chew him out for battling a Sentinel by himself. (No, not by myself, Jeanne-Marie, I had help. No, I'm not trying to get myself killed. Yes, I should have called you. Yes, I'm sorry. [Mon Dieu, she was the only one who could make him bend so easily] A concession in her tone. Yes, that's the guy. No, it is not a date.) Funny (and a bit terrifying, really) how she could be so calm and shy and introverted one minute, and so fiery and angry and bold the next. Jean-Paul can't quite put his finger on it, but it does feel, sometimes, like something is off. Perhaps he has simply not lived with other people in too long. He makes a quick stop in the washroom to re-evaluate his appearance and regroup (a hair out of place, a button that has worked itself partially undone), and then it's back to the table.
Pietro is still wearing his glasses-a bit too large for his narrow face-and grins lopsidedly at him-again, a bit too large for his narrow face-and the effect is somehow captivating and (though Jean-Paul hates to admit that Jeanne-Marie might have been right) utterly adorable. (Jean-Paul suspects Pietro is halfway to pissed because, honestly, he's getting there as well.) This drops almost instantly into a heavy pout (which is not helping Jean-Paul's current ranking of Pietro in a category with baby ducklings and ambling puppies. Well, if said ducklings swore profusely and he wanted to do terrible, wonderful X-rated things to.... no, no, stop that right there. Definitely on his way to drunk, his metaphors are getting liberal and mixed and terrible.) Jean-Paul can tell already that Pietro could pack a hell of a guilt trip, if he wanted to. "Jean-Paul, I have come to the important conclusion that I’m bored."
And Jean-Paul has to hide a smile at that. As though he couldn't ascertain that from the coaster shredded to tiny bits in front of Pietro, the frantic bounce of his leg on the stool, the pile of peeled off beer labels to the side. "Sexually frustrated" went the saying, but Jean-Paul suspects it is more than that; Pietro is "life-sually frustrated."
Jean-Paul had to consciously turn on his power: a subtle shift at a molecular level, fast and forward to run, side to side to fly, a vibration when he and Jeanne-Marie generated light. Of course, Jean-Paul's brain was fast; it had to be, to keep up his reaction times at those speeds. But Pietro appeared to always be on, like he had to regulate himself and slow himself down just to function from day to day with the rest of the populace. Jean-Paul didn't envy him that, though he could relate, somewhat. More than others, at the very least.
"I'm sorry that I've evoked your ennui, Pietro."
He doesn't sound particularly sorry, he knows, dirtying his R's (especially the one in Pietro) purposely, thick and harsh and impossibly French-Canadien in the back of his throat. The reaction is suitably wonderful: the small shiver down the spine, the faint blush that rushes into the cheeks, barely there. So responsive.
“That’snotwhatImeant.” And the blush deepens slightly with the combination of lust (Jean-Paul hopes) and embarrassment and alcohol.
Perhaps Jean-Paul has made him squirm enough for the moment. He lapses back into comfortable sarcasm-his bored voice, shelving all the sex in it for now. “You? Have to clarify something? Chrisse, I am shocked.”
Pietro rolls his eyes. “Bored with this place. Not with you." And there's no trace of embarrassment now, just that sly grin. Cocky, so sure of what he wants, so unafraid to pursue it. Not adorable. Incredibly sexy.
Want surges again, tightening Jean-Paul’s thigh muscles. "What did you have in mind?"
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Jean-Paul is not a bad dancer. Really, he'd be very good if he just loosened the hell up a little and dropped that I-am-too-impossibly-cool-for-this-shit act. (Not that he wasn't too cool for this, probably, and not that the look wasn't fucking working for him.) But still, as 'le touriste,' he had let Pietro choose where they went, and Pietro wasn't about the let him be a stick in the mud. They were young, they had alcohol, they could keep up with each other, they had just defeated a fucking sentinel. To hell this wasn't a happy occasion...and that demanded the finest ass-shakery they could muster. He presses closer to Jean-Paul, so that their hipbones graze on the eighth beats (one-and-two-and-three-and-four-and), laughing because the song has changed and someone is demanding that they let me see you pop that pussy, laughing because of the concentrated frown on Jean-Paul’s face, laughing because he just feels so fucking good for once.
The club is impossibly packed, (overflow perhaps, from the Sentinel destroyed bars; in one of the frantic strobes of light, Pietro swears he sees Vanessica) the crush of bodies, of heat and hips and pounding bass shaking every muscle in his body. And Pietro lets it, allows himself to retreat to the reptilian part of his brain. Sounds! Colours! Lights! (one-and-two-and) Jean-Paul combing his shaggy sweaty hair out of his eyes with his fingers (three-and-four-and) Jean-Paul smiling, biting his bottom lip...Pietro wants to bite that lip (one-and-two-and) both of them lingering on the beats now, pressing their hips, their thighs (three-and-four-and) increasing the force (one-and-two-and) the friction (three-and-four-and) Jean-Paul pushing his hand through the back of Pietro’s hair, crushing his mouth onto Pietro’s, not loosing contact now (one-and-two-and-three-and-four-and)
Pietro parts his lips, presses his tongue forward until it meets Jean-Paul’s, warm and strong and surprisingly soft, sliding one hand up Jean-Paul’s shirt, pulling him in, wanting to be as close to as much of him as he possibly could. He’s reluctant, minutes or months later, when Jean-Paul finally pulls away. (Takes Jean-Paul’s bottom lip between his teeth, nips it reproachfully.) And now Jean-Paul is laughing, pulsing in time with the music, (the song has changed, Pietro barely noticed. Jean-Paul seems to know the words, though, mouthing them almost obscenely, eyes closed. Who do boys like they´re girls, who do girls like they´re boys. Or perhaps it's just Jean-Paul's mouth that is beautifully obscene, just Jean-Paul. Always should be someone you really love.) pressure and release, pressure and release, pressure and release on the eighths, free, no longer frowning, driving Pietro mad and driving the blood down until he’s halfway to hard in less than a second.
Pietro leans in, wants to tell Jean-Paul that he’s gorgeous when he smiles like that, wants to tell him about the beats, about the colours and lights and sounds, about the beauty and the obscenity, (it’s all very profound in his head...) and accidentally lets out a yawn in his ear. (In Pietro’s defence [he’s justifying] it’s got to be at least 1 a.m. and he’s been up since yesterday night.) “Sorry, that wasn’t supposed to be...I mean, what we just did was great.”
Jean-Paul laughs again, musical, beautiful, trailing kisses along the hollow of Pietro’s throat. Pietro tries hard not to moan aloud. Jean-Paul grazes the back of his hand against the front of Pietro’s pants, lightly, frustratingly lightly, pulls it away before Pietro can do anything about it. “Yes, I did gather that you enjoyed that.”
