Then
*
"To bleed, to live , to die, to groan in pleasure, to touch the sky and taste the brimstones of sin.' Mr. Espinosa, I never knew you were a poet."
There was a rash of whispering, and Angelo tried desperately to avoid the pink tinge already starting on his cheeks. Emma raised an eyebrow at his obvious discomfort, and added, "That's why Angelo received an A on this paper, folks, and not a C like most of the rest of you."
Jubilee, sitting beside him, wrote him a note that said, 'I thought you were failing this class.'
He didn't bother to write an answer, merely nodding. She looked puzzled, and he shook his head, 'Later' -- the language clear enough to two people who'd had more than their share of hushed conversations during lectures. She shrugged too, and bent back down to her books.
"I'm going to hand these out, now, and I'm not going to lie. I'm disappointed. Anyone who failed, however, please stay after. Angelo, please stay behind as well."
She started moving among the rows, which meant that they had a few minutes to talk, providing they were quiet. Jubilee leaned over, and whispered, "You got an A, A-man. What gives?"
Angelo whispered back, "I actually read the book this time."
Emma reached Jubilee's desk, and placed a perfectly average C-graded paper down. She beamed. "Thanks, Fro-- Ms. Frost! No lecture for me!"
Angelo got his back with, as expected, an A, and a 'See me'. He frowned. This couldn't be good.
While the rest of the students filed out, Jubilee promising to meet him back at the dorms after the last period, Angelo sat in his seat. The five students who'd actually failed their assignments crowded around Emma's desk, and she gave them an ultimatum -- Write a B+ paper by Friday, two days away, or have to repeat the class.
He slouched lower, when they too left, in a cloud of disgruntled mumblings. Emma said, "Come here, Angelo, if you would."
He stood up, and went over to her desk. "What, Ms. Frost?"
She steepled her fingers, and smiled at him. "I wanted to say nice work. You're going to pass after all, provided that your exam goes as well as this."
He said shortly, "It will."
She studied him, and then replied, "Good. You're an incredibly intelligent boy, Angelo. I wouldn't want you to waste it, even if you and Mr. Wisdom are extending your education in other fields."
He stared at her, in shock. "You know about that, Senora?"
She snorted, and dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "Of course I do." She was kinder when she said, "I know everything I need to, Mr. Espinosa."
He stammered his thanks, before exiting in what was almost a run. And he wasn't thinking at all about what else the White Queen, one of the top ranking telepaths in the world, might know about him.
Or Pete.
~*~
Now
*
"You mean you *did* ask Kitty to marry you?"
Pete sipped his coffee while laying down, trying not to spill on either of them. "Didn't say that."
"You bugger, to use one of those cute English words. What happened?"
There was fear in Angelo's voice, fear and insecurity. He'd gotten a peek at the one thing he couldn't top, and the idea that Pete had asked her to wear an engagement ring upset him more than it should.
Pete saw straight through it.
"I did ask Kit to marry me, yeh. Was not one of the most brilliant ideas I've had, either."
He felt more hopeful, absurdly, as Pete moved on. "Was a few months after we got back together, before the heavy fighting. She laughed at me. She thought I wasn't serious."
The past rolled past them, in words and memories, and Ange saw her brown hair go past him, and seemed to smile. "Did you tell her you were?"
Pete shook his head.
Angelo mused, "I guess I always thought I'd end up with Jubilee, eventually. Everyone else did."
Pete felt a stab of jealousy go through him, and that angry face came up and bit him, just like it always did. "I figured you and her'd get together."
Angelo laughed, but it faded away when he answered, "I didn't think you and Kit would find each other again."
Pete's voice was very far away when he replied, "We both expected it, in a way... we always figured we'd just get back together." He straightened, and said flatly, "That was part of the problem."
"The rest, hombre?"
Pete shrugged, letting go of whatever thought was tickling him. "Me, her, life, that bloody X--"
"You're pretty bitter towards them, aren't ya?"
He snorted, and then shrugged, looking tired. "You didn't get pushed outta the biz for what happened, Ange. I got by, sure, but it was tough for a while."
Angelo, attempting to lighten the mood, said, "Well. Just tell me you never slept with Gambit, and I'll die a happy man."
"Is there anyone in the known universe who haven't slept with Gambit?" At Angelo's raised eyebrow, he chuckled to himself. "No, even I have my standards. Never sleep with someone unless you can guess at least a tenth of the places they'd been."
