Fic - What a Pair We Are
Title: What a Pair We Are
Pairing: JP, Bobby
Summary: Bobby has a bad day, Jean-Paul has a worse day.
Notes: This was a fic I started years ago. I never really decided if it would turn into slash, but in the very least it was meant to be JP and Bobby developing a very strong friendship and Bobby taking up Jean-Paul's cause and fighting for him. The fic starts out with Bobby rather absorbed in his own woes, and completely unaware of what JP has gone through that day, though it's pretty common knowledge around the mansion (in a no one's supposed to know but everyone does kind of way), and doesn't find out until the day after this scene takes place. Anyway, I'm telling you this to give some context since I will probably never write beyond this chapter and I felt like sharing the chapter anyway. Enjoy, and let your imaginations roam free.
What a Pair We Are - Chapter 1
Bobby lay in a half-seated position, his head and back slouched against the headboard, one arm pillowed behind his head while the other hand clutched loosely at the sheets pooled around his waist. One stretched-out leg rocked gently from side to side under the blankets in relief of some of the happy energy that consumed him. A contented smile refused to leave his face as he watched her redress. There was no doubt any longer. He was in love.
Miranda was slender and dark, with long, black hair that ended in a perfect trim just below her shoulder blades. It was straight, as if she took an iron to it every night, and glistened, shiny enough to make you believe the Pantene commercials. She had beautiful, big brown eyes that he would try to catch in the mirror as she applied her make-up. Every now and then they would flicker up and see him staring and she would smile back at him.
She was just the right height. He could dance with her, and her head would rest nicely on his shoulder. He wouldn’t feel short with her, not at all. Not that they had ever gone dancing, but he could fix that. They’d go out dancing tomorrow night, and maybe he’d take her to dinner too. He would go to the mall and buy her something pretty, something that told her how much he loved her. Better still, he would get Warren to take him to one of those fancy jewelry shops, and buy her something there. Not a ring, no, it was too early for that, but something nice.
She was putting on her earrings now. She would be leaving soon, but she’d come over to him first, lean down and kiss him softly on the lips, and he’d slip his hands up around her and pull her down to the bed with him. She’d laugh through his kisses, chastise him for messing her hair and make-up, and kiss him back before begging that she had to go, but she’d see him tomorrow or the next day, or whenever they had planned. Bobby could picture it all as she fastened the second earring and looked directly at him.
“I can’t see you again.”
“Huh?” he grunted in response as his fantasy came crashing down around him. “Come on, Baby. It wasn’t that bad,” he added smiling.
“I’m getting out,” she clarified, and Bobby’s face fell. He sat up straighter, now clutching tightly at the sheets with both hands, and fighting off the instinct to cover his bare chest.
“Is this just a ploy to get more money out of me? Cause it won’t work.”
She shook her head. “No, honestly, Scott. I like you, really. That’s why I’m telling you this, instead of letting the agency do it.”
She came over to him then and leaned over to kiss him, but Bobby no longer felt like playing. It wasn’t because he wasn’t Scott, and she wasn’t Miranda, and tomorrow he’d be babysitting prep school brats not shopping for expensive jewelry. It wasn’t because he’d either be alone tomorrow night wondering if he could afford to call her again, or else sharing a plane with his ex and her boyfriend. It wasn’t any of these things.
She brushed a hand against his cheek. “It’s not so bad. One of the other girls will take care of you.”
It was because he could no longer pretend.
***************************************************
Bobby leaned against the doorframe of the second-floor lounge. A large fireplace occupied the outside wall, decorated by various, undoubtedly expensive, ornaments on the mantle. An assortment of comfortable seating filled the large room, all of it focused either on the entertainment center or the fireplace. The inside wall was lined with books, all fiction or mainstream nonfiction - the school books were left elsewhere. Despite the apparent identity crises of the room, whatever designer Xavier had hired to create it, had succeeded in making the medley work. Media center, study, games room, lounge, it all came together here, and was a much welcomed retreat for the staff at Xaviers. Of course, the best feature of the room was that it was off limits to the students, and that made it a sanctuary.
Jean-Paul Beaubier, however, was not a student and was currently occupying Bobby’s favourite room. He recognized him solely from the back of his head, not a magnificent feat, since the only other person sporting black hair with silver streaks was Beaubier’s own sister, and though he had let his hair grow in past the collar, almost to the point of being described as long, he could hardly be mistaken for a woman who didn’t live in the mansion, or even visit on occasion.
