Chapter 1
It had been a year since John Allerdyce had left the mansion. A year and two months, to be precise—not that he was counting, of course. Time had blurred into a restless haze, each day bleeding into the next with the same monotonous rhythm, a cycle of movement and stagnation, of fire that burned but never truly ignited. He had thought The Brotherhood would be exhilarating, a storm of rebellion, a wildfire set loose upon the world. And sometimes, in the heat of a mission, when his back was pressed against a wall and adrenaline crackled through his veins like a live wire, it was. Those moments—when he was cornered like a feral dog, eyes sharp, posture rigid, flames licking at his fingertips—were the only times he felt truly alive. But they were rare.
Most of the time, life with The Brotherhood was nothing but endless relocation, stuffing their meager belongings into duffel bags and slipping through shadows, shifting from one decrepit warehouse to the next, each more dilapidated than the last. It was exhausting, the constant movement, the never-ending cycle of packing, settling, and leaving before the dust had even a chance to settle. Magneto had once told him that The Brotherhood did not run—that they fought, that they stood their ground until their last breath. And for a time, John had believed it. In the beginning, when Magneto still carried the weight of his convictions like a steel fortress around him, it had felt true. But now? Now, John could see the cracks forming.
Magnets was growing older. His skin, once resilient as iron, had thinned, stretched taut over his sharp bones. His frame, once imposing, now carried a certain frailty, a quiet resignation. The fire in his eyes, the same fire that had drawn John in, was flickering, dimming with each passing day. Most nights, when they finally settled into their newest makeshift hideout, Magneto would sink into whatever tattered couch they had managed to salvage from an alleyway, a book of crosswords in his weathered hands. Sometimes, when the silence grew too heavy, he would challenge Mystique to a game of chess. She would accept without a word, moving her pieces with calculated ease, and inevitably, Magneto would win. She would exhale a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, and then retreat into her own solitude. The cycle repeated, over and over, like a play rehearsed too many times, its actors moving through the motions without any real passion left.
The stagnation gnawed at John, coiling inside him like a smothered ember struggling for air. He had come here searching for purpose, for something greater than himself, but all he had found was the creeping dread of watching time strip away the invincibility of the people he once thought were untouchable. It scared him, more than he would ever admit. Because despite it all, despite the grandeur and the legend, Magneto was not immortal. None of them were. The day would come when Magneto would fall, when Mystique’s sharp wit and cool exterior would crumble, when the entire Brotherhood would be nothing more than echoes in an abandoned room. And then, John would be alone. Alone with nothing but the flames in his hands, the only thing that had ever truly been his, the only thing that had never left him. The thought settled deep in his chest, heavy and suffocating.
John could still remember the day he first heard of The Cure. It had started with the heavy, deliberate footsteps of Magneto entering their latest hideout, the weight of his presence alone enough to suffocate the room. He wasn’t storming in, no—he was brooding, simmering like a storm that had yet to break. But John had learned to keep such observations to himself. Despite Magnets age, he was still a scary man.
Without a word, the old man tossed a newspaper onto the rickety table in the center of the room. It landed with an unceremonious slap before sliding off the edge like even it had the audacity to defy him. Magneto’s eyes flickered with something sharp and irritated, as if willing the inanimate object to bow to his command. How dare it disobey The Magneto? John nearly snorted but bit his tongue instead, schooling his expression into something appropriately indifferent.
With a sigh, he leaned down and retrieved the bunched-up, plasticky pages from the floor. The ink smudged against his fingertips as he flattened it out, scanning the bold, garish headline that practically screamed at him in all its arrogance:
‘A Cure For The Mutant Problem? Worthington Labs Say Yes!’
The words sent a chill down his spine, an instinctual, visceral reaction that he couldn’t quite shake. It was the phrasing that did it—the stark finality of The Mutant Problem as if they were nothing more than an inconvenient stain on humanity’s pristine canvas. As if he himself was nothing more than an infection in need of eradication.
He barely had time to process the unease curling in his gut before he felt Magneto’s gaze settle on him—expectant, waiting. John glanced up, meeting the old man’s eyes, which were filled with that familiar glint of challenge. He wanted reaction, rage, fire. He wanted to see the fury ignite in John’s chest the way it always had, wanted proof that he was still loyal, still unwavering in his belief in their so-called war.
“That doesn’t look very good,” John muttered, barely mustering the energy to feign outrage. He couldn’t help it—he had seen this before, the theatrics, the righteous fury, the way Magneto fed off the anger of others like it was the only thing keeping him alive. And maybe it was. Magneto’s expression darkened, his lips pressing into a thin, unimpressed line. The air in the room felt heavier for it. John knew that look. He had disappointed him. Again.
