Disclaimer: No characters here are mine.
Author's Note: There is not enough good Pyro fanfiction in which he's portrayed as anything more than a villain. He's actually a great, complex character with loads of room to grow. And, if you can tell by this and "My Inferna", I like the idea of a PyRogue relationship
. .
Fruit punch. 7-Up. Loud speakers. Skimpy dresses. High heels, striped ties, bad music, nachos, white tablecloth. Plus two hundred kids. The elements of a school dance.
John couldn't have hated the music more. Bad enough that they had ignored all his twenty songs on the request list, but couldn't they at least lay off on the N'SYNC? Leaning with his elbow against the table, he drove his hand into the bowl of potato chips and grabbed a handful. Everywhere else, bodies swirled around him, dancing, laughing, singing, lip synching, chatting, eating, drinking and having a grand old time.
He smirked. Kitty couldn't dance to save her life. Jubilation could, and he would've asked her for the next dance, the way she was busting moves, if it were not for the fact that she was wearing next to nothing. The basis of her skirt resembled a ribbon tied around her ass; her blouse was a torn piece of what looked like the remains of a bikini.
Girls these days. Bare skin was not a serious turn-on for John. The sluttier they acted, the less he was interested. They all thought skimpy was sexy; it wasn't. Stylish was sexy. Bare midriffs and backs were fine, to an extent. But long gloves and high heels, not low-riders and four-inch platforms, were the main standards of elegance.
From across the room, a girl with a white streak had caught his eye. She had a sense of class, at least. Bicep-high gloves, small spiked heels, a sweeping red and black evening gown. He'd been watching her all night. She danced very little, but when she did she was a treat to see. A few minutes before, his roommate Bobby had been talking to her. She hadn't seemed too terribly excited, a bit hesitant perhaps, making John all the more excited. He was going to have the last dance with her.
Now was the issue of gaining the courage to do so.
He plunged his hand into the bowl of chips again, as if Tostitos would be some token of good luck. The last dance was going to be "Perfect" by Simple Plan. A great song, in his opinion. Probably the best they'd play all night (not that that was so hard).
Another handful of chips and he was off.
"Hey." He tapped her shoulder. She winced, even though she was wearing sleeves, then turned around. "Hi."
Damn it. He couldn't think of anything to say.
A smile lit up her features. "Hey! Like the dance?" The perky note in her voice told him she couldn't remember his name.
Holding out his hand to her, "John Allardyce. From your History class."
The look of dawning recognition crossed her face, causing her mouth to form a small O. She took his hand, almost reluctantly, as if he'd burn her or vice versa, and shook it.
John decided to make his move. Better now than never. "So, I was wondering...would you like to dance?"
A different expression now, one of sympathy and -what was that? Pity? "I promised the last dance to Bobby Drake. I'm sorry."
John's heart both flared and died at the same time. Slow, rivulets of anger at Bobby, a little flare of disappointment. "Oh. Well, then, I'll go."
She managed a slow smile, a sad one. John didn't notice it as he walked briskly away.
Damn. Goddamn. He'd have to sucker-punch Bobby for this one. Always second place, John. Bobby had all the girls, all the grades, all the teacher's bending over backwards to lick his boots. And John had - what? His lighter? Was that how desperate he'd gotten?
"Didn't get a dance either?" Looking down to see a younger boy, John realized he'd inadvertently retrieved his lighter. Artie looked him with the trust and adoration that comes from a youth in the presence of a teenager.
"Like I'd want some dumb girl stepping on my feet." John covered up for the near choke in his voice by flicking his lighter in time to the music.
"Oh." Artie needn't say anymore. He'd made his point: John was a bad liar.
John continued to flip the top of his lighter like a metronome, letting it click when it fell back upon itself. Artie left to get some punch. The slow danced wafted through the air, making John's blood thick with regret.
Click, click.
"Well we lost it all, nothing lasts forever, I'm sorry..." To his surprise, John found himself mouthing the words to the song, remembering writing it down on the request list. The DJ had finally done something right, even if John had blown his chance to make it perfect. At least it was right. "...I can't be perfect."
Click, click.
"I'm sorry, I can't be..." John took a breath and looked across the floor at Rogue and Bobby. Bobby danced like a frikken' lumberjack. A one- legged lumber jack with the other leg made of wood. A one-legged, peg- legged lumberjack who'd had too much to drink. Yet she seemed to be enjoying it, though she winced every time her toes got stomped on. John sighed and finished alongside the singer who was conveying a different meaning with the same words. "...perfect..."