“So did you.” Pietro snaps to the defensive automatically, so used to the denial of reciprocation with Lance.
“Absolument Pietro. And I would do it again. ” His grin is nothing short of wicked. (Pietro loves the way Jean-Paul says his name, the harsh roll of the R, like it’s something dirty and magnificent.) “But first,” he plucks the empty bottle from Pietro’s hand, “more drinks. I’ll be back.”
In Jean-Paul’s absence, Pietro loses himself to the press of bodies, the thrum of the bass resonating in his sternum. His body moves of its own accord. He honestly doesn’t understand how anyone can claim that they don’t like to dance. It’s a connection point for Pietro, the freedom, the power of people all driven by the same force, the same beat. It’s so linking and yet so anonymous, and he is perfect when he dances. Everyone is perfect. He’s surrounded by hundreds of perfect people and he thinks he might love them all. Amongst them, Pietro spots a dark-haired head making its way toward him.
Jean-Paul pushes through the crowd with two drinks in hand, effortlessly, lithe, like he's stalking prey (Ah, the elusive Pietro. And Pietro laughs to himself at that. He's kind of fucked up right now, to be honest. Drunk on excesses--bring me more bass rhythms, more beer, more Jean-Paul--and this makes him laugh too. God, he's fucking funny tonight.) He tastes Jean-Paul (tobacco smoke, sweat, salt, heat) before the drink (bubblegum, root beer...liquorice?) It's clearly a girly drink; Jean-Paul has noticed his drunkenness and is cutting him off. Pietro is not impressed. "What is this shit?" Annoyed, yelling over the crowd.
Jean-Paul leans in, his lips brushing the bottom of Pietro's earlobe, sucking lightly, (sofuckinghot) and whispers the sweetest words in the English language. "It's caffeinated."
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Jean-Paul frowns. Perhaps Jäger bombs had not been the smartest of choices. Pietro is practically bouncing beside him, clutching the bottle of water they stopped for at the dépanneur, arms spread expansively as they stumble down the street. He's beautiful: assured, flushed pink, shimmering with the sweat of exertion under the streetlights, on his lips, in his hair. Like a little silver deity; the patron saint of ADHD.
"This is definitely the right way." Since the club had closed half an hour ago, they've been wandering under Pietro's dubious directions. (Jean-Paul has outright refused super-speed, doubting that he will be able to keep up with Pietro at all now that he is under the influence of enough Red Bull to wire a rhino.) Pietro dashes ahead, reappearing back at Jean-Paul's side half a minute later. "Yeah, my hotel's about two miles up."
"Miles," He scoffs, flicking his cigarette butt calmly. "You and your imperial system."
Pietro, the essence of maturity, sticks out his tongue. "Man, you should see my room, Jean-Paul; my bed is huge." His grin is wicked as he draws out the last word. "It's only a ten second run... well, maybe a bit longer for you. You know, the whole slow thing?"
Jean-Paul steals the water bottle from his hand, downing a gulp and then handing it back. Pietro needs it more than Jean-Paul. (Jean-Paul has a feeling his name is going to be cursed regardless tomorrow morning, in the wake of the caffeine crash and hangover Pietro is doubtlessly going to encounter.) "I thought we were enjoying a nice, leisurely" (and sobering; the last thing Jean-Paul wants tonight is whiskey dick) "stroll."
Pietro bounds forward again (still somehow graceful beneath the liquor) as though urging Jean-Paul to quicken his pace. He's rubbing his palms against his upper arms so fast that they begin to blur. "Enjoyable for you maybe. You're immune to Canada's cold."
Jean-Paul continues to amble, unconcerned. He thinks about lighting another cigarette and palms his package idly. (He always smokes more when he's drinking. He should have bought another pack when they stopped.) "That argument, much like you, is not going to fly. I've been to New York in November. It's just as cold. You should have packed a coat." Alcohol makes Jean-Paul haughty.
"I did, except I failed to anticipate that the coat check I placed it in would be reduced to rubble by a Sentinel." His words are rapid-fire in annoyance, not a slur but a definite lack of pauses.
"That was just poor planning on your part."
Pietro narrows his eyes at Jean-Paul and continues his apparent quest to give himself friction burns. Jean-Paul sighs and relinquishes his coat. Pietro beams. "How chivalrous and unpromptedly nice of you, Jean-Paul."
"Don't push it."
Pietro pushes Jean-Paul lightly on the shoulder, almost cackling in glee, racing ahead. Jean-Paul tries hard to not find it charming. Pietro's head is tilted to the sky. He abruptly stops and waits for Jean-Paul to catch up, speaking when he does. "Man, Jean-Paul, it'sjustoneofthosenights,youknow?" Jean-Paul watches his words rise in a cloud of white fog, watches his chest fall as he lets out a breath and seems to compose himself. "Where I actually wish I could slow down and just make it last longer. You ever get like that?"
Jean-Paul is surprised at the startling honesty (at how powerfully he understands.) "Yeah, sometimes."
Pietro grins at that, almost self-consciously. Jean-Paul wants to kiss him, for that grin, for that honesty, but he has started forward again. "I figured you would."
Pietro is trying hard to combat the effects of the caffeine, of his mutation, barely keeping a normal pace beside Jean-Paul, his limbs quivering with excess energy. Jean-Paul peers down into his cigarette package almost benevolently, praising his forethought at raiding his freezer before he went out for the evening. (He doesn't often; he saves it for somewhat special occasions. Justoneofthosenights,youknow? Jean-Paul knows.) He wants nothing more right now than to make that happen for Pietro.
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Read part 2 here
Author: kelly1
Verse: X-Men: Evolution
Characters/Pairing: Jean-Paul Beaubier/Pietro Maximoff (Northstar/Quicksilver), mentions of Lance, Kitty, Evan, Wanda, Todd, Fred, Magneto, Mystique, and a brief Jeanne-Marie Beaubier cameo.
Summary: I'm going to put the devil inside me to sleep if it takes all night. So let's get fucked up; let's pretend we're all okay. If you've got something that you can't live with, save it for another day. Pietro goes to blow off some steam in Montreal. Who should he meet but Alpha Flight’s own resident snarky speedster? Banter and sexytiems ensue. Pietro/Jean-Paul. (Quicksilver/Northstar)
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel. The songs referenced belong to Titus Andronicus, The Guess Who, 2 Live Crew, and Blur respectively. No offence is meant: Americans, Canadians, French-Canadians, citizens of the fake country of Transia from which the Maximoff’s hail. The characters are merely poking gentle fun. I love you all.
Warning: This contains some explicit M/M Oral and HJ, and, since I was riding the NC-17 train anyway, some casual drug use. And swearing, lots of swearing. (In two languages!)
Thanks: Extended to moonys_autumn and lithiumlaughter who vaguely indicated they might consider reading this (which is all the motivation I need, apparently heh), and to you, dear reader, if you make it through this.