For the rest of the day, Magneto sulked, the grand and terrifying leader of the mutant resistance reduced to a grumpy, petulant old man who refused to make eye contact. John, for his part, ignored him, though he couldn’t help but smirk to himself.
The next morning, without much ceremony, John was thrown into the fray—sent to the heart of the protest, pushed into the sea of bodies and raised voices under the guise of gathering information. He wasn’t sure what had possessed Magneto to choose him of all people. He was hardly the most diplomatic among The Brotherhood. In fact, he was probably the least social person in their entire ragtag bunch of extremists. Maybe it was a test, or maybe Magneto was still holding a grudge from the day before. It didn’t matter. He was here now.
The streets were packed, brimming with anger, fear, and something almost desperate. He could hear it in the voices that rose around him, a cacophony of defiance and uncertainty. The words mutant rights, dignity, freedom echoed through the air, but it all felt hollow to him. As if the people screaming for justice still believed that the world would listen. John didn’t.
He wasn’t interested in The Cure. Not for himself. Not for the sake of some moral dilemma about identity and choice. But he was interested in what lay behind it. The science, the mechanics, the cold, sterile laboratories where men in white coats played god with the genetic code of an entire species. He hoped it was flammable.
A shoulder slammed into him, jolting him from his thoughts. Instinct kicked in, irritation flaring hot in his chest as he turned, ready to snap at the guy for his complete lack of spatial awareness. Not that John had much right to talk—he had never been one for proper etiquette himself. But before the words could even form, his breath hitched, the heat inside him vanishing as though doused by a sudden frost.
Bobby Drake.
His name didn’t need to be spoken; it lingered unspoken in the air between them, tangible as the winter chill. John selfishly let himself take a moment—just a moment—to drink him in. Bobby’s hair was longer than he remembered, the strands darkened by the season, edged with deep brown instead of that usual golden halo of summer. John knew that hair well. He had watched it shift with the cycles of the sun, had traced his gaze over the way it shimmered like spun gold in the heat, only to fade into something closer to his own shade when the cold crept in.
His eyes, though—those were the same. Blue as ice, but never cold. Never cruel. Bobby had always been warm despite the frost in his veins. It was infuriating, the way he carried that softness in his gaze, as if the world hadn’t yet stripped it from him. As if he could still afford to look at people like that, untouched, unbroken.
John subtly breathed in. It was instinct, something he had done before without thinking. Bobby smelled like he always had—clean, fresh, like something crisp and familiar. Like standing in the open air after snowfall, before the world had time to corrupt it with footprints and filth.
“John.” The sound of his name broke the moment, splitting through the silence like a jagged crack in ice. Bobby had always been the one to bridge the distance first, hadn’t he? Always the one reaching out, trying to smooth over what had been fractured. For a few tense seconds, John didn’t respond. He let the weight of the moment stretch between them, thick and unspoken, before offering a single nod. A concession. A defense.
“Got a problem with that?” John finally bit out, his voice sharp, instinctively barbed. He didn’t mean for it to sound so defensive, so raw, but Bobby had a way of making him feel seen in ways he didn’t want to be. He focused his stare just below his eyes, at the small space between Bobby’s brows. It was easier that way. Looking directly into his gaze felt like stepping too close to a flame he wasn’t sure he could control.
Bobby’s expression didn’t shift, not really. His face remained unreadable, too flat for John’s liking, as though he had braced himself for this interaction long before it even happened.
“No,” Bobby replied, voice even, steady in that way John had always found infuriating. “I just didn’t expect to see you here.”
John narrowed his eyes. There it was again. That maddening calm, that casual acceptance. It rubbed him the wrong way, scraped against something raw inside him. “What did you expect, then?” he asked, the challenge slipping into his tone before he could stop it.
Bobby hesitated. His eyes flickered away for just a second, but it was enough. His chest deflated, the breath leaving him slow, warm, ghosting against John’s face in the cold air.
“I don’t know,” Bobby admitted, voice softer this time. And maybe it was the honesty of it, the sheer lack of defenses, but something sharp twisted in John’s gut. A bitter chuckle slipped from his lips before he could stop it. “You never know, do you, Bobby?” The words came out quieter than he expected. Not a jab. Not an accusation. Just something tired, something worn. And for the first time, he wondered which one of them he had meant it for.
