As much as he could, Angelo helped out with money for the housekeeping. Jonothon did too, wrapped his face up in bandages and went out to play back up guitar when he should have played lead. Because back up guitar stood at the back, and a teen with his face swathed in bandages attracted less comment there then out in the front. He raced cars, hoodie of his sweater hanging over his face and leather gloves on his hands. Won a lot, too. But always afraid, that someone was gonna pick him as a mutant. Roberto didn’t say anything, just took what they could give him, when they could give it to him and paid for everything else on the shitty little box of an apartment with a little help from other members of the mutant community who weren’t strong and clean enough to go with Magneto or Xavier. And there were a lot, just here in Harlem. And mierda, but it burned Angelo’s fucking pride to shreds to have to do this, to have to accept this so he could keep on living and hoping for a chance to go home.

Gray skin.

If it had just stayed the same color, no matter what else the fuck had gone on with it...he could have been ok. But gray? Madre de Dios! That was impossible. People weren’t happy about people who didn’t look the way they expected a person to look. He’d already had one beating, gracias but he wouldn’t go looking for another one, ese. The blood, it was hell to get out of his shirts, and last time they’d stolen his rosary too. What the hell did a mutie freak want with God anyway, ya know? Thankfully, it hadn’t been the one his Mama had given him, but...still. Damn! His *rosary*. They took it and they broke it and the beads had gone scattering over the ground, bouncing on dirt and slime as they slammed fists into his face and stomach. Blood. He remembered, oh, he remembered exactly what they looked like, their voices. No police. Never go to the police. Barrio lesson learned early and well; police don’t care, so don’t waste your time and also, don’t piss off whoever did the damage in the first place by running to the cops.

Jonothon was playing the guitar now as they lounged around the apartment, something low and lonesome sounding. Probably the Who, or the Doors. He liked those bands. Been stranded in America after his face and chest exploded. Like he could get through security. So, illegal British mutant, squatting in an apartment with a grey skinned barrio boy who couldn’t get home either. At least Roberto was being good about putting them up, otherwise they’d most likely be dead by now. Well, him at least. They weren’t exactly sure that Jonothon could die. If he could live through his manifestation that had basically blown out his entire torso and replaced them with wreathes of fire, then he was a damn hard bastard to kill, no? Maybe if they took his head, then he’d die.

Probably blow up New York if they did that, though. Take at least Manhattan with him. And that was the thing, the mobs just didn’t think. They killed. Never thinking that maybe, this one, this scared shitless and crying for their mom mutant kid would be the one that fought back and demolished their world. Hadn’t they seen the X-Men? Magneto? What the Brotherhood could do? What mutants everywhere and anywhere were capable of being? Idiots.

Angelo got up from his reclining position on the bed, went over to where Jonothon was curled around his guitar, long elegant fingers strumming across steel strings. Picked up the hand and ignored the soulful dark eyes that looked at him in the eternal surprise that he was wanted as he kissed the rough fingertips. Bit them gently, smiling slightly and brown eyes gleaming with mischief and want. Heard the rushing sigh of lust whisper through his brain as he licked up and down the delicate hand he was holding, swirling his tongue around one finger, sucking hard before releasing it from his mouth with a faint popping sound.

*Christ, Ange...*

Rusty hoarse voice, because a man knew how his voice sounded, even when it went away. And Jono? He had been smoking cigarettes since he was six right up until eighteen when he didn’t have a mouth no more. It stayed, rough and husky cigarette smoke pouring through his telepathy, graying it and flavored with British fuck-you-ness. Beautiful. Exotic. Angelo shifted slightly on his knees in front of Jonothon, feeling himself harden further at the taste of salt sweat on skin. The rasp through his head as the man moaned, watching the front of those always sinfully tight black jeans tent as the cock behind them grew hard and pushed out at the denim, knowing he was the one doing that. Knowing his cargoes were in much the same state.

"Bed, Jono."

