Questions

A/N: Having duly been sucked in to this fandom, I'm already working hard on another fic. Since I'm under a lot of stress right now, I'll probably be putting up two or three chapters a day (honk if you love escapism!). Must say, if I met Iceman the way I've written him here, I'd probably slap him. People who pity themselves because no one understands their problems, and then martyr themselves because people shouldn't be asking what those problems are, oh no, they ought to just know, really get on my nerves. Possibly because I am one.

Anyway… Summary? Bobby's taking more and more refuge in his dreams as his life gets harder to deal with, but some times he just wants to break down the barrier and bring those dreams to life.

Disclaimer: Bobby, Jean Paul and the rest of the gang belong to Marvel and co. I'm making no money from this.

Warnings: m/m, language, occasional evil cliffhangers, billions of rhetorical questions (why else the title?)

Part one – Why do we dream?

Bobby had heard once that dreams were just a mish-mash of everything that had happened that day. That interpretation was comforting to him as he sat panting in bed, one hand pressed to his crotch.

He'd found out Jean Paul was gay, hadn't he? And he'd kissed Annie, right? Well, was it such a stretch to imagine that the two had just, you know, got a bit mixed, and well, he was very lonely and it was just a naturally reaction, wasn't it?

Bobby climbed slowly out of bed. He avoided looking at the sticky patch he left behind. He hadn't meant to glance across at the mirror, but it was so much habit now and the movement in the dark caught his eye anyway. He paused. Normally this would be when he started tearing up, or getting angry, or finding it hard to breath. Just looking at that patch, which had grown again, he could tell, usually produced so many responses. For a split second he was grateful for the dream. The emotional feedback from that had temporarily blown the circuits, and he could regard his affliction with something approaching neutrality.

Lorna and Alex were getting married today, he remembered dully. He forced down the hope that someone would threaten the fate of the earth during the ceremony. Lorna and Alex deserved this, right? A bit of happiness. Didn't they all deserve a bit of happiness?

Ah, there were those tears. Well, he couldn't stand here bemoaning his fate all night. Better not to think about it. Better to go and have a cold shower and not think about the dream.

What if Jean Paul actually did kiss like that though? Bobby stood under the cool spray and absently ran a finger around the edge of the skin surrounding his new ice-cream centre. Annie hadn't kissed him like that, or rather, he hadn't kissed Annie like that. He wanted to find out. It was ridiculous, but he suddenly felt he couldn't live without knowing.

Bobby shook his head firmly, shaking the notion out of it. He frowned at the misty silhouette on the white tiles. Well, at least it had been the gay team mate. Imagine trying to imagine what kissing, say, Logan would be like. He chuckled quietly to himself, before realising that he was still thinking that it would be worth kissing Jean Paul.

It was stupid anyway. No one kissed like that. Everything was always so perfect in dreams, so precisely what he wanted. He hadn't even had the ice on his chest. He couldn't remember ever looking down in the dream, but he knew instinctively that it hadn't been there, growing like a cancer across his body. He picked viciously at the edge of it, but his fingers just slipped across it. Not put off, he continued scratching until the adjoining skin stained the water pooled at his feet pink.

Stupid dreams. Stupid weddings. Stupid gay Canadians. Stupid mutations. Stupid imminent, lonely deaths. Stupid.

Breakfast was a solitary affair for Bobby Drake. Anyone who attempted to make it otherwise received a glare as cold as only he could make it. If someone wanted to make nice to him this morning they'd better be wearing a ski jacket.

Bobby could feel eyes on him. Gay Canadian eyes. At first, he thought he was just being paranoid. Why would Jean Paul be staring at him? So just because it felt Jean Paul was staring at him didn't mean he was. Bobby glanced around, just to make sure, and caught Jean Paul ducking his head to stare firmly at his breakfast. And then, a few minutes late, Bobby saw him turn his head sharply to the left. Dammit, the man was staring at him. On a third attempt Bobby managed to even catch his eye before he turned away. Hah, gotcha!

