Disclaimer: St. John, Bobby and Rogue belong to Marvel, not me.
Archive: Sure, just give me a heads up.
Feedback: always welcome
All of the characters in this story are of legal age.
Warning: Minor slash themes.
Bobby hasn't had a cigarette since they got back from Alkali Lake. He doesn't really miss it. That was always Johnny's thing. He got a kick out of lighting them, and he claimed lighting his own cigarette was never as much fun. Too easy. Also, Johnny had muttered something about being 70 percent sexier when someone else lit your cigarette for you, but Bobby wasn't sure what the hell that meant. Did it even count in this case?
They'd play a game, their own little version of William Tell and the apple. Or maybe it was more like William S. Burroughs and the apple. Whatever. Bobby would lean against a tree or the side of one of the out-of-the-way storage sheds, a Marlboro Red dangling between his lips. Johnny would position him according to some arcane, arbitrary, only-St. John-knew system and then back away, sometimes ten feet, sometimes thirty. The phrase "whites of his eyes" often occurred to Bobby at this point.
So did the phrase "oh shit."
Despite walking around eyebrowless for several weeks once (and if the Professor knew how *that* happened, he'd never said anything), Bobby never worried too much about getting turned into a mutant bonfire. Yeah, he'd flinched that first time, but he had good reflexes, and he trusted himself to ice any out-of-control fireballs. Besides, although he never admitted it to anyone--could barely admit it to himself--the risk, the danger, kind of turned him on. Okay, not kind of. He was hard as a rock. Every time. He sometimes got the impression that John was just as turned on. The look on his face, especially when it worked perfectly--the tilt of his head, the way he stood in place afterwards, waiting for Bobby to come to him...
It's not like it matters anymore anyway. That's what he's telling himself the day Rogue finds him on the basketball court tossing unlit cigarettes up in the air and freezing them solid before they hit the ground, where they shatter into sparkling slivers around his feet.
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