Then
*
He's having the Dreams again.
He's in a club, this time. It's not an unusual place -- actually, he thinks it's the same club he and the rest of Gen-X used to go to every time they got the car or the will to catch a bus into town. They ended up getting tired of it, switching places, music types, tolerance towards underage drinking.
He can remember the bartender grinning at him. "A beer, huh? Don't think so, kid." Blond, handsome face amused by the young man -- oh hell, the *boy* --requesting the tiniest of alchohol pleasures for himself and his friends. Broad shoulders -- he had a tattoo on the left one, Angelo remembers -- a nice, *nice* chest --
Irrelevant.
He's in the club now, or at least he thinks it's that one. The lights are dimmer, the music faster. A strobe light and flashing colors are making him feel a little dizzy.
There's a girl dancing with him. A girl -- at first he thinks it's Paige, but then he realizes she may be about the right height, but her hair is dark even when the strobe light lands on it.
Her eyes, when she looks up and smiles at him, are even darker, some knowing color that's full of secrets he has yet to figure out.
Her smile is a private joke, an encouragement to move with her as she dances in casually sensual steps. Her arms go around him, on him, wrapping around his neck, sliding down his stomach.
He's thinking of Torres when she reaches his waistband, but she doesn't slip her hand in, and breaks the comparision. Instead she stands up on tiptoes and kisses him, full and hungry and deep. Her mouth is filled with some sharp, strong beverage, one of those that he isn't allowed to buy for himself. It tastes much more powerful than the simple beer he was aiming for, and he turns to grin a slightly smug triumph at the bartender.
***But there's no one behind the bar. And instead there's a boy behind him, probably the same age he is, a little taller, a little better built. Light brown hair weeps on a sweaty face, and laughing blue eyes dance with him, following the boy's movements.***
The girl is still behind him, so close as to almost share his skin, her lips on his neck, on his shoulder, her hands sliding. But now the boy has taken a step forward, dancing all the while, wilder then the girl's style, more free than Angelo could ever hope to be.
And now he's feeling crowded, can't back away. And he's terrified to recognize that he doesn't want to.
He knows what he had been feeling before to be a calm, confident, peaceful sense of control, just as he feels in slipping. Then gone altogether. Someone must be on top of this situation, but it's not him, has never really been him, and he misses that illusion of control and knowledge like it was a rescue boat.
The colors are confusing him, strobe light has him almost blind, and the dance feels like he's going round and round and round in smaller circles until his head feels completely twisted. His perceptions change, his sense of reality not disappearing but fading in and out of existance. He can feel the small quantity of alchohol he had drank from the girl's mouth burn its way through his veins, through his skull, through his brain, rendering him even further away from knowing what's going on.
And in the middle of all this, he's panicking, because he's in a strange place he doesn't really know and all his friends are away, all the people he's ever loved had left him, had expected too much, had turned away from disappointment, because he doesn't even recognize the music and has no idea how to dance to it, because there are two strangers with him, both trailing hands all over him, because of what his body is telling him.
And then the boy is taking a step forwards, towards him, into him --
And he leans a little down to kiss Angelo.
But, no, because it's Angelo who raises his face to find contact, who seeks the boy's lips. Giving in.
And then --
The music stops. He's pushed away, not violently, none too quietly. The boy is walking away, not saying one word.
He's too stunned to react, to yell, to chase him, to curse, to cry. And guys don't cry anyway. What a sissy thing to do.
A moist something traces a line around his chest, and the girl takes away her lips and her touch and her warmth. All that's left is her eyes, a little bit of her knowing smile, as she says, 'Too bad. You're kinda cute.'
As if she's sharing a secret.
And then he's waking up, and he isn't sobbing. He isn't shaking. He isn't mumbling something under his breath, an incoherent something that could be curses and could be muffled pleas.
And he isn't looking down.
*
Emma walked up to him without introduction, and wrinkled her nose. "Put that disgusting thing out, Wisdom."
