Disclaimer - Characters aren't mine, they're Marvel's. The popular TV show I refer to isn't mine either. And just so you know, this is Pietro's POV. And now, by popular demand I continue...
Shakespeare and Valentines
Sometimes, we at the Brotherhood House will sit down in the living room and have a conversation. It's really funny to watch, actually; it's like some well-meaning TV sitcom gone awry, us trying to talk intelligently with each other. We're like the Cosby kids, only inverted because we're all white and mostly guys instead of mostly girls. So Tabitha's Theo, the gender minority. Then Todd's Rudy, the small one. Fred's Vanessa, the one with bad hair. Lance is Sandra, the oldest. And that leaves me, Pietro, as Denise...the weird one.
The smart one.
The one who got away.
Back to the conversations, though, none of them has the brains to seriously pull it off, except Lance sometimes. Of course, I am easily capable of interesting conversation, but my mind's going about ten times faster than theirs. I can't sit still and be expected to interact with them at the same time. But I usually sit with them all the same, and to amuse myself I translate what they say into what they're probably thinking.
And that's where we are now, hanging out in the ratty old parlor, Todd crouching by the fireplace, Fred sitting on the floor, and me stretched out on the torn divan. Lance is occupying his favorite overstuffed chair, while Tabitha perches on one of its arms, her back resting against the wall. The silence is awkward, with Freddy and Todd casting forlorn stares in the direction of the busted television. Finally, Tabitha clears her throat.
"So," she says in her I'm-trying-so-hard-to-sound-sultry voice. "Let's play a game."
Pietro's Translation: Please pay attention to me!! My self-worth depends on it!
Todd looks up. "What kinda game?"
Pietro's Translation: I must admit, this peaceful quiet distresses me. Let's fill it with trivial noise.
"The question game. I ask a question, you guys answer it," she answers.
Pietro's Translation: I am unable to think of anything original, so let's pretend that asking questions is fun and exciting.
"Whatever," Lance murmurs, leaning back in his chair.
Pietro's Translation: This is stupid, but I can't think of anything remotely appealing either.
"Well...who is your favorite female pop star?" Tabitha asks.
Pietro's Translation: Don't forget, I'm sexy! This should remind you!
They actually pause, thinking about it, pondering it. I'm totally amazed, for once having over-estimated their intelligence; they're taking her seriously.
Eventually, Fred breaks the silence. "Britney's the best singer."
Pietro's Translation: Britney's got big boobs.
"But Christina's a good singer too. Plus, she's the best dancer, yo," Todd debates.
Pietro's Translation: But Christina's got a nice pair too. Plus, baby got back...yo.
"They're both good," Tabitha breaks in.
Pietro's Translation: I have big boobs AND a nice ass!! Don't forget me!! Pay attention to me!!
Lance shakes his head. "Naw, Mandy Moore's probably the most talented. She can sing AND act."
Pietro's Translation: Mandy Moore's the youngest, just like Kitty. I dig the pre-teen chicas.
"And Jessica Simpson's okay," he continues. "But she has a butt chin."
Pietro's Translation: I...
Wait a minute.
"Wait a minute," I cry, abruptly sitting up. They all whip around and look at me, startled. I guess they assumed I was asleep. In a split second I'm on my feet and standing in front of Lance, pointing a finger in his face. "That's possibly THE dumbest thing I've ever heard you say. First of all, it's called a CLEFT chin, not a butt chin. That's just dumb. Second, how can a cleft chin make her any less talented, intelligent, or attractive? If anything, it gives her extra character!" I pause, suddenly aware of their confused eyes staring blankly at me, and I'm embarrassed, not by my outburst but because of what's really upset me.
"I...I happen to LIKE Jessica Simpson," I finish. Nice job, Pietro. I rush out the door and up the stairs, to my room.
"What the hell's his problem?" I hear Tabitha ask right before I slam the door.
I sigh and fling myself onto the bed. It's really too early to be going to sleep; hell, it's still a little light outside. But sleep is the best way to forget your troubles, so I'm going for it. Just shut up your damn brain for a while, Pietro, and sleep.
...
...
...
It's not working.
Damn insomnia.
