What New York Couples Fight About
The 75-watt bulb overhead fills the bathroom with its dim thrum of electricity, and between the click of St. John's lighter and the sound of jagged breathing, Bobby finds himself listening to the white noise of burning filaments.
Anything to fill the void and avoid the pain in his right hand.
Click fwoosh.
Bobby's seriously fucked things up this time, and he does his best to keep his eyes firmly fixed on the yellowing tile and the toes of Johnny's Pumas. Bobby remembers when St. John bought those Pumas; they're in good shape for being almost six months old. If Bobby thinks hard enough he can probably also remember the date and what else Johnny bought that day.
If he's been like this that long, it's no wonder he's in this position now.
There's a slight shadow being cast by Johnny leaning back against the wall. At least that's what Bobby thinks he's doing. He hasn't bothered to actually look at St. John since he got dragged into the bathroom five, ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago. It feels like it's been five to ten hours.
"All you had to do was say something," Johnny says finally. His tone is amused, yet... something else. It makes the hairs on Bobby's neck stand at attention more than they already are. It's possible they might wind up frozen.
St. John shouldn't be amused; he should be fucking pissed off. He should be livid.
Bobby should be on fire. "I didn't know what to say."
Click fwoosh.
It's a small bathroom and probably not meant to be shared. However, there are a lot of things that aren't meant to be shared. Bobby is realizing this rather quickly.
With both him and St. John in the bathroom, though, crowded doesn't really begin to describe it. The edge of the sink is poking him in the tailbone, and he would move, but he deserves a little discomfort after what he's done.
He's pretty sure about that. He's never thought of himself as the possessive kind.
Bobby's also never thought of himself as gay or bi or whatever, either.
He's getting a crick in his neck from looking down so much
Click fwoosh.
"Whatever you think is happening, you're wrong," St. John says. His voice is low, but it rings in Bobby's ears. The implications are pretty fucking clear. Bobby has no reason to be bitter and hateful.
He's the one who said they were just messing around. Obviously Bobby was wrong. He underestimated his feelings for St. John considerably.
"I didn't think anything," he says
"Bull. Shit." Click.
"Whatever."
It takes Bobby a minute to realize the lighter hasn't completed its regular exhalation. Click fwoosh. Click fwoosh. Bobby's been going to sleep and waking up to the same sound for the last six years of his life, and he lifts his head just enough to see the bulge in St. John's pocket and the fingers hooked into his belt loops.
"I always put you first," St. John says.
Bobby closes his eyes. "I know."
Bobby has always prided himself on his self-control, but all he's feeling right now is shame. He didn't have to hit Johnny. He didn't have to hit Piotr, either, which is also quite possibly the stupidest thing he's ever done. His right hand is throbbing. He's probably fractured something.
Jealousy does strange things to people, and Bobby would like to say he's never been jealous and doesn't know what it's like, but that would be a lie.
A huge, great, big lie almost as prominent as the bruise that's probably darkening under St. John's left eye. It's too early for the skin to be turning purple, but that will come soon enough.
Bobby's eyes flutter open at the feel of St.John's fingers on his hand. He blinks as Johnny moves directly into his personal space, forcing him to climb up on the counter of the sink; and it takes Bobby several seconds to realize that St. John has turned on the taps and is running his aching hand under cold water.
Johnny's body feels incredibly warm, and the calluses from his hands are making Bobby forget about his bruised knuckles.
"Only an idiot would hit Piotr, you know," Johnny points out, his eyes darting to Bobby's face before looking back down at the basin of cold water. "You did more damage to yourself, dumbass."
"Yeah, well. I hit you, too." If Bobby apologized every day for the rest of his life, he's still not sure he could convey how sorry he is. He blinks again as Johnny reaches around him and snags a dry towel.
"It's not like it hurt," St. John points out. He pulls back, cocking his head, and giving Bobby one of his smirks, which stirs up all sorts of butterflies, grasshoppers and green monsters in Bobby's stomach.
Again, all Bobby can do is blink. His left hand is itching to touch Johnny and sooth the hurt; the rest of him just wants to beg for forgiveness. Bobby's sorry, really sorry, but when his lips move, nothing comes out.
His breath hitches when Johnny leans in again, and Bobby sighs in Johnny's right ear. "It looks like it hurts."
"Yeah, well, that's the thing about looks," Johnny says, using the towel to dry Bobby's hand. "They can fuck with your head."
The white noise from the light bulb nearly deafens Bobby as St. John pulls away slightly, and Bobby immediately locks his legs around Johnny's waist. If he's going to fuck up everything, he might as well do it all the way. "What does this look like?" he says, attempting to clutch at St. John's shirt with sore fingers.
Johnny could bat off Bobby's hand without any effort; instead he glances down at Bobby's grip on his shirt, and then back at Bobby's face, expectantly. "Like you have an issue."
"I do," Bobby admits, shifting as much as the sink edge will allow him to. "I have a sharing issue. I don't want to share you with anybody."
He reaches out cautiously, the fingers of his left hand tracing St. John's forehead, nose and lips. He leans forward too quickly, and the kiss is awkward and off center. He pulls away, shaking his head and muttering. Obviously Bobby never should have gotten out of bed this morning. Perhaps he should never get up again.
Johnny is going to fucking kill him for sure now.
All other thoughts are obliterated when St. John pushes Bobby back against the wall and the corner of his head glances off the medicine cabinet. It should hurt more than it does, and Bobby bruised hand is still clenching Johnny's shirt.
"I don't share well either," Johnny warns, his lips brushing against Bobby's.
The kiss is deep and hard, full of teeth, tongues and impatience, and the pleasure of it makes Bobby's head swim. After all the pain and misunderstanding he's caused today, he's at a loss to understand how he's still wound up getting what he wants.
When Johnny finally pulls away, he nips at Bobby's lower lip, hard. Bobby can feel the blood pooling to the surface, and he can feel heat in places he's always cold.
"You won't have to," he says. "I promise."