He scowled at her, deeply irritated she dared to interrupt the only time he'd gotten to himself in a week. A glass of whiskey sat at his elbow, a fresh pack of cigarettes sitting happily beside it. He'd only gotten through two and a half before she'd approached.
Damnit, but was he going to get NO peace and quiet here? If it wasn't the students, asking about spying, or Britain, or rock and roll, it was the head masters.
After one long, heavenly puff, he stabbed the rest of it out angrily in the ashtray on the table. At least he'd afforded her that much courtesy, this time.
The mental probe that left him with a blinding headache close to a migraine probably had something to do with it.
"Where is Angelo?"
He blinked at her, confused. Why the hell was he supposed to know where one gangly kid was? Was he a babysitter? Was he even a real *teacher*? Did he have *time--
"So. You have no idea either."
The meaning of her words sunk in, and it frightened Pete a little bit, even though he fought within himself to keep that bottled up around the witch. 'Either' meant that she had no idea, Sean had no idea, and Ange was wandering around somewhere she couldn't find him. He could be unconscious, in trouble, more than likely upset, or why would he have gone off...
Wait. Why was she coming to him? "What makes you think I'd be able to find him, Frost?"
"He has an affinity for you, if that hasn't already penetrated your thick skull."
He kept his face blank, unwilling to comment on her blunt observation or the implications behind it. "What does that got to do with anything?"
She had already turned around, impatient. "Fine, if you're going to be useless, go back to your drinking and your filthy habit."
"Feck you, Frost."
He took a hefty drink, and closed his eyes, feeling the weariness setting in. He heard her disdain, had no need to see it in her face as well. "That's right, Wisdom. Drink your drink. A student is in pain, and needs you, but drink your drink. I'm sure young Angelo will be fine."
His weariness increased a thousand fold. "Resorting to guilt trips to get what you want? You must be slipping."
Her voice was angry. "Unlike you, I'm willing to do anything for my students."
His jaw clenched tight, and he said sharply, "What do you *want* from me?"
If he'd opened his eyes, he would have seen her small smile. Her voice was considerably softer when she answered, "'He relates to *YOU*. Go find him, and prove you're a better teacher than I think you are."
Her stiletto heels tapped across the floor, militant, and he almost threw his glass behind her, hundred-pound-a-bottle whiskey be damned.
Instead, he contented himself with thinking as loudly, and as vehemently as he could, *BITCH.*
Somewhere, a ways off, a door slammed.
*
It rained. It poured... no, it was simply raining. If it had been pouring, Angelo would have had water squelching in places he didn't want it, seeping in between the cracks of his jacket and clothing, getting into all sorts of places that simple rain should never go.
*Not without a damn good reason, anyway.* His shoes were the wettest piece of his apparel, and they had no business complaining about it. Things had been a lot worse, a few years ago -- not being able to buy shoes would rate as worse.
It wasn't quite dark enough to rate as night time, but the sun had given up on the day long before now. Any light left was caught between earth and sky, hovering and waiting for its chance to disappear. To dissapate.
To run away.
***Clouds didn't normally settle so thickly in Boston. Ange picked a good day to run away; even the rain supported his career move. *Yeah, the weather's saying, 'Good for you', about me taking some time for me.* ***
He huddled under an awning, and waited for something better to come along.
The bus eventually arrived, and he boarded it feeling only slightly better about getting out of the rain. There wasn't anything on the bus that he couldn't find elsewhere, and what he was going towards was the same as what he was leaving. He brought nothing with him, and left nothing behind.
Pete's face followed him, anyway; the invisible companion that he hadn't been able to shake, despite three hours of transit hopping and twenty bucks worth of lousy coffees. They were right -- no matter how many cups, the perspective of things around oneself never changed.
Maybe no one had said that. Maybe he'd just made it up on his own.
It wasn't like anything real had happened. Really bad, really rough, really -- real. Just the general sense of being locked in, with people who always knew better, and never cared enough to think.
Bullshit. Of course they cared -- they all had such good intentions. They all wanted to keep the mutie kids safe until they were old enough to really get the Dream.
