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And Then There Were Two

Bobby/Iceman

I'm going crazy, I think. I keep avoiding him, as though all he'd have to do is look at me and he'd see it, like it's tattooed on my face or something. I talked to Marie yesterday, but she just gave me girl-advice. I mean, it's interesting if you want to know how they think, but it doesn't help me much.

Well, maybe it does. Is it worth it the risk? Well, yeah, I think so. I mean, it's just... it... yeah, it is.

Would it hurt if he said no? Definitely. It would hurt like hell, and he'd probably think I'm a freak or something, too.

Does he feel the same way? God, I have no idea.

Could I imagine being with him, or am I just lusting after him 'cause I can't have him? Well, I don't think my subconscious would be so masochistic that it would pick him as the object of my fascination, so I guess it isn't just a lust thing. Fine, maybe she was a little bit helpful.

...Wait, did she say 'talk to him'? She did, she already knows! Shit.

I spring up, suddenly full of nervous energy, and decide to look for her. I'm rushing out of the room as John's coming in, and I careen into him. He hits the wall behind him, and I crash into it –him- seconds later. I stare, wide-eyed, at his identical, frozen expression for a minute, unable to move –forward, forward! He's so close- until finally, red-faced, I back up hurriedly. I mutter an excuse and an apology and then leave as fast as I can. Not fast enough, though, because I don't miss the hurt look he gives me as I practically run from him.

Shit.

I never managed to find Marie. She's sneaky, she is. I slunk back to the room after I was sure he would be asleep, and then dropped into bed, exhausted and a little bit miserable. I don't know what to do. I always know what to do! It isn't always the right thing, exactly, but I always know, and now I have nothing.

I don't notice falling asleep. I certainly notice waking up, sweat-covered and hot, the next morning. I really hope that I'm not making a habit of this.

It really sucks that our room is next to the bathroom, because whenever someone decides to have an early morning shower, it wakes John up (it also sucks because somebody sings in there. Badly). That inevitably means that he wakes me up. I think I hear a shower running now, actually. And John hasn't woken me up, either, which is weird. I look over, and he isn't in his bed. That means he's probably the one in the shower.

Which I am not thinking about. And my face is red because... I have a skin condition. Exactly. And now I will return to not thinking about the shower.

Which is no longer running? As the door slides open, I hurriedly grab a book and pretend I'm reading it, trying desperately not to think about him, or it, or anything at all. Thinking only seems to lead to trouble, with me. John's voice comes to me tentatively across the room that is suddenly too small, too hot, and silent. "Hey, are you alright?"

Startled, I look up at him. "What d'you mean?"

"Well," he reaches up to rub the back of his neck, seemingly embarrassed, "you're being weird, and I think you're reading the dictionary upside-down." Shit. I check, and learn that indeed I am trying to glean the meaning of 'ostensible' (which is; seeming to be true or genuine, but open to doubt. Ironic, isn't it?), from an upside-down dictionary. Real bright.

"Oh. Um..." I can't think of anything to say to that, really. I am getting an urge to tell him anything and everything, though. I don't think I can open my mouth, and I certainly shouldn't be held accountable for what might come spilling out if I do.

After a few awkward minutes, he seems to try to ask me something. Just like me, though, the words don't seem to make the voyage successfully from his mind to his mouth, but when they do, they sound angry. "Did I... Are you pissed off at me, or something? I mean, you haven't talked to me for days, except when you knocked me into a wall."

"What? No! I'm not pissed off, at you, I swear," I say in a rush. This explains why he seemed hurt, at least.

"Well, then what?" He's getting louder, almost yelling now. I drop the dictionary, and say, quietly, "I don't know."

"Why won't you talk to me? Hell, why don't you even fucking look at me?" My eyes narrow and I stand up, and I yell right back at him, "I don't know, okay? I don't fucking know!" We stand there for a minute; face to face, maybe a foot apart, fists clenched and breathing hard. Then, my lip twists up at the corner, almost a smile, as I consider the hilarity of the situation. This is all it takes, of course, to send both of us into fits of laughter.

"That," I gasp between chuckles, "was the stupidest argument yet."

'No it wasn't," he grins at me slyly, "remember the thing about-" I cut him off quickly. "That never happened. Never." He laughs at me, and I realize that I missed this. Sitting on the floor, doing absolutely nothing. Well, there is when we're mocking each other, or even making the supreme effort to throw things across the room. But really, nothing. The room is still dark this late in the morning (I finally found some new curtains) and everything feels peaceful, and yet somehow surreal. I'm sprawled across my bed, one hand draped over the edge and the other across my stomach, which still aches faintly from laughter.

I tilt my head backwards to study my roommate. He's sitting on his own bed, one leg drawn up; head leant back against the wall. His hair is too long again, wet and falling all over his face. I think he might be sleeping, because his breathing is deep, and even. And really, only while he's sleeping would I be able to watch him unabashedly. He looks more relaxed and unguarded than I've seen him in a while. Hell, more relaxed than I've seen him in years.

I wish it wasn't like this. Either course I pick, I manage to screw myself over. And him too, really. If I don't tell him, I can't seem to look him in the eye. If I do, he'll be disgusted with me. Either way, I lose him even as my friend.

This bites.

It might be an hour later, and the shower-singer has just woken me up. I wish he hadn't, because my neck really hurts, and the singing isn't getting any better.

It serves me right for falling asleep with my head dangling over the edge of the bed, really. I get up, rubbing my neck to get the blood flowing properly, and notice John still sleeping. This is weird, because he's a very light sleeper, usually. He must be tired, so I won't wake him. But then again, it's past ten, so there'll be no food left. And those eggs were good.

"Hey, get up, man!" I'd like to go over and shake him or something, but John can get a little... irritable if you wake him up. Also, I have terrible impulse control.

"Fuggoff."

"That isn't even a word. C'mon, get up. It's nearly afternoon!" I edge closer, but cautiously. You can never tell, with him.

"Bite me."

I prod his shoulder warily. When he doesn't grab my arm –when I don't grab him- I try it again, harder. Finally, he opens his eyes, glaring. "Sleeping like that can't be comfortable. Let's go eat or something," I suggest helpfully.

"What, are you going to make something?" If you weren't watching closely, you'd miss the laughter in his eye as he says this.

"Well, if you find charred remains edible, I'm your man!"

He laughs, then looks down at the blanket he's cocooned himself in with confusion. "This wasn't here when I fell asleep, was it?"

Evasively, I declare my hunger again and leave the room. He looked cold, and I have no impulse control, especially when it comes to him. Shut up.

I know from experience that people are motivated more by eating than by being considerate. Also, I am terrible and completely random in my updating. Sorry.

Colvine.