"Come with me."
Jono stared up at Angelo, who was in the doorway of the basement, fidgeting. {{Come where?}}
His friend leaned further into the room after a sideways glance up the stairs. "I'm gonna get my tongue pierced," he stage-whispered. Jono furrowed his eyebrows in disbelief, putting down his guitar. {{Why?}}
Angelo's thin shoulders raised and fell noncommitally under his huge jacket as he scratched his stubbly chin. "No reason. Just feel like it. Change. Dios, amigo--I'm eighteen years old. I can get my goddamn tongue pierced if I feel like it."
{{Okay, okay. Don't snap my head off, then. I'll come with you.}}
. .. ... .. . The advantage to having been at the Massachusetts Academy for two years was that now most of the kids were old enough to borrow cars if they wanted them, and there were quite a few to choose from. Jono and Angelo always chose the Jeep. It had a good stereo system, was fully loaded, didn't guzzle too much gas, and had four-wheel drive and a removable hard-top. The main problem with it was deciding who got to drive.
For a while, they'd alternated going and returning trips, but then Angelo started taking weird, way-off-course routes to extend his driving time and Jonothon was not impressed.
So they'd come up with the "you wanna go there, you drive there" plan. This did work out to Angelo's advantage in any case, since Jono never really wanted to go out (despite the fully functional image inducers the two had been supplied with) and Angelo needed to get regular doses of city air.
Jonothon sat sulkily in the passenger seat and told himself that he hated driving on the wrong side of the road, anyway.
"Ohhhhhhh yeah," Angelo drawled, simultaneously lighting a cigarette and shoving a tape into the Jeep's deck. He exhaled in utter pleasure as the thumping bass of some Cypress Hill song started up and Jono groaned inwardly. Rap. Bloody rap. Even the slightly more musical hip-hop *shudder!* would be better than straight, heavy, sub-woofer straining rap.
Of course, any protests and pleas for something better--Turin Brakes, Jesus & Mary Chain, anything — would be shot down with a smug, "Well, when it's your turn to drive, amigo, you can listen to 'em all you want."
Rolling down his window, Jono took some comfort in the crisp freshness of the afternoon spring air, so different from the pea-soupers he'd meandered through as a child. Snow Valley was indisputably beautiful, especially in the spring. Made him feel clean and alive. Made him believe in almost anything.
:{{What d'you think've Paigey's new hair?}}
Angelo grunted, puffing vigorously on the last inch of cigarette. "It's red. Not much else t'say, man."
{{I'd say it makes her look sort've...on the edge. Sweet, but dangerous...like Rita Hayworth.}}
"Who?"
{{Never mind.}} Jono slid more comfortably lower in his seat, staring at the green buds on the trees they whizzed by. {{Just rest assured, she were certifiably a Love Goddess.}}
"And the Country Mouse is too?" Angelo hooted. "You've gotta be fucking shitting me, ese."
Jono's circuitry-created mouth smiled, giving his face a lift of humanity that was lacking when he was swathed in bandages. Running one hand through his hair, not noticing that it all slid right back into its studied tousleness, he turned his attention back to the trees. {{Oh, she is, mate. She is.}} Jono paused to let the smug certainty sink in, watching a drop of water wend its way across the windshield. Ange wasn't saying anything, so he continued.
{{You wouldn't think she'd care to stay with a bloke like me — like, no chest, no mouth, no service, y'know? But Paige...the girl's special, Ange. She sees past all the shite right into your soul.}}
Jono knew he was sounding like a right melodramatic prat, but he heard himself rushing, babbling on all the same. It was those budding knots of green on the trees in the cooling afternoon that was doing it. Too beautiful and new a day not to think of her.
{{I tried to ask her once, if she'd rather turf this so she could be with some geezer who could give her more, and she said, "I fell in love with you the way you are, Jonothon Evan Starsmore, and I want more from you than just kisses." Just like that.}} Jono couldn't keep the smugness from creeping back into his voice. {{And let me tell you — her mouth's in proper working order.}}
The car slammed to a stop and Jonothon was nearly thrown against the glove compartment. He stared over at Angelo, who pitched the butt of his last cigarette out of the window, set the gear to park and reached under his seat, fiddling around.
