Shiro and Jean-Paul - Backdated to Christmas Day

[x-cynosure.livejournal.com]

Shiro gets his first taste of skiing, and Jean-Paul runs into an old rival.



There are few things in life more rattling than a dozen eight year-old girls zooming past a grown man struggling to stay on his feet. And when said man has poor self-esteem to begin with mixed with mutant fire powers, a sudden rise of steam from an evaporating ground should be expected. "It looks so easy on television," Shiro muttered, half his attention focused on keeping his frustration under control.

"By the time you're on the TV, you know what you are doing," Jean-Paul pointed out. "And, hopefully, all the bones that matter have had time to knit. Stop worrying about the others; it's not as if you'll see them again and it's ruining your day." He glanced down at the snow slowly going to slush around Shiro's feet. "Let's take a break and then try again, hmm?"

"No." Shiro was adamant about at least learning to move on the first go. "I will not be shown up by little girls. If I can master jiu-jitsu, kenjutsu, and krav maga, then I can master downhill skiing as well." He paused. "So how do I move forward?"

Jean-Paul nodded approvingly. "Before you get going, know how to stop without falling over. Just point the tips of your skis at each other, in a wedge shape; that will slow you down. As for movement, that is easy. You push off, give yourself a little forward weight, and let gravity do the work." Jean-Paul looked down the gentle slope. "The hard part is staying upright, stopping when you wish, and not hitting anything on the way down. But that last should not be so much of a problem here."

"OK. I do remember that episode of South Park." Shiro's skis made a sloppy noise as he pulled them out from the slush, and he took a confident step forward. "French fries." He kept his feet straight so the skis were parallel to each other, and then gave himself a push with his poles. "That was not so difficult after all." He leaned forward a little more and gave himself another push.

Jean-Paul watched for a few moments while Shiro picked up speed, then followed him down. It felt good to be skiing again, even if it was on the bunny slope. There was nothing at stake, just an afternoon sharing his passion with a student he was fond of. He was grinning by the time they both hit the foot of the slope. "See? Not so hard. Next, we work on turning."

"Pizza." Shiro pointed his feet inwards and slowed down to an almost graceful stop. He at least managed to stay on his feet. "When do I learn how to flip in midair?"

"I don't think we're going to get as far as freestyling this trip. Besides," he teased, "you can do that without skis. Why carry the extra weight?"

"You've got some nerve showing your face here, Beaubier." The sneering remark came from a tall man headed their way, fit, brown-haired, and greying slightly at the temples. His accent was much less pronounced that Jean-Paul's, though still present. "Finally decided to start skiing at your true skill level?"

Shiro awkwardly turn to see the intruder, and just the tone of his voice had Shiro's baring his teeth. "Your wit is certainly the average for the people here," he said as a couple of kids sped past them.

Jean-Paul smirked slightly. "Shiro, meet Antony Richelieu. From his warm greeting, I am guessing that he is still laboring under the delusion that my absence from Calgary in '88 would have somehow meant his taking home gold. What was your best showing again? Hanging on to fourth place by your fingernails, wasn't it? You might have tried retiring earlier and kept your dignity intact."

"If you'd never turned up, it would have meant someone worthy taking home those medals, Beaubier. Maybe one day you'll pull your head out of your ass and figure that out." Richelieu was still sizing up Shiro. "Picking them up young these days, aren't you?"

Jean-Paul's eyes narrowed; it was the second time he'd heard this implication in two days. "He's a student of mine. Not that it would be any of your business anyway."

The newcomer snorted, finally speaking directly to Shiro. "Some free advice, boy: learn to ski from someone who isn't a cheat and a liar."

Shiro felt himself standing in slush again. "That is why Mister Beaubier is instructing me," he countered through grit teeth, trying to rein in his temper. "Your name sounds familiar. I recall news that you did not qualify for Nagano. I am sure that your nation missed you."

Richelieu opened his mouth to retort, but by then it was impossible to miss the heat radiating off of Shiro. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over his skis in his haste to put some distance between himself and the two mutants. "I should have guessed. Like attracts like."

"I hope that means that we then repel those who are different, so you can leave now." Shiro pulled himself out of his self-induced snowy morass and smirked at the other man, briefly conjuring a small fireball above his outstretched hand which he then promptly extinguished.

To his credit, Richelieu didn't exactly flee (which would have been difficult on skis anyway); he simply walked off, throwing another angry look Jean-Paul's way as he left. Jean-Paul's amused smirk had vanished and he was glaring daggers at the older man's back.

"The joys of homecoming."

"I could kill him for you if you would like," Shiro offered. "You could think of it as an additional Christmas present, a 'thank you' for the invitation to join you."