Bobby’s eyes lingered on him, quiet and searching. John had never been good with silence, not when it came from Bobby. It had a way of pressing into him, peeling him open in ways he didn’t like. He understood now why Magneto had wanted to carve the name Pyro into his skin, why he had insisted on severing any trace of John Allerdyce from him. Because Pyro was strong. Pyro didn’t hesitate, didn’t look back, didn’t carry the weight of softer things. But standing here, under Bobby’s gaze, he didn’t feel like Pyro. He felt like Johnny. And Johnny was nothing but a boy—exposed, raw, unarmored. Magneto had no use for boys.
Vulnerability meant weakness, and weakness was a death sentence. That lesson had been beaten into him long before he ever met Magneto. His father, his teachers, Professor X—it didn’t matter how different they all claimed to be, they had all made one thing clear: Strength is the only thing that will keep you safe. And John had believed them. Hell, he still believed them.
Bobby exhaled, shoulders dropping, voice softer now. “Why’d you leave, John?” His words weren’t accusatory, weren’t filled with anger—just something achingly open. “Why leave me? Leave us?” The bitterness curled in John’s throat before he could stop it. He scoffed, a cruel, hollow sound. Oh, Bobby. Still asking questions he already knew the answers to. “Why?” John echoed, letting the word roll over his tongue like something venomous. “I’ll tell you why, Iceman—”
The sharp, crackling No rang in his earpiece before he could go any further, slicing through his words like a whip. John froze, momentarily thrown off balance. Shit. He had forgotten Magneto was listening. Forgotten that even in this moment, he wasn’t truly free.
Bobby’s eyes narrowed, his patience wearing thin, but he waited. Of course he waited. That was the difference between them, wasn’t it? Bobby was good at waiting, at enduring, at letting things simmer until they eventually spilled over. John? John burned too hot, too fast. Always had.
He cursed under his breath, reaching up with a chewed-down nail to rip the earpiece out of his ear. The tiny device felt like a leash, like a noose. He flicked the power button off, cutting the connection in an act of quiet defiance, knowing full well that Magneto would not be pleased. He didn’t care. Not right now.
Bobby shifted, taking a step closer. “Look, John—” John shoved his shoulder before he could finish, a quick, sharp motion. Not enough to hurt, just enough to create space.
“Pyro,” he corrected, voice firm, forcing the name between them like a barrier, like armor. Bobby’s jaw clenched, his throat bobbing with something unsaid. For a second, John thought he might argue, but instead, he exhaled through his nose, relenting. “Pyro,” he conceded, but the way he said it felt empty. Like he didn’t believe it.
John forced himself to smirk, ignoring the ache curling in his chest. “That’s better.” Bobby sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Under the dull grey sky, it looked lifeless, its usual shine muted by the overcast gloom. Bobby’s hair always looked best under a sunny, snowy day, John thought absently. It was one of those stupid things he had memorized without meaning to, like the fact that Bobby always smelled better in winter, like cold air and something clean. He shook the thought away before it could settle.
“I don’t want to do this right now, okay?” Bobby muttered, weary, exasperated. “I’m looking for someone.” John tilted his head, a lazy smirk curling at his lips, but there was something sharp beneath it, something biting. “Looking for your little girlfriend, huh?” He let the words drip like poison, watching Bobby’s reaction carefully. “Always knew she was weak.”
A pause. A flicker of something in Bobby’s eyes. Not anger, not quite. Just silence. John clicked his tongue, leaning in slightly, his grin widening at Bobby’s lack of an answer. Ah. There it was. No denial. No defense. He smiled cruelly, pleased in the way only someone who has been hurting for a long, long time could be.
“Whatever shit Magneto has been telling you, it’s not true.”
Bobby’s voice was quiet but firm, like a truth he refused to let go of, like something he had repeated to himself so many times that he almost believed it could change reality.
John exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders before turning on his heel and walking away. He couldn’t do this. Not now. Not with Bobby. Not with the way his voice dug under his skin like a whisper from a past life he no longer had the luxury of entertaining.
But Bobby followed, of course he did. Persistent bastard.
“You’re not walking away from this, John.” The words were hissed through cold breath, sharp and edged with something dangerously close to desperation. And then John felt it—a rush of cold locking around his wrists, freezing the metal of his lighters solid, rendering them useless. The sensation crawled up his veins, numbing, intrusive, too much like control.
He let out a lazy, breathy giggle. “That’s fucked up.”
Bobby’s grip didn’t falter, but his expression was expectant, waiting for something. A confession, a fight, an acknowledgment—John wasn’t sure. He simply stared back, the silence between them thick and unreadable.
And then Bobby sighed, breaking eye contact first. His free hand raked through his hair in that way he always did when he was frustrated, when he was struggling to find the right words.
And then he said it. “Let me have you for one night.” John blinked. The words barely registered at first, lingering in the air between them, too surreal to be real. “What?” The question tumbled from his lips before he could catch it, before he could mask the sheer, unfiltered confusion that laced his tone.