"Seat's too close t' the wheel," he muttered, finding the lever and promptly shooting himself against the back seat.
Jono watched with a repressed smile as Angelo cursed and slid back and forth, finally finding the right distance for his long legs and almost angrily lighting another cigarette.
{{I used to smoke, you know, mate.}}
"Yeah?"
{{Yeah. Pack've twenty Silk Cut a day. And just look what it did to my respiratory system.}}
"Bite me." Angelo began to shift into drive and paused, squinting at his friend. "Or is that what you said to Paige?"
Jono maintained his calm and raised an eyebrow. {{You want the details?}}
Angelo shuddered and booted the Jeep into gear. "Caray, no. Save it for your letters to Playboy, okay?"
. .. ... .. . Jonothon didn't talk much for the rest of the drive, much to Angelo's semi-guilty relief--he mostly stared dopily out the window, smiling at trees. It wasn't that Angelo resented his friends' newfound and oh-so-special romance, it was just that —
Okay, that was a lie. He was so bitter it made his teeth hurt.
He just felt like grabbing Jono by the collar, shaking the living daylights out of him and yelling, "All right! So you and Paige are the most happy and in-love people on the planet! So why don't you stop goddamn rubbing my nose in it already!"
The problem was mostly that a guy didn't meet too many chicas inside a Special Academy. Paige had made her choice with the brooding Yorkie loner, Jubilee (not that he'd really go for her anyhow) was sinking her hooks into Everett, and Monet....
Angelo squirmed slightly in remembered embarassment, thinking of the brief two months when he'd toyed with the idea of falling for Monet. He hadn't been obvious about it — not even Jono noticed — but she had. And had given him the brush in no uncertain terms.
So that was where romantic prospects stood for Mama Espinosa's most good-looking hijo. Well, good-looking with the image inducer, anyway. He blinked at his reflection in the side-view mirror, at the brown skin, the almost normal length nose, the way he could pass for any old vato. Not the same kind of GQ pretty as Jono there, but Angelo figured he could hold his own.
But with who?
The most importantly annoying thing about no available girls on campus — and he had mentioned this to Jono, who laughed and called him shallow — was that this severely reduced any hopes Angelo had of getting laid anytime soon. At least that was one good thing about El Barrio, he thought sourly, lighting another cig and ignoring Jono's pointed stare. A guy could usually find some hina to take home....
"So you two actually done the big nasty yet?" Angelo asked, suddenly.
{{No. We're waiting fer a bit, so we can plan it, make it really special.}}
"That's so sweet. Pass me a barf bag."
{{What's that?}}
"Nothing. So Paigey's excited?"
Jonothon smirked. {{Who wouldn't be, mate? A chance to get sorted out by a stud like me?}}
"Tell me, Casanova — what happens when you get a little too excited and accidentally schripp her skin off in the middle've all this passion?"
Jono snorted. {{That's not going to happen. I've done this before, Ange.}}
"Yeah, I know."
Angelo puffed thoughtfully, squinting out at the dimming day. He'd done it before, too, and that was probably why he was missing it. Long ago, he'd learned what it was like — the heat, the closeness, the stickiness and intimacy and mind-blowing weird pleasure of it...but he didn't want to think of long ago. That meant Torres and L.A. and home and pain.
It wasn't like that had been the last time he'd had sex. There was another, four months ago, when they'd all gone clubbing in Boston before winter set in and they were stuck at the Academy for those snowy months. A last fling, Cassidy called it indulgently.
And, being in a benevolent mood, he had managed to convince Emma to arrange for lodgings in Boston so the kids wouldn't have to drive home at some unearthly hour. After many incredulous looks from Emma and some intense discussion, Sean was finally able to beamingly provide the gaggle of students with the name of and directions to the hotel where they had rooms for the night.
This all arranged, the kids headed straight to the first club they could find that allowed minors (for which Jubilee took no small amount of ribbing) and set about dancing the night away.
It was about two hours before closing when Jono and Paige took off — no doubt to "touch where their swimsuits cover," as Jubilee tastefully put it — in the comfort and privacy of Jono's hotel room. Jono's and Ange's, actually — since they were double occupancy rooms, Everett and Monet each had one to themselves and the other four shared.