A/N: Uh... so this is a 2700 word PWP not so cleverly disguised as a 14000 word fic. Maybe make yourself a tea before you sit down and read this. Really, it just got away from me because I love Evo!Pietro and extendo-verseEvo!Jean-Paul entirely too much. (So much that I drew a cover for this, for chrissakes...) :: shifty eyes :: Also, I fear this is kind of waff-y, but in the way you would expect incredibly acerbic jerks to be waff-y with each other. Um... feedback to me is like Twinkies to Tallahassee. :: waves and scurries away ::
Hey look, a cover!
Quicksilver and Northstar by ~kelly1-watxm on deviantART
(giant version here.)
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Pietro sees him of course. Pietro sees him seeing him, assessing Pietro and the silly little girls that have surrounded him. He has a similar group around himself, on the other side of the dance floor. (Though it’s larger, Pietro notices with some disdain.) “Hello, stranger,” the dangerous cock of the eyebrow seems to say, the wry smile. “Nice harem.” He looks absolutely bored out of his skull with the girls and Pietro can relate.
“All the way from New York?” asks one of the girls (Jessica? Janessa? Vanessa? Vanessica? [That’s not even a fucking name, Pietro, that can’t be it.]) “How did you get here?”
Pietro takes another sip of his beer (not because he particularly likes beer but because it’s cheap, and it’s stronger in Canada, and he’s already dropped too much of his cash on a hotel room.) “I ran.” He’s not really paying attention to anything but the dark haired guy.
She laughs like it’s the fucking funniest thing anyone has ever said, and Pietro is annoyed. Honestly, he could sleep with any of these girls, but that’s not why he came to Montreal. (Lance. That’s the reason. “We’re adults now Pietro....this just feels fucking weird, you know? We’re too old for this shit. It’s not an experiment anymore. I just... this isn’t what I want.” Fucking repressed Lance in fucking repressed Bayville.) Progressive. Montreal is progressive. (Montreal’s drinking age is 18.) And, more than New York City could ever be, Montreal is anonymous. Who the fuck knows him in Canada?
Certainly not Vanessica. And certainly not that dark haired guy looking him up and down so fast that, to anyone but Pietro, he would have appeared uninterested. (Maybe Pietro was imagining it.) But the former, at least, could be useful at the moment. “That guy over there... I think I’ve met him before.” This is an outright lie, but Pietro can coat shit in his smooth voice and make it sound like honey. “Do you know him?”
She rolls her eyes. “Jean-Paul Beaubier. Big shot skier a few years back, won a gold medal in the Olympics. Coasting on his fame. He’s such a tease.” That much is obvious, but Janessica seems to be speaking from experience.
Beaubier. He repeats it in his head, to get the pronunciation right. He never paid too much attention in French class (or any class.) “Mmm,” Pietro reassures her. “Nope, not who I thought it was. Must’ve been mistaken.” He takes her glass from her. “Another vodka-cran?”
Pietro is saved the four dollars (two toonies... what the fuck kind of money system is that? Pietro wonders idly if Canadian men have to wear tighter pants simply to combat the weight of the change) when the roof of the club is ripped wide. A Sentinel. Maybe Montreal isn’t as progressive as he thought. And he notices, with a twinge of something that’s almost amusement, that the guy is gone in a flash-so fast, again, that anyone but Pietro would have missed it. He looks so damn... heroic as he bolts out the door that Pietro just has to jump in. This Beaubier guy can’t have all the fun.
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Tabernac. A Sentinel? A Sentinel. Honestly. (And Jean-Paul really liked that club. Or, at least, he could tolerate it, which was more than he could say for most places.) Their programming often went somewhat askance and they drifted over from the States, not particularly concerned about borders or clearing customs.
Alpha Flight was authorized to destroy-on-sight by the Canadian government, but still; it's terribly inconvenient on a night off. Jean-Paul wonders briefly if he should call for back up. Jeanne-Marie is less than ten minutes away at their shared apartment (five, for Jean-Paul, but he's a little faster) and Hudson might be around. But it's only one, and he'd just been thinking about how bored he was. At least it was an opportunity to get away from those girls, with their talons and their trite laughter and their pharmacy bought perfume. Besides, there was a good chance that the guy he had been eyeing (impossibly high cheek bones, impossibly sharp features) was long gone now. Sentinels tended to clear out a room (or club, or street.)
That makes Jean-Paul grumpy, (which Jeanne-Marie always teased was his natural state. That is simply untrue; his natural state is 'smugly amused by how pathetic everyone else is') a good half an hour of eye-fucking gone to waste. Not to mention that he's wearing his civilian clothing, which could never really stand up to his speed without tearing. This is his second favourite pair of jeans. That also makes him grumpy, which means that the Sentinel doesn't really stand a chance.
Jean-Paul goes to cut in, between the legs and then around (the trick was to confuse the processor and move so fast that, in firing at him, it ended up hitting itself) and catches something out of the corner of his eye. The silver-haired guy from the club is matching pace with him easily, loping along with confident, almost lazy strides. He smiles, a little bit dangerous and a little bit wicked-he looks impish up close, mercurial-and Jean-Paul knows he is in a world of trouble; he can already feel the want bubbling low in his stomach. Jean-Paul cocks his eyebrow questioningly at him, haughty curiosity one of the expressions he has down to an art form.
“Quicksilver,” the other boy supplies, arching a perfect dark eyebrow right back in a look that clearly adds ‘and who the hell are you?’
Ah, they’re playing the code name game. I’m far too important to tell you who I really am. “Northstar.” Jean-Paul has to admit, (but only to himself, of course) that he likes the name ‘Quicksilver’ better.
“Nice evening for a jog, huh, Northstar?” The accent is American (the ‘huh’ confirms it) and something vaguely European. He’s so casual about it, conversational-mimes checking his pulse, timing it on a wrist watch that he doesn’t have, nodding thoughtfully-that Jean-Paul almost laughs in spite of himself.
“You know how important exercise is.” Jean-Paul ticks it off on his fingers as he talks, faux-pensive, “Arms and elliptical trainer on Tuesdays and Thursdays, legs and recumbent bike on Mondays and Fridays, back, chest, abs and fighting sentient robots on Wednesdays and Saturdays. It’s nice to have a routine.”
“Mmm, and I find the Sentinel destruction classes fill up way slower than Pilates or spin.”
“And have less soccer moms.”
“Always a bonus.”
They’re running zigzags, complicated spirals, complex loops, the hiss of hydraulics above them the ever present ambient noise to their conversation. Jean-Paul is lead, directing their movements still, but Quicksilver has been speeding up incrementally, such that it’s just starting to become difficult for Jean-Paul. Not that he’s outmatched; he’s simply inappropriately attired. (He can feel the seam on his outer right thigh begin to split. He ignores the fact that Quicksilver is also in jeans.) Quicksilver, two strides ahead now, cocky smirk thrown over his shoulder, is watching him. “Do you want me to slow down?” Infuriating and handsome.
