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Post by Bobby Drake on Sept 24, 2006 19:07:02 GMT
Bobby nods, rather pleased to have gotten the data point. This is a weird way of finding out more about his roommate, but it seems to be working.
Then it occurs to him that there's probably some penalty for picking something that nobody else has done. He isn't sure what it is, though... this is the first time he's played this game. And John isn't giving him any clues, just looking at him... not exactly expectantly, but appraisingly, kinda. It feels weird. Not bad, exactly, but weird. He tingles all over, and squirms a little on the bed. Guess I'm drunk... he thinks to himself, and giggles.
Anyway, he's already used the British-vs.-American rules thing once, he can do it again. "So... how do they play where you're from? Do I drink again now, or ask another question, or... what?"
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Post by Pyro on Sept 25, 2006 23:44:27 GMT
”Where I’m from?” John quirks an eyebrow, trying desperately to ignore his wriggling semi-naked roommate then, when that fails miserably, pointing out repeatedly how bloody irritating the kid is (since that way he’s like an annoying younger brother and not anything else... not that he was thinking anything else, you understand. Even this is just the drink talking). Does Bobby even know where that is? He doubts it, though it’s getting harder to figure out exactly which puzzle pieces he has handed Bobby, since every so often the kid’ll surprise him with some insight... and then mess up again and re-convince him that they can never really hope to understand each other at all.
”We-ell... technically you should strip, or do a forfeit, or drink both shots” he grins. There’s nothing technical about it, really. He’s doing what he always does – that is, making up the rules as he goes along and hoping no one notices because someone as streetwise as he seems to be couldn’t possibly not know, could they? But making the list of evil punishments, and backing away, might get Bobby sort of on side... and though John’s not sure why that matters it seems like a good idea at the time. At the very least it can’t hurt not to piss off a very drunken cryokinetic. Not when your body temperature is as high as John’s.
”But ‘tis the season to be unseasonably generous, so I’ll let you have another go. Hit me with it. Only, y’know, try something less bleedin’ obvious because that was bloody insulting”
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Post by Bobby Drake on Sept 26, 2006 21:39:26 GMT
Flashback: 100mtoanchorage.proboards98.com/index.cgi?board=flash&action=display&thread=1156793565&page=2> "We-ell... technically you should strip, It takes a while for the rest of the disjunction to work its way through Bobby's alcohol-fogged brain. Strip? He hadn't realized this was a strip-type game, he'd have put on more clothes. Besides, aren't there supposed to be girls for strip-type games? He's pretty sure that's right. Well, OK, maybe not Marie, naked Marie is a scary thought in more ways than Bobby really wants to think about. And Professor Grey would cheat, but there are other girls around. Pretty ones, too... Bobby doesn't know why, but there's something about mutant powers that seems to go along with being hot. Or maybe it's just that he's fifteen and everyone looks hot to a fifteen-year-old boy. Besides which, everyone else is out of town, which is how he ended up here in the first place. So it's just the two of them after all. And heck, they're roommates, it's not like they haven't seen each other naked before. Though, um... maybe right now isn't such a great time, he realizes... that whole fifteen-year-old boy thing again. So he sits back up on the side of the bed, turned away from John and looking over his shoulder and trying not to blush. And trying not to think about John naked, which really shouldn't be this, um, difficult. And takes a deep breath and slips his thumbs under his waistband and... > "or do a forfeit, or drink both shots" ... stops. Choices, again. Well. Drinking both shots sounds like the best option... he vaguely remembers that the point of this, originally, was to get some of John's Scotch. And losing his clothes is becoming a more and more embarassing idea all the time, and he doesn't even want to think about "forfeit". So he chugs down his shotglass. His face scrunches up after as he tries to keep it from bouncing right back out of his stomach along with the half-digested remains of too many cherry tarts, and succeeds. Sitting up is suddenly too much of an effort, though, so he slumps backwards, bouncing a little bit on the mattress, his legs still hanging off the end of the bed. He giggles, without quite noticing, and reaches out somewhat uncertainly for John's shotglass before realizing that the other boy is still talking. > "But ‘tis the season to be unseasonably generous, so I’ll let you have another go. Hit me with it. Only, y’know, try something less bleedin’ obvious because that was bloody insulting" Bobby looks back at his empty shotglass. " Oh. Oops. Jumped the gun a little, I guess. Sorry." He really does look apologetic... at least until he giggles, again, ruining the effect. " Um... I've never had sex?" |
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Post by Pyro on Oct 13, 2006 22:30:58 GMT
Bobby’s confusion is enough to spark the laughter again, though this time he’s got it under something like control (yeah, control, that’s what it is... conveniently forgetting, of course, the fact that it’s probably got more to do with having exhausted his capacity to laugh already given how much of an idiot (and in so much more of an endearing way than usualll) Bobby’s being)... because being amused is, of course, the only right and proper response to Bobby’s self-conscious little almost-strip, and anything else is just down to the mix of alcohol and teen-boy hormones and quickly enough ignored forgotten when Bobby drinks, which is still hugely entertaining. He wonders if he’ll get bored of watching that drunkeness before Bobby gets used to drinking enough for his reaction to be new and exciting, and sort of doubts it but can’t be sure.