Monet disappeared as well, soon after the lovebirds left. Angelo wandered off to dance and lost track of Ev and Jubes, but he wasn't too worried. Everett would keep the perpetually-whirling sixteen year-old safe and get her back to the hotel no problem.
This is it for you, Ange, he told himself when it turned out everyone else had left. Sitting smoking at the bar, alone, with everyone else all paired off and so sweet it'd make you diabetic.
It was funny, really, that he didn't see it coming. Didn't think anything was strange when a gorgeous dark-haired woman slid onto the stool next to him, smiled and asked for a light, introduced herself as Marina. Didn't even find it all that odd that before long they were out on the dance floor, belly to belly, hands roaming, mouths locked together. That was just the kind of thing you did in clubs. No big deal, not for worldly Mr. Espinosa.
Funny that it left him breathless and dry-mouthed when Marina put her shiny crimson lips to his ear and said, "Let's go to my place and you can fuck me senseless."
She said she was twenty-nine and he lied and said he was twenty-five. She said she didn't normally do this kind of thing and he lied and said he did it all the time. She said you're the biggest fucking liar I've ever met but you're damn sexy, Angelo.
And when they got to her tiny walk-up apartment Angelo was hardly in the door when Marina grabbed him and started kissing him, devouring him, pressing her hands hungrily against the back of his head.
The rest of it was impressions and feelings, mostly.
Like the wild warm tendrils of her dark hair trailing across his chest. The tiny, sharp teeth gleaming between her parted shiny lips. Her full soft hips pressing harlot hard against him; the steady feverish stream of profanity she whispered that made him feel oddly prudish.
Through it all, the heat and intensity and strain, through his senses that were zinging and overloaded, Angelo could hear the neighbour playing a Louis Armstrong album. Over and over. Trumpets accompanying Marina's shrieks and his groans, jazz music underlying their moans and gasps. It made the whole thing just a little more unreal.
When Angelo woke in the morning in Marina's bed, he found a note on her pillow saying Thanks for a great night, mira. The door will lock behind you.
He squinted at the paper, the distinct, sturdy writing, and crumpled it up, turning to stare at her featureless white pillow. He was half-surprised there weren't a couple of twenties lying on it as well, compensation for a job well-done.
Shuddering, Angelo dug in the pocket of his discarded jeans and dredged up a cigarette. Its dry smoke filled his mouth and lungs and he gulped gratefully at the familiar burning feeling of it, letting the carcinogens seep in, rot his blood.
.......... the raised headrest of the dentist-like chair pressing against the back of his skull
the fluorescent light above ticking spasmodically
needle sliding into tongue, right through oh dios to the goddamn other side
sharp taste of iron and iron and now metal clicking against teeth
spitting blood and listerine into the sink
and it's over.{{How does it feel, mate?}} Jono asked mildly, curious.
Angelo moved his tongue gingerly around, considering. "Okay," he said slowly. "It don't really hurt all that much. Jus' kinda bloody."
"And be sure to rinse it with Listerine after everything," the piercing person ("Matt!" his nametag declared) said sternly. "And I mean everything — eating, drinking — even water. And absolutely no cigarettes or alcohol for a while."
. .. ... .. . {{So tell me —:: Jono leaned in closer-- ::what's it like having a pair've balls in your mouth?}}
"Chingate, y'bastard. Tongue studs're purely for women-related romantical reasons."
{{Right you are! That's something t'drink to, mate've mine.}}
"Damn right."
Angelo removed the Camel unfiltered just long enough to take a long draught of beer, draining the last of his mug. Jonothon clapped him on the back and ordered up a shot of Cuervo Gold, grinning at the look his friend gave the glass as the bartender pushed it in front of him.
{{It's your duty, Ange,}} Jono prompted solemnly. {{You're drinking for two, like. And I were a hell of a drinker in my drinking days, so you've got to do me proud.}}
Grinning sloshily, Angelo picked up the shot glass and threw the liquor back.
. .. ... .. . The dim flicker of the television that Jono left constantly on was the only guiding light in the darkness of his basement haunt. It made eerie patterns across the faces of the two young men as Jono maneuvered his friend in and dropped him on the sofa, sitting down next to him.
