Title: Frailty
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Bobby, John
Summary: Some people just can't be forgotten. Bobby/John friendship fic or slash - interpret it the way you want
Diclaimer: I don't own anything!
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Moonlight streamed in through the window and cast a steady glow upon the walls. The mansion was silent save for the repeated thump-thumping of a tennis ball hitting the wall and bouncing back. The noise was comforting - anything was better than that impenetrable silence. Anything was better than this.
Bobby caught the tennis ball in his hands and shot it straight back against the white plaster. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Click- fwoosh. Bobby closed his eyes and let the steady rhythm of the ball transpose into something he knew he could never bring himself to forget. Click-fwoosh. Click-fwoosh. Bobby leaned his head against the hall and found that he didn't have to force the images, the dialogue, into his head. Click-fwoosh. God, John could be so annoying sometimes.
"John, it's 3:30 in the morning. Quit playing with your stupid lighter."
"If you stop bouncing that thing, I'll consider it."
Bobby frowned slightly, caught the ball, and didn't throw it again. He shifted his weight slightly and looked up and across the room. John was propped up on one elbow and was gazing quietly into the orange and red flames that flickered at the top of his precious zippo.
That lighter was the first thing Bobby noticed when he met John all those years ago. After a day or so, he started to associate it with John's personality: unpredictable, unsteady, and burning. His cockiness and "I- don't-give-a-damn-about-what-you-think" attitude paralleled the fire in his hands so perfectly. It had seemed to Bobby that John's dark eyes were always laughing at everyone else as he stood in some corner playing with his lighter, all the while emanating an incredibly irritating arrogance. The rebel without a cause. or maybe he did have a cause. It wasn't until Bobby saw what John's eyes were like when they reflected the flames that he actually. saw him. Like now. Bobby watched the tiny yellow wings glow and writhe their way into the dark brown of John's irises. These were the only times he could see the vulnerability, the pain; resentment and anger flickered in the streaks of hazel. There was frailty there. These were the only times Bobby could see the real John Allerdyce, unveiled through layers and layers of smoking flame. John's voice in the stillness startled him.
"Hey, Popsicle-boy, are you gonna keep staring at me the whole night?" John arched one eyebrow.
Bobby blushed slightly and looked down at the tennis ball. "Sorry."
John snorted and lay back down. The sheets rustled as he made himself as comfortable as possible. "Go to sleep, Bobby. You look like that hairy mountain beast down the hall ran you over with Summer's motorcycle."
Bobby scowled, "I'd say the same thing about y-" He cast a glare over and stopped mid-sentence.
John's bed was empty, the white sheets tousled just the way he had left them almost a month ago. Bobby didn't move, but he knew that if he touched the pillow, it would be cold. It was so easy to imagine John there, in the same room, speaking to him in that teasing and eternally mischievous voice of his. So easy.
Bobby noticed that his hands hurt and looked down to see that he was squeezing the tennis ball with every ounce of strength in his sleep- deprived body. Silently, he watched as cold, glazed ice formed around it. Seeing his reflection in the frozen sphere, he winced - he really did look like hell. He relaxed his grip and let the ball fall to the floor. The ice cracked and a few chips scattered across the hardwood floor, leaving streaks of cold water in their wake.
~Why'd you leave, John?~
He knew he'd probably never find the answer to that question, just like he'd probably never find John again. Bobby was more than aware that he had been acting differently since his roommate left. Being alone became his new hobby, as was playing with all of John's extra lighters that just seemed to pop up in random places. Rogue even approached him a few days ago - What's wrong Bobby? We're getting worried about you, Bobby. Why don't you talk as much as before, Bobby? Forget Pyro, Bobby.
First thing, Rogue, his name is John. Second thing, go away.
Bobby doubted that even a session with the Professor could erase his best friend from his mind. Nothing could. Nothing could ever dilute the pain and betrayal he felt every time he stepped foot inside is own room and saw John's belongings strewn across the floor while knowing that the mess' owner would not be returning to clean it up after getting yelled at my Mr. Summers. Nothing could stop Bobby from remembering the way John walked, talked, and flicked that stupid lighter in everyone's faces. Nothing could stop him from knowing deep down that in the end, he was the one who could have stopped John from leaving, from crossing to the "other side". Dangerous territory. Nothing could every erase Bobby's guilt and his anger and his frustration and nothing - nothing could ever stop him from hurting. Nothing.
Silence. God, how he missed John's voice. The quiet was stifling.
Bobby reached down and picked up the icy, half-melted tennis ball. Closing his eyes, he started to bounce it against the wall again. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Click-fwoosh.
"Damn it, John, I told you to stop messing with that lighter."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Please review! I'm thinking about writing another one from John's POV, so criticism would be very helpful! Thanks!
