“I just don’t get what you were thinking” Scott says, following Kurt as he rounds the rack of clothing. He’s not even looking really, only flipping through the carefully hung thrift shop items to keep himself from throwing his coffee in Scott’s face.
Kurt doesn’t know why he agreed to this hangout, why he thought it would be different, would be friends catching up instead of what it’s been the last three times, Scott trying to convince him that he’s making some kind of devastating mistake for his future and for mutant-kind. At least this time the taller mutant hadn’t pulled an actual newspaper clipping out of his pocket to wave in Kurt’s face. Kurt still had the photo from it, of him standing on an overturned SWAT vehicle, face twisted in a snarl as he rips a rifle from an officer’s hands. Smoke from grenades obscures much of the picture, of the frightened, relieved faces of the mutants and humans alike streaming out from the mangled chainlink fence in the background.
They’d found out about a “detention center” that was holding asylum seekers, supposedly picked up at the border. Given the “center,” a warehouse surrounded by barbed wire, was smack in the center of Missouri, Kurt could not guess which one. It’d taken half a day to rip the place apart at the seams and another half a day to make sure none of the people they freed would ever be caught by the government again, even if they were staring them in the face. Todd framed the photo. Kurt scoffed that there was no ‘I’ In movement, that it was wrong for the article to frame him as the main actor in a group effort, but didn’t move it from the spot on their living room wall.
—---
Kurt smiles, recalling the image of Todd climbing on their sofa as he read the article aloud, waving his arms in his Senator Kelly impression and his shoulders feel a little less tight.
“Is this funny to you?” Scott asks, snatching whatever piece Kurt was holding on the rack from his hands. It’s a lurid yellow lace teddy and Scott flushes to the roots as he fumbles to get it back on the rack. Once, Kurt might have helped him. Now, he shares a glance with the shop clerk, who’s leaning on the counter watching them like an afternoon soap opera as Scott accidentally yanks two more pieces off the rack in his attempt to replace the Nighty of Shame. Kurt waggles his eyebrows and the clerk dissolves into giggles, pressing their fist to their mouth and pushing back from the counter. He turns his attention back to Scott.
“Vas is funny to me, mein freund?” Kurt asks, letting himself slip into the easy pattering tone of voice that makes bastards at the bar flounder when he slides himself between them and whatever poor soul they were attempting to neg into their back seat.
Scott draws himself up, crossing his arms as he looks at Kurt like they’re still fifteen and he caught him slinking out after curfew. Kurt tips his head, flicking his tail as he slurps on his drink. He’s mangled the straw, frustration working its way out through his teeth. He doubts Scott can see the dimpled cracked plastic as anything other than an admission of anxious guilt.
“There were photos all over the gossip websites yesterday of you and and…” Scott fumbles, mouth half forming “To–” before he catches himself, “Tolansky–in a half-naked riot.”
“You read gossip websites?” Kurt asks, raising an eyebrow as he ambles over to the wall lined with a rack full of gowns. He doesn’t actually need a new one, but it doesn’t hurt to look, or to test Scott’s blood pressure.
“The kids do.” Scott says, his tone meaningful.
“Ah, kids and their cell phones these days.” Kurt replies, absently.
“You don’t think that’s a problem?” Scott asks, hands half drifting towards the clothing before he catches sight of the clerks very much pretending to not pay attention and shoves his hands in his pockets. Something in Kurt’s chest twists, the memory of a boy who good-naturedly let the girls paint his face with makeup, line his eyes and fill in his lips. A boy who stopped short as they’d all tumbled out on the patio one afternoon as the Professor rolled by, and taking stock of them all, had commented they might be mindful of where they did such things.
Kurt’s eyes fall on a wave of deep emerald satin a few pieces ahead of where he is and he quickly flips to it. A classic ballgown, off-shoulder with a plunging back, a reserved flirtation perfect for some executive-level office affair. He tilts it towards Scott, dropping his voice low but keeping his words light, “This is still your color, ja?”
Scott pauses, like even after all this time he can’t help himself from falling into whatever bit Kurt reels him into. His lips twist in a rueful smile, “You know I can never tell color clearly.”