Jean-Paul gives a burst of speed and takes a hard right around one of the massive robot legs, between parked cars whose owners were likely to be rather distraught when they saw the state of their vehicles. He’s breathing heavier now; he can feel the sweat gathering between his shoulder blades on the cool November night, but at least he has outpaced Quicksilver. (Really, Jean-Paul hadn’t been worried) That will knock that smirk off his face. (Jean-Paul has a monopoly on smug superiority.)
And then, somehow, he appears in front of Jean-Paul, running backwards on the balls of his feet, jaunty and grinning fiendishly. “So...I’m a little confused. Was that a yes?” Jean-Paul thinks he might like this guy.
And Jean-Paul smiles back, sardonic and measured, before shooting three metres up into the air above Quicksilver. (Surprise slows him down, Jean-Paul notices with some satisfaction.) “No, thank you. That’s quite alright.”
Quicksilver actually laughs at this, boisterous and loud. It echoes off the buildings in the empty street. And then he’s off, fast, impossibly fast, so that he blurs a bit even to Jean-Paul’s eyes. Jean-Paul streaks upwards.
Now that they’ve completed comparing proverbial penis sizes, they make short work of the Sentinel. Within less than a minute, it’s a heap of crackling electricity and oozing mechanical fluids and shattered metal. Jean-Paul’s jeans are in a similar state of disrepair. Quicksilver has torn his shirt. As Quicksilver pushes his hair out of his eyes (two pieces that seem to have a sort of sentience) Jean-Paul catches the slightest glimpse of downy soft chest hair, of a dusty pink nipple against pale white skin. Jean-Paul is no longer certain all the crackling electricity is coming from the destroyed robot.
“Well, that was fun.” Quicksilver is inspecting the hole in his shirt thoughtfully.
“I suppose, if murderous machines are your thing.”
He grins again at Jean-Paul, disarmingly sexy, not off-put by Jean-Paul’s acerbity one bit, and then he pulls the ruined garment over his head. “Aren’t they everybody’s, Northstar?” He tosses it into a nearby garbage can with the practiced grace of a basketball player.
What Jean-Paul had initially interpreted as scrawny is actually lean-muscles longer and flatter than Jean-Paul’s, but gloriously well defined. Everything about Quicksilver seems to follow this pattern: long limbs, long fingers, as though a lifetime of running has stretched him around the edges. Jean-Paul is... appreciative. “Jean-Paul, please. Jean-Paul Beaubier.” Because he feels vaguely ridiculous being called Northstar, and because he wants Quicksilver’s real name.
“Pleasure, Jean-Paul Beaubier.” His tongue bruises the French syllables but doesn’t utterly murder them, and Jean-Paul is sufficiently mollified. (And not thinking about the other things that tongue was capable of in the slightest.) “Pietro Maximoff, a.k.a. the guy who saved your slow ass.”
Of course he wouldn’t have a common name; there is nothing common about him. “Hrm, odd, I don’t quite remember it that way. Then again, I suppose your perspective was rather limited from the ground.” He flashes a devastating smile. “Perhaps you’d be interested in discussing it over a drink?”
Pietro laughs, (he has a habit of that, Jean-Paul has noticed, laughing before his own jokes. It’s strangely charming.) “Well I would, but don’t bars around here have a ‘no shirt, no Sentinel grease, no service’ policy?”
“Fair. You’d be surprised at what some people try to pass off as appropriate attire, though.” Pietro has a point. Jean-Paul could use a new pair of pants and a quick shower himself. He notices that there is a pub still standing across the street, miraculously untouched in the Sentinel’s wake, and points to it. “Perhaps we freshen up and meet back there in an hour?”
“An hour? Are we taking the subway? Are we Amish? Twenty minutes.” And Pietro’s gone in a streak.
“Crisse.” The things Jean-Paul let his libido get himself into.
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Should he shave? Maybe Pietro should shave. Fair-haired guys couldn’t work the unkempt look (Lance always called his stubble ‘peach fuzz.’ I will not think of Lance. This has nothing to do with Lance. This has everything to do with the famous, sexy, French-Canadian man who wants to jump his bones. Or, you know, have a friendly beer. Regardless, fuck Lance.) He wasn’t going to shave. He liked his stubble. His face was too narrow at the jaw line; he still looked like a sophomore without it.
Hell. Somehow, he has managed to cut a patch into his cheek while he was thinking, his hands faster than his head. Nothing to do but shave now. He curses himself for packing too quickly, remembering a razor but forgetting the shaving cream. (He had been in a rush. Angry.) Even with water and soap, it stings like a bitch, and he hops back and forth between his two feet. Then he curses himself again because, really, he is staying in a three hundred dollar a night hotel right in the thick of Le Village and it has a legitimate concierge (who had looked down his nose at Pietro when the [admittedly sweaty from his run] teen had checked in) and what else is a concierge for if Pietro can’t ask him for shaving cream. God, sometimes he was so new money. "Nouveau riche," he tests aloud to his reflection.
But really, that's a lie. He's not nouveau riche or old-veau riche or any riche at all. He's just a stupid kid whose father has fucked off again indefinitely, left them with enough for a year's rent, utilities, groceries; forgot all the extraneous shit -- gas for the jeep, new shoes (Pietro goes through a pair a month at least.) Lance stocks shelves on overnights at the grocery store (and Pietro suspects, accepts more than a little charity from Pryde), Wanda has her scholarship money (she's taking Design at the community college, makes dresses that are more art than function, rife with torn fabric, mismatched patterns, black with bright bursts of angry colour, beautiful and damaged as she is. It breaks Pietro's heart sometimes, watching her work on those damn dresses,) Todd and Fred are still in high-school, seniors, (Freddy is on a victory lap to get his final two credits; Todd's already apprenticing at an auto shop, has a goal, has an exit strategy) and get some sort of state kick-back Mystique set up years ago, and Pietro steals everything he needs (he would go crazy in a real job. He's going crazy in Bayville as it is, rotting. The brief encounter with Jean-Paul has set his nerve endings on fire, more alive than he's been in months.)
No matter what he told Evan all those years ago, cash is much more difficult to come by than objects. He thinks of the forty dollars pressed into his wallet, the two green bills (the only Canadian money that makes any sense) and how they will have to last him the night. (He thinks of Evan. How long has it been since he’s seen him? Slow, stupid, beautiful Evan. How, at fifteen, Pietro had confused sexual frustration for rivalry, want for hate. Everything was a challenge then, everything was a game. Still was. Doomed to repeat patterns. This is Lance's fault, why he was thinking like this, for interrupting the glorious blur that Pietro needed to live in to survive. Pietro hated thinking, couldn't slow down, couldn't inspect anything too closely. Lance's fault for destroying the status quo, the on-again-off-again-and-now-back-on-again with Kitty during the day, the desperate, angry, self-loathing fucking with Pietro at night. Enough for Pietro. Enough for the both of them. But now it's not enough. Or too much. Or.... something. Gone. Done. Enough.)