Beaubier seemed unaware of Bobby’s presence, and somehow Bobby found himself resenting that as much as he resented the half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table, and the half-full glass in Beaubier’s hand. He looked for all the world as if he owned the place and belonged there. He didn’t as far as Bobby was concerned. Being dumped by one’s hooker and wanting to sulk to one’s favourite television shows took precedence over whatever subtitled nonsense Beaubier could come up with. Unfortunately, this was hardly something he wanted to explain to anyone, least of all Beaubier. He’d have to try Plan B, and simply irritate him into going away.
“Hey! Speedy! Fancy meeting you here!” Bobby bellowed and slapped Jean-Paul on the back as he passed the couch on his way to the armchair. Jean-Paul moved forward, barely keeping his drink from spilling over and glared up at Bobby watching him warily but saying nothing. “Wow, have I just had a fantastic evening,” Bobby continued. He flopped down in the chair and lifted one foot up to yank off one shoe, followed by the other. He tossed the shoes into the bare space between the coffee table and the television, certain it would annoy Beaubier, and then proceeded to peel off his socks. “So there I am coming out of the coffee shop on Larouche when three of the hottest babes you’ve ever seen, bazoongas out to here,” Bobby gestured in front of his chest, letting one of the black socks dangle from his hand then returned to peeling off the other. “I mean, seriously, even you would have appreciated them.” He tossed both socks precariously close to the wine bottle on the coffee table and glanced at Jean-Paul’s face for the hint of disgust. He was not disappointed. He continued with his story, as ribald and vulgar as he could make it, with enough descriptions of breasts and booty to have Jean-Paul gagging, and what he expected to be his coup-de-gras. He lifted his sweaty, smelly feet onto the coffee table almost touching Jean-Paul’s wine glass and slumped back into the chair.
“So that’s when the third one says to me,” Bobby continued staring at random spots on the ceiling but mentally counting off the minute he expected to pass before Beaubier made his excuses and left. At three hundred and forty, and running short on story, he finally stole a glance at him. He wasn’t looking disgusted or irritated. In fact, he didn’t even look like he was listening to anything Bobby was saying. Instead, he was staring rather intently at Bobby’s feet. He seemed almost mesmerized. Bobby suddenly felt distinctly uncomfortable and stopped talking. Beaubier didn’t seem to notice but continued to stare at his feet. Bobby slowly slid them off the table, pulling himself into a properly seated position and attempting to hide one foot behind the other. He was more then a little disconcerted by the way Beaubier’s eyes followed the motion.
“Um… Beaubier?” Bobby squeaked.
Jean-Paul looked up at him suddenly and blinked, then he looked away quickly, and Bobby saw traces of a flush colour his neck and ears. That was something Bobby had never seen before and wondered suddenly just how much Beaubier had drunk.
“I am not leaving,”
“Huh?” Bobby articulated, momentarily forgetting his plan.
Beaubier turned and looked at him, flush gone. “I am not leaving so you can drop the attempt,” he repeated a little angrily. “You can either find somewhere else to spend your evening, or endure my company as unpleasant as you find it.”
“Oh, um… kay,” Bobby said nothing for a moment as Beaubier’s gaze returned to his movie. “Can I have my socks back?”
Beaubier looked down at the socks lying a few feet in front of him, and scrunched his nose as he pinched one between his fingers and tossed it at Bobby’s head, quickly followed by the other. Bobby grabbed the first out of the air, and the other off of his head and pulled them both back onto his feet while Jean-Paul rewound the movie back ten minutes.
“Do you want the subtitles on?”
Bobby shrugged and settled into his chair, committed now to pouting in silence with a bad French movie and an uptight Frenchman. The least he could do was share some of that wine though. “Got another glass nearby?”
Beaubier turned on the subtitles, and with the speed Bobby had grown accustomed to, fetched a second glass, and another bottle of wine. They sat in silence for the duration of the movie and after about thirty minutes, Bobby was surprised to find that it wasn’t an artsy French flick, but rather a trashy romance, with mediocre acting set in downtown Montreal. There was even a couple of scenes about three quarters of the way through where the female lead’s best friend was prostituting herself to the other woman’s boyfriend. Bobby sank down into his seat during these scenes and tried not to compare himself to the man.