Bobby inhaled again, steady, resolute. “Let me have you for one night.” There was something final in the way he said it, something that made John’s stomach twist—not with anger, not with resistance, but with something deeper, something unnameable. He felt like he had stepped off solid ground, like he was suddenly suspended in a moment that shouldn’t exist, a moment outside of war and sides and reasons.
Bobby didn’t wait for an answer. Before John could protest, before he could laugh or mock or throw something sharp between them like he always did, he was being pulled along. Dragged. But not forcefully. Not in a way that made him want to fight back.
For a second, John considered resisting, considered shoving Bobby off and sneering something cruel just to make it easier, to make this not what it was starting to feel like. But his feet kept moving, and his hand—though no longer held—didn’t retreat.
The walk was quiet. A strange, heavy silence hung between them, too thick with ghosts to be comfortable, too full of things unsaid. John didn’t bother thinking. He let himself drift, let his mind go blissfully blank, let himself become untethered from reality just enough to make this easier. Distantly, he registered the words ‘motel’ on an ugly, purple neon sign.
The room was an assault on the senses, a relic of decades past, suffocating in its own decay. The walls were lined with tacky wallpaper, the color of stale butter, veins of creamy white threading through in lazy, uneven streaks. Once, perhaps, it had been bright, an attempt at warmth, but now it was dulled with time, stained with the ghosts of cigarettes and something heavier—something acrid and chemical that had long since seeped into the very bones of the place. The air was thick with it, the scent of nicotine woven into the fabric of the room, into the furniture, into the very walls. It was a scent John knew well, a scent that clung like memory.
Gold swirls curled across the wallpaper in an attempt at elegance, an imitation of something grander, but it was a laughable effort. The pattern had no purpose, no real artistry—just another layer of artificial beauty over something already ruined. John exhaled, stepping further inside, his boots sinking slightly into the revolting green carpet, which was stiff in places, worn down in others. It clashed horribly with the sky-blue sheets that stretched over the bed, sheets that had likely not seen a wash since before either of them were born. The fake satin shone too brightly under the dim motel lighting, like a plastic bag trying too hard to look expensive.
John glanced back at Bobby, whose expression was equal parts resignation and amusement, shoulders rising and falling in a half-hearted shrug. A silent yeah, I know it’s awful, paired with a small wince. John scoffed quietly. Whatever. He had stayed in worse.
They moved toward the bed, the silence between them thick, heavy, something neither of them had the words to break. As John sat, the rusted springs shrieked beneath him, a sharp, metallic groan that made his teeth clench. He winced at the sound, resisting the urge to shift again just to test if it could get worse. It probably could.
His gaze flickered back to Bobby. He looked older. John had noticed it before, in the dim light of the protest, but here, in the artificial glow of the motel room, it was more apparent. He had grown into himself in ways John wasn’t sure how to process. His frame had filled out, no longer the lanky, soft-featured boy he had once known. His muscles weren’t overwhelming, weren’t ridiculous like some of the guys in The Brotherhood, but they were there—earned, solid, defined in a way that made John wonder when exactly Bobby had stopped looking like the boy he remembered and started looking like this.
His face had changed too. Sharper, but not hard. More defined, more deliberate. There was strength in his features now, a quiet kind that John had always envied, that effortless steadiness. His gaze trailed lower, lingering just long enough to catch the faintest hint of beard growth along Bobby’s jaw, barely there, just beginning to break through his skin. John had never seen Bobby with anything other than a clean-shaven face before. It was unfamiliar, a reminder of the time lost between them, of the distance that had stretched and hardened and yet—somehow—still remained thin enough to be crossed in a single step. He swallowed, tearing his gaze away before he lingered too long.
The silence stretched between them, thick and unmoving, pressing down like the weight of an ocean. It felt endless, though John knew it hadn’t been more than a few minutes. Time had a strange way of warping when Bobby was near—stretching unbearably long, then snapping back in an instant, slipping through his fingers before he could make sense of it. “John?”
The sound of his name in Bobby’s voice made something inside him coil tight, but he hesitated before answering. He licked his lips, dry and cracked, and swallowed against the sudden thickness in his throat. “Yeah?” Bobby turned his head to face him fully, the movement slow, deliberate. John felt the weight of his gaze, but he didn’t look back, kept his own eyes trained on some indistinct point on the carpet, as if it held the answers to questions neither of them wanted to ask.
