The Temperature of Pain
: : Breaks : :
He never was one for hot tea, always liked everything cold as the ice that flooded his veins, never knew that ice was fragile and water on the rocks was only the sign of a relationship that should never be. She took what he offered, always that lady, still dancing with fire, still dancing with ice.
If fire melted ice, then why did they always break?
Rogue used to sit nights down in the kitchen with John, sipping hot tea and melt off the edges where the ice had cracked.
She sees Mystique's eyes in Bobby's when he walks in from the ice, denying there was anyone else out there and that they were doing anything that mattered. He pours himself some water, freezes cubes into the glass. Eyes that lie and ice that cracks.
She always liked her tea cold and sweet on a hot and sticky Mississippi afternoon, rocking on a porch swing, never dreaming of New York winters and ice skating on frozen ponds out on mansion grounds, breathing in the cold condensation of her boyfriend's kiss.
Skin touches skin, and the ice cracks.
"Ya were with Kitty. Ah saw you." Rogue waits for him to admit it, wishes that John would melt away the cracks and help her forget.
Too hot, too cold.
He flushes but does not speak.
She takes her tea, hot, so hot, and dumps in ice just to watch it break.