#animixedarts

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Truthfully, John didn’t realize how important Bob had become to him until he was gone. Metaphorically speaking, at least. Bob was still there but he wouldn’t talk to John, wouldn’t stay in a room with John, wouldn’t even look at John.

And even though he couldn’t explain why (maybe because he felt guilty or because he was so vain he couldn’t handle it when people didn’t like him), John found he missed Bob’s eyes the most.

He missed Bob’s beautiful blue gaze and his goofy lopsided smile. He missed Bob’s dry jokes and raspy laugh and the way he’d call John an asshole for no reason. It had only been two days, and it felt like forever. Maybe it would be. Maybe Bob would never talk to him again.

That belief solidified itself so strongly in his head that when he saw Bob in the kitchen on the third day, he immediately turned to leave. He could come back for his breakfast once Bob was gone, he resolved. Better to stay hungry than upset Bob again.

“Fucking stupid,” Bob muttered, so quiet that John almost didn’t hear him. He stopped a few steps short of the elevator, gaze drifting back to Bob. “You ruin fucking everything.”

John’s instinct was to believe Bob was talking about him, that he was mad at John for even daring to walk in the room after what he did. Then he realized Bob’s back was still turned, gaze fixed on the hand he held over the sink.

It took several seconds for John to decide to turn around. He approached Bob slowly, encouraged only by the continued self-deprecating mumbling. Someone needed to make sure Bob was okay and John had no idea where anyone else was. Surely it couldn’t hurt to just…?

Bob flinched the second John appeared in his line of sight. Water dripped off his hand, shaking just as badly as it had two nights before. So, he was still scared of John then. Great. John took a step back and swallowed hard.

“You all right?” he asked. Even if Bob only yelled at him to leave, at least it would be something.

“I—” Bob still wouldn’t look at him. He stared at his hand, glanced at the floor, but didn’t look at John for a second. “Yeah.”

“All right. Sorry I scared you.”

“You didn’t scare me.” That stopped John from leaving again. Several seconds passed before Bob continued and when he did, he didn’t say what John expected at all. “I’m not shaking, it’s just— I don’t know. My tremors are really bad. And I triggered myself a little, so…”

He gestured toward the floor where a small glass jar lay shattered, a puddle of orange goop underneath it. John’s gaze immediately flew to Bob’s hand but there were no cuts on it. Sentry must have protected him, and he was just at the sink to wash the sticky residue off.

“What were you making?”

Bob snorted and shook his head before he answered, “Toast. Can’t even make fucking toast. And that was the last of my orange marmalade so fuck me, I guess.”

“No five second rule?” John joked.

“Broken glass would add interesting texture.”

“Yeah.” That was the dry humor that he loved. Liked. Whatever. “You like French toast?”

“Mmhm.”

“Ever had it with orange juice?” Bob shook his head. “Can I make it for you?”

“Okay.” He sniffed and pushed his left hand over his eyes, his right reaching for a nearby towel. John was halfway finished cleaning the broken jar when Bob spoke next, his voice low and shaky. “Sorry I’ve been avoiding you.”

John kind of hated that Bob apologized. He hated that Bob felt like any part of his reaction was wrong. He hated that Bob felt any guilt for the fact that he was still affected by his trauma. If anyone were to apologize, it should have been John.

“I’m sorry for the way I acted,” said John. It would be a lie to say the words fell out easily, but they were honest and heartfelt. He dumped the mixture of broken glass and marmalade in the trash and turned to face Bob. “I understand if you don’t want to be around me anymore. I—”

“I want to be around you.” But Bob still wasn’t looking at him, his gaze facing just to the side of John’s head. “I just— I can’t— I can’t live like that anymore. I can’t spend my whole life not knowing when the people I’m supposed to trust are going to snap. I can’t.”

“I’m sorry.” He had no idea what else to say. John couldn’t promise he wouldn’t get angry again; couldn’t guarantee any help would make him better. He took a step back. “I’ll go. You shouldn’t have to live with—”

Bob grabbed his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. When John looked up, Bob’s eyes finally met his, wide and glassy but steady as anything. He opened and closed his mouth twice before he said finally, “What about my French toast?”