“Wow,” Bobby exclaimed quietly when the credits rolled on. “Not really what I imagined you to be watching.”
Beaubier drained his glass and popped the cork off of a third bottle that hadn’t been there forty minutes ago. Bobby frowned, but reached over with his own glass when Beaubier gestured to refill it.
“There are some advantages to watching movies in a language few others can understand.”
Bobby wasn’t certain, but Beaubier’s words seemed somewhat slurred - less crisp than usual, and his accent was thicker.
“Yeah, but that was just… trash.”
Jean-Paul snorted and nodded in agreement.
“Can I ask you something personal?” Bobby started, not sure where he was going, but feeling the wine, and the movie and the night in general spurring him forward.
Jean-Paul seemed to tense, but nodded resolutely as he sipped more wine.
“Have you ever,” Bobby hesitated a moment before stumbling on, “ever paid for sex?”
Jean-Paul sputtered on his drink, coughing inelegantly as he placed it on the table, and dabbed at the drops that had spilt onto his slacks. “That is not… not what I thought you were going to ask me.”
“Sorry?” Bobby offered uncertainly.
“Non. I have never paid for sex.”
“Oh, well, would you?”
He looked incredulously at him. “Merde non, why would I do such a thing?”
Bobby slumped down into his seat. He tried to not feel embarrassed. He was a normal American male. If normal American males didn’t rent hookers, then how did hookers stay in business? He looked petulantly at Jean-Paul. “I don’t know, if you felt lonely or something and couldn’t find a girl… uh… well, you know.”
Jean-Paul firmly picked up his glass again and focused an angry glare on the television. “I can assure you, Iceman, that there is no shortage of men,” he emphasized the last word for Bobby’s benefit, “willing to fuck me.”
An uneasy silence fell between them as Jean-Paul again finished the remaining wine in his glass and poured another. Despite a still clenched jaw, he waved the bottle in Bobby’s direction. Bobby held out his glass and let Jean-Paul refill it.
“So,” he said, taking the opportunity to mend whatever bridge he had managed to splinter, “you’re… like the girl?”
Jean-Paul raised an eyebrow at him, clearly confused. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Bobby knew he was treading water, but bravely pushed on. “Uh, well, you said they fuck you.”
“Mon dieu, what the hell is wrong with you? Do you not ever say that a woman would fuck you? Does that mean she goes out a gets a dildo and…” Jean-Paul’s brain seemed to kick in and overrule his anger. A soft blush coloured his face as he turned his attention back to the television with renewed determination. “It is none of your business, and no one is ‘like the girl’. That is rather the point.”
The tension returned though this time, Bobby did not feel compelled to speak. He was just glad his semi-confession was apparently forgotten.
“Did you pay someone?” Jean-Paul asked softly after a few minutes, his gaze staying off of Bobby.
“What? Uh… no,” Bobby stammered. “No,” he added more firmly. “A sex god like me doesn’t need to pay for it.” Bobby puffed out his chest, added a cocky smile and winked at Jean-Paul.
Jean-Paul chuckled at him as intended, but his smile remained knowing and Bobby wished he could go back ten minutes to before he had opened his big mouth. “Non, you don’t,” he confirmed.
Bobby was certain his face was now a deeper shade of red than the world had ever seen. “It wasn’t… it was just… I don’t know… easier… no stress,” he mumbled.
Jean-Paul nodded. “It is like, women they want more and more of you all the time. Not like men. I have more than once been thankful that I do not have to deal with them. I have often wondered what a straight man does when he just wants to get laid.”
“Guess, now you know,” Bobby whispered into his shirt.
Jean-Paul lifted his almost full wine glass to his lips and tilted his head back, as he chugged most of what remained and looked directly at Bobby. “If it makes you feel any better, I have been paid.”
Bobby’s eyes shot open. “*You* were a prostitute?”
“Non,” he denied and refilled both of their drinks, emptying the bottle and opening a new one in the process.
It was then Bobby noticed the two empty bottles already sitting on the floor by Jean-Paul’s feet. He barely seemed inebriated, but Bobby’d be trashed if he’d drank that much alcohol. He was already feeling lighthead from the one glass that kept getting topped up.
