salmon_pink | (X-Men) Flicker

Title: Flicker

Fandom: X-Men (movieverse)
Pairing: Bobby/John
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2511
Timeline: Pre-X1

Notes: For

50_smutlets, prompt "bedroom".

Summary: Middle of an endless night. Middle of an endless argument.

They’d been arguing about something all afternoon, but Bobby doesn’t remember what it was. Something trivial and pointless, something John had probably teased him about when he should have just left it alone, something Bobby had probably taken too seriously when he should have just shrugged it off. On two different wavelengths, two far too different people, and the fire and ice comparison is a clichéd one, but Bobby doesn’t know how else to describe it. Like they’re speaking two entirely different languages, living on two different planets. Polar opposites, repelled on a molecular level, and, clearly, he shouldn’t do his science homework right before bed.

Bobby often wishes, when he’s not pissed off with John, that they could just get along already. Because then the nights wouldn’t be quite so awful.

Bobby’s been at the Mansion for a long time now, but he can’t adjust to his life there. A part of him hopes he never will, hopes he’ll never forget that what happens there isn’t normal, that normal lies beyond the expansive grounds and towering outer walls. Normal lies at home, with his parents, and his brother, and his old school and his old friends. Away from mind-reading, and flying, and telekinesis, and, of course, fire and ice.

He’ll probably never accept the room he shares with John as his bedroom, because his bedroom is in Boston, and this is just a set of twin beds and a whole lot of tension. Crackling in the air, and John shifts in his bed, and this is why Bobby can’t stand the nights. Lights out, and everyone else gets to drift off to sleep, and Bobby and John have to lay there silently and wait for morning so they can finish their argument, an argument that will probably never end, and Bobby’s mind is wide awake, and the tension makes him restless.

Turns his head to look at John, not that he can see much. Just a faint outline under the sheets, back of John’s head, softly illuminated by the moonlight creeping in around the plain curtains.

Everybody else has posters and photos and various other pictures plastered over their walls. They can never understand why Bobby and John have never personalised their own sides of their room.

Bobby sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed with a frustrated sigh. He feels so wound up, and his shoulders ache faintly from the way they’re drawn so taunt. The bedside clock informs him that it’s a little before two in the morning, and the textbook beside it reminds him that he has math first thing, and getting some sleep beforehand would probably be a good thing.

But lying in bed and staring at the ceiling isn’t doing him any good. Is just stoking at the anger still simmering in his stomach. Because, really, it’s John’s fault that Bobby can’t sleep. And Bobby can only console himself by remembering that he’s the reason that John can’t sleep.

He hears the movement from across the room, John turning over, and then there’s that familiar click, and John’s lighter sparks to life and paints the room orange and stings at Bobby’s eyes. And Bobby hadn’t noticed it before, but doesn’t that mean that John actually sleeps with the lighter in his bed? Because he certainly didn’t hear, didn’t see John reach for his own bedside table, and that lighter had to have been clasped in his hand to be so readily accessible. And why was John sleeping with a lighter, when there’s nobody other than Bobby in the room, nobody there to attack him? And Bobby feels oddly offended and, annoyingly, even more angry and restless than before.

“What are you doing?” John asks, and his voice sounds tight and incredibly loud in the silent room, despite the hushed tones. He’s staring at Bobby through slitted, tired eyes, and Bobby wonders if maybe John was asleep after all, wonders if he was the only one lying there awake, suffering.

“Bathroom,” Bobby shrugs, not moving from the spot, just staring at John’s face, the flame dancing across his skin, painting shadows and aggression on his features.

John exhales through his nose, and holds the lighter up higher, and Bobby thinks for a moment that John’s helping illuminate the room, making it easier for Bobby to find his way. But John’s just shifting, pushing the pillows against the headboard with one elbow, using his arm to support him as he pulls himself to sitting. “So go,” John says, look of utter contempt on his face.

Bobby frowns and crosses the room. Aims for John’s bed, for John, and notes the brief look of alarm on John’s face before he leans over and blows, and his cold breath instantly extinguishes the tiny flame.

There’s a tense pause, before John exhales sharply. Flicks the lighter back on, and his teeth are bared in the renewed orange glow. “Don’t do that,” he hisses.

