The Unbearable Lightness of Fleeing [John + Willy]
John was sitting at a cafe. In a mall. It was the same mall in which Bobby worked, but he tended to push that detail to one side and focus on the fact he didn't really know any other malls to go to
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"He hasn't told you," John breathed, his mouth stretching into shock and his tone oddly exultant, like this was some kind of victory. "He's fled all the damn way here and he's never actually told you why."
"You're immortal, right? Been all around the various worlds, seen all kinds of times. You know how mortal life evolves? One lizard gets born with a pattern on its skin, so it better blends in with the trees: it lives, the others get eaten. Or one tree is really good at conserving water, so it survives when there's a drought."
John leaned in over the table: he found he was clutching his lighter in a hand. Flicking it open and getting a light was second nature to him; the cool steel felt like an extension of his hand- it gave him a certain purpose, a certain steadfastness. Looking right into Willy's eyes, he felt the way he tugged a small filament of flame from the gas light, weaving it into a white-hot ball between finger and thumb like a kid playing with string or cotton candy. Flicking the lighter closed again with a heavy thunk, he held the burning-bright-ember up between them: "Not every human is born able to do this, or make ice cream with their bare hands - and if Bobby hasn't done that for you already, I recommend you ask him to. Puts our particular gifts in perspective. But this is what a mutant is: a human born with something just a little different. Some mutants don't have powers: they have green skin, or scales or something. Luck of the draw, the mutation, I guess. I got fire. Bobby got ice."
Then the flame was extinguished like it was never there, and John was easily lounging back in his seat, show over, eyebrow raised. "Does that answer your question?"
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"You were both born with these...talents," Willy continued thoughtfully. "It is curious, is it not, that you two have been friends and now are not. Perhaps not, it does not surprise me. Djinn are not often friends with Glaistig."
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"We went to school together, but you know, I fucked up. It was like a...tribal thing. One group wanted to be at peace, and be kind to everyone, all that kind of stuff. Another group thought that since we had powers like gods, everyone else became an insect, right? And who bothers listening to insects? So I...left the good guys, and joined up with a group of mutants who wanted to rule the world."
There was a terrible sadness in John's eyes. He idly flicked his lighter open and closed with his thumb. "I really liked the idea of being a god there for a while. But I left him behind to do it, and all my other friends."
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"At the time I didn't think it was cruel. More like how most people don't really worry about stepping on ants before they walk. Regular humans didn't have our powers, we were - superior. It was - logical," he continued, after a pause, gesticulating with one hand as he circled for the words. "And if they feared us, and hated us, and tormented us for being different, and did not bow down and accept their extinction...I thought it was a fair judgement to step on all the ants."
Breathing in deeply through his nose, he reached over and took a sip of the tea, wrinkling as he found it sour. "I thought at the time it was us, or them. Humans or mutants. The group I used to associate with believed in co-existence, but I rejected that in the end. Bobby and I fought. Almost killed each other a few times."
He drank the tea anyway, drained it to the dregs.
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There was a time when John would have burned (pardon the pun) to see half the X-Men go up in flames: mostly because then he would have known it was his doing, and it would have been the victory rather than the actual death which caused his exultation.
"But now I'm just a guy playing party tricks with a lighter. No more battles for me. No more conquests, no more pedastals. No more trying to be a god. I'll focus on trying to be a functional person, to start with."
John turned his attention back to the man - thing? - in front of him, crossing his arms over the table. "So. What can you do? Or is immortality the whole gig."
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"Oh, my friend, I can do so much. I am not inclined to party tricks and do not perform on command, but if you come to the Alpha Bar on any Tuesday you will have a small taste. A very small taste."
Willy was far more powerful than he let on. He had an abundance of magic that went untapped. A song, an enchantment, a glamour, and charms. But if he chose to, and he rarely did, as a Daoine Sidhe, a lord of the fae, he could bend the elements to his will. But what was the fun in that? There was no pleasure in control, no joy in lordship. He preferred his freedom and used just enough to be happy and comfortable. All he sought was his own pleasure and gave little thought to others.
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"I think," he began slowly, "I probably shouldn't spend too much time in your company. I don't think Bobby would find it very, uh, appropriate. But I'm glad he's happy. And - " John groped for words - "it's good that you seem to know just how different you are to the rest of us. We get hurt easily, and I don't mean physically."
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"What do you mean?" he said, curious as to why and exactly how speaking to this boy could cause another boy pain of any sort. It took him a moment but he had heard enough songs to know about cheating hearts and hurt feelings that the smile returned.
"Ah, you mean jealousy," he said, proud of himself for navigating the treacherous waters of mortal feelings. So sticky, so convoluted, and so very unpredictable. Willy was rarely around long enough for feelings to arise.
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"Mortals can experience multiple emotions, all sorts of feelings - half of which contradict the other half. He probably just would feel upset. Like I've invaded something which is his, like I'd violated it. With you, he doesn't have to remember me, or - anything. He can be safe, and that's something we mortals really like to feel. And he'd be a bit jealous because you're his, and he don't want me messing things up."
There was a pause before John made himself say the question he wanted to say. "How hard is it for you to understand feelings?" he asked slowly, tasting the words. There were like ash on his tongue, the promise of something irrevocable.
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The pause dragging out, John chose his words carefully: "And you, I guess, always live in the present, huh? No need to dwell over past mistake or future anxieties - there's a million more moments waiting for you, a thousand different opportunities. What does any mistake compare to that?"
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He smiled pleasantly.
Mistakes are just that. Mistakes. You learn from them and do not make them again. I have learned from many and repeated none."
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