“It’s the same green as that sweater you wore to pieces in high school.” Kurt replies, running a thumb over the fabric.
Scott leans closer, eyeing the cowl neckline, “Well at least the extra fabric would hide my deficits.”
Kurt thumps Scott in the chest with his tail, feeling the easy bounce of muscle beneath the striped cotton of his henley, “Oh don’t sell yourself short, you’ve at least got a B cup there.”
Scott laughs, a ghost of a sound as his shoulders creep towards his ears. Kurt bites back his grin tail flicking against Scott’s chest. The taller mutant curls his fingers around Kurt’s tail, cupping the spade in his palm like it’s a buttercup he’s plucked from a field.
“Kurt.” He says, head still tipped down, soft and serious in the way that breaks Kurt’s heart and sets his blood steaming. “Be serious.”
Kurt reaches up, gently flicking Scott in the nose with his tail, “I’m never serious, and always sincere.”
Scott sighs, and Kurt goes back to staring at the clothing rack in front of him to keep himself from snapping to pieces.
“Did those gossip rags mention it was Senti-men who raided the party we were at? The private party. Or, did they neglect that detail in favor of playing up mutant perverts flooding the streets?” Kurt asks, a bitter edge creeping into his tone though he keeps his voice low.
"God those assholes again-" Scott starts, cutting himself off, “No. Was anyone–?”
“One of our friends got a sprained ankle. Someone else had their elbow dislocated. A lot of scrapes, black eyes, busted lips. But nothing worse.” Kurt replies, “They had a canister of something, probably that inhibitor gas. But it misfired, didn’t detonate right. Someone with slime powers sealed it before the arslochs could bash it open with a hammer. They surrounded the place. Crashed in through the back doors and busted the front windows.”
“Shit, Kurt. I’m sorry.” Scott reaches under his glasses to rub his eyes, the way he always did when Duncan or Kelly started getting to them at school, “You and Todd?”
“Todd’s shoulder got scraped up pretty bad. He took a hard landing knocking a guy off one of our smaller friends out in the street.” Kurt says, “Her powers aren’t defensive. But she nailed the other guy in the nuts and hit the first one in the head with a spreader bar when he started wailing on Todd. They slammed the pair into a dumpster together. She was shaken up but is doing okay, she's staying with friends. Todd’s healing up fine.”
“What about you?” Scott asks.
Kurt shrugs then wince, “My back’s pretty bruised where three of them gang rushed me into a wall.”
“Kurt!” Scott hisses, reaching for the hem of Kurt’s hoodie. Kurt swats his hand away with his tail.
“Like you’re going to see anything through all my fur!” He snaps, “It’s fine, I got worse that day Tabby dropped me off a cliff.”
“I don’t get why you do it.” Scott says quietly.
“Well sex parties make certain things much easier to–” Kurt starts, letting his voice pitch loud. Scott slaps his hand over Kurt’s mouth and the blue mutant shoots him a filthy look. He runs his tongue along the dip between Scott’s fingers, wet and delicate as he traces the lines of the other mutant’s palm.
Scott makes a noise in the back of his throat, yelping as he pulls his hand back, “Ugh, he’s a bad influence on you.”
Kurt hums noncommittally, “It’s a mutual influencing, I assure you.”
Scott snorts, “It doesn’t have to be this hard, you know.”
“Oh ja, I could have a cushy show pony gig, as long as I agree there are acceptable losses.” Kurt quips, sucking on his drink. It’s down to ice now, but he lets the slurping ring loudly through the store. Several browsers who’d trickled in as late morning bled into early afternoon flick their eyes over to the pair with varying levels of irritation and curiosity. Scott flushes again in the corner of Kurt’s eye. He’d chucked his own drink, half-finished, in the bin outside the store when they walked in, fussing at Kurt for daring take his inside.
Scott sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, “You know that’s not how it is. It’s just that there’s–”
“A time and a place for everything, Mr. Wagner.” Kurt finishes, “Yes, I remember Scott. But tell me, what happens for all the mutants at the wrong time and place?”