For someone as smart as I am, I'm really an idiot. I mean, I like Rogue, and I'm pretty sure she kind of has the hots for me. This is someone I can talk to, who understands me, who's more than halfway intelligent and pretty, too. Okay, we can't touch each other, but there has to be ways around that. So how do I try to impress her?
I take four other girls to Sadie's.
I shift in bed and settle on my stomach, staring at the wall that used to separate her room from mine. God, I am stupid. I am such a pompous moron. Maybe she liked me before, but now she has to hate me. I hate me. I reach out and touch the wall with the palm of my hand. It's dull and cold, empty.
Rogue looked great in orange that night.
If she were still a part of the Brotherhood, I swear I'd stumble into her room right now, sobbing, begging her to forgive my idiocy. I'd lay my head in her lap as I wept, trying to explain why I act like I do, that sometimes my brain is going so fast that I don't completely think things out. That she's the only girl I've ever really cared about, and she's probably the only person who's ever given a damn about me. That I hate to see her so sad all the time, that I wish she'd share all her secrets with me, and that I like every bit of her, from her big ugly boots to her cleft chin and so much more. I swear I would.
But she's not a part of this house anymore. All I can hope for is the card, my note. Even that was pretty dumb, vain and all. I put in some poem because I know she likes literature, trying to explain, but it just came out like it was written by Pietro the Colossal Ass. Maybe she'll look through it, though, and manage to see that I meant well. Maybe she'll really be there tomorrow by her locker, waiting for me. Or maybe not. Oh God, please be there Rogue.
I shift again onto my back, watching the moonlight play tricks with the shadows on the ceiling. Downstairs, the others still talk and laugh, all briefly content with the world and their small, unifying friendship. And I am alone.
Pietro's Translation: I don't think I'll be going to sleep tonight.
Author's Note - This is pretty lame. I hope the next chapter's better. Sorry guys. FYI, this was inspired by my hatred of the phrase "butt chin". My friend Tracey says someone once referred to Rogue as having an "ass chin" once, and that's even worse. (Sorry, Tracey, just a little shout out for ya there.) And I notice that three of my four fics have prolonged scenes set in bed, none of which are sexual. Weird.
Shakespeare and Valentines
Sometimes, we at the Brotherhood House will sit down in the living room and have a conversation. It's really funny to watch, actually; it's like some well-meaning TV sitcom gone awry, us trying to talk intelligently with each other. We're like the Cosby kids, only inverted because we're all white and mostly guys instead of mostly girls. So Tabitha's Theo, the gender minority. Then Todd's Rudy, the small one. Fred's Vanessa, the one with bad hair. Lance is Sandra, the oldest. And that leaves me, Pietro, as Denise...the weird one.
The smart one.
The one who got away.
Back to the conversations, though, none of them has the brains to seriously pull it off, except Lance sometimes. Of course, I am easily capable of interesting conversation, but my mind's going about ten times faster than theirs. I can't sit still and be expected to interact with them at the same time. But I usually sit with them all the same, and to amuse myself I translate what they say into what they're probably thinking.
And that's where we are now, hanging out in the ratty old parlor, Todd crouching by the fireplace, Fred sitting on the floor, and me stretched out on the torn divan. Lance is occupying his favorite overstuffed chair, while Tabitha perches on one of its arms, her back resting against the wall. The silence is awkward, with Freddy and Todd casting forlorn stares in the direction of the busted television. Finally, Tabitha clears her throat.
"So," she says in her I'm-trying-so-hard-to-sound-sultry voice. "Let's play a game."
Pietro's Translation: Please pay attention to me!! My self-worth depends on it!
Todd looks up. "What kinda game?"
Pietro's Translation: I must admit, this peaceful quiet distresses me. Let's fill it with trivial noise.
"The question game. I ask a question, you guys answer it," she answers.
Pietro's Translation: I am unable to think of anything original, so let's pretend that asking questions is fun and exciting.
"Whatever," Lance murmurs, leaning back in his chair.
Pietro's Translation: This is stupid, but I can't think of anything remotely appealing either.
"Well...who is your favorite female pop star?" Tabitha asks.
