We hang our souls on our faces...

He seriously, seriously can't explain why he was doing it.

No, that wasn't entirely true. Jono could explain a lot of it. Jackson hadn't freaked when he'd learned about Jono's powers. Hell, he even thought the flaming energy was 'cool'. There were people who had accepted him for who he was, had even accepted the powers. But even amongst the freaks, Jono knew he was a freak.

And Jackson had never even blinked. Didn't pity Jono. He just took it all in stride. And that was the reason he brought Jackson back to his basement room in the Mansion, with its psychic dampening field. Enough to keep prying eyes and minds out of his room.

Here we are, he says, stepping back a little to toss his PINpoint onto the couch. The room was large and spacious, one end wall dominated by a music system and the majority of his CD and vinyl collections. The vinyl spilled over into boxes that he kept at that end and his iPod is docked on the stereo at the moment. The computer is scrunched onto a desk between the records and the couch. His guitars are dotted around the room, some of them on the wall and one in a stand by the bed. Band posters and a TV are all the other decoration he really has. Along with a fairly standard queen-sized bed. Which hasn't been made, but nobody ever sees it, normally.