They meant good. They meant a general, aimless good that sometimes just wasn't enough. sometimes he just got to miss the old gang, and the feeling he actually had something to say, that people might listen. Knowing people thought him smart enough to give respect. Knowing he could make decisions about what he'd do, where he'd go, who he'd be with.
What a wonderful fucking illusion that had been.
The time for delusions was long over, that was for damned sure.
"Mr. Espinosa, this is the third English class you've missed. And while under my roof, there are a *few* things that I expect of you. Simple courtesy is one of them, and that includes being present for your lectures."
The darkness outside the bus window didn't change to Emma's office, his head didn't jerk. Just another flashback.
Ignore it and it won't go away.
"Why're you coming down just on me? Jono's been with me each time, y'know."
Mull over it and it won't change a bit.
"Because, Angelo, Jonothan is keeping up more than adaquetely, while you are barely passing as is."
Not even your stupider lines.
"Yeah, well, he was born in England... look at my Spanish grade."
"It's only a C, Angelo. You need to go to more classes."
"Everyone tells me I need to do more or less of everything. What's so bad about deciding for myself every hundred years? So I won't know some dead Brit."
"You only listen when it suits you, though, Angelo, and this is what's making your grades fail."
Even your *stupidest* lines.
"Yeah, well, I learned from the teachers."
The anger underlining the voice in his head outweighted the surprise quite neatly. "Mr. Espinosa. That counts as rudeness, and quite simply, a horrible lack of manners. If you please, don't bother showing up for your schedule tomorrow. I'm sure Sean will find you something appropriate to do."
A sigh; defeat again, and he couldn't work up annoyance properly even now. Like there was any point. "Right, right, senora. Will do. Get my work detail."
A curt nod. "Good. Now, please, go find yourself somewhere else. I have a raging headache."
Well, I'm so sorry, teacher.
After all that shit, his day had been surprisingly simple -- yardwork. The real punishment was how much it started to rain. There was a lot of hedgework around the grounds, and wet or not, Emma wanted them pruned; the rain didn't give him any actual excuse, except maybe for some much-needed self pity. All of this, however, took less than four hours, and by one in the afternoon, he found himself standing in the middle of the Academy, with a rather down expression and a distinct lack of wanting to do anything productive -- or listening to any more should's.
No one was going to notice that he'd skipped out on study time, or classes again, except maybe Jono. And he'd be too busy grousing about having to be there himself.
Ange allowed himself a whisper of pity to float into his mind for Jono. Poor guy, having to sit through --he checked his watch -- Calculus, on a sopping wet day like today.
The last of the light slowly settled to earth, and scattered, and it was a gloomy dark outside. Finally. The last of the hopeful, running to ground.
The school stop was up ahead, and underneath the glass hut stood a familiar gaunt figure. Of course Pete would be familiar; his outline, form, function, and face, had been following Angelo all throughout the soggy day.
*Soggy. What a pleasant word,* he thought sourly. He stopped thinking about the rain, and the wet, and himself, and instead got off the bus, focusing on the feet of the man waiting for him.
How did Pete manage to stay so dry?
"So, mate... done sulking?"
"Not really," he said, stopping himself from kicking at mud as he trudged away, past Pete and towards the academy building.
Pete grabbed his arm, and Ange felt a tremor go through him at the tight grip. His sweatshirt really was damp, and he wished he could take it off, just to feel Pete's hand on his--
"Well, as good as rain is for sulking, wouldn't liquor be better, and liquor and the love of a good woman even more so? More traditional too, isn't it?"
That voice, more then the hand, stopped him in his tracks. He whipped around, staring suspiciously at Pete's non-commitial face, blinking rain out of his eyes. "Whaddaya mean by that, exactly?"
Pete shrugged, again non-committally, and tried to keep from raking his eyes up and down that wet chest. "Nothing -- why would it mean anything? Besides, you're not picking up any of the GenX babettes tonight, I can tell."