"A sound piece of advice," said Angelo, trying to sound serious. "You couldn't know about me now, though, could you?"
Pete could tell by his expression that he realized the grave, undefinable slip he'd just made. But it was too late now; Pete answered lightly, but with the most biting honesty he could muster. "We haven't shagged yet, Ange. And besides, now I do know."
I can allow a slip for a slip, his eyes said, and he cherished the almost-forgotten confidence that Angelo would read the message and understand it.
A slip for a slip.
A word for a word, and nothing more.
Pete sighed again, and spoke up, uncertainly, "That is, we haven't done anything. And maybe we will, and maybe we won't, but it's not important right now."
Ange closed his eyes for a minute, and took a breath. A slip for a slip, Pete thought. "It doesn't matter, hombre?"
"Not unless we make it matter, right?"
Angelo looked at Pete, mouth twitching in what couldn't decide to be a smile or a frown. "And if I want it to matter?"
A siren went past the window, wailing out, sad and hopeful. Pete moved a fraction of an inch closer to Angelo, and murmured, "Then you'd better tell me so."
~*~
Then
*
Hand on his side.
Darkness.
Nails. Passing over his skin, whispering, too short to scratch.
Sometimes he wanted to extend over-sensitive pores, to gain marks, to have some real proof come morning, if for himself alone --
But that was a silly notion. This wasn't a night thing only. There were countless times he could squeeze in a touch, a kiss, a conversation. The sex might be a matter for night, the full body contact, the relativeness that seemed like utter safety, but -- but that was as it should be. You fuck with darkness on, like blinders; you seek out warmth in the cover of night.
It had been that way in the 'hood where he grew up. Had been that way - not in movies and books, no, but he was old enough to recognize Real Life when he saw it. To recognize their musts and can't haves in all their glory of reality.
At times, at moments, he wanted to see Pete's face clearly so bad he thought the need would push itself through his lips on will alone.
"You sure you want this, Ange?" Said that gruff familiar voice, and he clung to it.
He always asked that. Whenever they got closer to the serious stuff, no matter who had initiated, no matter how many nights it had been, that voice would ring out clear and true and giving him a way out. Like he didn't know the answer.
Kissing Pete didn't count, he knew from frustrating experience. Doing stuff he considered fairly irresistable and brain-crushing when done to him didn't either. Maybe he wasn't doing them right.
The other man would just turn colder by the minute, pulling away finally. Funny, if that was what protecting him meant. It felt far more like punishment.
"You need to be sure," Wisdom had said when he had once complained that he didn't always feel like *talking* right then. When he suggested he might want to save him mouth for other things, right then. "You need to say it."
***Sometimes, he wondered if Kitty needed to reassure like this. Or whether the women in Pete's bed needed to say, "Yes, I want you." Would Pete believe *their* lips?***
He didn't know the answer for that one, didn't know even if that was the right question. And so, "Yeah," he said, "Oh dios. Yeah." And the touch traveled all over his skin and he was burning up again.
He was even thankful for the lips entangling in his own again, an answer, a praise. He could almost look away -- think away -- from the definite knowledge that he would have to visit some revenge upon Wisdom for setting up the rules like that again.
It would be far, far too easy to let himself be swept away and dragged under--
Lips traveled unexploited spaces, at least unexploited that night, across his cheek. His neck. His chest, fastening over something that gave him a small blaze of lightning right through to the core -- it's called your nipple, hombre, he thought dazedly, if Storm were her this moment there would be far better lightning bolts - inched down towards his crotch, maddeningly slow. Stopping for a kiss her, a nip there. An actual bite on his hip, right where Wisdom's hand had rested a thousand years ago - and oh yeah, that would definitely leave a mark --
-- And that twice cursed, familiar, loved voice said with a hint of darkness and a far more obvious note of amusement, "That's for that hickey I found Thursday morning, kid. Everything's remembered."
And then heat descended, and he tried to get out of the turmoil of thinking in sensations and nerve endings and god forbid emotions, tried to hang on to mundane things - he's sucking your cock, going down on you, giving you the best head probably ever had in a hundred mile radius - but his mind escaped with his body in a sling, and when he came there was nothing but white and close and burning stars.
Revenge would be well enjoyed.
*
I love you.
I love you not.
