John felt a little goofy even as he admitted it, letting out a sigh like he was already anticipating Bobby rolling those blue eyes. And really, what was it to him anyway, if the doofus did go all eye-rolly? What was Bobby Drake to him? John had flirted with a guy last week - more than flirted, even - and he'd screwed his way through college, which is roughly what you'd expect for a guy with an attitude and a guitar?

What the hell was Bobby Drake to him, six years later? Just some doofus John had tried to kill once, of course, just some guy who John had dreamed about and put on a pedastal and hated and wanted with a bitter, jealous passion.

"Mutant Studies," he admitted, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Back when it existed, anyway. Columbia." Because that had been the thing, hadn't it? The thing that had enlarged their world, that turned them (in a way) from freaks to superstars. What with Beast at the U.N. and mutant pride groups formed on a good ten or so campuses, of course mutants had become the new fashionable minority group, picked on and feteted and scruntinised alongside the women and the gays and the who-the-fuck-ever. "I managed to talk some sense into a bunch of normal college kids who didn't quite understand what it meant to be hunted or hated or lynched. It was....gratifying," he reflected. If highly weird at times.