< I’ve never had sex?[/i]
As Bobby slips back, so John turns over, so he’s lying on his chest now, legs folded up, ridiculous bunny slippers still flopping. He grins at the question - ”I thought I said to stop being so fucking obvious” – salutes dutifully with the shot glass and downs the shot, gesturing for a refill and glad that they’re not playing *one for each time*, though unsure whether that’s down to not wanting to drink (unlikely) or some strange reluctance to admit the details (which, given that he’s a teenage boy and therefore thinks and talks sex pretty much twentyfour seven, seems equally unlikely until you think about it, which he’s not especially inclined to do).
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Post by Bobby Drake on Oct 15, 2006 17:02:35 GMT
When John gestures for a refill, it takes Bobby a moment to remember he still has the bottle in one hand. He reaches out with it in John’s direction, still lying on his back, and discovers he’s having serious trouble keeping track of which way “up” is. He almost spills the bottle a couple of times, catching himself only at the last minute, then stares puzzled at John’s shotglass for a while trying to work out the proper method for filling it.
Finally it occurs to him that it would be easier if he weren’t lying on his back, so he sits up. A little too fast, as it turns out, making his head spin and causing too much whiskey and too many cherry tarts to churn suddenly and nauseatingly in his stomach. " Oh god… I think I’m gonna -- ” but what comes out of his mouth is not the word, but the act, as his stomach clenches convulsively and both John’s bed and its current residents are suddenly covered by its earlier contents.
When he gets over the burn of acid in his throat and mouth, his first thought is that the whiskey actually tasted better coming back up. He giggles. Then he sees John and cringes. " Oh man, I’m sorry! ” Not knowing what else to say, and a little scared of John’s reaction, Bobby gets up and heads towards the door, planning to reach the bathroom and wash himself off.
Instead, his feet buckle under him and he lands face-first on the carpet. He gets back on his feet, more carefully this time, a nasty bruise forming on his forehead, and tries again, successfully reaching the door this time.
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Post by Pyro on Oct 15, 2006 19:06:42 GMT
Laughter reigns, wild and unchecked, as Bobby reels... and then stops dead, the grin frozen but fading as it looks like...
< ... Oh god… I think I’m gonna…[/color]
… and he does. Which suddenly isn’t very funny at all. John scrambles back and avoids the worst of it (though having Kentucky Bourbon instead of blood makes him sluggish and clumsy, and flat on your stomach is not the easiest or most graceful position to spring from), and of course it would be a million times worse if he were actually wearing anything more substantial than bunny slippers (which somehow miraculously escape unscathed… Rogue must have worked some weird voodoo on them, or something. But it’s a good thing, since he doesn’t fancy having to explain Bobby-puke stains) and boxers (less lucky, sadly…), but still, it’s not at all pleasant, and his bed is pretty much wrecked. Shit. Thanks, Drake. Merry fucking Christmas to you too.
< Oh man, I’m sorry!
It’s not really the kid’s fault, is it? He’s not used to alcohol, after all, doesn’t know how much he can take, didn’t realise how badly it would mix with the festive crap he’s no doubt been shoveling down. It’s been a long time since John could make a mistake like that one, but he can just about remember it from the foster homes down under (hmm.. he thought he’d blocked all that out, oh well) and knows that however crap it’s made him feel, Bobby’s in much more of a state… oh shit, ouch. That’s got to hurt.
”Don’t mention it. Bile’s all the rage. Nice and festive” he says, as casually as he can while simultaneously drunk, pissed off and trying to take charge of the situation. Because someone has to, and hang whether he actually gives a damn (which he sort of does, despite all the cynical indifference, because in spite of everything Bob’s a decent guy, definitely the best roommate and the nearest thing to a friend he’s had so far), he’s got to protect his own neck, can’t risk having Summers asking questions if he finds Bobby passed out somewhere… which means he has to clean things up and get him back into bed something like safe. Brilliant. See, John, this is why we drink alone.