“Do you hate me?” Bobby’s voice was steady, but there was something underneath, something quieter. “Truly?” John exhaled through his nose, staring at the floor a moment longer before finally forcing himself to turn, to meet Bobby’s gaze. It was only for a moment—just long enough for it to sting—before he let his eyes flicker away, landing instead on the bridge of Bobby’s nose. A compromise. Close, but not close enough to unravel him.
He spoke before he could think too hard about it. “You’ve insidiously woven your presence into the very fabric of my being.” The words felt foreign and familiar all at once, borrowed from something he had read once, from some poet whose name he couldn’t remember, but who must have known what it was like to be haunted by a person. His hand moved of its own accord, landing softly against Bobby’s chest, fingers splaying out as he closed his eyes.
Beneath his palm, he could feel it—the slow, steady rhythm of Bobby’s heart, beating like a quiet metronome. Alive. Real. Unchanged, even when everything else had shifted and unraveled around them.
And then Bobby kissed him. It was strange, the way it felt so normal after so long. Like slipping back into a dream that had been cut short, one that hadn’t yet faded from memory. John felt the faint prickle of stubble against his own too-sensitive skin, a reminder that time had moved forward even when it felt like it had stopped. But Bobby’s lips—those were the same. Soft, familiar. There was the faintest hint of cherry lip balm, a ghost of something sweet against John’s own rough, bitten lips.
His own mouth was nothing like Bobby’s. It was raw, torn at by nervous teeth and restless fingers, layers of skin uneven and scabbed. A testament to his own inability to leave things alone, to his need to pick and peel at what should be left to heal. But Bobby didn’t seem to mind. He never had. A warm hand cupped John’s jaw, fingers gentle where John had always been rough, tracing over sharp angles and bruised edges as if they weren’t something to be wary of.
John kept his eyes open. Most people would have found it unsettling. He wouldn’t have blamed Bobby if he had pulled away because of it, if he had found it unnerving, unnatural. But John needed to look. He wanted to see him. Really see him. For the first time in one year, two months, two weeks, and three days. Not through news reports, not through the blurred, flickering images of Bobby standing among the X-Men, playing the part of the hero, shining like something clean and untouchable. No, John wanted to see this Bobby. The one who was here, now, close enough to touch. Close enough to burn.
Bobby pulled away too soon, the absence of his mouth leaving something raw in its wake. But before John could chase after him again, Bobby pressed another kiss to his lips—quick, desperate, like something slipping through fingers, like he needed to commit the feeling to memory before it was gone. Then his hands were on John’s jacket, gripping the worn fabric tight, as if it had done him some personal offense, as if he could wring something out of it—out of John—if he just held on hard enough. “Take it off,” Bobby murmured, voice tight, almost pleading.
John froze. There was something in the way Bobby said it—like he was asking for more than just a jacket to be discarded, like he was asking John to shed something deeper. Like he was something worth asking, worth begging to touch. And that was dangerous. So John ignored him. Instead, he chased Bobby’s lips again, mouth seeking, hands curling into the collar of his stupid X-Man jacket. If he kept kissing him, if he kept doing instead of feeling, then maybe this wouldn’t turn into something too big, something he couldn’t control.
But Bobby had other ideas. A hand came up, covering John’s mouth, blocking him entirely. He tried to push past it, tried to lick against Bobby’s palm, bite at his fingers, anything to make him move, but Bobby wouldn’t budge. Stubborn as ever. His blue eyes bore into John’s, unrelenting, his lips a breath away—so close John could feel the cold radiating off of them.
“Please, Johnny,” Bobby whispered, the name slipping past his lips like something reverent, like something fragile and breakable. “I want to be with you.” For a moment, John held still, stubbornness warring with something heavier, something dangerous. His breath came slow, measured, like he could hold onto this sliver of control just a little longer. But even he was starting to grow impatient with himself.
With a sharp exhale, he raised his hands, fingers finding the collar of his jacket. The leather was warm from his body, the weight of it familiar, protective. It had always felt like armor. Now, it felt suffocating. He shrugged it off in one swift motion, letting it slip from his shoulders and fall to the floor. The fabric whispered as it landed, dark against the sickly-green carpet. “Thank you.” Bobby’s breath ghosted against his ear, and John could hear the smirk curling at the edges of his words. John rolled his eyes, bracing his hands against Bobby’s shoulders before shoving him backward.
Bobby barely had time to react before he was flat against the mattress, the force of the movement forcing a sharp, metallic groan from the rusted springs beneath him. The sound was awful, jarring, but John barely registered it—not when Bobby’s hair had fanned out across the sheets, golden-brown strands splayed like a halo against the faded fabric. Like a goddamn angel.