He remembers Torres playing that little game, one day, mauling some flower she'd ripped off old Mrs. Rodrigues porch. "He loves me, He loves me not," going on and on while he just leaned against the wall and soaked in the sun and listened to the noises out in the street.
And then when all the petals were gone and she's reached her conclusion, she said, "Loves me not. Angelo, you bastard," and rolled to crouch on her knees and leaned forward to put her gun against his temple.
She was high as a kite, of course, which really helped in forgiving her the next next time she expressed willingness to go down on him till he saw stars. He wasn't too grounded himself, really. But he didn't forget that moment. Some things you don't forget.
People will always want you to love them. Always.
People will always hate you for not being able to.
So being with Pete feels -- safer, in that respect. More understandable. The comfort of not having loco chicks putting loaded guns to his head and then grinning slowly before they kiss him.
***Pete would never play with with flowers. He wouldn't think twice about whether Angelo would come out 'I love you not', and if he ever pulled a gun on him, he was sure to have a better reason. And that was a damned sight better than his last relationship.***
So he's pretty damned surprised when he discovers that small part of himself that is getting more and more resentful at Pete, as the days go by.
He kicks the covers away when he wakes up, perversely satisfied to hear them hitting the floor with a soft muffled sound. The so far silent figure stretched against him doesn't seem to notice; it only stirs a bit, and mumbles something against the pillow that could be 'You going, kid?' just as well as it could be nearly anything else.
"Yeah," he says anyway, shortly. The pleasure hasn't completely settled down in his veins, he can still see afterimages of Pete's strained face if he tries hard enough. Those facts just make it all the more aggravating as he sits up, looking around to make sure he isn't forgetting anything behind, and places bare feet on the floor.
Forgetting anything. Huh. What a laugh. Like he ever brings anything with him, when he slinks down the corridor at the dead of the night, as he silently climbs the stairs to knock on a strangely familiar door. Like he can afford to carry anything with him, inside or out.
There's warmth on his back, then, quiet and fleeting. And Pete's voice is the smallest bit more awake when he mumbles, "Hey, Espinosa."
He fights on grimly not to let go of his anger, of the irrational resolve. Fails. "Yeah?"
The hand falls away. "Dunno."
"Good night," he says, quietly.
But he's smiling, just a little, when he goes back down the stairs.
~*~
Now
*
The smell of his hair...
It's impossible that he never changed his shampoo.
It's been --
I don't wanna know how many years it's been.
Wrap arms around him, there you go, Angelo, be careful that you don't fall off right from a fucking full sprawl on a goddamned *couch*. And tell yourself this doesn't get to you, not like this, not in this level, not to this degree. That's not fair. He doesn't get to be the right person for you.
These things work on give and take. Or they should, and it sucks so hard when they don't, and not in a good way.
First times with Pete. I've had a few of those. Once upon a time I was confused and scared and worried and so fucking excited. Once upon a time I was angry and hurting and *missing* until it bled and, yeah, confused and scared and excited again. Worried too, probably, only it was too downplayed to notice. This time.
It's quieter.
It's still a whirlwind, because everything with Pete is a whirlwind. Not like I'm much better, I've been on an adrenaline rush addiction for years, but Pete. Pete pushes all my buttons, and then tugs free everything I have left.
But calmer, though. I'm not eighteen anymore, and if I'm scared, it's only for some of the same reasons. I'm an old man now. Not even thirty, and I'm a goddamned old man. I'd wonder what it says about him, but Pete would never be an old man, *could* never be an old man, it's not even in the same plane of existance as he is. He'll be a sarcastic wanker at ninety, tossing his dentures at people who pissed him off and pulling out guns at occassional national threats.
I'm not even thirty yet. I'm allowed to be an idiot if I want to.
Look, a gray hair.
He has good hair, Pete. Mine has been losing a bit of color in the corners since I turned, dunno, probably twenty three or so. Not much, but it's there. Him? This one isn't really all alone, but it hasn't got enough sisters to fill a decent chorus line.
I can't get over it. There's his scent in my nose, and his neck near my mouth, and his warmth in my arms. I'm moving and I'm moaning and I'm fucking near *whimpering*, and I'm not even aware of it. All I know is the way he sounds, the way he looks, the way he fucking *feels*. Oh Dios. I could get hooked on this again so easily.
He doesn't fucking *get* to *be* the fucking *right* *person* *for* *me*.