The paranoia crashed in again. Jean Paul couldn't possibly know about the dream. Their rooms were practically on opposite sides of the building. Couldn't have heard anything, not at all. And the curtains had been shut, so he wouldn't have seen anything if he had been spying. It wasn't like Bobby had a sign pinned to his chest that read "I had a wet dream about the gay Canadian last night" written on it.

But he did have something else on his chest. Bobby glanced down hurriedly, then ran cool fingers around the base of his neck. No, thank god. Oh thank god. He'd had to bandage his chest anyway that morning, after the night's damage. It wasn't his fault it was so like a giant scab. He just wanted to pick all the ice away and reveal a shiny new, yet just like the old, Bobby underneath. A Bobby who wasn't short with his friends and cruel to his acquaintances. A Bobby who didn't try and hurt others just because he was hurting, who didn't kiss people he wasn't particularly attracted to just because he was lonely, who didn't obsess over disturbing dreams as a way of escaping reality. Oh, and a Bobby who wasn't going to get his heart torn to shreds throughout this ceremony.

Bobby thought the day's events would reply for him that night, as well. Some nightmarish confusion of the wrong people going off with the wrong people and him being left alone. Instead, when he closed his eyes Jean Paul was there for him, waiting. Bobby didn't wait for a reason to kiss him this time. He just clung and prayed he'd never wake up. He did, occasionally, but slowly he found himself looking forwards to the dream more and more. Once or twice he forced another face over Jean Paul's, but the effort that took lost the dream its momentum. Anyway, it was just kissing. Kisses so good they made him come in his sleep. Obviously not realistic, and nothing to worry about.

Maybe a month later he was woken from the dream still hard, an unusual occurrence. For a moment unable to work out what woke him, unable to see who to rain his wrath on, he peered around the darkness. Eventually he recognised the faint sound of the television downstairs somewhere. He leant back in bed and worked on getting his breath back, fondling his cock idly. Part of him was disgusted that after a dream like that he still wanted to get off using the same imagery, another part was just so glad that at least some part of him was still whole and human that it didn't care whether the person behind his eyes was male or female. He sucked on the side of his cheek and thought hard about those perfect kisses. If Jean Paul did kiss like that, well, Lord help him but Bobby would act out every detail of those dreams.

Bobby let his head fallback against the headboard and moaned through clenched teeth. Imagine that mouth, that perfect for kissing mouth, perfectly placed elsewhere. Bobby figured, as he pumped and pictured, that this didn't count as gay. After all, it could be anyone who kissed like that, who sucked him off like that. His subconscious had just attached Jean Paul's face to that action because, well, because he might be good at it. Probably got a lot of practise, being gay and all. It didn't say anything about Bobby's sexuality because, well the fates weren't that cruel, were they? He couldn't be both dying and gay, right?

Bobby took himself over the edge before he could chase that line of thought any further. All that mattered was this didn't make him any less heterosexual.

The television was still on downstairs. Bobby caught a few 'Amen's and guessed it was Nightcrawler. Not many other people willing to watch the televangelists without ridicule. Bobby pictured Kurt there, room dark except for the television, mouthing the sermons to himself. Kurt wore his heart on his sleeve sometimes; it wasn't hard to tell his faith was troubling him right now.

For a moment Bobby wanted to go and offer some comfort to his friend, but he squashed the sentiment without really thinking why. It just felt inappropriate, was all. Being nice to a lot of people felt inappropriate these days.

Bobby sighed into his pillow. He knew. He knew why he was doing this and the guilt was killing him. It was almost enough to make him go downstairs and talk to Nightcrawler, maybe even tell him the truth. But Nightcrawler wouldn't understand. He'd been 'obvious' his whole life. Angel was the same, Warren Worthington, one of his best and oldest friends, had been forced to live with wings since before Bobby had known him. And Hank, another old friend, he'd been forced to get used to standing out in the crowd as well. Who else? Too many to count, really. Rogue, unable to touch anyone, Gambit with his red eyes, even people like Toad and The Blob. They'd all 'been there, done that'. What right did Bobby have to make a fuss about a change in appearance?