"Who said I'm not?" he said, responding to a particularly moronic defensive instinct, then tried to change himself away. "Alright, whatever. Besides, don't you know I'm too young to drink, *teach*?"
Pete kept a firm grasp of Ange's arm, and wondered why the boy didn't just stretch enough to break free. The contact was becoming uncomfortable; rain dripped from Angelo's hair onto Pete's scruffy jeans. He tried to ignore it, saying, "Well, maybe you are gonna pick up a chick, who's to say. More likely'n me hookin' up, fer sure, and I still manage to sulk well enough for everyone."
Angelo looked away, raking his free hand through his wet hair. "Funny, mate. That's funny."
""Mate, coming from a Mexican. *That's* funny. Me, lonely as hell in bed each night isn't particularly funny 'less you're cruel and unusual. Or wear an X." Pete was startled, immediately regretting the personal comments. He let go of Angelo's arm, uncertainly, and took a half step back. That was better; distance, needed more distance, that's all.
Ange blinked at him again, a little startled. Then, an eyebrow was raised, his voice turning cynical instead of flat. "That's Hispanic, hombre, or Spic if you prefer. Never seen Mexico in my life." He paused, then added, unable to resist the unusual opening, his voice as casual as he could make it: "Why're you sleeping alone, anyway? I mean, not like *I* have a choice."
"Well, if I'm not sleepin' alone, I'm babysitting Jubilee, having nightmares, under the heel of Ms Frost the I-wanna-win-a-dominatrix-contest, or dealing with how Sean snores." He scratched his shoulder, and pulled out a smoke. Lighting it casually, he continued, "None of those are my cup of tea anymore."
"Tough break, hombre." His voice was stubbornly refusing even the slightest drop of amusement in, and Pete was ready to sigh in resignation at his retreating back when said back stopped, suddenly. Turned around, just a little. "You have nightmares?"
*** "I... yeah, sometimes." Pete could feel the eyes on his face, and he suddenly wondered what they were seeing. Perhaps it was best he didn't know, though... "I'm surprised you didn't ask what Emma was like in bed." ***
"Yeah, well."
That was bloody non-commitial for a teenager presented with the idea of Emma Frost in bed, Pete thought. No matter if he was attracted to her in any way, that *was* an image that ought to give him something interesting to say.
He looked more carefully at that face, now. Beyond the veil of darkness, there was something beckoning to him there...
He shook it off. Bloody weird thought, that was. Bloody weird feeling. That was what you got when you seperated a man from his bottle of above-average scotch too soon.
***He didn't have to see clearly to pick those things off. It was like taking apart his own face in the mirror.***
Pete barely stopped himself from moving a little closer to the boy. He was so exposed, even in that touch of sympathy, that Pete was compelled to find out what spawned it. Ange wasn't one to put himself out for anyone. He said slowly, "Not that I've slept with Emma..."
One end of the mouth was tugged up, just a little, the strange light receeding from the eyes, and Pete found himself trapped between relief and the strange urge to chase it to its hiding place, somewhere in the back of Ange's mind, and demand explanations. Demand to see that tentative, wounded thing again and understand it this time.
Instead, he found himself grinning a little, helplessly, as the boy gathered himself again and said, "Really? I didn't figure anyone could resist the white leather."
"Oh, I'm strictly a black-leather man. You haven't seen life until you see a woman wearing nothing but a leather--"
And the wary look returned to Angelo's face, just for a fleeting moment. It snuck into his eyes, saying 'Find me', and then hid again.
*** "So there I was," he told the world in general, his voice ironic, "Talking to my British teacher about women's leather underwear. At least I'm assuming that was underwear, it might've been jewelery." ***
"No, you've got it. Underwear." Pete grinned a little bit, but couldn't keep it up, looking at the things going on inside Angelo. He didn't need to see those things, not now, not here, not--
"Though, the best thing I ever saw, I think, was a show in Holland. Took me breath away. These beautiful women, this gorgeous guy, and they were..." He paused, and then mused, "You might be a bit young, actually."
The kid's eyes were comically wide. "Oh, no, I wanna hear that."
