[for Bobby] Break up, and break down.

[prodigalflame]

These days, the evening meal was quiet in the Allerdrake household. There were the usual, half-hearted attempts at conversation, a cursory 'how was your day?', while John poked at his food and pretended to not notice what Bobby was eating. Or pretended not to hear about what a great workout he'd had at gym.

The evenings were like that too, more than most, and the days stretched, filled in by uncomfortable silences that even John didn't want to interrupt. When they had sex, or cuddled, or brought a sudden, impulsive smile to each other's lips, it felt good, so shockingly good and rare and true that for John at least it threw the other, dreary-dull-polite times into stark contrast.

While John had never, could never, would never do the crazy vegan thing, he wasn't doing a lot of frying or roasting. Instead, he was making a lot of salads: mostly with grilled haloumi, or chicken tossed through, or couscous and roasted vegetables, stuff like that. It was the closest he could come to a compromise. And salads seemed to suit the summer.

Besides, Bobby was judging him well enough, for not being ridiculous in his culinary habits, so John sat at the table in muted silence and speared a cube of cooked haloumi with his fork.

Some nights he could across at the living room and almost pretend he was alone at the table, alone in the house.

Comments

[prodigalflame]

"Sit down," John told him, with a touch of the old cranky fondness. Bobby looked like someone could knock him over with a feather right now, and John did not want to explain things if he fainted or some shit.

"I'm not kidding," he continued, voice deliberately flat, brisk, just wanting to get this over with, before the emotions poured back in. "I'm breaking up with you because - because because I fell in love with a guy when I was fifteen and I don't recognise him much these days." Okay, so the emotional control was a little shaky. "Because I don't want stand here and watch you do this to yourself. It's not healthy, Bobby. I don't know if it's a guilt thing or a control thing, but you can't get it up half the time and yet you keep pushing yourself to do more. Next thing you know, instead of your dick it'll be your powers that go on the fritz."

Now, now he was blinking away angry tears: "Because I'm not happy and finally I understand that I deserve to be." His entire body was tense, taut, rocking a little in the chair.

[cold_blueeyes]

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.

[prodigalflame]

John didn't even flinch at the sudden anger in Bobby, or his violent reaction. He'd seen and done worse himself. No, even as limp greens sort of...oozed down the wall, all John did was note that he'd have to clean that up later.

Later being the operative word. Now he had to pound up the stairs behind his - behind Bobby, to keep a safe distance and try not to make things even worse. Part of him didn't give a damn if he did, because he was just so tired with it all. And beneath that, there was a stupid, useless nugget of hope that was far more human than John was strictly comfortable with.

"You've just got a sickness," John said, calmly, from down the corridor, able to look in and see Bobby packing. "You can google the eating habits, the fitness...lots of people have it. I know you wanted to be better. I know I probably made too many cracks about your ass, and you listened to me. But I loved you, just the way you were. Ice-cream and weight and all."

[cold_blueeyes]

So now he was sick? Bobby's hands shook with renewed fury as he half-blindly emptied his clothes from the dresser. "Bullshit," he spat, not even looking at him. "There's nothing wrong with me. I don't know what your problem is." He turned to the closet, grabbing a few things from there. He'd have John ship the rest of his stuff to...wherever he ended up, or something.

"I don't know if you're jealous, or if you just don't like what I'm doing, like, if you're offended by it, or--fuck, I don't know. I've been trying to figure the answer to that out for months." He looked up, his gaze now as icy as if he'd used his power to freeze it. "But don't blame me because you can't deal with your shit." He couldn't entirely get the zipper on the duffel bag to clothes as it was fairly full, but he tugged it far enough that things weren't going to spill everywhere and shrugged it onto his shoulder.

[prodigalflame]

That fury, that...rejection dragged something out of John, something ugly and bitter. "Why the fuck would I be jealous of you? You're a fucking mess," he snapped. "You run away from everything, from everyone, from your life,from the X-Men, from me. Don't think I haven't heard what happened with Rogue. That was happening to us, sweetheart, and you weren't doing shit because you don't like to deal with anything. And now you're running again. Good for you."

John wound his arms tight around his chest, rocking a bit back and forth on his heels. He wasn't sure if he wanted to fight or to fall apart, and there was too much for him to feel to be easily contained. He was gonna cry. He was gonna fucking cry. God, he was fucking crying.

"When you feel better - and you will feel better, someday," it was something of a prophecy and a threat, John blinking away tears as he spoke. "You can call me. Because there will never, ever, ever be anyone else for me. And that's the shit I have to deal with." He held onto Bobby's gaze for a few moments before it was too much and he stared down at the carpet.

[cold_blueeyes]

"I'm not running away, you're kicking me out!" Bobby yelled. And how dare he bring up Rogue?

And then there were tears on John's cheeks, which only made him angrier, because he didn't want to see John hurting right now, it made his own pain threaten to crack open and spill over. He clung to John's words, words that once again suggested there was something wrong with him just because he wasn't the same old boring Bobby anymore. It was enough to keep the anger stoked, keep the pain at bay.

"Don't hold your breath," he growled, pausing to wrench the ring from his finger and slam it to the top of the dresser before shoving past John to head down the stairs. "Have a nice life, Pyro."

[prodigalflame]

John snorted at the old nickname. He'd chosen it for himself in spite, adopted it in scorn, and dropped it out of guilt. But it was enough to bring him out of his reverie, reduced to wiping the tears from his cheeks and feeling things like some kind of dork.

His life in a wreck around him, John stuck his jaw out and crossed to the balustrade to loom over and gaze down at the departing figure with growing contempt. This was why a part of him had always loathed Bobby, why they'd always been different. John fought for things because he gave a crap: Bobby only fought if backed into a corner, and most of the time he fled.

"...Oh, that's rich, coming from the guy who got off on my hair, Iceman." John had done the bleach job to make him happy, he'd compromised and changed and tempered himself, all to get along with the guy, to take his place in a world that he hated and who hated him in turn, and there was Bobby, running off again. "Yeah, you're just fine, no damage here."

Pausing, he hollered as he came down the stairs, determined to let this be his last word even as he all but chased Bobby out the door: "Your Mom will set you up with the nicest girl. You'll have a perfect life. Enjoy the lack of actual feelings, and go fuck yourself, Frosty."