He holds up the two shirts to his bare chest, frowning, wishing he had packed a more comprehensive sampling of his wardrobe. Jean-Paul had been quite well dressed. Well, nothing he could really do about that now, either. Pietro selects a striped t-shirt that he knows fits him well, casual, but tight and flattering in all the right places. His own devilish good looks would have to suffice.
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“You met a boy.” Jeanne-Marie perches herself on the corner of the tub, meeting Jean-Paul’s eyes in the reflection of the mirror as he works a dollop of mousse through his hair. She seems completely comfortable with the fact that he’s only wearing a towel slung low over his hips. (Jean-Paul is less comfortable with the draft she has let in.)
“What makes you say that?” It’s eerie, sometimes, when she does that. They’ve only known each other for several months; she should not be so adept at reading him. (That is Jean-Paul's forte: keen observation, distance, brilliance at facades. [Maybe it was genetic.] Jean-Paul excelled at reading people, keeping them close, opening them bit by bit, knowing exactly what words to say to destroy them, if needed, and still giving nothing away of himself. Nothing of consequence, anyhow. A glorious, necessary defence mechanism, as deadly as a scorpion’s sting or a cobra's venom. What did anyone know of Jean-Paul Beaubier? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. And that was the way he preferred it.) He frowns at his reflection; he desperately needs a haircut.
“You’re using your good cologne. You threw your favourite pair of jeans over the back of the couch to put on as you walk out the door so they don’t crease.” She smiles at him. “You were singing in the shower.”
He narrows his eyes, but holds no real heat to his stare. “I don’t sing.”
“You can say that again.” Jeanne-Marie laughs at him, getting up to ruffle his hair. It falls perfectly after that, what Jean-Paul has been trying to achieve for the last twenty seconds. He doesn’t know whether to be grateful or annoyed. “So he’s American. Is he cute?”
“Attractive in a very sharp sort of way. Striking, not cute.” Jean-Paul raises an eyebrow at her. “And when did I say he was American?”
“When you were not singing in the shower?” She opens her eyes wide, faux-innocent. “So, do you plan to tell him upfront that you don’t need his war machines or his ghetto scenes? Or is that more of a third date topic?”
The word stings unintentionally. Jean-Paul has not been on a date in almost four years. Awkward, horribly awkward, that dinner with his teammate. Josh, from Whistler, easy-going, grinning Josh, seventeen and blonde and ruddy from the slopes, confident in everything but most of all his sexuality, and Jean-Paul, fifteen, dark and pale and nervous, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands. (What a difference a few years could make.) The clumsy kiss. Désastre. And then, after the debacle with the IOC, he had drifted, slipped through the cracks, self-destructive, needing no one and certainly not a date. Encounters in bathroom stalls with a string of others, loosing himself to faceless entities made entirely of mouths and dicks and sweat, terrifying and wonderful and real. (Bites and moans and scratches that would ring in his ears, would hurt for days.) Something to feel, to know he was still alive. And then with the Front he was much too busy, much too terrified (so awful, some of the things they did, but it was somewhere, somewhere to go, something to believe, the same thrill as the slopes, as the stalls) for dating.
He'd been with Alpha Flight since July; Jeanne-Marie entirely to blame, Jeanne-Marie entirely to thank. To learn he had a sister, had someone, after all these years of being self-sufficient (alone) had filled him up and made him greedy. Once he had tasted it, the casual intimacy between siblings, he had wanted more, different, intense, prolonged, someone, an other who was not faceless. Significant. He'd felt that same tide pulling at Pietro behind his eyes at the club (imagined it perhaps, deluded himself, Pietro will just be for an evening, another in a long line of shining beautiful distractions), a cocky grin for Pietro, a bored stare for Jean-Paul. (The same. What did anyone know of Jean-Paul Beaubier? What did anyone know of Pietro Maximoff? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.) He wants to open him up, bit by bit, but not to take apart, not to assemble the knowledge to destroy...simply to see, to know, to understand his own inner workings (expects he will find a mirror, the same, the same, inverted, and reflected, but the same. He’s over-thinking things again.)
“It’s not a date.”Jean-Paul grumbles, pulling the dress shirt off the hook on the back of the door. He had hung it there to relax some of the wrinkles as he showered. He has no time to iron under Pietro’s scheduling regime. (Twenty minutes, honestly. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Jean-Paul would just have to be fashionably late.)
“Sure, Jean-Paul.”
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Jean-Paul arrives fashionably late. Pietro is already half-way through his beer. (It’s his fourth of the night; he’s starting to feel an undeniable buzz.) He had debated leaving simply out of principal, annoyed at being kept waiting. Did Jean-Paul think Pietro had nothing better to do than sit around anticipating his arrival? (Of course he didn’t. Where else was he going to find a ridiculously attractive guy who could keep up with him in Montreal? Hell...anywhere else. He was at Jean-Paul’s uber-sexy mercy, but he didn’t need to know that.)
Jean-Paul slides easily onto the stool across from Pietro, setting down the beer he had acquired from the bar as he walked in, (not that Pietro had been watching him,) and removes his coat. The time that he had taken appears to be well spent. Jean-Paul is dressed painstakingly chic, some sort of combination of GQ-hipster-50’s-sitcom-dad in a dress shirt and cardigan; completed right down to a skinny black tie and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses peaking out of his breast pocket. Pietro is marginally jealous, and also willing to accept his tardiness in the face of fantastic fashion sense. No one dressed like that in Bayville.
He plucks the glasses out of Jean-Paul’s pocket, inspecting them and then trying them on. The lenses are fake, clear plastic. “Girls don’t make passes at boys who wear glasses, Jean-Paul,” Pietro admonishes.
Jean-Paul rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his beer, “If only.” (That... clears a few things up. Pietro had been vaguely worried that perhaps Jean-Paul had only been uninterested in those girls at the bar. Pietro, after all, enjoyed the fairer sex on occasion. It had only been recently that he’d been willing to admit to himself his penchant for men as well. [Apparently, it was blatantly obvious to everyone else. Wanda, ever tactful, had actually said ‘Yeah, no shit’ when he’d told her.]) Jean-Paul spins Pietro’s beer bottle around. “Why in God’s name are you drinking Cinquante?”
Pietro had ordered it as ‘Fifty’ and he had honestly picked it because it was one of the few beers (he thought) he could pronounce on the menu without being judged. “What do I know about Canadian beer?”
