Bobby knew John was wrong. He didn't know why he insisted on blaming all of their problems on Bobby's new diet, new lifestyle, but clearly that was the plan, and it pissed him off. It was healthy, that was the whole point of it, and if Bobby had pushed himself too hard at the gym a few times and not remembered to make up for the extra burn with a protein shake, and had subsequently had a little trouble in the bedroom (half the time was an exaggeration), so what? He was still figuring things out, still working to find the balance. He wasn't perfect, he was gonna get it wrong sometimes.
(And the fact that his powers already had taken a little more effort from time to time was none of his damn business, especially not now.)
He'd sat when John had said the words, but now he was back on his feet, face flushed with anger because it was easier than the soul-deep hurt that lay below it. "You know what? Fine. I'll get out of your way so you can be happy," he snapped before his throat closed up, the end of the sentence rough and strained with emotion.
He wanted to shove it all away, box it up and ignore it, calmly go upstairs and pack a bag and figure out what the fuck he was supposed to do now, but he didn't dare let the scorching anger go, didn't trust that when it went he'd find the calm he wanted. And he sure as fuck didn't want to break down in front of his--well, ex-fiance now, apparently.
As that last thought seared through his mind, he scooped up the bowl of salad from the table and threw it at the opposite wall, bowl shattering and spraying wet greens across the wall's surface. Then he turned on his heel and pounded up the stairs to start throwing whatever he could grab of his into a bag. If John wanted him gone, then fine. He'd get gone. He'd go to Hex's, see if he could crash on his couch for tonight, and...and figure out tomorrow tomorrow.
no subject
(And the fact that his powers already had taken a little more effort from time to time was none of his damn business, especially not now.)
He'd sat when John had said the words, but now he was back on his feet, face flushed with anger because it was easier than the soul-deep hurt that lay below it. "You know what? Fine. I'll get out of your way so you can be happy," he snapped before his throat closed up, the end of the sentence rough and strained with emotion.
He wanted to shove it all away, box it up and ignore it, calmly go upstairs and pack a bag and figure out what the fuck he was supposed to do now, but he didn't dare let the scorching anger go, didn't trust that when it went he'd find the calm he wanted. And he sure as fuck didn't want to break down in front of his--well, ex-fiance now, apparently.
As that last thought seared through his mind, he scooped up the bowl of salad from the table and threw it at the opposite wall, bowl shattering and spraying wet greens across the wall's surface. Then he turned on his heel and pounded up the stairs to start throwing whatever he could grab of his into a bag. If John wanted him gone, then fine. He'd get gone. He'd go to Hex's, see if he could crash on his couch for tonight, and...and figure out tomorrow tomorrow.