A Course In Manipulation, pt. 1.

[x-pyromaniac.livejournal.com]

John stamps. That's the first sound anyone can hear; feet stamping up and along the stairs, with all the angst and adolescent trauma that implies. He bursts into the kitchenette in a blaze of fury and motion, hands gesticulating wildly, and he stops, about to rant, to watch Bobby calmly eat a sandwich.

Bobby smiles to himself, ignoring John for a few moments as he chews. He reaches for his glass of milk and pretends to have just noticed he's not alone. "Evening," he says placidly after swallowing.

John takes a deep breath, and tries not to cry. "Fuck you," he spits, because he never realised Bobby could be so damn cruel. Well, that's not entirely true. So damn cruel to him.

Bobby sets down his sandwich and glares at John. "You started it. Christ, John, you're so damn oversensitive!"

"I started it? You were my friend and you spent all that time with /her/, and then spread your goddamn /legs/ for the first thing with a cock that walked by!" John roared, slamming his flat open hand against the table, before raising it and staring at it in shock. "/Ow./"

Bobby snorts once at the look on John's face, but manages to stifle any further signs of laughter. "And what did you do about it? Did you talk to me? Tell me what was going on? No, you sulked and pouted and ran off with the Evil Twins to get back at me.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't exactly in a sharing mood. I thought you might have been able to guess, you fuckwit," John retorted sourly.

"You want your mind read, go find a fucking telepath to fixate on," Bobby grumbles, picking up his sandwich again.

John's eyes nearly fall out of his head. "/Fixate/? Fixated? Is this all you think this is, some kind...of damned stalker act?"

"It's not? Then maybe you'd better enlighten me, Allerdyce."

John rocks back and forth slightly, his expression pained, like a tightly meshed ball of energy because he really can't admit this, he can't, but oh god he wants to. "When did I stop being John? When did I stop being for you...what you were for me?"

Bobby looks down at his plate, picking at the bread of his sandwich. "I think you know when," he says softly, and rather coldly. "And what was I for you, anyway? I've never understood that. I thought we were friends, but that didn't seem to be enough for you."

"You were the one thing I believed in," John breathes, and there's a tight smile on his face. "You were the American Dream, if you don't mind me saying. You were home, Drake." He grabs a stool from besides the kitchen table, deliberately not looking at Bobby.

"Then why did you leave?" Bobby does look at John, not wanting to miss his reaction. "How could you do that to us, to me, if I was so fucking important to you?"

"Because I wasn't enough for you, okay?" John curls his fingers into fists, nails digging into the skin, voice strained and on the edge of sobbing. "I grew- I stopped- The thing-." He composes his thoughts and tries to make sense of it all. "I learnt on the streets not to trust people or depend on people and I broke that rule the moment I met you, alright? But you didn't /trust/ me, you didn't /depend/ on me-" The words come broken, and out of joint as he breathes deep in and out, almost hyperventiliating, "you had Little Miss Perfect and you wanted to /touch/ her and if you were home I was sick of staying in the spare room, okay?" John stands, a painful expression on his face/ "I'm gonna be-" He staggers over to the sink and dry heaves for a bit, so completely overwhelmed by the emotion.

Bobby jumps up and hurries over to John. "Hey, calm down," he says softly, looking worried. "I /did/ trust you, John. You were important to me, even if I didn't show it as much as I should have." He takes a deep breath and adds, "You still are."

John grabs a square of paper towel and wipes his mouth, before flashing Bobby a wry grin. "Yeah. I know. I'm Comic Relief guy in your icy, angst-filled world."

Bobby rolls his eyes a bit at that. "You're more than that, John. Or you would be, if you'd just stop hating me for two seconds."

"Do you really think I could hate you? Christ, Drake, you must on some serious dope." John laughs, turning, resting his fingers over the side of the sink. "I don't hate you. I hate that I can't get you to understand...things. That's all."

"What kinds of things?" Bobby asks, leaning against the counter.

"You know, the worst feeling in the world is," John says conversationally, "is when you're trying to tell someone you love them and they just don't fucking get it."

Bobby freezes for a few moments. "Did you ever try just saying the words, John?" he asks quietly, not looking at John, just staring at the floor a few feet in front of him.

"I didn't realise you were that stupid, dickwad," John says blandly. "After all, I think half the damn school knows by now."

Bobby shrugs. "Sometimes it's just nice to hear, y'know?" He waits a beat and adds, "Fucktard," with a small grin.

John turns with a wicked cast to his face. "Keep talking like that and I'm gonna have to shut you up."

Bobby's eyes widen in mock-surprise. "And how do you plan to do that?" he asks. "I mean, you don't even have your lighter..."

"Oh, shut the fuck up," John mutters, rolling his eyes, one hand snaking to curl around Bobby's neck, and he kisses him lightly on the lips, tenative.

Gasping softly, Bobby hesitates and then returns the kiss gently, lingering for a few moments before he pulls back and says quietly, "John. I can't do this yet. I need to think."

John's face falls for one terrible second before he composes himself. "Oh. Right. Yeah. You do that, then." Turning, he near runs from the room.

Once he's out of earshot, Bobby laughs and returns to his sandwich, shaking his head.