*Mmm.* Wordless agreement, hot and heavy as it swirled through his head on Jonothon’s amused laugh. Angelo shuddered, stepped back to let the musician put his guitar down and away, pulling his shirt over his head and dropping it on the floor. This place...wasn’t much. Had a bed. Had two chairs. Had a kitchen counter where he could stand to eat when he wanted. Bathroom, with added-on kitchenette. And the roaches, Dios, the roaches were like cats. Except harder to kill and far more revolting. Walking towards the bed, his fingers fumbled with the button on his pants, getting it undone and sliding them down his hips. Stepped out of them and ignored the groan that rippled through his head, just walking towards the bed. Letting Jono look, feeling his scorching gaze as a physical weight. *Ange...wot yer do to me.*

"What I do to you, mano?" Angelo crawled onto the bed, and lay down on his stomach, cradling his cheek against his hands as he looked at Jonothon. Yes, hungry for touch, for love. Ay, chingame, Jono. The graceful arch of his stomach as he leant backwards a little to keep his balance, pulling his shirt over his head. Today, it had been a black one with Jim Morrisson on it, collapsed against a stage. The black bandages underneath wound about his body, up and over everything, looped to keep it clear of his arms and then around the bottom half of his face.

No one knew how to read that fragment left as well as Angelo. He could tell everything by the way Jonothon moved his eyes...those expressive, lovely eyes. It was a pity they hadn’t been so close before M...but...everything now focused on those eyes. There was nothing else to read the clues from. So dark, he could drown in and warm like hot chocolate sweet on his tongue and laughter now. Laughter mixed with want and need. Nothing more right then this, the delicate shimmy of Jonothon’s hips as he unzipped his jeans and pushed them down over the thin, sharp bones. So thin. Long, slender erection already hard and the head starting to glisten, watching Jonothon just pose for a moment. Pretty boy who thought he was a monster. But, oh so pretty with his eyeliner and lithe slender body wrapped in bandages. Something out of a vintage gay bondage postcard. If they’d ever made them. Angelo moaned softly, one hand sliding under his body to stroke himself lightly, sliding his hand over his erect dick. He closed his eyes for a moment, humping the scratchy sheets on the bed and his own hand slowly.

*Starting th’ show without me?* Jonothon was on the bed with him, rubbing the side of his face against Angelo’s shoulderblades, bandages warmed by the fire within and the usual febrile heat of his skin hot. Just. Yes. Angelo rippled slightly, pressing his ass up and back against Jonothon’s cock where he was lying so heavy on top of him, moaning softly. Could feel the odd empty yet still fullness of Jonothon’s chest, pressing against his body. Had to be careful. If he dislodged the bandages, he could die. But that was half the appeal of this. Edge of danger, a bit of spice. And Jono, Jono...he was so pretty.

"Ay, Jono, Dios, por favor...*fuck* me." Heard the low, dirty chuckle sing its way through his mind as Jonothon let his full weight rest on Angelo for a moment, and it wasn’t really all that much. Man was light now, was missing a lot of his body weight with no insides to speak of. Felt Jonothon give a slow grind down on top of him, forcing his aching cock into the bedsheets and making him feel just how close he was to getting what he wanted with Jono nestled so cozy up to his ass. Bastard. "Tú maricon, Jono...you’re such a god damn tease."

*Impatient git.*

"Fuck you."

*Later.*

"*Better* be later, you asshole," Angelo began, feeling Jonothon shift on top of him and reach for the tube of personal lubricant they kept near the bed. Hidden under the sheet corner, in case Roberto stopped by. Better not to rub his face in the fact that they were fucking, when his girlfriend of a few years had just broke up with him. Also the fact that they were two *men*, fucking each other in an apartment he actually paid the lease for, and that Angelo was meant to be a good *Catholic* boy, just like Berto. Except, Jono, ah, Jono...made everything of his faith that said no to this dim out of recognition, so he couldn’t see it anymore. The first finger smoothing lube around his asshole and then gently penetrating made him whine into the thin pillow they both shared at night, even though Jonothon didn’t need to sleep anymore. "Ay-YI, *Jono*!"