Pietro's Translation: Don't forget, I'm sexy! This should remind you!
They actually pause, thinking about it, pondering it. I'm totally amazed, for once having over-estimated their intelligence; they're taking her seriously.
Eventually, Fred breaks the silence. "Britney's the best singer."
Pietro's Translation: Britney's got big boobs.
"But Christina's a good singer too. Plus, she's the best dancer, yo," Todd debates.
Pietro's Translation: But Christina's got a nice pair too. Plus, baby got back...yo.
"They're both good," Tabitha breaks in.
Pietro's Translation: I have big boobs AND a nice ass!! Don't forget me!! Pay attention to me!!
Lance shakes his head. "Naw, Mandy Moore's probably the most talented. She can sing AND act."
Pietro's Translation: Mandy Moore's the youngest, just like Kitty. I dig the pre-teen chicas.
"And Jessica Simpson's okay," he continues. "But she has a butt chin."
Pietro's Translation: I...
Wait a minute.
"Wait a minute," I cry, abruptly sitting up. They all whip around and look at me, startled. I guess they assumed I was asleep. In a split second I'm on my feet and standing in front of Lance, pointing a finger in his face. "That's possibly THE dumbest thing I've ever heard you say. First of all, it's called a CLEFT chin, not a butt chin. That's just dumb. Second, how can a cleft chin make her any less talented, intelligent, or attractive? If anything, it gives her extra character!" I pause, suddenly aware of their confused eyes staring blankly at me, and I'm embarrassed, not by my outburst but because of what's really upset me.
"I...I happen to LIKE Jessica Simpson," I finish. Nice job, Pietro. I rush out the door and up the stairs, to my room.
"What the hell's his problem?" I hear Tabitha ask right before I slam the door.
I sigh and fling myself onto the bed. It's really too early to be going to sleep; hell, it's still a little light outside. But sleep is the best way to forget your troubles, so I'm going for it. Just shut up your damn brain for a while, Pietro, and sleep.
...
...
...
It's not working.
Damn insomnia.
For someone as smart as I am, I'm really an idiot. I mean, I like Rogue, and I'm pretty sure she kind of has the hots for me. This is someone I can talk to, who understands me, who's more than halfway intelligent and pretty, too. Okay, we can't touch each other, but there has to be ways around that. So how do I try to impress her?
I take four other girls to Sadie's.
I shift in bed and settle on my stomach, staring at the wall that used to separate her room from mine. God, I am stupid. I am such a pompous moron. Maybe she liked me before, but now she has to hate me. I hate me. I reach out and touch the wall with the palm of my hand. It's dull and cold, empty.
Rogue looked great in orange that night.
If she were still a part of the Brotherhood, I swear I'd stumble into her room right now, sobbing, begging her to forgive my idiocy. I'd lay my head in her lap as I wept, trying to explain why I act like I do, that sometimes my brain is going so fast that I don't completely think things out. That she's the only girl I've ever really cared about, and she's probably the only person who's ever given a damn about me. That I hate to see her so sad all the time, that I wish she'd share all her secrets with me, and that I like every bit of her, from her big ugly boots to her cleft chin and so much more. I swear I would.
But she's not a part of this house anymore. All I can hope for is the card, my note. Even that was pretty dumb, vain and all. I put in some poem because I know she likes literature, trying to explain, but it just came out like it was written by Pietro the Colossal Ass. Maybe she'll look through it, though, and manage to see that I meant well. Maybe she'll really be there tomorrow by her locker, waiting for me. Or maybe not. Oh God, please be there Rogue.
I shift again onto my back, watching the moonlight play tricks with the shadows on the ceiling. Downstairs, the others still talk and laugh, all briefly content with the world and their small, unifying friendship. And I am alone.
Pietro's Translation: I don't think I'll be going to sleep tonight.
Author's Note - This is pretty lame. I hope the next chapter's better. Sorry guys. FYI, this was inspired by my hatred of the phrase "butt chin". My friend Tracey says someone once referred to Rogue as having an "ass chin" once, and that's even worse. (Sorry, Tracey, just a little shout out for ya there.) And I notice that three of my four fics have prolonged scenes set in bed, none of which are sexual. Weird.