Eternal Flame {John Allerdyce}

5

Control. That was something Cynthia could relate to, the need for control. She had noticed that need in John when they were younger, saw it clearly in the way he carried himself, the decisions he made. It was one of the things that had brought them together. A mutual understanding that in a world as chaotic and unpredictable as this one, control was an absolute necessity.

Each had their own explanation for this, as she would come to find out, but the connection was there nonetheless. John craved control for the power, the confidence it gave him. The ability to prove that his existence was meaningful, to remind himself that he was more than the past had allowed. As long as he could control fire, manipulate it, make it an extension of himself, he knew who he was. Losing that brought his whole reality into question, and unearthed the insecurities he harbored within.

As she swept up the soil that was spilled across the carpet, Cynthia's thoughts drifted to her own experiences. Control was a personal issue for her as well. It was a lack of it that had caused the death of her older brother, ripped him away from the world in a single, excruciating instant. From that moment on she had been obsessed with maintaining control, over her abilities, her choices, her surroundings. Some could sympathize with her strict approach to life, but no one had understood it like John.

After the shards of the broken pot had been tossed, and most of the dirt cleaned up, Cynthia placed the plant among a few others in a larger vase for the time being.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to it, "I'll get you a new home tomorrow, I promise."

John had busied himself with the dishes, drying each one with a towel before setting it on the counter beside the sink. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Cynthia carefully. She seemed tired, as if the momentary lack of restraint had drained her completely.

Anger was not an emotion she entertained often, but John knew if left unchecked hers could rival even his worst moments. Neither did well at handling the full extent of their feelings, so they pushed them away. Cynthia, with her calm, methodical ways, and John with his brash, reckless manner. Outwardly, they made a paradox, but inside both fought the same thing.

Sidling up to him in the kitchen, she ran her fingers gently down the scars on his arm. Cynthia understood now what had caused them, a lack of control.

John was ashamed of the alterations to his skin, they were a symbol of failure. When she met his gaze, however, there was no trace of disappointment, no reprehension. Her eyes glowed with compassion that he struggled to understand, and part of him wondered if it would ever feel deserved.

__________

"As soon as I came to, I knew something was wrong." John toyed with his lighter, flicking it open and closed methodically. It was an action that had become habit so long ago, Cynthia doubted he was even aware of it by now. The metallic clink didn't bother her, it was almost soothing in it's predictability.

"It felt like my head was splitting open." He grimaced, "Still does, sometimes."

Cynthia frowned, placing a hand gently on his forehead as if checking for a fever. She wanted so badly to help, to alleviate the pain that lay just beneath the surface, but her gift didn't extend to humans, or any creature for that matter.

"Was Bobby there?" Her question was innocent enough, but John was wary of revealing too much. He didn't want a repeat of earlier, she hadn't deserved to be lied to, and there was so much his former friend hadn't told her.

"It's all right, I can handle it." She said firmly, fingers moving to trace the line from his temple to jaw before falling to her lap.

John exhaled, leaning back onto the sofa. "Yeah, staring down at me like I was scum of the earth. Turns out I'd been unconscious for over a week, diagnosed with mild cerebral trauma from a concussive blow to the head. He told me I was in a hospital just outside of Westchester, and as soon as I could, I needed to leave. Don't know why he even bothered to save me, guess he couldn't live with himself otherwise. Never did like getting his hands dirty."

Cynthia sat quietly, arms crossed over her chest. She could still remember Bobby's sad blue eyes, the pain in his voice as he told her John was gone, lost somewhere in the wreckage at Alcatraz. She realized now what she had previously mistaken for grief, was actually guilt. Shame for what he had done to his friend, for lying right to her face.

"Then what?"

"I left that same day. Used the train ticket Bobby had paid for, and got as far away as possible. It wasn't until later I realized what cerebral trauma actually meant. The headaches I could deal with, the blackouts not so much..."

John raised his arms, rotating them slowly as he studied the scars, not for the first time.

"Of course, those weren't the only problems. I hadn't tried to control fire since the injury, so I started small, just messing around."

He held up his open lighter, and a small flame came to life.

"But it turned on me, and I finally felt what is what like to be burned. It took months before I could even control this much." John cupped the flame, and it sat obediently in his palm, flickering slightly.

"It was kind of like being re-born, except that one thing I had truly known was now completely foreign to me. It's still not the same, if my concentration weakens for a second it's all over."

Cynthia watched as he closed his hand over the flame, extinguishing it, and a puff of smoke escaped through his fingers. She couldn't imagine losing control of her abilities, the chasm it would leave inside her. It was no wonder John hardly seemed like the same person.

"What did you do?"

"What ever I had to do. The side effects made it kind of difficult to keep a job, so I wandered, taking what I needed. Everything was pretty shitty for a while."

He turned to face her, his eyes betraying no regret. "I would say I'm not proud of what I did, but that doesn't really change the fact that it happened."

She leaned into him, resting her head on his chest. Cynthia's fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt, and John breathed in the comforting Jasmine fragrance lingering on her skin.

"Those weeks I stayed at the school, not knowing what had happened to you, I had the strangest dreams. They weren't nightmares exactly, but I would wake up crying regardless. Sometimes they were about Eric, my brother, and other times it was you. They always ended the same way though, you would walk right in through the front door of the school, bloody and bruised, but alive. I would run to you, and we would hold each other like a scene from one of those stupid romance movies I hate. Then, when I stopped to really look at you...there was no one there. I was alone."

John wrapped his arms around Cynthia, clenching his jaw, and tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

"I knew I couldn't stay there any longer, so I left. We all do what we have to in order to survive, John. Whatever happened before, how ever it is that we got to this point, I'm just glad I found you again."

There was a beat of silence as her words sunk in, and John sighed in relief. "So am I."