John slid between Bobby’s legs without hesitation, settling into the space like he belonged there. Bobby’s hands found his hips easily, fingers pressing firm and cool even through the thin barrier of his shirt. The contrast sent a shiver through him, goosebumps rising instinctively along his arms. Bobby traced them idly, his touch slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of him all over again.
“You bleached your hair,” Bobby said suddenly, his eyes flickering up, studying the uneven strands. John huffed. He had. It was a shitty bleach job, even by his own questionable standards. He had half-expected his hair to give up entirely, to snap off in clumps when he stepped into the shower afterward. But somehow, it had survived, barely.
“Yeah,” John muttered. “It looks shit.” Bobby nodded, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Yeah. It does.” He chuckled, the sound soft, breath warm against John’s skin. John scowled, but there was no real heat behind it. “You haven’t changed, icicle.” Bobby grinned, wide and boyish, like the years between them hadn’t turned them into something complicated, something fractured. And somehow, impossibly, John found himself grinning back.
Bobby was still angry with him. That much was obvious. It lingered in the way his hands hovered over John’s body, uncertain, like he didn’t know whether to pull him closer or push him away. It sat in the tension of his jaw, in the restless way his fingers curled and uncurled at John’s hips as if trying to find a place to settle. And it burned—God, it burned—in his eyes. That icy blue, usually soft, was sharpened now, edged with something unspoken, something simmering beneath the surface, controlled but barely.
John had learned, long ago, that anger came in two forms. There was cold anger—the kind that settled in people’s bones, made them curl inward, gripping at themselves like they were holding something fractured together. It hollowed them out, left them brittle and aching. It was the kind of anger that Bobby wore now, the kind that didn’t explode but seeped, slow and insidious, a frostbite spreading beneath the skin.
Then there was hot anger—the kind that consumed. That flared too fast, too fierce, burning through everything in its path, leaving people raw and blackened in its wake. The kind that had always belonged to John. And maybe, just maybe, that was why they had always been at odds.
They shared another kiss. This one was different. It wasn’t careful, wasn’t measured—it ached. It burrowed deep into John’s ribs, wound itself around his lungs and pulled tight. It was raw and consuming, a mouth pressed against his own with something desperate, something that left him breathless, unraveling. It hollowed him out and filled him up in the same excruciating moment, like marrow being sucked from his bones, leaving him weightless and starving for more.
How could something feel so much like being understood and unmade at the same time? How could Bobby, with his cold hands and steady heart, make John feel both worshipped and condemned in a single breath? It confused him. He confused him. John didn’t know where to put his hands, where to rest his gaze, how to breathe in the space between them.
Somewhere, between the clash of lips, between the push and pull of hands and teeth and breath, the words slipped free. “I hate you.” Neither of them knew who said it. Maybe it was both of them. Maybe it was neither. Maybe it didn’t even matter.
The tears slipped free before he could stop them. Silent, bitter things, streaking down his cheeks in thin, salty lines. He barely felt them, barely registered the warmth against his skin before they cooled, swallowed by the air between them. He didn’t wipe them away. He let them fall.
It was deserved. He deserved this.
To be hated. To be held in contempt. To be used up and cast aside. He had craved it for as long as he could remember, in that masochistic, self-destructive way that had always lurked beneath his skin. Maybe that was why he had kissed Bobby back in the first place. Maybe that was why he had followed him, why he had let himself be touched, why he had let himself hope, even as he pretended he didn’t care.
Because he knew how this would end. It always ended the same way—with him wanting too much. Taking too much. Whenever he closed his eyes, it was all he could see. All he could feel. Bobby’s hands ghosting over his skin, cold and careful, like something meant to be savored. His fingers, delicate yet deliberate, tracing him, mapping him, memorizing him, only to forget him the moment they were done. His breath, warm where his hands were cold, fanning across John’s throat, his jaw, his chest, setting every nerve alight in ways that made him ache.
It was just sex. And yet, John couldn’t stop himself from remembering. From feeling. Because it didn’t just feel like Bobby had touched him. It felt like he had opened him—like he had grinned at him, slow and knowing, as he slipped his fingers into John’s ribcage, as he pried it apart with patient, careful hands, as he reached in and ripped his heart out—smiling the whole time, like it was a game, like it was nothing.
And John let him. Every time. Because that was all he was to Bobby. A body. Something to be taken. Something to be used. Something to be done with. And when Bobby was done, when the heat faded, when the night fell into quiet, John would be left the same way he always was—emptied out, hollowed, ribs cracked open to the cold, nothing left but the ghost of Bobby’s hands and the dull, aching weight of what would never be his.