Author's Note: There is not enough good Pyro fanfiction in which he's portrayed as anything more than a villain. He's actually a great, complex character with loads of room to grow. And, if you can tell by this and "My Inferna", I like the idea of a PyRogue relationship
. .
Fruit punch. 7-Up. Loud speakers. Skimpy dresses. High heels, striped ties, bad music, nachos, white tablecloth. Plus two hundred kids. The elements of a school dance.
John couldn't have hated the music more. Bad enough that they had ignored all his twenty songs on the request list, but couldn't they at least lay off on the N'SYNC? Leaning with his elbow against the table, he drove his hand into the bowl of potato chips and grabbed a handful. Everywhere else, bodies swirled around him, dancing, laughing, singing, lip synching, chatting, eating, drinking and having a grand old time.
He smirked. Kitty couldn't dance to save her life. Jubilation could, and he would've asked her for the next dance, the way she was busting moves, if it were not for the fact that she was wearing next to nothing. The basis of her skirt resembled a ribbon tied around her ass; her blouse was a torn piece of what looked like the remains of a bikini.
Girls these days. Bare skin was not a serious turn-on for John. The sluttier they acted, the less he was interested. They all thought skimpy was sexy; it wasn't. Stylish was sexy. Bare midriffs and backs were fine, to an extent. But long gloves and high heels, not low-riders and four-inch platforms, were the main standards of elegance.
From across the room, a girl with a white streak had caught his eye. She had a sense of class, at least. Bicep-high gloves, small spiked heels, a sweeping red and black evening gown. He'd been watching her all night. She danced very little, but when she did she was a treat to see. A few minutes before, his roommate Bobby had been talking to her. She hadn't seemed too terribly excited, a bit hesitant perhaps, making John all the more excited. He was going to have the last dance with her.
Now was the issue of gaining the courage to do so.
He plunged his hand into the bowl of chips again, as if Tostitos would be some token of good luck. The last dance was going to be "Perfect" by Simple Plan. A great song, in his opinion. Probably the best they'd play all night (not that that was so hard).
Another handful of chips and he was off.
"Hey." He tapped her shoulder. She winced, even though she was wearing sleeves, then turned around. "Hi."
Damn it. He couldn't think of anything to say.
A smile lit up her features. "Hey! Like the dance?" The perky note in her voice told him she couldn't remember his name.
Holding out his hand to her, "John Allardyce. From your History class."
The look of dawning recognition crossed her face, causing her mouth to form a small O. She took his hand, almost reluctantly, as if he'd burn her or vice versa, and shook it.
John decided to make his move. Better now than never. "So, I was wondering...would you like to dance?"
A different expression now, one of sympathy and -what was that? Pity? "I promised the last dance to Bobby Drake. I'm sorry."
John's heart both flared and died at the same time. Slow, rivulets of anger at Bobby, a little flare of disappointment. "Oh. Well, then, I'll go."
She managed a slow smile, a sad one. John didn't notice it as he walked briskly away.
Damn. Goddamn. He'd have to sucker-punch Bobby for this one. Always second place, John. Bobby had all the girls, all the grades, all the teacher's bending over backwards to lick his boots. And John had - what? His lighter? Was that how desperate he'd gotten?
"Didn't get a dance either?" Looking down to see a younger boy, John realized he'd inadvertently retrieved his lighter. Artie looked him with the trust and adoration that comes from a youth in the presence of a teenager.
"Like I'd want some dumb girl stepping on my feet." John covered up for the near choke in his voice by flicking his lighter in time to the music.
"Oh." Artie needn't say anymore. He'd made his point: John was a bad liar.
John continued to flip the top of his lighter like a metronome, letting it click when it fell back upon itself. Artie left to get some punch. The slow danced wafted through the air, making John's blood thick with regret.
Click, click.
"Well we lost it all, nothing lasts forever, I'm sorry..." To his surprise, John found himself mouthing the words to the song, remembering writing it down on the request list. The DJ had finally done something right, even if John had blown his chance to make it perfect. At least it was right. "...I can't be perfect."
Click, click.
"I'm sorry, I can't be..." John took a breath and looked across the floor at Rogue and Bobby. Bobby danced like a frikken' lumberjack. A one- legged lumber jack with the other leg made of wood. A one-legged, peg- legged lumberjack who'd had too much to drink. Yet she seemed to be enjoying it, though she winced every time her toes got stomped on. John sighed and finished alongside the singer who was conveying a different meaning with the same words. "...perfect..."