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Bobby, John
Summary: Some people just can't be forgotten. Bobby/John friendship fic or slash - interpret it the way you want
Diclaimer: I don't own anything!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Moonlight streamed in through the window and cast a steady glow upon the walls. The mansion was silent save for the repeated thump-thumping of a tennis ball hitting the wall and bouncing back. The noise was comforting - anything was better than that impenetrable silence. Anything was better than this.
Bobby caught the tennis ball in his hands and shot it straight back against the white plaster. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Click- fwoosh. Bobby closed his eyes and let the steady rhythm of the ball transpose into something he knew he could never bring himself to forget. Click-fwoosh. Click-fwoosh. Bobby leaned his head against the hall and found that he didn't have to force the images, the dialogue, into his head. Click-fwoosh. God, John could be so annoying sometimes.
"John, it's 3:30 in the morning. Quit playing with your stupid lighter."
"If you stop bouncing that thing, I'll consider it."
Bobby frowned slightly, caught the ball, and didn't throw it again. He shifted his weight slightly and looked up and across the room. John was propped up on one elbow and was gazing quietly into the orange and red flames that flickered at the top of his precious zippo.
That lighter was the first thing Bobby noticed when he met John all those years ago. After a day or so, he started to associate it with John's personality: unpredictable, unsteady, and burning. His cockiness and "I- don't-give-a-damn-about-what-you-think" attitude paralleled the fire in his hands so perfectly. It had seemed to Bobby that John's dark eyes were always laughing at everyone else as he stood in some corner playing with his lighter, all the while emanating an incredibly irritating arrogance. The rebel without a cause. or maybe he did have a cause. It wasn't until Bobby saw what John's eyes were like when they reflected the flames that he actually. saw him. Like now. Bobby watched the tiny yellow wings glow and writhe their way into the dark brown of John's irises. These were the only times he could see the vulnerability, the pain; resentment and anger flickered in the streaks of hazel. There was frailty there. These were the only times Bobby could see the real John Allerdyce, unveiled through layers and layers of smoking flame. John's voice in the stillness startled him.
"Hey, Popsicle-boy, are you gonna keep staring at me the whole night?" John arched one eyebrow.
Bobby blushed slightly and looked down at the tennis ball. "Sorry."
John snorted and lay back down. The sheets rustled as he made himself as comfortable as possible. "Go to sleep, Bobby. You look like that hairy mountain beast down the hall ran you over with Summer's motorcycle."
Bobby scowled, "I'd say the same thing about y-" He cast a glare over and stopped mid-sentence.
John's bed was empty, the white sheets tousled just the way he had left them almost a month ago. Bobby didn't move, but he knew that if he touched the pillow, it would be cold. It was so easy to imagine John there, in the same room, speaking to him in that teasing and eternally mischievous voice of his. So easy.
Bobby noticed that his hands hurt and looked down to see that he was squeezing the tennis ball with every ounce of strength in his sleep- deprived body. Silently, he watched as cold, glazed ice formed around it. Seeing his reflection in the frozen sphere, he winced - he really did look like hell. He relaxed his grip and let the ball fall to the floor. The ice cracked and a few chips scattered across the hardwood floor, leaving streaks of cold water in their wake.
~Why'd you leave, John?~
He knew he'd probably never find the answer to that question, just like he'd probably never find John again. Bobby was more than aware that he had been acting differently since his roommate left. Being alone became his new hobby, as was playing with all of John's extra lighters that just seemed to pop up in random places. Rogue even approached him a few days ago - What's wrong Bobby? We're getting worried about you, Bobby. Why don't you talk as much as before, Bobby? Forget Pyro, Bobby.
First thing, Rogue, his name is John. Second thing, go away.
Bobby doubted that even a session with the Professor could erase his best friend from his mind. Nothing could. Nothing could ever dilute the pain and betrayal he felt every time he stepped foot inside is own room and saw John's belongings strewn across the floor while knowing that the mess' owner would not be returning to clean it up after getting yelled at my Mr. Summers. Nothing could stop Bobby from remembering the way John walked, talked, and flicked that stupid lighter in everyone's faces. Nothing could stop him from knowing deep down that in the end, he was the one who could have stopped John from leaving, from crossing to the "other side". Dangerous territory. Nothing could every erase Bobby's guilt and his anger and his frustration and nothing - nothing could ever stop him from hurting. Nothing.
Silence. God, how he missed John's voice. The quiet was stifling.
Bobby reached down and picked up the icy, half-melted tennis ball. Closing his eyes, he started to bounce it against the wall again. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Click-fwoosh.
"Damn it, John, I told you to stop messing with that lighter."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Please review! I'm thinking about writing another one from John's POV, so criticism would be very helpful! Thanks!