I'm gasping into his neck, and he arches his head up so I that feel his hair against the side of my face, silky and rough and tickling. Far shorter than Matt's used to be, and I'm disgusted that this name even comes up in my head. Old friggin' habits.
And I'm a little disgusted that my next thought goes something like, 'come *on*, this is *Pete Wisdom*,' but all this negativity is threatening to spoil my fun.
He archs again, and bucks against me, and I feel like cursing or wailing or just rolling him over and sucking him off until he couldn't even cry out, until all he could see was me, my face printed on the back side of his eyelids every time he tried to close his eyes.
Until he couldn't wash me off, ever, no matter how hard he tried.
I can't believe we're still in making out stage. We've gone for coffee, drinks, come back, and bared our souls. Isn't this the part where... I can't believe we haven't yet even gotten *naked*.
What am I doing?
~*~
Then
*
"Did you ever hate Kitty?"
He shifted onto his back and opened his eyes to stare at the darkness, trailing the words as they dispersed into it, like odd-colored unsettling smoke. "Why you asking?"
The warmth next to him moved a little, settled. He wondered absently if brown eyes were opened to pierce him with a gaze, or trained into the darkness. "Dunno. People talk about this stuff."
*We're 'people'?* He wanted to think, ironically. But the familiar dark room somehow invited further words, some deeper meaning, and those eyes were somehow incencive.
"Sometimes," He said, slowly, like a man spilling his innards on a crowded street in front of a staring audience.
The darkness didn't change. "At the end?"
"Not just," he said. He chose his words carefully, fighting against the urge to laugh it away. "It was... from the beginning, sort of." He stared up at ceiling, like he did so many nights when he couldn't face the youthfulness in the face beside him. If he'd looked at him, he might have felt the guilt lurking beneath the surface.
Angelo seemed to want him to continue, and he shuffled about, wanting to stall for time. Talking about Kitty in someone else's bed still seemed... wrong, somehow. Like it was violating something, a sanctity he had no right to tread upon. Kitty's claw marks were still fresh in his mind.
He shuffled around some more, feeling every thread beneath him and every stitch on top. He liked to sleep without any clothes on, but suddenly, he felt very exposed; they were both raw, and hiding. Fighting the sensation, Pete continued, "From the moment I stopped just not feeling anything..."
It seemed like too much said already, and so he finished softly, "There were just moments, is all."
The voice, when it came, had a sense of loss, like a sailor drifting at sea. "What'd you hate her for?"
Quiet. Distant. As though he didn't really want an answer. And Pete thought that maybe the boy already knew it even as he said, "'Cause I loved her, I figure. You don't get to love people without hating them a little. For all the times it hurts."
***Espinosa was moving again. He might have turned on his other side, turning his back on Pete; Pete didn't let himself know. "I guess what you do is find someone who doesn't hurt, then."***
And now he turned himself, almost spooning that young lean body, whispering against soft dark hair. "Aren't you a bit old to believe in fairy tales, Ange?"
A small flinch, and Pete backed off a little, allowing him his space. "Yeah, you're a world-weary cynic, hombre. I know that. No need to flaunt it."
Why did he have to be so damned young, then?
"You don't get it, do you," he said. His voice, carrying out harsh words, showed only some abstract kind of sorrow. "You have to give a shit to feel it when they kick you, Ange. And you don't get one without the other, either."
Stubborn. "Just because you don't take up with people who won't kick you --"
He sighed. "Far from being the point, kid. The times that hurt most is when they don't mean to kick you at all."
He could hear the sound of breathing, quiet and small. And he somehow knew just how much Ange didn't want to admit it when he said, "Maybe I don't want to know that." Sounding gruff and stubborn and as though he wasn't giving in, wasn't letting Pete's words into his world.
"No," he said quietly. "Maybe you shouldn't."
Maybe you should learn it yourself. Some day.
But not from me.
"I just wondered about Kitty," said that same far-off voice.
Wishing the sound of innocence defending the last shreds of itself didn't sound so much like a very small and very tired child, he said, "Yeah."
The darkness lingered, unchanged. Pete wished to wrap him in his arms, suddenly, to hold him close and promise something, whatever that was. Thet nothing would ever harm him. That the world was a far better place than the words of an old weary man made it sound.
The urge was so unlike himself that he backed off even further, rolling onto his back again, staring at the ceiling.
Finally, into the silence, Ange said, "Because -- sometimes I..."
There was a small pause. And then Pete said, softly, "No, you don't. Not really."