And this is why Bobby and John don’t work together. Because with anyone else, Bobby would be polite and respectful and maybe just a little bit weak. But, with John, it’s the most natural thing in the world to lean over, eyes still boring into John’s own, and blow out the lighter again.

John snarls, and Bobby feels strangely satisfied, in a way he isn’t entirely comfortable with. And John moves, as if he’s about to get up, about to start something, so Bobby wraps a hand around his still raised wrist, gets one knee on the bed, and pushes John back down.

The lighter flicks on again, and Bobby can see that John’s livid, and he doesn’t even turn his head, just yanks John’s wrist up to his face so he can blow out the flame. John twists and growls and tries to push Bobby away, and there’s sweat on Bobby’s brow, and he doesn’t even know why he’s doing this, but he pulls himself more fully onto the bed, leans over so that when John surges upwards, Bobby’s weight is there to knock him back down.

John hisses and swears, and his knee knocks against Bobby’s thigh painfully. The lighter flicks on again, the flame flaring slightly, an extension of John’s anger, and Bobby tries to pin John with one hand still holding his outstretched arm, and ends up lying over him, draped over him. And John keeps cursing and writhing underneath him, and the flickering fire makes every motion look more frantic, more desperate, than it should.

John makes a pained noise, and Bobby pulls back to look at his face. Takes in the way John’s eyelids flutter, the flush on his cheeks, the open and panting lips. John’s glance flicks to the lighter and Bobby follows it, and, crap, didn’t even realise he was doing it, but there’s ice on John’s wrist, and his fingers are frozen to the metal.

Looks back at John, can tell it hurts, knows from personal experience how much it can hurt. There’s an apology caught in his throat, but for some reason he can’t say the words. Has a feeling that would make everything worse. Something to do with pity, and balance, and John hating being mocked in a way that someone so fond of teasing others shouldn’t be.

And, suddenly, finds he can’t apologise because his mouth is occupied, and has no idea why the hell he’s kissing John, leaning over him, pressing him into the pillows, but John makes another of those little noises, soft grunt of pain, and Bobby can guess he’s just added another layer of ice to John’s fingers, and the flame flickers out.

Pulls away, eyes can’t quite adjust to the darkness, can’t make out John’s expression. Releases John’s wrist before he can do any permanent damage. And instantly John’s arm is swinging towards him, and John’s fist connects with the side of Bobby’s head, flesh and ice and the metal of the lighter, and Bobby makes his own soft sound of pain, and falls onto his side, half on John, half on the bed.

John’s cursing again, swears too much, really, and he’s trying to kick Bobby off of him. So Bobby rolls back over him, one thigh wedging between John’s own, and Bobby can see the reflection of John’s eyes in the feeble light, the way they fly wide open. And he’d meant to just pin John, but his body seems extremely interested in their position, in how easy it is to nudge John’s legs apart.

“Don’t you fucking-” John hisses, but the threat is cut off by a gasp as Bobby’s thigh presses higher, rubs between John’s legs. Feels heat and hardness, and somehow it feels real to know that John’s turned on too, that Bobby isn’t the only one losing his mind.

John’s arm swings up again, but Bobby catches it, slips underneath it, and John growls as Bobby presses their lips together again. More curses, clash of teeth, sharp bite to his bottom lip, and it just makes Bobby want more. Pinning John, thigh rubbing continuously between his thighs, pressing his hips into the mattress. Force of the kiss pressing him into the pillows. It’s a strange rush, and John and Bobby never resort to physical violence, but suddenly it all feels like a release. Like maybe they should have been doing this before, maybe Bobby’s been all wrong about the tension between them, and he wonders if John realised it before, because it would be just like John to not share the information.

Still struggling, but everything’s shifted, and John’s not trying to push Bobby away. Trying to tilt his head to the side, yes, trying to escape the kisses, but his hips are thrusting up against the friction of Bobby’s thigh, and he’s panting. Bobby’s lips follow him, forcing kisses on him wherever he turns his face, because it feels like they’ve reached the same page, but they’re still reading it in different languages. Bobby doesn’t know why he wants that intimacy, wants to make John feel it. Could be because John’s avoiding it, and usually Bobby needs a better reason than that, but it feels like the truth.