“Clearly nothing, since you chose the one that tastes like horse piss. Though I guess it would remind you of American beer.” Jean-Paul frowns as though Pietro’s bottle is offending him. Really, Pietro doesn’t think it’s all that bad. “I’m getting you a new one.” Then again, he wasn’t going to turn down free alcohol.
Jean-Paul returns with a dark bottle and a glass, pouring out something heady and the colour of motor oil. He slides it across the table, looking terribly amused. "Chambly Noire."
Pietro eyes it suspiciously, finishing his Fifty-Cinquante-whatever-the-fuck-it's-called. "I don't like dark beer." He thinks back to the one time they had sent Todd to buy beer, when he had panicked because the guy was scrutinizing his fake ID and asked for the first brand he could think of, which was Guinness, which they only sold in $50 cases of tall cans. That had sat in their storage room for ages; it had been an effort to finish.
Jean-Paul heaves a mournful sigh. "The first thing I ever buy you and you so callously reject it outright. Mon Dieu, are all Americans this rude?"
Pietro pulls the glass closer toward him, sniffing it cautiously. It smells kind of like a cross between coffee and chocolate. He smiles and takes a careful sip; it's not bad. "Are all Canadians this passive aggressive?"
Jean-Paul seems to contemplate this for several seconds, biting his bottom lip. The corners of his mouth are turned up, pale blue eyes sparkling. "Yeah, pretty much. Maple syrup, Justin Trudeau, and passive aggressiveness are our main grossing exports."
"And you wonder why you're not a world super power."
"Have you seen Justin Trudeau's ass?"
The conversation and the beer (oh God, so much beer; Pietro hasn't drank like this since prom. Jean-Paul outweighs him by 30 pounds [of muscle] easily and is going to drink him under the table) flows easily after that. The topics range from serious (Bill 104, the proposed Mutant Registration Act in the US, important to Pietro; the dilution of Québécois culture, important to Jean-Paul and fascinating to Pietro. Jean-Paul was so impassioned) to facetious (the obvious superiority of the imperial system to metric, at least in Pietro's opinion; his theory on Canadian-pants-tightness-to-change-weight-ratio; the best way to clean blood out of high durability spandex-Pietro uses Spray-n-Wash and soaking, Jean-Paul swears by club soda) to somewhere in between (how long-lost twin sisters were perhaps some giant karmic joke, the patience required with them a punishment for every time they had tapped their foots in line as someone counted out exact change, sighed exasperatedly when some old lady couldn’t work an ATM.) They have a surprising amount in common, the same sense of humour, and enough differences that Pietro remains engaged. Jean-Paul has a knack for holding his somewhat limited attention span; Pietro doesn't have to slow or dumb anything down.
Pietro is actively following the conversation, but also periodically checking the score of the Knicks game in the bank of televisions behind Jean-Paul (always multi-tasking, though Jean-Paul had caught him at it, sarcastically apologizing for not being interesting enough. Pietro had scolded him for being boring indeed, wondered aloud, really, what he was doing here still, both of them grinning broadly. Pietro continued to check the score.) A news bulletin flashes across one of the screens, looping shaky, grainy footage of the Sentinel destroying a good chunk of property, and two rather attractive blurs (amateur cameras were never fast enough to capture any more than that) taking it down. “Look, Jean-Paul, you’re famous." It's something the Brotherhood would shout to one another when they made the news, a bit sarcastically, especially within the squalor of the boarding house. Pietro almost instantly regrets it.
Jean-Paul's whole face has darkened, his shoulders rounding up and tight. His voice is conversational, too light for the bitterness behind his eyes, for the hardness in his face. "What are they discussing today? How I should be stripped of my medal because I had the audacity, after years of training, to develop a mutation? That I'm a disgrace to Alpha Flight because I dared, once, to fight for something I believed in which happened to be associated with some less than desirable people? Or are they speculating as to the nature of my sexuality as though it's any of their business again?"
Pietro physically reels backwards from the vitriol, not entirely certain how to respond. Luckily, Jean-Paul turns, sees the news feed, goes a little red in the cheeks, giving Pietro enough time to formulate a proper sentence. "They're going to take your medal? That's bullshit." This is the least volatile of Jean-Paul's threads of thought, and also one that Pietro understands acutely. He'd been good at basketball.... better than good. Great. Scouts had been watching him at PS104 when he was still a frosh. Then his mutation had kicked in; he hadn’t even been allowed to play at Bayville the last two years of his high school career. (The school board had a ban on mutants in varsity athletics, some bullshit about the spirit of competition being tarnished and fear of injuring the normals. Pietro spent every chance he could get over that summer in the park, with Lance or Todd or even sometimes Wanda [though she would hex him indiscriminately for quote unquote cheating], shooting hoops, proving to himself that he could do it without his powers. That look on Mr. Aitkin's face when he'd asked in the fall... "I can control it, sir." "You know I'd love to have you on the team, Maximoff, you're a damn good player, but there's nothing I can do. Kelly'll have my job if you do. I'm real sorry." He'd seemed it, too, seemed to realize that he was taking away the only thing Pietro gave a shit about at that whole stupid school.)
But it was more than that... Pietro wasn't just good (great) at playing basketball, he loved playing it-the squeak of sneakers on the court, the weight of the textured rubber in his hands, the precision of dribbling around an opponent, the feel of releasing the ball at the top of a perfect arc and a perfect jump shot and knowing, without a doubt, that it was going in the basket. But his mutation had taken all the fun out of it. It wasn't a challenge. Being able to beat anybody had been awesome for about two seconds, and then he just felt cheap. (No matter what he told Mr. Aitkin, Pietro was never really sure anymore, what was him and what was his powers. He didn't know if he could ever really separate them.)
"It's still under review." Jean-Paul smiles tightly. "Regardless, my days of professional skiing are over. I'm officially a retiree." He pulls at one of his strands of hair, inspecting the light streaks of grey there. “My body appears to agree. Any day now I’ll be buying a condo in Florida, eating dinner at four in the afternoon, shaking my fist at ‘damn kids’ from my porch.”
“Well, if they’re on your lawn, you have to fist shake. Who do those little bastards think they are?” Jean-Paul laughs at this, the seriousness lifted from his expression, his shoulders relaxing. Pietro is relieved. “Though are you implying there’s something wrong with going grey early? ‘Cause I will kick your ass for that.”
Jean-Paul taps his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder how you’re going to accomplish that, though, when I’m ten metres above you and you’re grounded.”
Pietro looks over the top of the frames, coy and devious. “Why Jean-Paul, I do believe you’re the first person to ever call me ‘grounded.’ That testimonial is going in the brochure for sure. It’s much better than ‘Pietro Maximoff is an arrogant, narcissistic asshole whose regard for himself is only matched by his aggrandized ego.’”