*Shh. Disturb the neighbours, pet.* Stroking him, Dios, from the inside, twisting and stretching him and making him thrust back onto the finger needily. Wanted. Two fingers now, scissoring slightly and making him moan deep, dark moans into the pillow as he clutched it to his chest, hips thrusting back to fuck himself on Jonothon’s fingers. More lube, three fingers and Dios, Jono better get a move on because he was about to burst, erection so dark and aching as it hung between his legs. Two hands on his hips now, opening him up, exposing him and leaving him to feel so empty for a moment before the wider pressure of Jono’s cock was pressing in, making him hiss a breath out between his teeth and scrabble at the sheets for a moment. *Ok?*

"For the love of God, Jono. Fuck me already!"

*As you wish,* ghosted through his skull, and Jonothon slid deep, Dios so deep, into his body with one sharp thrust. Angelo arched his back as much as he could and screamed, cut off short as Jonothon slapped one hand over his mouth and rolled his hips. Lightning bolts, racing along his skin as the man on top of him fucked him with short jabs, just moving the head of his cock over the grey skinned mutant’s prostate, raking it sharply every time he shifted his hips. *So...tight...Ange, oh *Christ*...*

Angelo moaned into Jonothon’s hand, tasting salt again. Calluses roughly scraped over his skin, catching slightly on the hair from the goatee around his lips and chin, and he bit down. Had to shut himself up, walls were too thin. The gasp that echoed through his head told him that it wasn’t a *bad* thing in Jono’s opinion to be bitten, not if the hard, deep thrust that followed it was anything to be believed. Down onto the sheets, raise his ass up for the next stroke from Jono, moving and settling into the rhythm of their fuck. Hard, and fast, and oh so *good*. If this was a sin, then he’d go to hell and cherish what had brought him there. "Ah, Jono, es lindo, es bonito, Dios, fuck me, Jono, Jono..." muttered into the hand covering his mouth and knowing his mind was screaming the words at his telepathic lover. English dissolved into the Spanish that had always seemed more right in his mouth anyway. *Jono, Jono, encule mí, Dioslovethisfuckme...* Couldn’t even say the true words in his head, where no one but Jono would ever hear them.

*Yes, fuck you, hot, so tight, lovely, come for me, Ange...* Deep slightly ragged thrusts, pushing him *down* into the scratchy, already sweat soaked sheets, hand over his mouth to make sure he didn’t yell too loudly, and other hand scraping steel stringed chipped nails over his nipples. *Come, Ange, want yer to, oh God, fucccck...*

*JONO* The voice was rolling through his head, and Dios, had to come now on the scream echoing through his head to Jono’s and god, so good. Coming so hard he couldn’t see for a moment and everything was blissful, and he wasn’t here. Just floating. Felt Jonothon buck and come, and wail into his head, voice breaking and cracking as he swore long streaks of blue praise and collapsed on top of him. Felt so good. There was nothing but them, connected, in that long moment. Rasping shuddering sigh as Jonothon pulled out of him and rolled over to the side, pulling Angelo on top of him and out of the wet patch. Could hear the swish of the flares underneath the bandages, rather then the thump of a heart. "Jono..." had the words on the tip of his tongue, was wanting to say them and put them out in the world, but Jonothon put a finger over his mouth and shook his head no.

This was enough, for now. For both of them.

Grey man wrapped around a black and white man, on gray sheets in a monotone room. Like something from a black and white photograph. Angelo closed his eyes and stroked his fingers along Jonothon’s cheek, wishing for a kiss. That the blast had stopped at his chest, and hadn’t traveled upwards. A moment of pure *hurt* in those dark eyes before Jonothon was pulling away, and didn’t matter that he hadn’t really meant it because Jonothon had left the bed and stalked over to pull his pants on and guitar into his lap. Angelo patted around the edge of the bed for his cigarettes and lighter, and moodily lit one.

Mierda.

And the lonesome, eerie sounds of the Who on guitar drifted out to fill the room up.