John’s sheets are growing more tangled in the mess of their legs, Bobby trying distractedly to force John’s knees further apart, and John’s heels digging into and slipping over the mattress as he struggles to escape, to push himself more frantically against Bobby’s thigh. It’s awkward, and Bobby quickly finds himself growing frustrated, and it’s necessity more than conscious thought that has his hands reaching down and yanking John’s pyjamas down over his hips.

John’s eyes fly wide and he jolts violently, almost bucks Bobby off of him. His hand starts punching awkwardly at Bobby’s shoulder, and Bobby wants to tell him to stop, because between the ice and the way he’s holding the lighter in his fist, he’s going to do himself some serious damage. Instead, Bobby’s hand instinctively reaches between John’s legs, gripping and squeezing, and his free hand’s covering John’s mouth before he even registers it moving.

John’s arm drops, falls uselessly against the pillows, as he shudders, eyes fluttering and unfocused. And a rush of something a little like control surges through Bobby, because in that instant John isn’t fighting him, isn’t picking arguments or doing everything he can to irritate Bobby. He’s simply feeling, overwhelmed, almost helpless with it, and Bobby’s the cause of that. Bobby’s the reason that muffled sound behind his palm could just be a whine, needy and unabashed, and John’s bucking his hips, and Bobby only squeezes tighter. Watches the way John’s eyes close, hears the desperation in each noise he makes, and Bobby begins to stroke John’s cock and tries not to let his brain break over the concept of it.

He isn’t thinking, just letting instinct and memory take over, hand moving in the way he likes, trying to study John’s own appreciation for it, but his own desire is beginning to leech every semblance of cohesive thought from him. He slides his hand away from John’s mouth, leans down to force another kiss on him, but he’s panting too heavily, and John’s mumbling something he can’t understand, and he simply presses his lips to John’s cheek instead and struggles to breathe. Uses his now-freed hand to move his own pyjamas down and out of the way, takes only a second to shift closer, and then there’s the new and fiercely intense sensation of his hand wrapping around them both, pressing them together, holding them. Feeling the shiver, the throb of John’s arousal, dampened flesh, the heat, and John bites his lip but he’s still making noise, and Bobby can’t even move, can only feel.

It’s a jerk of John’s hips that has them sliding against each other, and if Bobby had felt any sense of control before, he realises that John just effectively stole it back, whether he realises it or not. The heat of it feels unreal, the friction, the tight grip of Bobby’s palm, the curl of his fingers, each ridge dragging over them, pressing them closer together as Bobby struggles to find something nearer to rhythm than the frantic thrusts he can’t quite rein in. John gasps beneath him, hips rolling, matching Bobby’s, pushing him higher, faster, and Bobby wants to claw back that control and set the pace, but his body decides it for him. Letting go and just allowing it, urging it on, feeling John arch up against him and pushing back almost fiercely, hearing the groan rumbling in John’s throat, hearing his own hiss of breath, feeling every part of him twitch and seize as the kind of heat he only associates with John and fire begins to build within him. Surging up his back, licking at his trembling muscles, only flaring hotter as Bobby’s mind whitens, bleaches ice cold, and Bobby gasps and whimpers and John pulses and slides against him, and Bobby’s hand isn’t moving anymore, just holding on, as he shivers and tenses and waits it out, as his body gives out and he collapses fully against John’s sprawled form. Feels the warmth between them, damp heat on John’s stomach, knows it belongs to both of them and doesn’t feel sorry.

Everything seems slowed to a crawl, even the tick of the clock sounds wrong, prolonged and irregular. John’s so warm pressed against his stomach, and Bobby’s back is growing cold. And John’s hand still has a layer of ice around it, and they should really deal with that, should probably take him to see somebody about that. But Bobby’s tired, and he’s still angry at John, just in a much lazier way than before. He’s not himself with John, not really, or maybe he’s just a part of himself he doesn’t acknowledge, keeps hidden from everybody and himself. So when John sighs, and shifts and grumbles, “Get off of me.” Bobby only frowns and mumbles, “No.” And allows himself to get a little more comfortable in John‘s discomfort.