“I see we have similar reviewers.” Jean-Paul smiles back. “Though mine generally include something about ‘needlessly cruel in pointing out others’ obvious shortcomings.’” From somewhere within one of Jean-Paul's pockets (dans le pantalon du [de la? de? Pietro could never remember]Jean-Paul. Oh fuck, Pietro's definitely on the verge of drunk, he's certain... needs to stand, needs to move, needs to sweat this out of his system because if they keep sitting here he's doomed) a cell phone rings. "Ohn," Jean-Paul frowns, checking the display, speaking under his breath, "ma soeur."
Sur. Pietro remembers that much, at least, from a French class he hadn’t skipped for once. Ms. (he refused to call her Mademoiselle) Mayakovski even tried to engage them with a little song with actions. Like they were fucking five year olds. Still, it stuck with him: sur, sous, dans, devant, derrière, à côté de. On top of, underneath, inside of, in front of, behind, next to Jean-Paul. Yes, those prepositions all worked rather well in his current situation. Perhaps high school hadn’t been a complete wash.
“I have to take this. My sister gets....overly worried, sometimes.” He pulls a face that would be utterly hideous on anyone else, but just ends up being charming on him. “Sisters; can’t live with them...”
Pietro drains his beer. “Amen.”
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Having also, apparently, been watching the news, Jeanne-Marie has called to chew him out for battling a Sentinel by himself. (No, not by myself, Jeanne-Marie, I had help. No, I'm not trying to get myself killed. Yes, I should have called you. Yes, I'm sorry. [Mon Dieu, she was the only one who could make him bend so easily] A concession in her tone. Yes, that's the guy. No, it is not a date.) Funny (and a bit terrifying, really) how she could be so calm and shy and introverted one minute, and so fiery and angry and bold the next. Jean-Paul can't quite put his finger on it, but it does feel, sometimes, like something is off. Perhaps he has simply not lived with other people in too long. He makes a quick stop in the washroom to re-evaluate his appearance and regroup (a hair out of place, a button that has worked itself partially undone), and then it's back to the table.
Pietro is still wearing his glasses-a bit too large for his narrow face-and grins lopsidedly at him-again, a bit too large for his narrow face-and the effect is somehow captivating and (though Jean-Paul hates to admit that Jeanne-Marie might have been right) utterly adorable. (Jean-Paul suspects Pietro is halfway to pissed because, honestly, he's getting there as well.) This drops almost instantly into a heavy pout (which is not helping Jean-Paul's current ranking of Pietro in a category with baby ducklings and ambling puppies. Well, if said ducklings swore profusely and he wanted to do terrible, wonderful X-rated things to.... no, no, stop that right there. Definitely on his way to drunk, his metaphors are getting liberal and mixed and terrible.) Jean-Paul can tell already that Pietro could pack a hell of a guilt trip, if he wanted to. "Jean-Paul, I have come to the important conclusion that I’m bored."
And Jean-Paul has to hide a smile at that. As though he couldn't ascertain that from the coaster shredded to tiny bits in front of Pietro, the frantic bounce of his leg on the stool, the pile of peeled off beer labels to the side. "Sexually frustrated" went the saying, but Jean-Paul suspects it is more than that; Pietro is "life-sually frustrated."
Jean-Paul had to consciously turn on his power: a subtle shift at a molecular level, fast and forward to run, side to side to fly, a vibration when he and Jeanne-Marie generated light. Of course, Jean-Paul's brain was fast; it had to be, to keep up his reaction times at those speeds. But Pietro appeared to always be on, like he had to regulate himself and slow himself down just to function from day to day with the rest of the populace. Jean-Paul didn't envy him that, though he could relate, somewhat. More than others, at the very least.
"I'm sorry that I've evoked your ennui, Pietro."
He doesn't sound particularly sorry, he knows, dirtying his R's (especially the one in Pietro) purposely, thick and harsh and impossibly French-Canadien in the back of his throat. The reaction is suitably wonderful: the small shiver down the spine, the faint blush that rushes into the cheeks, barely there. So responsive.
“That’snotwhatImeant.” And the blush deepens slightly with the combination of lust (Jean-Paul hopes) and embarrassment and alcohol.
Perhaps Jean-Paul has made him squirm enough for the moment. He lapses back into comfortable sarcasm-his bored voice, shelving all the sex in it for now. “You? Have to clarify something? Chrisse, I am shocked.”
Pietro rolls his eyes. “Bored with this place. Not with you." And there's no trace of embarrassment now, just that sly grin. Cocky, so sure of what he wants, so unafraid to pursue it. Not adorable. Incredibly sexy.
Want surges again, tightening Jean-Paul’s thigh muscles. "What did you have in mind?"
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Jean-Paul is not a bad dancer. Really, he'd be very good if he just loosened the hell up a little and dropped that I-am-too-impossibly-cool-for-this-shit act. (Not that he wasn't too cool for this, probably, and not that the look wasn't fucking working for him.) But still, as 'le touriste,' he had let Pietro choose where they went, and Pietro wasn't about the let him be a stick in the mud. They were young, they had alcohol, they could keep up with each other, they had just defeated a fucking sentinel. To hell this wasn't a happy occasion...and that demanded the finest ass-shakery they could muster. He presses closer to Jean-Paul, so that their hipbones graze on the eighth beats (one-and-two-and-three-and-four-and), laughing because the song has changed and someone is demanding that they let me see you pop that pussy, laughing because of the concentrated frown on Jean-Paul’s face, laughing because he just feels so fucking good for once.
The club is impossibly packed, (overflow perhaps, from the Sentinel destroyed bars; in one of the frantic strobes of light, Pietro swears he sees Vanessica) the crush of bodies, of heat and hips and pounding bass shaking every muscle in his body. And Pietro lets it, allows himself to retreat to the reptilian part of his brain. Sounds! Colours! Lights! (one-and-two-and) Jean-Paul combing his shaggy sweaty hair out of his eyes with his fingers (three-and-four-and) Jean-Paul smiling, biting his bottom lip...Pietro wants to bite that lip (one-and-two-and) both of them lingering on the beats now, pressing their hips, their thighs (three-and-four-and) increasing the force (one-and-two-and) the friction (three-and-four-and) Jean-Paul pushing his hand through the back of Pietro’s hair, crushing his mouth onto Pietro’s, not loosing contact now (one-and-two-and-three-and-four-and)
Pietro parts his lips, presses his tongue forward until it meets Jean-Paul’s, warm and strong and surprisingly soft, sliding one hand up Jean-Paul’s shirt, pulling him in, wanting to be as close to as much of him as he possibly could. He’s reluctant, minutes or months later, when Jean-Paul finally pulls away. (Takes Jean-Paul’s bottom lip between his teeth, nips it reproachfully.) And now Jean-Paul is laughing, pulsing in time with the music, (the song has changed, Pietro barely noticed. Jean-Paul seems to know the words, though, mouthing them almost obscenely, eyes closed. Who do boys like they´re girls, who do girls like they´re boys. Or perhaps it's just Jean-Paul's mouth that is beautifully obscene, just Jean-Paul. Always should be someone you really love.) pressure and release, pressure and release, pressure and release on the eighths, free, no longer frowning, driving Pietro mad and driving the blood down until he’s halfway to hard in less than a second.