He swings round, gets to his feet (slowly – he’s learnt what makes his head spin, his stomach clench, and doesn’t want to end up like Bobby), strips the bed and is at Bobby’s side as he reaches the door. ”Come on, we gotta get you cleaned up.”
Fuck, why can’t this place have en-suite?
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Post by Bobby Drake on Oct 16, 2006 15:16:13 GMT
> " Come on, we gotta get you cleaned up. "
Bobby nods gratefully, leaning on John’s shoulder for support as he attempts to work out the proper functioning of the doorknob. " Thanks, man…"
He’d been expecting John to blow up at him, and he would’ve had every right to... this whole getting-drunk thing had been Bobby’s idea in the first place, and he’d royally screwed it up. So the friendly support comes as a surprise, and a combination of genuine affection and drunken sentimentality invests it with enormous emotional significance.
" That’s the thing about John," he mumbles, thinking out loud without quite intending to, " He wants everyone to think he’s a jerk, but he’s a supreengi-- sprucing – sur-pri-sing-ly" he frowns as he concentrates on getting his suddenly-thick tongue to work properly, carefully enunciating each syllable, " nice guy when he thinks you aren’t looking…"
Then he realizes he probably ought not have said that out loud, and looks apologetically over his shoulder. He knows he should say something else, try to recover from that bit of goofiness, but he’s too mortified… suddenly he just wants to get himself into a shower and stay there for, well, until he’s ready to come out, which might take years the way he’s feeling right now.
He looks stealthily out into the hall as he opens the door… or, well, he thinks he’s stealthy, anyway. Truthfully, he’s clumsy and blatant enough that it would be hard not to notice him, but fortunately the Institute is mostly empty. He melodramatically tiptoes down the hall to the bathroom, weaving erratically but managing to keep his feet, only vaguely aware of John’s assistance.
That lasts about as long as it takes him to get into the showers and turn on the water. The first blast of cold water wakes him up a little (he doesn’t intentionally take cold showers, but resistance to cold is one of the few aspects of his powers he can rely on… after all, he did just come in from a swim in the lake… and he’s gotten out of the habit of turning the hot water on), and cleans most of the filth off of him and his shorts, but it also turns the tile floor slippery under his feet. He was having a hard enough time staying balanced on the floor, so the slippery tile undoes him… his feet fly out from under him and he reaches out blindly for something to stop his fall.
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Post by Pyro on Oct 16, 2006 20:22:59 GMT
< The thing about John is...
John’s still sober enough to blanch at what Bobby’s saying, because it’s just... nonsense, right? (Except that it’s exactly, totally spot on... which is somehow scarier, and something he’s never let himself think if he wasn’t slightly sloshed) He’s definitely nowhere near drunk enough to get all wierd and sentimental in return, because he’s learnt to be a practical drunk. It’s something you pick up quickly, being able to take control despite being plastered, just like sleeping with one eye open and ignoring anything which hasn’t killed you.
”Yeah well” he replies in a slightly slurred version of the voice he uses when trying to convince the other two points of this wierd little triangle to do something really insane, the *listen to me, I know what I’m doing* voice which would be so much more convincing if the others didn’t already know that the things he wanted to do were usually pretty insane. ”The things about Bobby is, he can’t handle his drink. And if he doesn’t want his side of the room barbequed he’d better get cleaned up and not spew over anything else.”
Things would be so much easier to get to the bathroom and back if Bobby didn’t insist on being stealthy (which really means sneaking around in a way which requires acrobatic skill when sober, and is pretty much impossible while drunk, meaning he has to stick around and make sure the daft sod doesn’t add to his collection of bruises. They get to the shower somehow, and...
”Shit!” Oh fuck, that’s cold. How the hell does Bobby stand it? (Okay, duh, but whatever) The difference between their body temperatures has been an issue before, of course - the great radiator war springs to mind... John, of course, won that one, partly through sheer determination and partly because Bobby’s always been desperate to get on with everyone – but right now John doesn’t have time for it. It takes all of his remaining co-ordination to strip off (no time for modesty now... besides, Bobby’s seen it before, and won’t remember) and turn the heat up at the same time, so he hasn’t got any left to withstand the effects of a madly flailing Bobby and ends up crashing into the floor along with him. Which hurts.
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Post by Bobby Drake on Oct 17, 2006 19:22:10 GMT
Perhaps predictably, the only thing within arm’s length as Bobby slips is John, who is too busy stripping and cranking up the water temperature to have much in the way of balance himself when Bobby grabs his arm on the way down. So instead of stopping his fall, Bobby ends up having company for it.