That got a snort of laughter out of Jean-Paul. "No, it is fine, Shiro. We cannot go about incinerating and dismantling everyone who says something stupid. Thank you, though. That's very thoughtful."

"I suppose. There would no longer be a New York State if we could." Shiro spared one final death glare at the retreating figure before turning his attention back to his teacher. "So. Maneuvering?"


--

That evening, Shiro and Jean-Paul get drunk, trade gifts, and make plans to test JP's speed on the slopes.


Christmases without family were supposed to be depressing. Jean-Paul supposed there was a bit of an ache under his ribs, a hollow wondering of where his sister was and if she was all right, but still...this was not nearly so bad as last year.

Lighting the gas fireplace had been strictly an indulgence, as neither he nor Shiro were going to take chill, and the warmth combined with an excellent venison stew from room service and a glass or two of strong red were doing an excellent job of making the world seem a fairly nice place to be. He contemplated the dregs of his glass, then leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

"I am not trying to flatter you when I say you're taking to the slopes very well, you know."

Shiro chuckled and refilled their glasses. While not normally one for wine, this was warming him up in a way that neither the silly fireplace nor his powers did. "I am a natural . . . what did the ski renter call it? Powderhound? Yes, I am a powderhound."

"It would not be so hard to do this again, if you wanted. It's not as if we have to worry about transportation, just timing. School, work, being responsible members of society...and suddenly, more wine sounds very good. Merci. Oh." Jean-Paul put his glass down and began rummaging in the pockets of his jacket. "I forgot. Merry Christmas." He handed Shiro a small, embossed envelope, not much bigger than a playing card. There was a gift card to the Strand inside, made out for an embarrassingly large amount. Jean-Paul shrugged apologetically. "I wanted to be more personal, but I couldn't think of anything suiting."

"Thank you very much, Mister Beaubier, you di . . . Ee? Kore wa . . ." His eyes bugged out when he opened the envelope. "This is obscene. I could buy the entire art section." Finally remembering his manners, Shiro blushed and bowed politely. "Arigatou. Here, I also have a gift for you." It was more difficult than he'd have imagined to stand up and walk over to the closet where he'd stashed Jean-Paul's present. He returned a minute later carrying and oddly shaped wrapped package, a smile growing large as he handed it to his teacher. "Merry Christmas."

"Consider it a tax on unobservant teachers," Jean-Paul suggested as he examined the package. It was taller than it was wide, and almost round-ish, but had bumps and corners in the oddest places. A basket of some kind, he finally decided, and moved to the floor to open it, a setting it on the table would likely only result in a mess.

A cardboard mock-up of the Canadian flag greeted him, with "A Taste of Canada!" flourished across it in silvery glitter. The flag was attached to a gift basket full of "northern favorites", if the placard was to be believed. There was the expected maple syrup, of course, canned Canadian bacon, a packet of Tim Horton's coffee and...

"Tinned poutine?" Jean-Paul's voice actually went up an octave. "You're one to talk about obscenity." He was smiling, though. "Worried about me being homesick?"

"It also includes a special 'Favori du Quebecois' package," Shiro added, horribly mangling even those simple French words. "I do not know what cuisine from Quebec is, though. I just thought that everyone appreciates little reminders of their homelands, no matter how silly or ostentatious they may be."

"Merci." Jean-Paul considered going back to his chair, but it seemed like too much effort. He flopped backward onto the rug instead. "And it does not come with the possibility of running into jacktards on the ski-slopes and that makes it even better." Jean-Paul was picking up quite the vocabulary from Clarice, it seemed.

Shiro slurped up the rest of his stew before joining Jean-Paul on the rug, wineglass in hand. "How did you become a skier?" he asked after a moment of comfortable silence.

Jean-Paul laughed softly, rolling onto his side to face Shiro. "It was part of Raymonde's campaign to keep me from becoming a fourteen-year-old hermit -- fresh air, exercise, all of that. It worked very well, in it's own way. The challenge after that was getting me inside again. I spent a lot of time on the slopes, I would do anything for more advanced lessons..." He shrugged. "I got very good at it very quickly. I was a decent contender by the time I was fifteen, a shoe-in for the the next winter games by sixteen." He was quiet for a time. "I didn't know the word 'mutant' until Hudson tracked me down. I knew I was different, though. I never felt that I cheated. I never brought anything but myself to a challenge. I was just...better at it than the others."

Now that he'd seen pictures of a young Jean-Paul, it wasn't so hard to imagine him as a grubby, hard to control child who would only do what he wanted. Shiro smiled fondly as he sipped from his glass. "How much could you cheat, anyway? You run and fly quickly, you cannot stand still and accelerate yourself down a mountain, ne? It is all unfounded dumb jealousy."