Pete smiled to himself at Angelo's expression as he remembered, but it didn't reach his eyes; he was forced to look away from the kid's face, and the *look* that was there again. "Bet you do."
"Yeah, well." The startled half-eagerness was replaced by something wary, giving shape and background to the edges resurfacing in his eyes. Angelo looked away, refused the urge to swallow; chose something safer. "What'd you do in Holland, anyway?"
Pete twisted his mouth into a contorted grin, and held back the sigh. "Oh, the usual. Spied. Blew a few things up. Talked to hookers."
He added, "Picked me up an Irish git named Sean-something, who turned out to be a mutant. Y'know. Made some nice friends."
There it was, just the effect he was going for. If he thought the kid's eyes were wide before...
The laugh that escaped Ange's lips was incredulous, almost breathless. He raked a hand through his hair, grinning helplessly, un-self-consciously, and the shadows finally made a full retreat when he said, "Oh, right. Pull the other one."
Pete inhaled sharply, caught off-guard by the innocent comment. Did he have any idea what kinds of things he was bringing up in Pete's loins with that little 'Pull the other'--
He took a deep breath, making sure his face was bare of whatever it was he felt -- and he'd be best off not to feel it.... before he looked back at Ange. He was finally smiling for real... and the goddamned innocence in his *face*, for Chrissake... "Don't believe I could snag an Irishman?"
"Nah." And the grin was there, still, unbelieving, amused. It didn't even occur to him to scowl at the notion of homosexuality brought so up front. "Irish interbreed, man. Like Cassidy and Dr. McTaggert. And anyway, the guy's got a kid, huh? A little weird to explain, that."
Pete didn't flinch at the burn. He said mildly, "It was just one night, and one night that didn't even work out. We were both pretty fucked up on lots of stuff. Believe it if you want." He looked at his watch, and then back at the darkened road. "It's cold, Espinosa."
"Oh hell." The gray skin might have turned a litte lighter, the shock registering on his face was so deep. Pete didn't try to say for sure. "You're serious."
Pete couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up. "Maybe. Who cares. What would it matter?"
The boy was looking vaguely sick, if truly fascinated. "I'd really rather just not thinking about Cassidy having a sex life, if that's alright with you."
Pete shrugged, and answered, "Whatever." He was deeply proud that nothing else came out of his mouth, like a query as to why Ange didn't make a face at the suggestion he'd slept with a guy. These kids had been brought up all tolerant-like, afterall. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Teachers *do* have sex lives, Ange. Sean and Emma might be--"
The kid was backing away, his hands coming up defensively. "Ohh, tooooo many details." Pete wouldn't swear to it, with the darkness surrounding and covering in the most inconvenient times, but he was pretty sure the kid's eyes were twinkling.
Pete shrugged again, and stared off down the road some more, all amusement in the conversation drained out of him. What on earth was he doing out here, at eleven thirty at night, being teased by a kid half his age? "Mature, Angelo. Very mature. Here's a lesson for you, kid; adults fuck."
A little voice in his head saw a girl with brown hair and a dazzling smile, and whispered, 'And fuck up.' He ignored it.
When he looked again, the kid was looking like he'd just been slapped.
Well, yeah, Pete,' said the apparition in his head. 'But you're so *good* at fucking up.'
"Look, Espinosa --" he tried.
"No, no." The boy took one step in his direction, and it felt like he was trying to get in Pete's face without getting anything approximating close. "You're that all grown up guy. I'll bet we look pretty pathetic to you, huh? Little kids dragged off to play heroes. Little kids too afraid of life to leave whatever home anyone'll offer them. Little kids who don't know what they want." His voice choked, short-circuited. "Well guess what? I don't have anything to say to that."
Pete still was trying to work his way to an answer that wasn't a witty comeback when Angelo stormed past him, and towards the building.
*Boy. What a teacher, Pete. How's Em gonna score you on this one?* The darkness, of course, had no answer, and the silence in his head suggested that no one else -- least of all him -- did either.