“If you repeat this to anyone I will kill you,”
“Ditto,” Bobby agreed
“I suppose technically you could call it prostitution, but if you ever say it again, I will kill you for that too.”
Bobby raised his glass and nodded, accepting Jean-Paul’s terms.
“When I was skiing, in the off-season we would go to these parties. Of course, no one knew back then. I was an athlete with other athletes. Locker rooms, shared accommodations, the need to prove yourself as a man, you understand, non? I was very young then, we all were. Anyway, we would go to these parties to schmooze, to get the corporations to loosen their purse strings for sponsorships.
“I remember the first time someone saw me for who I was. He was older and married. He offered me money.” Jean-Paul shrugged. “I almost said no. I was afraid he would go to the papers, or someone would find out, but then I thought about it. A man, a married man paying for sex was not about to talk, and he would want to be as discrete as I did. After that, I would look for them.”
“Wow,” Bobby breathed. “And no one ever found out?”
He shrugged then. “Non. I don’t think so. In fact, you’re the only person I have ever told.”
"How much?” Bobby asked without thinking.
Jean-Paul frowned and was silent for a moment. “Are you offering?” he asked quietly.
“Huh? What? No! I wouldn’t…” he started before recalling how this conversation began, and noting that Jean-Paul’s frown was turning into a smirk. “Jack-ass,” he finished and threw the closest thing he could find at Jean-Paul’s head.
He avoided the badly thrown knickknack easily and laughed. “Bien, cause you I would do for free.”
Bobby smiled uncomfortably suddenly recalling Jean-Paul staring at his feet earlier.
“Another movie then?” Jean-Paul asked and stood before Bobby could respond.
“Something English this time,” Bobby finally agreed.
“D’accord,” Jean-Paul slurred and stumbled slightly as he headed to the collection of DVDs.
Despite himself, Bobby found he was enjoying the evening. Maybe he had let Jean-Paul know something a little too personal about himself, but Jean-Paul had returned the favour and so he didn’t feel all that vulnerable. And if Jean-Paul did have a bit of a crush on him, well as long as he stayed over on the couch, away from Bobby, that was just fine. Besides, he was really curious just how many more bottles of wine Northstar could absorb and just how much more drunk he could get. This was definitely something Bobby had never seen before.
Pairing: JP, Bobby
Summary: Bobby has a bad day, Jean-Paul has a worse day.
Notes: This was a fic I started years ago. I never really decided if it would turn into slash, but in the very least it was meant to be JP and Bobby developing a very strong friendship and Bobby taking up Jean-Paul's cause and fighting for him. The fic starts out with Bobby rather absorbed in his own woes, and completely unaware of what JP has gone through that day, though it's pretty common knowledge around the mansion (in a no one's supposed to know but everyone does kind of way), and doesn't find out until the day after this scene takes place. Anyway, I'm telling you this to give some context since I will probably never write beyond this chapter and I felt like sharing the chapter anyway. Enjoy, and let your imaginations roam free.
What a Pair We Are - Chapter 1
Bobby lay in a half-seated position, his head and back slouched against the headboard, one arm pillowed behind his head while the other hand clutched loosely at the sheets pooled around his waist. One stretched-out leg rocked gently from side to side under the blankets in relief of some of the happy energy that consumed him. A contented smile refused to leave his face as he watched her redress. There was no doubt any longer. He was in love.
Miranda was slender and dark, with long, black hair that ended in a perfect trim just below her shoulder blades. It was straight, as if she took an iron to it every night, and glistened, shiny enough to make you believe the Pantene commercials. She had beautiful, big brown eyes that he would try to catch in the mirror as she applied her make-up. Every now and then they would flicker up and see him staring and she would smile back at him.
She was just the right height. He could dance with her, and her head would rest nicely on his shoulder. He wouldn’t feel short with her, not at all. Not that they had ever gone dancing, but he could fix that. They’d go out dancing tomorrow night, and maybe he’d take her to dinner too. He would go to the mall and buy her something pretty, something that told her how much he loved her. Better still, he would get Warren to take him to one of those fancy jewelry shops, and buy her something there. Not a ring, no, it was too early for that, but something nice.
She was putting on her earrings now. She would be leaving soon, but she’d come over to him first, lean down and kiss him softly on the lips, and he’d slip his hands up around her and pull her down to the bed with him. She’d laugh through his kisses, chastise him for messing her hair and make-up, and kiss him back before begging that she had to go, but she’d see him tomorrow or the next day, or whenever they had planned. Bobby could picture it all as she fastened the second earring and looked directly at him.