"What is flight but willing myself to go faster? Perhaps I did fly, but dragging my skis through the snow." Jean-Paul sighed. "These days, I tell myself no, of course not. I could not have had so much precise control at that age, with no training. I also know that I was a very driven, very stubborn, scared boy...I would have pushed myself for any edge. I try not to think about it much these days; that part of my life is over, non? I do wonder at times. I've considered going out and trying again, to see what my times are like. But I cannot go back to sixteen or eighteen or unlearn what I know now. So I put up with wondering."

"You should do that tomorrow, then. See for yourself what an athlete you are, and not just what your mutation makes you, ne? You are certainly skilled enough to know when you are and when you are not using your powers. Do not wonder anymore."

Jean-Paul kept to his own thoughts for a long moment, then started to laugh quietly, almost to himself. "If I find out that I am a cheating cheater who cheats, promise to buy me enough wine to drown myself in?"

"I now understand why Americans are so excited about the mystical age of twenty-one." Shiro raised his glass in mock salute and finished its contents. "This is almost as fulfilling as Kick, and not so addictive. I could grow to like this more." How he managed to get to his feet to refill his glass with the remainder of the bottle, he didn't know. "How does this cork work?" he asked, examining the other bottle they'd ordered.

"We'll figure it out later. Come sit down before you fall over." The comparison between one drug and another had sobered him a little and he managed to sit up. "Besides, if we finish the other, we'll be no good on skis tomorrow. The glare off the snow would kill us on its own."

Shiro glanced mournfully at the sealed bottle but followed Jean-Paul's instructions and joined him on the floor. "Jaa, we can fly instead, ne? Maybe we can find Risha . . . Riche . . . whatever that aho's name is and vomit on him from above. I could ignite mine, too, ne?"

"Not with our eyes shut. And Richelieu is an idiot who needs someone to blame for the fact that he was never as good as he thought he was. Not worth the headache." Jean-Paul glanced at the table again. "Though I suppose there is no saying that we have to go out tomorrow at all, if we wanted to get stupid, stinking drunk."

Shiro nodded. "You are rich from your days as an athlete, I have my father's inheritance. We could just order room service all day and become fat and drunk like Americans. That would be a particularly amusing way to shock Mister Summers when we return, ne?"

"I'm sure if I were fully sober, I would have better reasons against this. As it is, you are making a strangely compelling case. No...wait. Proving myself to myself tomorrow. We are doing that. Need to be able to see for that."

"Wakarimashita. You are the boss, apple sauce." Shiro settled comfortably on the floor, staring off into the distance but not focusing on anything. "This is my second favorite Christmas," he said finally. "The best was two years ago when Alex and I . . ." He blushed and promptly shut himself up.

Jean-Paul gave him a dopey grin. "That much fun?"

"It was in the beginning," Shiro admitted. His face was almost the same color as the wine now. "It was very similar in some ways to how I felt to Clarice, but it was also very different, ne?"

"You have more experience than I in that area. I'm glad that some of it was good for you. Ah...but about you and Clarice, what happened there?"

It took another sip of wine to bring up the nerve to talk about it. "Do you remember that gala that you and Shinobi Shaw organized for HeliX? Clarice and I attended together and we had a nice time, and then some time later she asked me if she wanted to have a relationship. She ended it when I revealed that I had been using Kick." Shiro shrugged. "I suppose it may have technically ended a few months earlier. I berated her when she cut off a man's hand with her powers during the course of battle, though I had nearly done much the same myself."

"It's rare that we want the ones we care about to live down to our example." Jean-Paul hauled himself into a sitting position and gave Shiro's shoulder a squeeze. "I'm glad you came with me. And I'm sorry for not being there."

"You need not apologize. It is better that you did not see me as I was. Cyclops and Storm, they . . . I do not think they think much of me anymore." That was a sobering thought, so Shiro responded by draining the glass.

If there was anything Shiro could have said to make Jean-Paul think that their plans for the next day were a terrible idea, that was it. The idea of being too hung over to leave bed was suddenly very tempting.

"I can't speak for them, but still...perhaps they do not think as harshly of you as you do of yourself. That often seems to be the way." He sighed quietly. "Well, we are fed and we have observed the traditions of the night without getting drunk enough to sing, cry, or go off and kill my snotty countryman. I think bed is the next order of business."

Even though they still had a whole other bottle, Shiro thought that would be the best course of action. The conversation had taken a poor turn thanks to him. "You do need to rest if you are to demonstrate just how good you are tomorrow."

Jean-Paul helped Shiro to his feet; it took a few moments of mutual struggling for balance before the two of them managed to orient themselves and lurch toward the beds.

"Nice to see that one of us believes in Christmas miracles."