nobody knows which street to take: he took the easy way
Going back is not regression, because the lines of your life aren't drawn according to geography but following other stars like time and irony. He is practicing in preparation for it. It will change him like time travel. It will be as all-consuming and substanceless as air full of fear. He practices infrequently, and he never practices in the house (this, right this second, this is practice).
Equally as tricky as the practice of conjuring fire out of air is this backwards business: he thinks of fire, and he thinks of stars, then he thinks of black holes, and the thing is, paradox hurts. But if this is the way he wants it, then this is what he has to do. Keeping all the newness of himself, but pressing reset. Everything becomes a sign of soon, soon, soon. He's been waiting so long.
"She's sad," the girl (he can't think of her as her) says thoughtfully, on target but never ever quite hitting the mark because, because. That hurt. "Would you like to fly?" She'd asked, and it's terrible but all he can think is that he never thought he'd ever kill anyone Irish which is fucking retarded but it's true. "She comes back," Professor Gray (who wasn't a professor at all) had told him casually, full to the brim with alien fire he can feel but could never in a million years control (consumed -- he's never feared that before) and he has no idea what his face looked like because he'd been focusing everything on suppressing terror. "More than you know." The walking biohazard had told him laughingly, and gave him a beer.
After the fight, he'd only waited long enough for Ronny to be out of sight before leaving, head crowded full of arguments. The way he feels startles himself. He wants to shake Ronny, knock all those bizarre ideas out of his idiot head, make him understand that it's more than being abandoned that all of them have been abandoned that Bobby is probably a ridiculously good brother, the kind who remembers your birthday and gives you Christmas gifts that make you almost guilty, you like them so much. But he can't. He can't even talk, he's so far from the role of truth teller. And Ronny has his own decisions to make, ones he has no right to criticize given the path he's taking because even if he believes and owes loyalty he already knows himself to be a mess of imperfections -- he doubts because he doubts, because he'll falter when put to the test (green smile, silibant precise heavy words).
The curse is the one thing he's trying to leave behind, not because he's afraid (although he is) but because if he lets Magneto down it's going to be on his own troubled terms, not because of some haughty bitch back in a place he doesn't think of anymore.
His jaw is bruised, but Warren hits much harder than Ronny; this is the kind of pain that's penance, ignorable but everpresent in the background. Sometimes John wonders if his real death is going to be choking on all the lies he tells. Not that he even bothers to differentiate anymore (this is also practice). He can barely pick out the lies from the truths and exaggerations and twistings in all of what he told Ronny. (Another reason why there'll be no shaking and epiphanies: it's not even possible, John lies when he breathes.)
But for every moment he feels sorry for fighting dirty and telling Ronny all that shit, he also remembers standing on Bobby's porch. Frozen, because Bobby's house is nice, really nice, the kind of nice commercials try to imitate, but it's also kind of cold; and frozen because he's not really Pyro yet, he's John Allerdyce, 16, runaway, vandal, and thief, facing more cops than he's ever seen before in his entire fuck damn life. And no one has to tell him what happened, he can see Ronny's tight expression, stiff disgust at his brother and his weirdo friends. At the time he thought he understood, just like he thought he understood back in the lobby with Ronny long-haired and bleeding. He thought, yeah, I can get it -- Bobby's like, disgustingly good sometimes, a real boy scout ... but he's a goof too, and he puts up with me (practice, practice, practice) and writes dumb essays, and dates a girl he can't even touch let alone make out with. But it's not just that, and John still doesn't know what the fucking problem is and he doesn't care, damnit, he does not fucking care because this is not his problem and he doesn't have time for this and he fucking hates Ronny anyway and there's nothing he can do to help.
"It'll become a part of you," the other Mystique had said to him, confusingly talkative, yet the same sinuous blue that looks bare but reveals nothing. He'd argued, but now he agrees. It will become part of him, just as, through practice, he will become a Pyro that Magneto can use. And he can see Bobby's confused sad look, but he also hears Bobby's silence, the same as when he first walked out on them both; and once, maybe, Marie would've argued and cried but now (preliminary practice) he doesn't think it would reach that point because he doesn't play fair. He breaks the rules, it's who he is. It's only lately that he hasn't enjoyed it. The Theresa Cassidy he knows is petite, softly built, and freckled. The Theresa Cassidy he backs away from awkwardly is tall and willowy, and has a pleasant lilt to her words as she offers to take him flying and it strikes him to say yes (they would laugh, Mystique little more than a smile and Magneto an indulgent chuckle) but suddenly he just fucking can't do that, he can't have her touching -- or jesus fuck, no, holding him when somewhere in her universe there's another him waiting to kill her.
But why balk? That's who he's planning to become. For a while, he always, despite the futility, adds. Only for a while. When it's done -- whatever 'it' is, he'll know when it happens, the something he has to complete so he won't have two of him pulling at his insides -- then he can turn himself rightside out and go home. This, if he is vigilant and quick and ruthless, this is what he will do. (Practice.)