“I can’t see you again.”
“Huh?” he grunted in response as his fantasy came crashing down around him. “Come on, Baby. It wasn’t that bad,” he added smiling.
“I’m getting out,” she clarified, and Bobby’s face fell. He sat up straighter, now clutching tightly at the sheets with both hands, and fighting off the instinct to cover his bare chest.
“Is this just a ploy to get more money out of me? Cause it won’t work.”
She shook her head. “No, honestly, Scott. I like you, really. That’s why I’m telling you this, instead of letting the agency do it.”
She came over to him then and leaned over to kiss him, but Bobby no longer felt like playing. It wasn’t because he wasn’t Scott, and she wasn’t Miranda, and tomorrow he’d be babysitting prep school brats not shopping for expensive jewelry. It wasn’t because he’d either be alone tomorrow night wondering if he could afford to call her again, or else sharing a plane with his ex and her boyfriend. It wasn’t any of these things.
She brushed a hand against his cheek. “It’s not so bad. One of the other girls will take care of you.”
It was because he could no longer pretend.
***************************************************
Bobby leaned against the doorframe of the second-floor lounge. A large fireplace occupied the outside wall, decorated by various, undoubtedly expensive, ornaments on the mantle. An assortment of comfortable seating filled the large room, all of it focused either on the entertainment center or the fireplace. The inside wall was lined with books, all fiction or mainstream nonfiction - the school books were left elsewhere. Despite the apparent identity crises of the room, whatever designer Xavier had hired to create it, had succeeded in making the medley work. Media center, study, games room, lounge, it all came together here, and was a much welcomed retreat for the staff at Xaviers. Of course, the best feature of the room was that it was off limits to the students, and that made it a sanctuary.
Jean-Paul Beaubier, however, was not a student and was currently occupying Bobby’s favourite room. He recognized him solely from the back of his head, not a magnificent feat, since the only other person sporting black hair with silver streaks was Beaubier’s own sister, and though he had let his hair grow in past the collar, almost to the point of being described as long, he could hardly be mistaken for a woman who didn’t live in the mansion, or even visit on occasion.
Beaubier seemed unaware of Bobby’s presence, and somehow Bobby found himself resenting that as much as he resented the half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table, and the half-full glass in Beaubier’s hand. He looked for all the world as if he owned the place and belonged there. He didn’t as far as Bobby was concerned. Being dumped by one’s hooker and wanting to sulk to one’s favourite television shows took precedence over whatever subtitled nonsense Beaubier could come up with. Unfortunately, this was hardly something he wanted to explain to anyone, least of all Beaubier. He’d have to try Plan B, and simply irritate him into going away.
“Hey! Speedy! Fancy meeting you here!” Bobby bellowed and slapped Jean-Paul on the back as he passed the couch on his way to the armchair. Jean-Paul moved forward, barely keeping his drink from spilling over and glared up at Bobby watching him warily but saying nothing. “Wow, have I just had a fantastic evening,” Bobby continued. He flopped down in the chair and lifted one foot up to yank off one shoe, followed by the other. He tossed the shoes into the bare space between the coffee table and the television, certain it would annoy Beaubier, and then proceeded to peel off his socks. “So there I am coming out of the coffee shop on Larouche when three of the hottest babes you’ve ever seen, bazoongas out to here,” Bobby gestured in front of his chest, letting one of the black socks dangle from his hand then returned to peeling off the other. “I mean, seriously, even you would have appreciated them.” He tossed both socks precariously close to the wine bottle on the coffee table and glanced at Jean-Paul’s face for the hint of disgust. He was not disappointed. He continued with his story, as ribald and vulgar as he could make it, with enough descriptions of breasts and booty to have Jean-Paul gagging, and what he expected to be his coup-de-gras. He lifted his sweaty, smelly feet onto the coffee table almost touching Jean-Paul’s wine glass and slumped back into the chair.
