Jonothon.
Jonothon pushed back from his computer desk. It was late. Everyone was asleep. Everyone but him...and that little kid who watched the tv all night.
He pushed open the attic window and the cool night air rushed in. He could hear the wind whistling mournfully through the eaves, past the carved gargoyles and sliding through to ruffle his hair.
He bowed his head slightly, hands gripping the windowsill. He couldn't do this. He couldn't keep pretending he was ever going to have a normal life. He was a freak. An ugly revolting freak. Explained Rogue's behaviour so well. She could barely bear to touch him before...and then. Then...
He raised his hand and scratched at the bandages. They itched, like always. He didn't have the control, particularily at the moment to control the flares. If he saw Rogue, he always felt the fires building, pressing at the black bandages as hie emotions soared. He just kept going, eyes sliding away. He couldn't even look at her.
God, it just hurt so much. Why did his life just have to suck?
Jonothon carefully unwrapped his jaw and let the winds glide over his broken face, eyes on the stars.