Shadow Play

by River

It's two a.m and he's in my bedroom, with eyes that shine in a strange way from the light out in the street. So little of it seeps in through the shutters; I can sleep in any kind of light, but prefer near-total darkness, unless the circumstances demand differently. I can't see anything beyond the vaguest shape and that glint in the eyes, like a ghost with soulful browns come to visit me.

I can remember lying stretched on the grass in the park, if I try, my head pillowed on his shoulder. It was the only downtime we had in a week full of two exams, three minor fights, and one big wedding in X-Force. He kept grumbling that he couldn't sleep, that the light was hurting his eyes, but we were both too tired to move to the shade. He wasn't really into letting me drop off if he couldn't, and you could hear in his voice that he didn't like the small petty selfishness inherent in that. So he quit grumbling and started - tickling me or something, can't remember. We wound up making out right there in front of three quarters of the world, just because he doesn't like the light in his eyes. *I* could've slept just fine.

But I prefer the dark.

I don't wanna do this tonight. It's late and I'm tired and we stopped doing that three months ago, damnit, this just isn't fair.

But I've never been much good at saying No to Ange. People aren't, in general, a weak spot for me. Ever. But Angelo is a definition all his own, a space almost as big as Wolvie's, if not nearly as deep.

Who am I lying to? There's nobody here but him and me, and Ange can usually tell when I'm bullshitting, and I've never been able to turn a blind eye to my own crap. I want this too, all logic aside, or I would tell him to get out the moment he set foot in my room. I'm not getting dragged into stuff like that against my will, not by anyone. I'm not some *frail*.

He's been out with Paige, I think. She's on some young-and-free spree, on the rebound from yet another big breakup with Jono. She thinks she's some tough biker chick. And yes, I'm just being mean. On purpose, too.

"Hey," he says, hanging around in the doorway, like he's waiting for an invitation. Maybe he is. Sometimes you just can't tell with Ange. "I wake you up?"

I shake my head, then realize he probably can't see and sit up a little. Hesitate. Watch my voice very close. "Nah. You just got back?"

"Yeah," He says. Then, "Jubicita, you think-"

"What?"

But he doesn't answer, just comes in and sits on my bed. I move over to make some room. "Where's Paige?"

I wasn't gonna ask that.

He grins, and it's too dark to see if it's a rueful smile or a real one. His voice is very very neutral. "Picked herself up some leather jacket boy."

"You mean another leather jacket boy," I say, and wrinkle my nose in the darkness. "You want me to tell Jono or should you?"

"I figure she'll tell him herself, if she wants to," He says. How very Ange. Stay out of their business, keep yourself to yourself, let them deal. Never ever hurt Jono. Never ever betray Paige. Don't even *think* about the paradox inherent in *that*.

I feel a little fourteen years old, and I wonder why I said it. "Yeah. I guess she will. It's just weird that they're not together again."

A small sound of agreement. "Been a while since the last time, huh? I kinda thought they were in it for good this time."

I shrug, knowing he can feel the movement of my arm against his leg. Not thinking too hard about it. "There's always the next round."

"So there is," he says, and this time he's definitely a little rueful. And also vaguely amused.

I nudge him, just a little. "You really think you have a shot with her, Ange?" I'm not trying to bring him down, I'm really asking. It's been some time since I've been close enough to tell.

He nudges back. "Who says I want one, amiga?"

"It looks like that," I mumble, trying to figure out if he's just playing games. Of *course* he wants one, at some level at least. He's always had something for Paige. Everybody does.

It's still so dark in here. I play a little game with myself, try to guess at his expression by the few angles and planes I can recognize, by the much clearer ones I have all saved up in memory.

He just shuts up. So I do, too, for a while, and try to let it go.

I'm almost back into that state of muddy half-sleep when he says, quietly, "Your room still looks the same, d'you know that?"

"Nnh," I mumble, coherently. "How can you tell?"

In my mind, I can see the glint of his eyes scanning the darkness. Finally he says, "I don't know. It has the same feel."

"It's only been three months," I tell him. I don't mention that I've taken down the two sickly romantic B&W posters. I've never been much of a romantic; I don't know why I ever got them.

I also don't mention the stuff that's still around even though I desperately wanted to fling it out in the first week after. A picture of us in the water park, a pretty little string necklace, a small card with few hand-written words. A baseball cap. An Indian dream catcher.

We went out, or fucked, or whatever you wanna call it, for over half a year, and if I hadn't had a birthday on the way, I'd have maybe two things to remember him by. I don't know if he had even that much, just like I don't know what he's done with them. I wonder if that has some inherent meaning.

"I know," he says. "It's just - I think, it seems like it should be a little different. Because we were together. Because we're not anymore."

He looks at me, and away, and I suddenly think he's angry. Just a little. And maybe he's right to be, but it feels strange, here, with this person I've never been in love with and who's never been in love with me, this person who hasn't been up to my room once in three months.

"I don't know if that much's different," I say. It's the truth.

I don't lie unless I have to.

He laughs a quiet, short laugh that's somehow ugly. "So that's it? I was in your life, I was out, it don't matter none?"

I want to be angry right back, all of a sudden. What right does he have to talk to me like that, to sound as if this is some *crime* I've committed? What right does he have to make me -

But I don't. I'm not.

"It matters," I tell him, into the quiet. "I just don't know how much."

And then there's his hand on my shoulder, pressing down, and he kisses me. Long and slow and deep, and not too gentle.

I kiss him back, I guess. Don't push away.

And then when we break apart he's close enough that I can see his eyes, not just the glint but the real look in them. And he's staring right at me when I shake my head and say, "So, what? We have sex now and it suddenly gets all right? The world doesn't work like that, Ange."

He's still looking right at me, right into me. "Who says I want it to be alright?"

One day I woke up and realized I was screwing around and going out and talking into the night and laughing with a person who couldn't show me his soul, not in a million years. So I got up and acted on my decisions, like I've been taught, and I determined that I would someday find someone who could really be there in every sense. And if that kind of person wouldn't stay around very long once they realized I couldn't do them the same favor, well, that'd just be too bad.

We shouted a lot of bullshit on that day three months ago. But I was right, even if he couldn't see how important it was. We weren't getting too close to anything, much less love. I didn't turn tail. I *didn't*.

I've never in my life been a coward.

I raise my hand to smooth my knuckles over darkness-colored skin. His eyes still bore into me, like I'm supposed to give him the answer or something. "Maybe I do."

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