"Hey, sweetheart!" John called out from the front door, the moment he got in. Shutting the door with a bang, he felt oddly exhilarated: he'd led a good couple of tutorials today; a few kids had actually bothered to show up to his office hour to talk through the assignment, rather than just email for help the night before their paper was due; and he thought he'd finally nailed his rather tumultuous dissertation topic. Or so he thought. He had a plan now; he was the man with a plan and his supervisor was on board and he had the best damn boyfriend in the world, so fuck you, other people.
Speaking of that boyfriend, John poked his head in the library. No Bobby. The kitchen. No Bobby, although John was mentally thinking of What To Cook For Dinner. "Where the hell are you?" he muttered to himself, before flinging his satchel through the doorway. It arched through the air, and landed with a thump on the couch. "He shoots and he scores..." John declared in triumph, with a bit of a fist-pump. Deciding Bobby must be upstairs, he scrambled up the stairs, bursting into the main bedroom. "Hey, I had the best-"
Then John all but skidded to a halt, seeing that Bobby was hurriedly trying to cover that box back up, and some of his good mood evaporated. "..day." He looked at his boyfriend, but there wasn't any shock on his face. After all, he was a grown up. What he'd done in the bedroom (and other people's bedrooms) for the last couple of years did not fill him with shame or guilt. Precisely the opposite: he'd wanted to be a tough guy, and he'd gotten very good at it. No complaints. It was Bobby who made him stuff those memories in his wardrobe and explore what it was like to be soft.
"We should probably talk about that," John suggested gently, coming over and easing himself to sit next to Bobby on the bed, one hand on Bobby's thigh. Because if anyone saw himself as Mr. Vanilla, it was Bobby Drake. His stash of porn and toys had probably given his boyfriend a fricking complex. "Because I figure you're probably worried." Better for him to say it, as Bobby would ever now probably declare he was fine, or something equally vacuous.
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Date: 2015-05-17 06:54 am (UTC)Speaking of that boyfriend, John poked his head in the library. No Bobby. The kitchen. No Bobby, although John was mentally thinking of What To Cook For Dinner. "Where the hell are you?" he muttered to himself, before flinging his satchel through the doorway. It arched through the air, and landed with a thump on the couch. "He shoots and he scores..." John declared in triumph, with a bit of a fist-pump. Deciding Bobby must be upstairs, he scrambled up the stairs, bursting into the main bedroom. "Hey, I had the best-"
Then John all but skidded to a halt, seeing that Bobby was hurriedly trying to cover that box back up, and some of his good mood evaporated. "..day." He looked at his boyfriend, but there wasn't any shock on his face. After all, he was a grown up. What he'd done in the bedroom (and other people's bedrooms) for the last couple of years did not fill him with shame or guilt. Precisely the opposite: he'd wanted to be a tough guy, and he'd gotten very good at it. No complaints. It was Bobby who made him stuff those memories in his wardrobe and explore what it was like to be soft.
"We should probably talk about that," John suggested gently, coming over and easing himself to sit next to Bobby on the bed, one hand on Bobby's thigh. Because if anyone saw himself as Mr. Vanilla, it was Bobby Drake. His stash of porn and toys had probably given his boyfriend a fricking complex. "Because I figure you're probably worried." Better for him to say it, as Bobby would ever now probably declare he was fine, or something equally vacuous.