X-Men Fan Fiction ❯ Glory Fades ❯ Glory Fades ( One-Shot )

You don't recover from a night like this
A victim still lying in bed completely motionless
A hand moves in the dark to a zipper
Hear a boy bracing tight against the sheets
Barely whisper "this is so messed up"

"Sic Transit Gloria ... Glory Fades" - Brand New

---

Bobby Drake swims to relieve stress. Water is something his mutation is still comfortable with. He likes to lower himself into the pool slowly, letting the water swallow him inch by inch, and he doesn't care how many people witness this strange ritual, because it is his alone. It's a private thing; he likes to close his eyes to more clearly feel it lapping against him. When he lets his head under, it's to hear the rush of water in his ears, louder than his pulse. He likes to rise slowly, and only after his lungs are burning with the need for air.

This time, when he comes up gasping, it is to find himself staring directly into the soulsucking hazels of one St. John Allerdyce. Bobby flinches and gasps while John smirks from his perch on the pool's edge.

"We need to talk" is all Johnny says before sliding back, wary eyes on the approaching children. Bobby drags himself out of the pool and follows that beckoning gaze almost involuntarily; they slip through a door that closes and locks immediately behind him.

They are in the storage closet where the pool toys are kept. Bobby barely has time to let this register before he is pressed back and John's mouth is hard against his. He still hasn't quite caught his breath, and Johnny's hands are hardly helping.

Bobby knows what this is about; he keeps his hands down at his sides, and he's sure he might throw up any moment, but somehow John's hands are keeping the bile down even when his mouth is the cause of Bobby's twisting stomach. Those hands slip over Bobby's wet skin, and he pulls away.

"You taste like chlorine," John says immediately to fill the silence, and he hardly sounds flustered. But Bobby knows him well; even if he is the one left breathless, he is in control.

"You taste like ashes," he answers flatly, and it's true, because John has always tasted smoky and dangerous -- nothing like the cool mint flavor that he always figures Marie's mouth will be.

John sighs, barely audible. "You're thinking of her, aren't you?" Bobby doesn't answer; rather, he stares just beyond John's ear, at the inflatable ring flopping over one shelf. John snorts then. "So you're her boyfriend now?" And Bobby knew it; John heard, and now he's trying to stake his claim.

Bobby looks directly at him, and that's a mistake, because his gut aches and he can barely breathe out the word "yes," more in defiance than truth.

John leans against him and Bobby can feel the edge of another shelf digging into his spine. "You're such a fucking liar," he laughs, and it sounds a little desperate. Bobby says nothing, even though John's mouth has latched onto his throat like a leech. When he bares his teeth, though, Bobby hisses and goes cold and pushes him away.

But John's thumb is already tracing the vein that pulses below Bobby's hipbone, and it's moving downward, and despite himself, Bobby's already hard by the time John grasps him.

Bobby's panting into an ear halfway hidden by hair, and even with his hands gripping the shelf at his hips and his eyes too tightly shut to have to see John, he feels vulnerable. It's his trunks shoved down his thighs and hot, calloused hands all over him and the feel of a shirt against his bare chest and jeans chafing his legs and hips that make him feel this way.

Hair is in Bobby's mouth now, and the strands are frozen from his breath and saliva, though they're melting just as quickly and dripping with the heat John's giving off. Finally, Bobby opens his eyes and raises a hand to touch the other boy, only to push him away.

"Stop." His voice is hoarse with the effort of denying John anything. The other looks shocked, and maybe even a little hurt, but mostly hot with anger and stifled desire. He pulls his hand free, pretty mouth twisting, and his eyes are hard, accusatory.

"Right," and it sounds final. John leaves him there with his swim trunks around his knees. Bobby can't be embarassed; he's too busy wondering what the hell they're doing and trying to read the last glare John aims at him before the door shuts.

It's as though that gaze is accusing him of trying too hard to be normal, that Bobby's too scared to admit to this when he's already a freak, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders if John's right.

