Photomontage
Rating: Between PG-13 and R again. Most probably about a Brit 15. America needs a new rating system, and not just becuase it'd be funny to see all of Hollywood get twisted and weird.
Pairing: erm... John/Bobby (John's POV, becuase he's a little easier to write from)
The beginning is a little awkward, just to warn you, or if anyone has any ideas on how to make it flow better.
John woke up, looked down and saw Bobby’s head resting on his bare chest. They were wrapped up in each other, legs, arms intertwined. Bobby smiled in his sleep and John reached his chin down and kissed the head of short blue hair (he had convinced Bobby to dye it two months ago and it was starting to get that fade like a pair of jeans).
John relaxed against the sheets and closed his eyes. He could afford the time to lie in bed for a little longer. He remembered last night, when Bobby was hanging out in his room and had put on a record of some band he liked- the Postal Service (because John kept his brother’s record player, like his brother had asked him to and Bobby liked buying records because they were cheaper and you could buy ones of Romanian monks singing and then play them really fast. It was a lot funnier when you were high. Or caffeinated). How Bobby said the music made him feel sexy, and looked at John, like he wanted to say something else. John had stood and pulling Bobby off his bed, he wrapped his hands on his hips and slowly moved his legs to dance.
When the song ended, they stood with hands in the other’s hair (well Bobby’s hand cupping the back of John’s head because like it or not, nobody could get their fingers twined into John’s buzzed hair), Bobby’s stray hand drifting below John’s belt, John’s spare hand gently resting on the inside of Bobby’s boxers, just below the small of the back, holding him close to him, skin firm, warm beneath his finger tips. They paused for a minute, moved their hands to grasp at shoulder level, fingers intertwined. Three years of sharing rooms, getting drunk and high occasionally and stealing kisses in the bathroom, then not talking about them the next morning, they swayed slowly not talking. Gradually their pants dropped and decked only in their boxers they found their way to (John’s) unmade bed.
John could remember talking about ‘Romeo and Juliet’ with Bobby, once. Marie had the soundtrack and Bobby would borrow it and play it sometimes. When John played the piano, he’d play that piece for his mother, the ‘Liebestod’ from ‘Tristan und Isolde’ (someone translated the violin to piano a long time ago) sometimes. His mom had always wanted to see that opera but she would only have John play it for her instead cause operas didn’t really come with in his parent’s price ranges and besides, how could she go tot eh opera? John would be her opera and she was happy with that, he guessed. Bobby asked John if he thought it as weird that Juliet was technically way pre-consent. John told him that that was a Remy comment, something he would ask the professor. Sure enough, the next day.
That was after Bobby somehow managed to drape himself across John’s bed and his legs. John was trying to read a magazine, something on something and Bobby managed drape himself across John’s knees without looking stupid or even sexy, just reading some books by Charles Dickens. John was supposed to be reading “On the Road” considering he was the one who convinced the Professor to let him do an independent study but… It took John a really long time to turn the page and it was only after his legs started to cramp (not that he’d tell Bobby) that he realized Bobby had been looking at the same page as long as he had been rereading the word ‘formidable’.
Bobby decided to pop the question then, and after John answered Bobby said he knew that, it was just he couldn’t help thinking that maybe after a few months Romeo and Juliet would have fallen out of love. Or maybe not, John wanted to say but his knee itched and Bobby sat up, falling somewhere between John’s legs, facing the wall, his legs still resting on John’s left knee. He got up and went through the bathroom to his room and John threw the magazine at the window, aiming for the porch but almost hitting the laptop that the Professor gave everyone.
There was another time when they went into this food store at two in the morning one night cause they just felt like walking (they had just gone and seen some band-the Shins and they couldn’t catch a train until morning) and they had stopped in there to buy some soda. They were standing in the ice cream section and there was this old guy watching them, John could tell he was watching them. So it was a joke, John moved behind Bobby and wrapped his arms around him, hugging Bobby’s lower waist, watching his breath blow up strands Bobby’ hair, before he cut it and it wasn’t curly kinda anymore and Bobby just continued to stare at the flavors until asking if mint chocolate chip was ok, reached in and grabbed it.
John knew the guy wasn’t there anymore but he kept his arms around Bobby because he wasn’t sure how to let go. When Bobby twisted to show John the container he let his own arm snake and wrap around John’s waist and maybe there was a busload of old people watching them but John wouldn’t turn around. Fine, John had said and Bobby kissed his cheek and they had walked to the cashier and paid like that, with John half on Bobby’s heels until he figured out how to time his steps, and when they got outside they started laughing, John forcing himself to laugh and move his arm up to hang off Bobby’s shoulders, and letting the other drop off. Bobby said how the old guy’s eyebrows touched his hairline and the check out girl looked disappointed. John made himself laugh.