Before he falls asleep at night he says under his breath, what I tell you three times is true.
What I tell you three times is true.
What I tell you three times is true.
Equally as tricky as the practice of conjuring fire out of air is this backwards business: he thinks of fire, and he thinks of stars, then he thinks of black holes, and the thing is, paradox hurts. But if this is the way he wants it, then this is what he has to do. Keeping all the newness of himself, but pressing reset. Everything becomes a sign of soon, soon, soon. He's been waiting so long.
"She's sad," the girl (he can't think of her as her) says thoughtfully, on target but never ever quite hitting the mark because, because. That hurt. "Would you like to fly?" She'd asked, and it's terrible but all he can think is that he never thought he'd ever kill anyone Irish which is fucking retarded but it's true. "She comes back," Professor Gray (who wasn't a professor at all) had told him casually, full to the brim with alien fire he can feel but could never in a million years control (consumed -- he's never feared that before) and he has no idea what his face looked like because he'd been focusing everything on suppressing terror. "More than you know." The walking biohazard had told him laughingly, and gave him a beer.
After the fight, he'd only waited long enough for Ronny to be out of sight before leaving, head crowded full of arguments. The way he feels startles himself. He wants to shake Ronny, knock all those bizarre ideas out of his idiot head, make him understand that it's more than being abandoned that all of them have been abandoned that Bobby is probably a ridiculously good brother, the kind who remembers your birthday and gives you Christmas gifts that make you almost guilty, you like them so much. But he can't. He can't even talk, he's so far from the role of truth teller. And Ronny has his own decisions to make, ones he has no right to criticize given the path he's taking because even if he believes and owes loyalty he already knows himself to be a mess of imperfections -- he doubts because he doubts, because he'll falter when put to the test (green smile, silibant precise heavy words).
The curse is the one thing he's trying to leave behind, not because he's afraid (although he is) but because if he lets Magneto down it's going to be on his own troubled terms, not because of some haughty bitch back in a place he doesn't think of anymore.
His jaw is bruised, but Warren hits much harder than Ronny; this is the kind of pain that's penance, ignorable but everpresent in the background. Sometimes John wonders if his real death is going to be choking on all the lies he tells. Not that he even bothers to differentiate anymore (this is also practice). He can barely pick out the lies from the truths and exaggerations and twistings in all of what he told Ronny. (Another reason why there'll be no shaking and epiphanies: it's not even possible, John lies when he breathes.)
But for every moment he feels sorry for fighting dirty and telling Ronny all that shit, he also remembers standing on Bobby's porch. Frozen, because Bobby's house is nice, really nice, the kind of nice commercials try to imitate, but it's also kind of cold; and frozen because he's not really Pyro yet, he's John Allerdyce, 16, runaway, vandal, and thief, facing more cops than he's ever seen before in his entire fuck damn life. And no one has to tell him what happened, he can see Ronny's tight expression, stiff disgust at his brother and his weirdo friends. At the time he thought he understood, just like he thought he understood back in the lobby with Ronny long-haired and bleeding. He thought, yeah, I can get it -- Bobby's like, disgustingly good sometimes, a real boy scout ... but he's a goof too, and he puts up with me (practice, practice, practice) and writes dumb essays, and dates a girl he can't even touch let alone make out with. But it's not just that, and John still doesn't know what the fucking problem is and he doesn't care, damnit, he does not fucking care because this is not his problem and he doesn't have time for this and he fucking hates Ronny anyway and there's nothing he can do to help.
"It'll become a part of you," the other Mystique had said to him, confusingly talkative, yet the same sinuous blue that looks bare but reveals nothing. He'd argued, but now he agrees. It will become part of him, just as, through practice, he will become a Pyro that Magneto can use. And he can see Bobby's confused sad look, but he also hears Bobby's silence, the same as when he first walked out on them both; and once, maybe, Marie would've argued and cried but now (preliminary practice) he doesn't think it would reach that point because he doesn't play fair. He breaks the rules, it's who he is. It's only lately that he hasn't enjoyed it. The Theresa Cassidy he knows is petite, softly built, and freckled. The Theresa Cassidy he backs away from awkwardly is tall and willowy, and has a pleasant lilt to her words as she offers to take him flying and it strikes him to say yes (they would laugh, Mystique little more than a smile and Magneto an indulgent chuckle) but suddenly he just fucking can't do that, he can't have her touching -- or jesus fuck, no, holding him when somewhere in her universe there's another him waiting to kill her.
But why balk? That's who he's planning to become. For a while, he always, despite the futility, adds. Only for a while. When it's done -- whatever 'it' is, he'll know when it happens, the something he has to complete so he won't have two of him pulling at his insides -- then he can turn himself rightside out and go home. This, if he is vigilant and quick and ruthless, this is what he will do. (Practice.)
Before he falls asleep at night he says under his breath, what I tell you three times is true.
What I tell you three times is true.
What I tell you three times is true.