"Get out of my head, Drake," John pleaded, voice caught between a whimper and a growl. It seemed that his old friend's memory didn't leave regardless of his tone, though. He sat on the edge of his bed, hunched over with his head clutched between his hands, fingers fisting in his own hair.
He could hear him. It had been three months since Pyro had left the school, and he could still hear Bobby Drake's valedictorian voice in his head. It never stopped, never let him have any peace.
When he was training: Johnny, we're just practicing- lighten up! Who are you trying to impress?
While he was fighting: Don't be fucking stupid, John! You think throwing a few punches is going to prove anything?!
In the shower: You gonna stand there staring at me or are you gonna kiss me?
And especially while he was asleep. Bobby told John so many things when he was sleeping, when he couldn't fight off the words that frustrated and infuriated relentlessly. Sometimes they were sex dreams, sometimes arguments. More often, though, his dreams replayed that day at Alkali Lake, the look on Bobby's face right before he didn't follow John off. Right before he didn't make him stay.
The previous night's dream had been one of those rare but particularly painful ones that were about nothing in particular. They were watching Comedy Central late on a Friday night. John was sitting at the end of the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table while Bobby sprawled across the rest of the couch, feet up on the armrest and head resting on his thigh. At some point, the larger boy fell asleep. With a soft smile, Johnny reached down and ran his fingers through his short hair, watching the mild expression on his face. It seemed to last the whole night, just those few moments of intimacy which felt so sweet in unconsciousness. The sweetness only hurt him more upon waking.
He fought off the hard lump in his throat and grit his teeth. "I can't fucking deal with this anymore, Bobby." With sudden determination, he rose from his bed and grabbed for a pair of jeans off the floor. He needed to get out, get distracted- anything to assuage this writhing helplessness that was growing inside his mind.
God, Johnny, you're such a drama queen.
"Don't call me a queen, Drake," he growled, repeating the words he'd said half a year ago. He pulled on some clean-ish clothes quickly.
I'll give you a hand-job if you don't storm out of here like atwo-year-old. His voice was light, teasing.
"Believe it or not, I think I'll pass," John snapped at the memory, opening his door as he shoved on his second boot.
Well, I'll make out with you if you don't slam the door, then.
He slammed his bedroom door and stalked down the hallway of the Brotherhood lair, heading for the hangar. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to go out or not today, but there was no way he'd manage to keep it together if he didn't. Pyro shoved into one of the jump jets and programmed it for the mainland hangar.
"Fuck you, Bobby," he spat at the friend who couldn't hear him, "Fuck you and fuck your little girlfriend and fuck the X-Men now leave me alone!"
The Bobby in his head laughed. Do you think swearing all the time like that makes you sound cool or do you just have nothing better to say? It was a vague repetition of something Cyclops had told them once and it was the sort of thing Drake would say, but John couldn't actually recall him saying it.
And that scared him because the Bobby in his head shouldn't be making up his own conversation. It was one thing to hear old conversations, but once he started to make these things up, he was really in the nut house. He felt like Rogue- a little bit (well, a few years) of contact with someone and suddenly he had voices in his head.
When he got to the mainland, he drove himself to a coffee shop in Westchestire, too close to the school to be smart, but, John rationalized, he might be going crazy and maintaining sanity came before maintaining intelligence. He bought a coffee and one of the romance novels off of the rack next to the counter and settled down in a booth, focusing on the love story in his hand and not the pathetic excuse of one running around his thoughts.
This was the closest he'd gotten to the school so far. When he left, he thought that he'd try as hard as possible to stay away, but Bobby saw to it that he craved nearness. He skirted around it when he went out, getting closer and closer and occasionally drawing back away from it, but he'd get even closer the next time.
I don't know how you read that trash, Bobby had told him and was telling him again. You do know that they're completely ridiculous, don't you?