He turns to actually look at the other mutant and sees Scott watching him through red lenses, corners of his mouth pulled tight with the same heartache and frustration he feels balled up in his chest. They stare at each other for a moment as the afternoon light washes a kaleidoscope of color through the suncatchers hung up in the shop’s windows. The soft clicks and thumps of other shoppers flipping through the racks fades out as they look at each other.
“You can still call me you know?” Scott says softly. “I know you and Kitty keep in touch. And Rogue, obviously.”
Kurt nods, a half-formed appeasement already on his tongue when Scott drags him forward, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. He squeezes tight, before hissing a soft apology and loosening up, hands still warm and firm against Kurt’s back.
“Not the mansion. Not the professors. Or the X-Men. You can call me.” Scott whispers, choked into Kurt’s neck. Kurt’s eyes burn as he blinks. He brings his arms around Scott, patting the other man’s shoulder as he shifts his drink to his tail, “Please, man, I can’t keep hearing more about your life from the news than from you.”
Kurt swallows around the lump in his throat, blinking until the dusty thrift shop comes back into focus around them, “I wouldn’t want to implicate you in anything, golden boy.”
Scott huffs a laugh, “Then don’t tell me details beforehand, I don’t need to hear about plans, or agendas, but shit, tell me how you’re doing. Tell me what you’re feeling. Tell me if you’re safe or if you’re sinking. I can’t wake up to find out you’re gone from trending news. I can’t.”
Oh. He’s going to start bawling beside a rack of gowns he’s certain are collectively older than both of them, dusty sequin bedecked mannequins looking down on them like some kind of bedazzled saints. His shoulder is wet where Scott’s pressed his cheek, so he’s pretty sure he’s not the only one at least. Kurt tucks his face into Scott’s neck, blocking out the store beyond them.
“Then you have to tell me too. Stop giving me updates that I could read in the verdammt Institute Annual Report and talking to me like I’m a PR disaster in the making.” Kurt says, “Tell me how you’re doing, when you’re going ask me to help you pick a ring based on all the notes you’ve kept about every piece of jewelry Jean’s ever worn. Tell me how you don’t have favorite students while telling me fifty stories that all have the same ten kids in them. Tell me you’ve finally gotten an actual fucking hobby that has nothing to do with work. Tell me about Scott, not Cyclops the Vice Principal and Captain of the X-Men.”
Scott hiccups a laugh, “You are a PR disaster already made, I’m pretty sure the Prof’s hair would be white if he had any.”
Kurt snorts, “That bastard’s got to be in his 70’s by now, I refuse any responsibility for that. And it’s besides the point.” He squeezes Scott a little tighter for emphasis and the taller mutant laughs again.
“Yes. yes.” Scott says, pulling back to look Kurt in the face without letting go, “You’re right. I can’t ask to know you and not let you know me.”
Kurt smiles, patting Scott’s arms, “Then we have a deal.”
A shop clerk, the one who had made eye contact with Kurt earlier, pops their conversational bubble, “Uh, not to break up whatever revelation y’all’re having, but are you gonna buy anything? I don’t give a shit, but my manager gave me a look so I have to pretend like I care whether you’re loitering or stuffing granny panties in your pockets.”
Scott makes a strangled sound in his throat as Kurt dissolves into laughter. They collapse into each other as the store clerk watches them with a raised eyebrow. Kurt holds up a hand, but struggles to get words out.
He thumps Scott in the chest, “What a debut into a life of crime for you, eh mein freund?”
Scott snorts, “Oh yeah, octogenarian underpants, my villain origin story.” He glances at the clerk, “Thanks for not kicking us out sooner. I think we’re on our way to lunch and out of your hair.”
“Lunch, Mr. Let-me-Check-My-Schedule?” Kurt asks, turning to look at Scott, who shrugs.
“It’s the weekend, unstructured time is important.” He says, as they bid the clerk goodbye and make their way out of the store, “Plus there’s a great Ethiopian place three blocks from here.”
Kurt dunks his cup in the trash as they pass, “Ohh that Lucy something one? I’m in.”
Scott slings his arm over Kurt’s shoulder as they fall into step together, and past and present overlap, unfurl into a future unknown but possible, “Sweet. We’ve got catching up to do.”