“So that’s when the third one says to me,” Bobby continued staring at random spots on the ceiling but mentally counting off the minute he expected to pass before Beaubier made his excuses and left. At three hundred and forty, and running short on story, he finally stole a glance at him. He wasn’t looking disgusted or irritated. In fact, he didn’t even look like he was listening to anything Bobby was saying. Instead, he was staring rather intently at Bobby’s feet. He seemed almost mesmerized. Bobby suddenly felt distinctly uncomfortable and stopped talking. Beaubier didn’t seem to notice but continued to stare at his feet. Bobby slowly slid them off the table, pulling himself into a properly seated position and attempting to hide one foot behind the other. He was more then a little disconcerted by the way Beaubier’s eyes followed the motion.
“Um… Beaubier?” Bobby squeaked.
Jean-Paul looked up at him suddenly and blinked, then he looked away quickly, and Bobby saw traces of a flush colour his neck and ears. That was something Bobby had never seen before and wondered suddenly just how much Beaubier had drunk.
“I am not leaving,”
“Huh?” Bobby articulated, momentarily forgetting his plan.
Beaubier turned and looked at him, flush gone. “I am not leaving so you can drop the attempt,” he repeated a little angrily. “You can either find somewhere else to spend your evening, or endure my company as unpleasant as you find it.”
“Oh, um… kay,” Bobby said nothing for a moment as Beaubier’s gaze returned to his movie. “Can I have my socks back?”
Beaubier looked down at the socks lying a few feet in front of him, and scrunched his nose as he pinched one between his fingers and tossed it at Bobby’s head, quickly followed by the other. Bobby grabbed the first out of the air, and the other off of his head and pulled them both back onto his feet while Jean-Paul rewound the movie back ten minutes.
“Do you want the subtitles on?”
Bobby shrugged and settled into his chair, committed now to pouting in silence with a bad French movie and an uptight Frenchman. The least he could do was share some of that wine though. “Got another glass nearby?”
Beaubier turned on the subtitles, and with the speed Bobby had grown accustomed to, fetched a second glass, and another bottle of wine. They sat in silence for the duration of the movie and after about thirty minutes, Bobby was surprised to find that it wasn’t an artsy French flick, but rather a trashy romance, with mediocre acting set in downtown Montreal. There was even a couple of scenes about three quarters of the way through where the female lead’s best friend was prostituting herself to the other woman’s boyfriend. Bobby sank down into his seat during these scenes and tried not to compare himself to the man.
“Wow,” Bobby exclaimed quietly when the credits rolled on. “Not really what I imagined you to be watching.”
Beaubier drained his glass and popped the cork off of a third bottle that hadn’t been there forty minutes ago. Bobby frowned, but reached over with his own glass when Beaubier gestured to refill it.
“There are some advantages to watching movies in a language few others can understand.”
Bobby wasn’t certain, but Beaubier’s words seemed somewhat slurred - less crisp than usual, and his accent was thicker.
“Yeah, but that was just… trash.”
Jean-Paul snorted and nodded in agreement.
“Can I ask you something personal?” Bobby started, not sure where he was going, but feeling the wine, and the movie and the night in general spurring him forward.
Jean-Paul seemed to tense, but nodded resolutely as he sipped more wine.
“Have you ever,” Bobby hesitated a moment before stumbling on, “ever paid for sex?”
Jean-Paul sputtered on his drink, coughing inelegantly as he placed it on the table, and dabbed at the drops that had spilt onto his slacks. “That is not… not what I thought you were going to ask me.”
“Sorry?” Bobby offered uncertainly.
“Non. I have never paid for sex.”
“Oh, well, would you?”
He looked incredulously at him. “Merde non, why would I do such a thing?”
Bobby slumped down into his seat. He tried to not feel embarrassed. He was a normal American male. If normal American males didn’t rent hookers, then how did hookers stay in business? He looked petulantly at Jean-Paul. “I don’t know, if you felt lonely or something and couldn’t find a girl… uh… well, you know.”
Jean-Paul firmly picked up his glass again and focused an angry glare on the television. “I can assure you, Iceman, that there is no shortage of men,” he emphasized the last word for Bobby’s benefit, “willing to fuck me.”
An uneasy silence fell between them as Jean-Paul again finished the remaining wine in his glass and poured another. Despite a still clenched jaw, he waved the bottle in Bobby’s direction. Bobby held out his glass and let Jean-Paul refill it.
“So,” he said, taking the opportunity to mend whatever bridge he had managed to splinter, “you’re… like the girl?”