But he wanted to. He wanted to stand up and say "Look at me, I'm changing. Make it stop." He didn't want to be like those other people. He didn't want to be like some of the people he most admired in the world. It was fine for them to be obvious, but dear little Bobby Drake was deeply attached to his ability to pass for normal. He couldn't tell anyone because it would be obvious he didn't like it, and what message would that put across?

He rolled over and punched the mattress. From where he lay he could see the mirror and pushed down the sheets to stare solemnly at the place where flesh and blood used to be. Was he that person? Annie had called him homophobic and racist. Was he one of those people who was fine with people being different as long as he didn't know anyone like that? Was he happy for other people to be gay or foreign or obviously mutants, but when it came to himself he held different standards?

Bobby threw himself out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweatpants so viciously he split them. Sighing and forcing himself to calm, he found another pair and an old t-shirt. If he wasn't going to sleep at least he ought to go and speak to Nightcrawler. Maybe apologise for that unfortunate remark about 'just the five of us' he'd made. Perhaps he could get Nightcrawler to talk about what was bothering him, and distract himself that way. Bobby yanked the t-shirt on and frowned at his reflection in the mirror. Okay, so he wasn't going to go and pour his heart out to Nightcrawler. At least he could be nice, unless he'd forgotten how to do that. Maybe the ice was infecting his brain.

He moved quietly down the stairs, conscious that most of the building was asleep. He approached the rec. room silently and paused in the doorway. That wasn't Nightcrawler, and that wasn't one of those Christian channels. Oh fuck. It was Jean Paul, and that was...

"Oh God, Jimmy, give it to me harder!"

...and that was gay porn, wasn't it? Bobby retreated hastily around the corner again, back to the wall.

"Hallelujah!"

"I bet Father O'Connell never told you it could be like this, eh?"

"Amen!"

Oh god. Oh god. How could he have thought this was religious programming? It was sacrilegious, if anything. And it sounded so raw, all panting breath and slapping flesh, and so messy. Bobby screwed his eyes shut and wondered if it could get any worse. Walking in on his gay team mate, his wank fantasy, watching porn.

"Give it t-"

Oh shit. He'd just turned the television off.

"Is... is anyone there?"

Oh shit oh shit oh shit. And the stairs were on the other side of the door. Oh shit. What was he going to say? Oh shit.

"Ah merde!"

Bobby opened one eye to see a furiously blushing Jean Paul standing in front of him.

"'a'er," Bobby croaked.

"What?" Jean Paul swallowed.

"Water. I came down for water," Bobby lied desperately.

Jean Paul just stood and blushed. This would be a great time to retort on the ever witty Jean Paul's loss for words, Bobby decided, but as the riposte formed on his tongue Jean Paul licked his lips and for a moment Bobby thought his knees were going to give way. He grabbed the doorway helplessly.

"I didn't mean to," Bobby swallowed, "intrude." Jean Paul bit his lip and Bobby fought the mad urge to scold him. "I'll just get some water and l-leave you in p-peace, okay?"

"Oui," Jean Paul murmured. He was staring at his own feet with a suspicious interest. Bobby was reminded at Jean Paul's interest in him at breakfast. He tugged nervously on his t-shirt. He stepped away from the wall, intent on reaching the kitchen without thinking anything more disturbing that night, but Jean Paul didn't react. Bobby halted, centimetres from Jean Paul. The older man had a glazed look in his eyes as he brought them up to meet Bobby's. Jean Paul's fly was undone, Bobby realised dazedly. If he didn't kiss him now he'd never know if his dreams were surpassing reality. He actually was thirsty, now he thought about it.

Their lips met.

Their mouths opened. Jean Paul traced his tongue along Bobby's bottom lip and took control of the kiss. Bobby closed his eyes and kept his arms at his sides as he stretched up to hold the kiss, letting Jean Paul kiss him tenderly. He kissed back, wondering if Jean Paul could taste how badly he needed this. And when Jean Paul broke the kiss, tracing his tongue one last time across Bobby's lips, he collapsed back against the wall.

"Oh fuck," Bobby moaned, eyes still closed. "You actually kiss like that." He pushed away from the wall and past Jean Paul, bolting up the stairs and into his own room, locking the door for good measure.