{{Go to bed,}} Jono said unceremoniously, a yawn in his telepathic "voice". Angelo grunted, made an aborted attempt to get up, and succeeded better on the second try.
"Well, at least they weren't waiting up this time," he muttered.
{{Christ, yeah. Nothing makes your heart skip a beat like hearing Cassidy's voice the instant you step through the bleedin' door.}}
Angelo grinned tiredly. "G'night, amigo."
He meandered up the stairs and into the dark hallway that led to the main staircase, his head feeling stuffed and heavy. Drinking was fun, but Angelo had forgotten why he didn't do it all that much. He tended to get maudlin and depressed something fierce after a few belts and a pack or two, and with his recent...amorous deprivation...it was hitting harder than usual. Even it it was single, bed was looking pretty nice about now.
"Oh, Angelo — I'd love to hear the explanation for why you smell like a distillery and are creeping around at — hmmm, three o'clock in the morning when there's training on the morrow. I'm sure you'll came up with something brilliant."
Angelo groaned inwardly and froze where he was, closing his eyes. "Hey, Miz Frost."
Emma came around from behind him and stood about a foot away from her student, arms akimbo, feet firmly planted. Her favourite position to emphasize authority.
"Hey —" Angelo's brow furrowed as he focused on her. "You're still dressed."
She tossed her hair. "I was up late doing some organizational work and don't change the subject. Where were you?"
Sighing gustily, Angelo leaned against the wall under the staircase and massaged his temples with one hand, letting his tongue trip over itself when he talked, letting the swelling around the new metal clog his mouth. "Out. I decided t'go out. Issat okay wit'chou, Senora Frost?"
"I don't mind if you go out, young man. Even Mr. Puritanical Cassidy doesn't mind if you go out. The issue is your drinking when you're out."
"Yeah, okay, fine." Angelo straightened and started to go past her, brushing against Emma's arm. She turned, grabbing his elbow, and Angelo caught a sudden dash of her fleshy, orchidy perfume.
"Don't make me read your thoughts, Angelo," Emma said lowly, pronouncing each word distinctly. She was disgruntled to see that this didn't seem to faze her erstwhile student; he merely stood where she held him, swaying slightly, looking down at her with those sleepy hooded eyes. Annoyed, Emma tightened her grip and leaned closer. "I'm not bluffing. I will find out what exactly you were up to."
Angelo stared at her, the white-blonde of her sleek hair and the soft press of her breasts against his arm, incongruous over the bony stays of her bodice. That perfume was filling his head now with its heady sensuality and the heat of her body was fogging his brain.
Blinking, he cleared his thoughts just in time to hear her say, "...you made me do this...."
And then the gentle stab of her in his mind, and then it was gone and Emma's eyes widened marginally in disbelief.
"You...what?..." she whispered.
Angelo said nothing. Then he leaned swiftly down and pressed his mouth hard against Emma's unresisting, slightly parted lips.
Shocked, Emma didn't resist when Angelo put his arms around her, pulling her against the length of his body, one hand cradling the nape of her neck. She made a small startled noise when she felt chilly metal scraping dully across the roof of her mouth, tasted smoke and booze and blood and a whirlwind of raw tattered emotion.
Gathering her wits, she shoved him away, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, wrapping her arms around herself. Panting, Angelo backed up, bracing himself against the wall under the stairs, staring at her just a bit wildly from the half-shadows.
Emma took a deep breath, calming herself. "Angelo," she said carefully, keeping her voice neutral and non-emotional, "perhaps you'd better go to your room. We'll discuss your...jewelry in the morning. With Sean."
He said nothing, so she ventured a look at him. Angelo's eyes were still fixed glassily scared on her, his mouth in a marked down-turn, the skin over his cheekbones looking tight and painfully stretched. He swallowed, hard. "Yes ma'am," he mumbled, so faint she could barely hear it, and then turned and dashed upstairs, taking the steps three at a time.
He had gotten so tall.
Smoothing down her jacket and suppressing a shiver, Emma Frost began heading up the staircase as well, taking the stairs slowly, one by one, careful in the darkness not to miss her step and tumble all the way down. It was all too easy to fall.
She put a hand to her flushed forehead, hoping for a bit of welcome chill, but it was no help. Her hands were hot too.
February 1999