Bobby moved with an infuriating slowness, peeling his shirt from his body as though time itself had bent for him, stretched thin around his deliberate, careful hands. And then—then—he had the audacity to touch him. Not with hunger, not with mindless desperation, but with reverence, with patience, as though John was something sacred, something delicate, something worth knowing.
John hated it.
Hated the way Bobby’s fingertips traced over him like he was some sculpted masterpiece, a thing carved from marble rather than flesh and bone. Hated the way those cold hands followed every ridge and valley of him, as though they were learning him anew, mapping him with a tenderness that felt like mockery. He was not a work of art. He was not something to be admired, to be studied, to be touched like he was precious.
He was ruin. He was wildfire and fury, a thing meant to consume, to leave only blackened earth in his wake. He was the wreckage left behind after the storm, the aftershock of something violent and raw. He was meant to burn, to rage, to be untamed and unyielding.
And yet Bobby touched him so gently, so gently, as though his flames could be calmed, as though his fire could be coaxed into something soft, something warm, something safe. And worse—worse than anything—was the way John let him.
Because when Bobby’s fingers ghosted over his skin, his body betrayed him. The fire bent, followed that touch like it had no choice, like he had no choice. Like even destruction itself could be tamed by hands that knew how to hold it.
John had turned away from Bobby, pressing his face into the sheets, because to look at him—really look at him—would mean exposing himself in a way he couldn’t afford. It would mean letting Bobby see the tears slipping silently from his eyes, tracing hot, shameful paths down his cheeks. And John didn’t want to cry. Not again.
Crying left him hollow, emptied out like something carved open, and fuck, he was so tired of feeling that way. Every time he let himself ache, let himself need, it always circled back to this—this quiet, suffocating grief that sat thick in his chest. And facing Bobby? Facing him would only mean more of those searing, aching kisses that burned through him, left him unraveling, left him gasping on the edge of something dangerous. It would mean surrendering to hands that knew him too well, to lips that pressed against him like they were trying to rewrite history.
Facing Bobby meant facing the tears.
And he didn’t want that.
He just wanted to exist in this moment—detached, thoughtless, feeling only what Bobby gave him and nothing more. But then he felt it—felt him, blunt and unrelenting, pressing against his already sore, swollen prostate, and John’s body jolted, the pleasure too sharp, too much, a mix of lingering pain and unbearable sensation.
He couldn’t keep up.
One moment, Bobby’s fingers were trailing down his spine, reverent, slow, like he was something fragile. The next, those same fingers were inside him, pulling him apart, undoing him with an expertise that made John’s skin burn, made his breath catch in his throat. He didn’t know which version of Bobby to prepare for—the careful sculptor tracing his body with devotion, or the merciless force that tore through him, leaving him breathless, ruined.
It was beautifully broken.
Like a single sheet of glass, whole once, perfect once, but worn down over time, chipped at the edges, weathered by touch and damage both gentle and cruel. They had chipped at each other, again and again, tiny fractures spreading unnoticed, hairline cracks forming beneath the surface until one final touch—one inevitable moment—had split them into two separate pieces.
And now they tried to come back together, tried to force themselves into something whole again, tried to glue the shards back in place with hands that still remembered what they used to be. But no matter how strong the adhesive, no matter how tightly they pressed together, the crack would always be there. The missing chips would never be restored. They would always be broken. And maybe that was why they fit so perfectly.
John left in the night. The motel room was heavy with the scent of sweat and something more intangible, something that lingered even after bodies had separated and the heat had faded. Bobby slept soundly beside him, breath slow, steady—undisturbed, unaware. John moved carefully, peeling himself from the mattress with practiced ease, though the sheets clung to his skin, sticky and unwilling to let him go.
Fifteen dollars landed on the table with a quiet whisper of paper against wood. It was only fair. A pointless gesture, maybe, but fairness was a habit, and John wasn’t sure how to unlearn it. His jeans were shrugged on, the fabric rough against over-sensitive skin, and the moment they slid up his thighs, he could feel it—where Bobby had been, where Bobby had left his mark, not in bruises but in something deeper, something unseen, something invisible and unbearable all the same.
He threw the jeans away later. But it didn’t matter. Because Bobby refused to leave his body. He was there, beneath the dull ache at the base of John’s spine, pressing into every step, every shift of his weight. He was in the ghost of a touch that wasn’t there anymore, in the air John inhaled, in the places John had hoped he wouldn’t be. He tried to walk it off, tried to outrun it, but Bobby followed, not in form but in presence, an echo lingering just beneath the surface of John’s skin.
Getting back to the Brotherhood’s latest temporary hideout had been its own ordeal. The night stretched around him, endless and empty, and John moved through it like a shadow, always watching, always waiting. Checking over his shoulder. Making sure no one had followed. Especially not Bobby.