There was another time. Well, there had been a lot of times where similar things had happened or the same things thought, but once, John had woken up in the middle of the night and his mouth had a lacy ice pattern around it, and he had to cry in order to open his eyes. His tears felt warmer than they had ever before, like broken mosquito bites. He told his legs to move and, beyond shivering, he stumbled to Bobby’s room, sliding on the bathroom floor.
Bobby’s room was wall after wall of spider webs and lace tapestries, except where Bobby lay, inside his cocoon. John broke through the curtains, feeling them fall to the floor and shatter quietly around his toes. His breath melted others until he made it to Bobby’s side. Wake up, he had said. And Bobby had, looked confused then shameful. Guilty. Where am I going to sleep? My bed is completely frosted over Bobby, a fucking ice pop. And Bobby had moved over. John was warm enough to shiver now, warm enough to curl into Bobby’s heat without meaning to and when he could talk again and it didn’t feel like the inside of his throat was melting he said, You’re sleeping outside the next time you have a wet dream. And Bobby had laughed a little and they lay there pretending to sleep and melting the air with their breath.
You’re not relaxed said Bobby.
You’re not either. Did someone forget to get his good night kiss? And Bobby elbowed him for that. John guessed he deserved it because Bobby and Marie was a sore subject at the best of times and when it came to touching John couldn’t help but feel guilty and glad, really glad that he was able to touch Bobby when Marie couldn’t and maybe that made Bobby more John’s than Marie’s and John didn’t mind.
Did someone forget to take his dick out of his ass?
So now that I’ve got that mental picture… And Bobby had made a nod sort of noise in
agreement. John had imagined burning the air every time he breathed out and after a moment or two; he had thought he could see the crystals on the ceiling melt. Something wet had dropped onto his forehead anyway.
She didn’t. I mean sometimes she does, but only for a second but not tonight and it’s weird because she hasn’t really been talking to me much lately. And it just seems weird to try to sleep. John wanted to tune out Bobby before he started thinking more and more about how Marie’s had been giving him some knowing glances across the breakfast table and how he didn’t want to think about what she might know or thought she knew. If she had stolen a touch, a memory.
Maybe you know… John had tried to sound like he knew what he was talking about and not like he couldn’t stop thinking of how Bobby still felt cold, now that his body is warmer. And maybe it was bad for Bobby to be so cold all the time. He had felt Bobby shrug next to him.
John was never quite sure why he does things but he was tired of Bobby being cold and talking about Marie like he knew Bobby was gonna keep doing and he was tired of waking up cold at nights and knowing Bobby never goes warm and he was tired of wondering who Bobby dreams about.
John leaned over and kissed Bobby and when Bobby opened his mouth John forgot about tongue and just tried to breath, to blow in hot air and melt Bobby down, melt him so maybe John had a chance again because once Marie showed up it became clear to all (even and mainly to John) that no, Bobby could not like boys because look, he has a Girlfriend with a capital ‘G’. When he thought to he really kissed Bobby even though decompressing his lungs into Bobby had seemed like more of a kiss than anything else he could do. Bobby’s hands didn’t even feel cold on his back.
He broke away finally and said without thinking, That’s 6000 good night kisses to burn the cold out of you and let the sleep in. And then he kissed Bobby’s forehead because it seemed like the right thing to do and mumbled Imagine me a Southern beauty, rolled onto his side and tried to act like he was asleep the whole time. Bobby just left his hand touching to small of John’s back and John tried to blow holes in the lace curtain in front of him.
John left his hands rest on the skin of Bobby’s back. He could feel his own heat there and part of him wanted to wake Bobby up and ask him if he remembered last night. He didn’t though, because he remembered waking up another time, stiff, sore, with bruises on his chest and a black eye. Bobby had a fat lip and bruised cheek at the breakfast table and even though it was obvious that they could have only fought each other, neither owned up to anything.
Not washing the dishes.
Not the way John had touched Bobby’s ass and Bobby had waited a moment before verbally clarifying what John had done.
Not John denying it or the fact that he had wanted to act like Bobby hadn’t said anything and continued drying the knives.
Not that way Bobby had pushed him like a joke and John had pushed him back because he had had an older brother and he didn’t need someone else pushing him around.
Not the wrestling match.
Not the fistfight.
Not the broken plate that had shaken loose from its place on the counter top and shattered.
There was nothing really to own up to.
John rubbed his thumb gently against Bobby’s eyelashes, and watched one break off and remain upon his skin. He raised his thumb and blew it away. As long as one of them kept their eyes closed, nothing would go wrong.