Jean-Paul raised an eyebrow at him, clearly confused. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Bobby knew he was treading water, but bravely pushed on. “Uh, well, you said they fuck you.”
“Mon dieu, what the hell is wrong with you? Do you not ever say that a woman would fuck you? Does that mean she goes out a gets a dildo and…” Jean-Paul’s brain seemed to kick in and overrule his anger. A soft blush coloured his face as he turned his attention back to the television with renewed determination. “It is none of your business, and no one is ‘like the girl’. That is rather the point.”
The tension returned though this time, Bobby did not feel compelled to speak. He was just glad his semi-confession was apparently forgotten.
“Did you pay someone?” Jean-Paul asked softly after a few minutes, his gaze staying off of Bobby.
“What? Uh… no,” Bobby stammered. “No,” he added more firmly. “A sex god like me doesn’t need to pay for it.” Bobby puffed out his chest, added a cocky smile and winked at Jean-Paul.
Jean-Paul chuckled at him as intended, but his smile remained knowing and Bobby wished he could go back ten minutes to before he had opened his big mouth. “Non, you don’t,” he confirmed.
Bobby was certain his face was now a deeper shade of red than the world had ever seen. “It wasn’t… it was just… I don’t know… easier… no stress,” he mumbled.
Jean-Paul nodded. “It is like, women they want more and more of you all the time. Not like men. I have more than once been thankful that I do not have to deal with them. I have often wondered what a straight man does when he just wants to get laid.”
“Guess, now you know,” Bobby whispered into his shirt.
Jean-Paul lifted his almost full wine glass to his lips and tilted his head back, as he chugged most of what remained and looked directly at Bobby. “If it makes you feel any better, I have been paid.”
Bobby’s eyes shot open. “*You* were a prostitute?”
“Non,” he denied and refilled both of their drinks, emptying the bottle and opening a new one in the process.
It was then Bobby noticed the two empty bottles already sitting on the floor by Jean-Paul’s feet. He barely seemed inebriated, but Bobby’d be trashed if he’d drank that much alcohol. He was already feeling lighthead from the one glass that kept getting topped up.
“If you repeat this to anyone I will kill you,”
“Ditto,” Bobby agreed
“I suppose technically you could call it prostitution, but if you ever say it again, I will kill you for that too.”
Bobby raised his glass and nodded, accepting Jean-Paul’s terms.
“When I was skiing, in the off-season we would go to these parties. Of course, no one knew back then. I was an athlete with other athletes. Locker rooms, shared accommodations, the need to prove yourself as a man, you understand, non? I was very young then, we all were. Anyway, we would go to these parties to schmooze, to get the corporations to loosen their purse strings for sponsorships.
“I remember the first time someone saw me for who I was. He was older and married. He offered me money.” Jean-Paul shrugged. “I almost said no. I was afraid he would go to the papers, or someone would find out, but then I thought about it. A man, a married man paying for sex was not about to talk, and he would want to be as discrete as I did. After that, I would look for them.”
“Wow,” Bobby breathed. “And no one ever found out?”
He shrugged then. “Non. I don’t think so. In fact, you’re the only person I have ever told.”
"How much?” Bobby asked without thinking.
Jean-Paul frowned and was silent for a moment. “Are you offering?” he asked quietly.
“Huh? What? No! I wouldn’t…” he started before recalling how this conversation began, and noting that Jean-Paul’s frown was turning into a smirk. “Jack-ass,” he finished and threw the closest thing he could find at Jean-Paul’s head.
He avoided the badly thrown knickknack easily and laughed. “Bien, cause you I would do for free.”
Bobby smiled uncomfortably suddenly recalling Jean-Paul staring at his feet earlier.
“Another movie then?” Jean-Paul asked and stood before Bobby could respond.
“Something English this time,” Bobby finally agreed.
“D’accord,” Jean-Paul slurred and stumbled slightly as he headed to the collection of DVDs.
Despite himself, Bobby found he was enjoying the evening. Maybe he had let Jean-Paul know something a little too personal about himself, but Jean-Paul had returned the favour and so he didn’t feel all that vulnerable. And if Jean-Paul did have a bit of a crush on him, well as long as he stayed over on the couch, away from Bobby, that was just fine. Besides, he was really curious just how many more bottles of wine Northstar could absorb and just how much more drunk he could get. This was definitely something Bobby had never seen before.