Pietro leans in, wants to tell Jean-Paul that he’s gorgeous when he smiles like that, wants to tell him about the beats, about the colours and lights and sounds, about the beauty and the obscenity, (it’s all very profound in his head...) and accidentally lets out a yawn in his ear. (In Pietro’s defence [he’s justifying] it’s got to be at least 1 a.m. and he’s been up since yesterday night.) “Sorry, that wasn’t supposed to be...I mean, what we just did was great.”
Jean-Paul laughs again, musical, beautiful, trailing kisses along the hollow of Pietro’s throat. Pietro tries hard not to moan aloud. Jean-Paul grazes the back of his hand against the front of Pietro’s pants, lightly, frustratingly lightly, pulls it away before Pietro can do anything about it. “Yes, I did gather that you enjoyed that.”
“So did you.” Pietro snaps to the defensive automatically, so used to the denial of reciprocation with Lance.
“Absolument Pietro. And I would do it again. ” His grin is nothing short of wicked. (Pietro loves the way Jean-Paul says his name, the harsh roll of the R, like it’s something dirty and magnificent.) “But first,” he plucks the empty bottle from Pietro’s hand, “more drinks. I’ll be back.”
In Jean-Paul’s absence, Pietro loses himself to the press of bodies, the thrum of the bass resonating in his sternum. His body moves of its own accord. He honestly doesn’t understand how anyone can claim that they don’t like to dance. It’s a connection point for Pietro, the freedom, the power of people all driven by the same force, the same beat. It’s so linking and yet so anonymous, and he is perfect when he dances. Everyone is perfect. He’s surrounded by hundreds of perfect people and he thinks he might love them all. Amongst them, Pietro spots a dark-haired head making its way toward him.
Jean-Paul pushes through the crowd with two drinks in hand, effortlessly, lithe, like he's stalking prey (Ah, the elusive Pietro. And Pietro laughs to himself at that. He's kind of fucked up right now, to be honest. Drunk on excesses--bring me more bass rhythms, more beer, more Jean-Paul--and this makes him laugh too. God, he's fucking funny tonight.) He tastes Jean-Paul (tobacco smoke, sweat, salt, heat) before the drink (bubblegum, root beer...liquorice?) It's clearly a girly drink; Jean-Paul has noticed his drunkenness and is cutting him off. Pietro is not impressed. "What is this shit?" Annoyed, yelling over the crowd.
Jean-Paul leans in, his lips brushing the bottom of Pietro's earlobe, sucking lightly, (sofuckinghot) and whispers the sweetest words in the English language. "It's caffeinated."
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Jean-Paul frowns. Perhaps Jäger bombs had not been the smartest of choices. Pietro is practically bouncing beside him, clutching the bottle of water they stopped for at the dépanneur, arms spread expansively as they stumble down the street. He's beautiful: assured, flushed pink, shimmering with the sweat of exertion under the streetlights, on his lips, in his hair. Like a little silver deity; the patron saint of ADHD.
"This is definitely the right way." Since the club had closed half an hour ago, they've been wandering under Pietro's dubious directions. (Jean-Paul has outright refused super-speed, doubting that he will be able to keep up with Pietro at all now that he is under the influence of enough Red Bull to wire a rhino.) Pietro dashes ahead, reappearing back at Jean-Paul's side half a minute later. "Yeah, my hotel's about two miles up."
"Miles," He scoffs, flicking his cigarette butt calmly. "You and your imperial system."
Pietro, the essence of maturity, sticks out his tongue. "Man, you should see my room, Jean-Paul; my bed is huge." His grin is wicked as he draws out the last word. "It's only a ten second run... well, maybe a bit longer for you. You know, the whole slow thing?"
Jean-Paul steals the water bottle from his hand, downing a gulp and then handing it back. Pietro needs it more than Jean-Paul. (Jean-Paul has a feeling his name is going to be cursed regardless tomorrow morning, in the wake of the caffeine crash and hangover Pietro is doubtlessly going to encounter.) "I thought we were enjoying a nice, leisurely" (and sobering; the last thing Jean-Paul wants tonight is whiskey dick) "stroll."
Pietro bounds forward again (still somehow graceful beneath the liquor) as though urging Jean-Paul to quicken his pace. He's rubbing his palms against his upper arms so fast that they begin to blur. "Enjoyable for you maybe. You're immune to Canada's cold."
Jean-Paul continues to amble, unconcerned. He thinks about lighting another cigarette and palms his package idly. (He always smokes more when he's drinking. He should have bought another pack when they stopped.) "That argument, much like you, is not going to fly. I've been to New York in November. It's just as cold. You should have packed a coat." Alcohol makes Jean-Paul haughty.
"I did, except I failed to anticipate that the coat check I placed it in would be reduced to rubble by a Sentinel." His words are rapid-fire in annoyance, not a slur but a definite lack of pauses.
"That was just poor planning on your part."
Pietro narrows his eyes at Jean-Paul and continues his apparent quest to give himself friction burns. Jean-Paul sighs and relinquishes his coat. Pietro beams. "How chivalrous and unpromptedly nice of you, Jean-Paul."
"Don't push it."
Pietro pushes Jean-Paul lightly on the shoulder, almost cackling in glee, racing ahead. Jean-Paul tries hard to not find it charming. Pietro's head is tilted to the sky. He abruptly stops and waits for Jean-Paul to catch up, speaking when he does. "Man, Jean-Paul, it'sjustoneofthosenights,youknow?" Jean-Paul watches his words rise in a cloud of white fog, watches his chest fall as he lets out a breath and seems to compose himself. "Where I actually wish I could slow down and just make it last longer. You ever get like that?"
Jean-Paul is surprised at the startling honesty (at how powerfully he understands.) "Yeah, sometimes."
Pietro grins at that, almost self-consciously. Jean-Paul wants to kiss him, for that grin, for that honesty, but he has started forward again. "I figured you would."
Pietro is trying hard to combat the effects of the caffeine, of his mutation, barely keeping a normal pace beside Jean-Paul, his limbs quivering with excess energy. Jean-Paul peers down into his cigarette package almost benevolently, praising his forethought at raiding his freezer before he went out for the evening. (He doesn't often; he saves it for somewhat special occasions. Justoneofthosenights,youknow? Jean-Paul knows.) He wants nothing more right now than to make that happen for Pietro.
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Read part 2 here