Pairing: erm... John/Bobby (John's POV, becuase he's a little easier to write from)
The beginning is a little awkward, just to warn you, or if anyone has any ideas on how to make it flow better.
John woke up, looked down and saw Bobby’s head resting on his bare chest. They were wrapped up in each other, legs, arms intertwined. Bobby smiled in his sleep and John reached his chin down and kissed the head of short blue hair (he had convinced Bobby to dye it two months ago and it was starting to get that fade like a pair of jeans).
John relaxed against the sheets and closed his eyes. He could afford the time to lie in bed for a little longer. He remembered last night, when Bobby was hanging out in his room and had put on a record of some band he liked- the Postal Service (because John kept his brother’s record player, like his brother had asked him to and Bobby liked buying records because they were cheaper and you could buy ones of Romanian monks singing and then play them really fast. It was a lot funnier when you were high. Or caffeinated). How Bobby said the music made him feel sexy, and looked at John, like he wanted to say something else. John had stood and pulling Bobby off his bed, he wrapped his hands on his hips and slowly moved his legs to dance.
When the song ended, they stood with hands in the other’s hair (well Bobby’s hand cupping the back of John’s head because like it or not, nobody could get their fingers twined into John’s buzzed hair), Bobby’s stray hand drifting below John’s belt, John’s spare hand gently resting on the inside of Bobby’s boxers, just below the small of the back, holding him close to him, skin firm, warm beneath his finger tips. They paused for a minute, moved their hands to grasp at shoulder level, fingers intertwined. Three years of sharing rooms, getting drunk and high occasionally and stealing kisses in the bathroom, then not talking about them the next morning, they swayed slowly not talking. Gradually their pants dropped and decked only in their boxers they found their way to (John’s) unmade bed.
John could remember talking about ‘Romeo and Juliet’ with Bobby, once. Marie had the soundtrack and Bobby would borrow it and play it sometimes. When John played the piano, he’d play that piece for his mother, the ‘Liebestod’ from ‘Tristan und Isolde’ (someone translated the violin to piano a long time ago) sometimes. His mom had always wanted to see that opera but she would only have John play it for her instead cause operas didn’t really come with in his parent’s price ranges and besides, how could she go tot eh opera? John would be her opera and she was happy with that, he guessed. Bobby asked John if he thought it as weird that Juliet was technically way pre-consent. John told him that that was a Remy comment, something he would ask the professor. Sure enough, the next day.
That was after Bobby somehow managed to drape himself across John’s bed and his legs. John was trying to read a magazine, something on something and Bobby managed drape himself across John’s knees without looking stupid or even sexy, just reading some books by Charles Dickens. John was supposed to be reading “On the Road” considering he was the one who convinced the Professor to let him do an independent study but… It took John a really long time to turn the page and it was only after his legs started to cramp (not that he’d tell Bobby) that he realized Bobby had been looking at the same page as long as he had been rereading the word ‘formidable’.
Bobby decided to pop the question then, and after John answered Bobby said he knew that, it was just he couldn’t help thinking that maybe after a few months Romeo and Juliet would have fallen out of love. Or maybe not, John wanted to say but his knee itched and Bobby sat up, falling somewhere between John’s legs, facing the wall, his legs still resting on John’s left knee. He got up and went through the bathroom to his room and John threw the magazine at the window, aiming for the porch but almost hitting the laptop that the Professor gave everyone.
There was another time when they went into this food store at two in the morning one night cause they just felt like walking (they had just gone and seen some band-the Shins and they couldn’t catch a train until morning) and they had stopped in there to buy some soda. They were standing in the ice cream section and there was this old guy watching them, John could tell he was watching them. So it was a joke, John moved behind Bobby and wrapped his arms around him, hugging Bobby’s lower waist, watching his breath blow up strands Bobby’ hair, before he cut it and it wasn’t curly kinda anymore and Bobby just continued to stare at the flavors until asking if mint chocolate chip was ok, reached in and grabbed it.
John knew the guy wasn’t there anymore but he kept his arms around Bobby because he wasn’t sure how to let go. When Bobby twisted to show John the container he let his own arm snake and wrap around John’s waist and maybe there was a busload of old people watching them but John wouldn’t turn around. Fine, John had said and Bobby kissed his cheek and they had walked to the cashier and paid like that, with John half on Bobby’s heels until he figured out how to time his steps, and when they got outside they started laughing, John forcing himself to laugh and move his arm up to hang off Bobby’s shoulders, and letting the other drop off. Bobby said how the old guy’s eyebrows touched his hairline and the check out girl looked disappointed. John made himself laugh.