He suspects the fall would have hurt more if he’d been feeling any pain, but even so it was unpleasant. On the other hand. he’s pretty sure his ankle is just twisted rather than sprained, and his knee hurts like hell from hitting the floor but seems OK, and John’s foot lashing out as he slipped ended up slamming against Bobby’s inner thigh rather than far more painfully a few inches further up, so it could have been worse.
Not to mention that John’s foot had been padded by the bunny slippers. Which calls Bobby’s attention to the fact that John had, for some reason, neglected to take off the slippers along with the rest of his clothes. Which, in turn, calls his attention to the fact that John had taken off the rest of his clothes. He giggles, then, and looks down at his own soaking-wet no-longer-quite-so-filthy shorts. "I thought you said we didn’t have to strip?"
Which strikes him as even funnier after he says it, or maybe it’s the way the slippers’ ears are growing limp, floppy, and bedraggled as the now-hot shower spray soaks them. " Well, I can see Flopsy and Mopsy, but where are Peter and Cottontail? Oh, wait…" he adds, pointing, “there’s Peter, I see him! But where’s Cottontail?" He laughs uproariously at his own cleverness and loses what remains of his balance, banging the back of his head against the stall divider.
"Ow."
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Post by Pyro on Oct 23, 2006 10:27:29 GMT
Oww...
This is one of those things which is going to hurt even more in the morning, isn’t it? Waking up to a hangover at Christmas he can cope with – it normalizes things, makes it no different to any other day – but bruises never entered into the equation, and it’s not even as if he’s got them in any way he could be halfway proud of, is it? Wet, naked and tangled up with Bobby... yeah, going to try and forget that image as quickly as possible (aside from pausing in a sort of confused admiration at how he’s managed to get his boxers off without, apparently, removing the accursed bunny slippers, which are staring up pathetically... he gives them a look that says Yeah, I know. Tragic before pulling himself away from Bobby and up into something nearer a seated position, back against the tiles, hot spray pounding).
There’s a slight grin at Bobby’s words – a grin he’s planning on blaming on the alcohol as the customary scowl returns, because obviously it’s not at all funny. ”Shut the fuck up” he glares, curling his knees further up, partly out of instinct at how everything is starting to feel heavy and achy and party to shield *Peter* from any further comment. Bobby’s next little accident prompts another burst of bile; ”Serves you right, Drake. Merry fucking Christmas”
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Post by Bobby Drake on Oct 25, 2006 16:01:43 GMT
> " Serves you right, Drake. Merry fucking Christmas "
Somehow, the irritation in John’s voice and the ghost of a grin on his face and the way he stares forlornly at his slippers before curling up against the wall combines to make everything, even the pain in the back of Bobby’s head, even funnier than it was, and his intermittent giggles turn into a full-fledged belly laugh.
It’s weirdly liberating… nobody else is around, he can be as loud as he wants. He could scream at the top of his lungs if he wanted and there’d be nobody but John to hear. And picturing John’s reaction is even funnier, and for a while there he isn’t sure can keep breathing, he’s laughing so hard.
Finally he manages to crank it down to the occasional giggle… and then John glares at him and the last of the bunny-slipper ears flops over all the way and it’s just too much, and he’s guffawing uncontrollably again.
When he finally winds down, gasping for breath on the slippery tile, it occurs to him that he feels better than he has in weeks… and it’s basically because of John, for whom he suddenly feels a warm and boundless affection. "Yeah… merry Christmas, John." The emotion in his voice is unmistakable, and even if most of its expression can be put down to alcoholic post-hysteric afterglow, it’s still genuine for all of that.
"You’re my best friend, you know that?" He wants to give John a hug, but even in his current alcohol-soaked, over-sentimental frame of mind he recognizes that, what with John naked except for the (giggle) bunny slippers(!) and both of them dripping wet, that would be crossing a line. (And?, queries a quiet voice in the back of his mind, before subsiding with a long-suffering sigh.)
He stands up then, pleased to note that all the water has left him as clean as when he started. The shower is filling with steam, mostly coming off of Bobby’s skin as the hot water hits it, and he realizes he’s let his body temperature drop again. He drops it further for a second, and the spray from the shower forms a thin coating of ice as it hits his chest, which is pretty cool.
Then he brings his body back to normal, and the ice melts away in an instant, and he offers John a hand up. "Sorry about making a mess back there… I'll clean it up."
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