"Mhmm," he murmured, then glanced up quickly when he realized he'd said it allowed. No one had heard, thankfully, but he knew this had to be dealt with somehow. His old roommate/friend/fuckbuddy was not talking to him. John finished off his coffee and went back to his car.
Today was Friday, which meant that the students were all in class, which meant that the arcade would be safe. They used to go there all the time. He got there (it was nearly empty, but he did his best to look inconspicuous) and went straight to his favorite game. It was a racing game and he'd held the top score for the past two years.
I could totally beat your score if you'd get your ass away from the machine for two minutes, dickwad.
"Yeah right, Drake."
When he sat down, he saw something he hadn't expected. There, in the top three scores where it had previously listed "1. John A", "2. John A", and "3. Bobby D", it now read "1. Bobby D", "2. Bobby D", "3. Bobby D". Well, hell. He'd wiped him off the screen. That ate at him - wiped out of memory as if he'd never been there. It was probably how Bobby wanted it. Lucky Bobby got to forget him that easily, meanwhile John was loosing his marbles. This sucked.
Setting his jaw with a scowl, John popped in two quarters and started playing. No high score. He got up and went to the change machine.
It's just a video game, Johnny. You act like it's a freaking religion.
Three hours later, he had beat the third place score, but was still determined to get first. He was close- almost there- yes! He jerked in a short, seated victory dance when the door dinged to indicate new arrivals. Looking down at his watch, he swore silently. Four o'clock and classes were out. He could only pray that it wasn't-
"Guys, we forgot to get the tickets," Bobby said quickly from behind him. He sounded panicked. "It'll be sold out when we get there. Go get them and I'll wait here, okay? So we don't have to cram into the car, okay?"
He couldn't breathe. That voice was real. John glanced around quickly for an escape, but he didn't turn around for fear of being noticed by the others. He had a feeling that Bobby had already spotted him. The door dinged again and they were alone in the arcade together (if you didn't count guy that worked there, sleeping behind the counter).
"You beat my score," Bobby said from behind him, sounding disbelieving. Of course that's what he was surprised about. It made him want to strangle the larger boy a bit.
Somehow, his voice found him, though it was shaky. "Lying to your friends again, Drake?" he asked without turning away from the screen, "That was almost as good as 'John burned my neck with his lighter'."
There was a pause and then the other boy moved to sit down at the next game. "I didn't lie. We really didn't get the tickets," he said quietly. John sighed and ran a hand through his hair nervously as he finally looked at his old friend. It was frightening- he didn't know how this conversation ended. This one was new.
"Look, I'll leave and then we can pretend this never happened, got it?" he bargained, trying to look stoic, but he knew that the pleading look in his eyes gave away everything.
Bobby shook his head and looked down, silent for a long moment. Finally, he spoke: "You shouldn't have left if you thought you'd miss it." It, the ambiguous word that could mean as little as "the school: or as much as "being together", tugged at John.
"I didn't think I would."
Blue eyes looked up at him, studying. "You're lucky, you know. You don't have to sleep in our old room." Lucky? That was a word that definitely didn't apply to him. "It took forever to get the smoke smell out."
"You're just trying to wipe your life clean of me, then, huh?" John asked, gesturing to the game. There was hurt in his voice.
"Don't, Johnny," Bobby warned him, "because you would have, too. You just didn't have to."
The smaller boy got to his feet, wanting to be so furious at him. "No, I just don't have a neat and easy way to do it," he snapped.
"Come back with me."
The request was surprising, tempting, and a little bit insulting. "If you thought you'd miss me, you shouldn't have let me go."
"If I thought you'd actually leave, I wouldn't have. Johnny, you meant everything." Bobby stood, eyes pleading and he really, really wanted to believe him.
"Then what did Rogue mean?"
"Nothing."
"Does she know that?"
"Yes."
John paused, studying him and looking for any little tell, any sign that he didn't mean it, that he hadn't made a huge mistake in leaving. It was just Bobby, though, honest-faced, sweet Bobby.
"Come back with me."