---

Bobby's avoiding his room. He's playing air hockey with one of the young ones, and he's thinking of John and Marie and how it's not really fair to her to keep things a secret and how John's trying to make him choose. And Bobby wants to tell John that they're not really anything special and he had just been curious and Marie is definitely the real deal. He knows John will just accuse him of playing it safe because he can't ever touch Marie or get too close in order to prove himself right, and maybe he's not right, and so he can't talk to John, not yet.

This is the third time Bobby's been miserably defeated in the past ten minutes, so when the kid yawns and wanders off, he resigns himself to his fate and hopes John's asleep.

He's slow about walking through the hallways, buying himself time. He's still there far too soon. He pushes the door open, and the first thing he sees is that John's bed is empty -- he's curled up in Bobby's bed instead.

He's clutching the pillow to him in a possessive stranglehold, but his face is calm, content to have his nose buried in soft down and Bobby's scent. At once, Bobby's resolve withers.

He climbs into bed beside the sleeping figure, and he thinks maybe he can just spend the night here, then make his choice in the morning. But John's always been a light sleeper, and he turns to look at Bobby, eyes glittering darkly in the dim room. He has released his death grip on the pillow, but his fingers are tentatively brushing over Bobby's chest, and suddenly Bobby's sick to his stomach again and he fights back the urge to vomit.

Without a word, he's flat on his back with John on top of him, hands hot and gentle and light under his shirt. He keeps his hands pinned down at his sides, eyes half lidded, and John seems content to let him lie there. A hand moves in the dark to his zipper, and John's looking at him; Bobby's gasping for air now, but he meets that dark gaze with his bright one. They've done this so many times, but this time feels different, maybe final.

Bobby's hands rise above his head, then, for John to peel his shirt off. A hot mouth descends, hot breath across his collarbone, over tight nipples, a hot tongue down his sternum and lower. He lifts his hips, and John's palms smooth Bobby's jeans and boxers down his thighs. For a moment, Bobby just watches the way John's body looks in the moonlight that filters through the blinds, the play of lean muscle under his skin as he slips out of his briefs.

Then John's on top of Bobby; they're pressed skin to skin, a thin sheen of sweat already gathering between them. John's body drapes over him, fingers and elbows and hips and knees and toes all touching, all connected. Bobby thinks he might be choking when John's mouth touches his throat, when his fingers slide down over Bobby's wrists and the inside crooks of his elbows and down his sides.

John's knees slide then to plant firmly into the mattress, and his hips are tight against Bobby's, rocking him slowly. John murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like love, and Bobby murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like Johnny, then turns his head and offers up his throat. Strong teeth and soft, soft lips slowly cover the expanse of it, a tongue fluttering over the pulsing vein, just under his jaw. John doesn't seem to want to let him go, even for a moment, so it will have to work like this, bodies pressed together, John's hands roaming and Bobby's hands tangling in the sheets.

Bobby's gasping while John breathes quiet and smooth. His fingers wrap around Bobby's cock, pulling slowly and firmly, while his own digs into Bobby's hip, sliding over sweaty skin. Even as they do this, Bobby's fighting himself, making his choice, and now he's gulping air into his lungs in short bursts.

He feels John's body tighten, feels the splash of heat spill on his hip, and he can't have time to be disgusted, because he's gasping and shaking and shoving himself into a hand that hasn't yet let go of him. Bobby's eyes are squeezed tightly shut when he comes, and his whole body shudders beneath John. The other wipes his hand on the sheets and tries to curl up next to Bobby, who pushes him away to go clean himself off.

When he wets a washcloth in the bathroom, he catches a brief glimpse of himself in the mirror -- disheveled and sweating and eyes glowing -- and he thinks he looks less human than he did before.

He cleans himself off, then lies with his back to John, and the arms around him are stifling, suffocating. He lies awake for a long time, and he can feel John shift behind him, feel him wake a little. Then a hand starts to slide down Bobby's stomach, and he feels as though he'll vomit again.

In the darkness, he carefully pries himself out of John's arms, moves to the empty bed, and finds restless, dreamless sleep. He has made his choice.