There was another time. Well, there had been a lot of times where similar things had happened or the same things thought, but once, John had woken up in the middle of the night and his mouth had a lacy ice pattern around it, and he had to cry in order to open his eyes. His tears felt warmer than they had ever before, like broken mosquito bites. He told his legs to move and, beyond shivering, he stumbled to Bobby’s room, sliding on the bathroom floor.
Bobby’s room was wall after wall of spider webs and lace tapestries, except where Bobby lay, inside his cocoon. John broke through the curtains, feeling them fall to the floor and shatter quietly around his toes. His breath melted others until he made it to Bobby’s side. Wake up, he had said. And Bobby had, looked confused then shameful. Guilty. Where am I going to sleep? My bed is completely frosted over Bobby, a fucking ice pop. And Bobby had moved over. John was warm enough to shiver now, warm enough to curl into Bobby’s heat without meaning to and when he could talk again and it didn’t feel like the inside of his throat was melting he said, You’re sleeping outside the next time you have a wet dream. And Bobby had laughed a little and they lay there pretending to sleep and melting the air with their breath.
You’re not relaxed said Bobby.
You’re not either. Did someone forget to get his good night kiss? And Bobby elbowed him for that. John guessed he deserved it because Bobby and Marie was a sore subject at the best of times and when it came to touching John couldn’t help but feel guilty and glad, really glad that he was able to touch Bobby when Marie couldn’t and maybe that made Bobby more John’s than Marie’s and John didn’t mind.
Did someone forget to take his dick out of his ass?
So now that I’ve got that mental picture… And Bobby had made a nod sort of noise in
agreement. John had imagined burning the air every time he breathed out and after a moment or two; he had thought he could see the crystals on the ceiling melt. Something wet had dropped onto his forehead anyway.
She didn’t. I mean sometimes she does, but only for a second but not tonight and it’s weird because she hasn’t really been talking to me much lately. And it just seems weird to try to sleep. John wanted to tune out Bobby before he started thinking more and more about how Marie’s had been giving him some knowing glances across the breakfast table and how he didn’t want to think about what she might know or thought she knew. If she had stolen a touch, a memory.
Maybe you know… John had tried to sound like he knew what he was talking about and not like he couldn’t stop thinking of how Bobby still felt cold, now that his body is warmer. And maybe it was bad for Bobby to be so cold all the time. He had felt Bobby shrug next to him.
John was never quite sure why he does things but he was tired of Bobby being cold and talking about Marie like he knew Bobby was gonna keep doing and he was tired of waking up cold at nights and knowing Bobby never goes warm and he was tired of wondering who Bobby dreams about.
John leaned over and kissed Bobby and when Bobby opened his mouth John forgot about tongue and just tried to breath, to blow in hot air and melt Bobby down, melt him so maybe John had a chance again because once Marie showed up it became clear to all (even and mainly to John) that no, Bobby could not like boys because look, he has a Girlfriend with a capital ‘G’. When he thought to he really kissed Bobby even though decompressing his lungs into Bobby had seemed like more of a kiss than anything else he could do. Bobby’s hands didn’t even feel cold on his back.
He broke away finally and said without thinking, That’s 6000 good night kisses to burn the cold out of you and let the sleep in. And then he kissed Bobby’s forehead because it seemed like the right thing to do and mumbled Imagine me a Southern beauty, rolled onto his side and tried to act like he was asleep the whole time. Bobby just left his hand touching to small of John’s back and John tried to blow holes in the lace curtain in front of him.
John left his hands rest on the skin of Bobby’s back. He could feel his own heat there and part of him wanted to wake Bobby up and ask him if he remembered last night. He didn’t though, because he remembered waking up another time, stiff, sore, with bruises on his chest and a black eye. Bobby had a fat lip and bruised cheek at the breakfast table and even though it was obvious that they could have only fought each other, neither owned up to anything.
Not washing the dishes.
Not the way John had touched Bobby’s ass and Bobby had waited a moment before verbally clarifying what John had done.
Not John denying it or the fact that he had wanted to act like Bobby hadn’t said anything and continued drying the knives.
Not that way Bobby had pushed him like a joke and John had pushed him back because he had had an older brother and he didn’t need someone else pushing him around.
Not the wrestling match.
Not the fistfight.
Not the broken plate that had shaken loose from its place on the counter top and shattered.
There was nothing really to own up to.
John rubbed his thumb gently against Bobby’s eyelashes, and watched one break off and remain upon his skin. He raised his thumb and blew it away. As long as one of them kept their eyes closed, nothing would go wrong.