The moment he stepped inside the warehouse Magneto had so generously deemed their “base,” the air shifted. Sabretooth was there, sniffing like an animal that had caught an unfamiliar scent, head tilting, nostrils flaring, pupils narrowing with sharp, predatory focus. Their eyes met, fire and feral, two creatures of different species but the same breed—both made of ruin, both forged in something violent, both knowing exactly what the other was.
John hadn’t showered. He had refused to risk whatever disease lurked in the motel’s pipes, had chosen discomfort over potential typhoid, which meant Bobby was still on him. Still on his skin. Still in his clothes. Still seeping from his pores. Sabretooth gave him a look, something guttural, primal, knowing, before snorting harshly and brushing past him, dismissive but not unaware. Stupid alpha tendencies. Stupid animal instincts. John rolled his eyes but made his way to the bathroom anyway, cranking the water as hot as it would go and scrubbing at himself until the steam blurred the world into something indistinct, something cleaner.
It didn’t work. Even when he collapsed onto his cot afterward, arms sprawled out dramatically, exhaustion weighing his limbs down like lead, Bobby was still there. Not in the sheets, not in the room, but in the ache in his bones, in the space beside him where something was missing.
Maybe in another universe, it wouldn’t be Mystique who placed a glass of water beside him with quiet indifference. Maybe it would be Bobby. Maybe Bobby would have laughed at his theatrics, rolled his eyes but still sat on the edge of the bed, teasing but present. Maybe in another universe, John had chosen differently. Maybe he had chosen Bobby. Maybe he had chosen not to break the glass. But this wasn’t that universe.
John was already bleeding from the shards.
John woke up drowning in sweat and regret. It clung to him, soaked into his skin, seeped into the fabric of his clothes like a second layer of filth, thick and suffocating. He could still feel him, still smell him, like Bobby had branded himself into the very fibers of his existence.
He peeled everything off—his shirt, his jeans, even his socks—stripping himself down to raw skin, to the barest form of himself. Everything went into the bin. Every last piece. He wanted no part of it, no part of him lingering any longer. Bobby wasn’t part of his life anymore. John had let him slip back into the cracks, had let him run his fingers over the broken edges, like he thought he could somehow fix what had long since shattered. But John couldn’t let that happen again. Because if Bobby tried to put the pieces back together, their sharp edges would collide, and John knew—he knew—he wouldn’t be able to pull away a second time.
So he stepped into the shower again, turned the water as hot as his body could withstand, and scrubbed. Scrubbed until his skin was raw, until it stung, until he could feel the burn long after his hands had stilled. He dragged his nails over every inch of himself, desperate to scrape Bobby off, to dig out the places he had touched, kissed, claimed—though he hadn’t, not really. But it didn’t matter. The water turned red. The smell didn’t leave. The blood swirled down the drain in thin, curling ribbons, slow and delicate, but still, Bobby was there. In the air, in the steam, in the spaces John had tried to empty.
And Magneto had known. Of course he had. He always knew. The moment John stepped into the warehouse’s makeshift kitchen, he felt it—the weight of Magneto’s gaze settling on him, quiet and knowing. He didn’t need to say anything. The iron in John’s blood was speaking for him, whispering of wounds that hadn’t yet sealed, of skin rubbed raw and open, of something leaking—slowly, achingly, draining.
The fabric of his clothes pressed against him, the sting of his cuts rubbing against the rough material, a reminder of what he had done to himself. He held out as long as he could, ignoring the discomfort, ignoring the way it made him hyperaware of everything, but eventually, the blood seeped through the fabric. A stain blooming against his shirt, dark and accusing. It felt like Bobby’s blood. Not his own.
John stopped showering after that. It became a ritual, a necessity. Every time he washed himself clean, it felt like an invitation, a fresh canvas for Bobby’s scent to paint itself onto again—uninvited, unwelcome, but there all the same. Bobby hadn’t marked him, hadn’t claimed him, so why did his scent linger? Why did it bury itself into John’s skin, into his lungs, into the marrow of his bones, long after he should have forgotten?
A month passed. Still, it wouldn’t leave. So John dirtied himself before it could return, before it could remind him of something soft, something gentle, something he wasn’t allowed to have. He trained harder, pushed his body until his muscles ached and his clothes clung to him, drenched in sweat, in filth, in anything but Bobby.
It worked for a while. Until Mystique forced him under the water again. And the moment he stepped out, there it was. Frosted flowers. A whisper of vanilla. John stood there, dripping, breathing it in. And for a fleeting, treacherous second, he thought—if it had been anyone else, maybe he would have liked it.