music

Musical Notations

He'd always thought there'd been something achingly poetic in the way Kurt Cobain died. In who he was, in his music. Something in the lyrics of Nirvana just made him feel, that maybe, somewhere, somehow, someone had taken his frustration, his bitter, bitter rage, his loneliness and written them down, captured them in word and song. Not perfectly, but somehow resonant with what he felt.

The fact that Kurt Cobain had killed himself struck a chord too.

He wished he could die. He could choke sometimes, if he still had a throat and a digestive tract, on the ball of frustration that he couldn't. This so simple choice, taken away from him. He could possibly die...but he'd wait. Die saving the world, or something. Emma had tried so hard to make them all, the Gen-X'ers as they liked to call themselves, him mockingly, the others with more sincerity, all steadfast little saints. Martyrs to the cause of Xavier, as there'd been so many.

But the X-men weren't the same anymore. They'd lost that certain edge of idealism. Sure, they still talked a good show, fought the good fight, but something was missing. It had started long, long before Gambit's abandonment in the snows of Antarctica but it had crystallised then. Become something bright edged and ugly, like a shard of glass stained with blood and bile. Red and acid yellow-green. Something stank, around the mansion. Something deep in the core, deep in its heart, something was rotten.

He'd watch and wait. See what came next. After all, he wasn't even really alive. He was just a walking corpse with hellfire inside, a shell of a human being wrapped around flames. He couldn't make a difference here...but he'd pass time in this Purgatory before he descended properly into hell. After all, according to most churches, or at least, church men, mutants were demons anyway. He was one of their favourites to prove this point, the girlfriend, well, ex now, he'd crippled at his violently gory, flaming manifestation waved at the crowds to keep anti-mutant fervour running high and hot. They should be careful that the maw of this beast they'd created, made up of frightened, angry human beings trapped, as the mutants leapt ahead of them, into an evolutionary dead end unless their children were mutants, didn't swallow them. Normal humans were still being born but...at a slowly declining rate. Another thing to hype up at the polls, yapping anti-mutant leaders raving about mutant supremacist groups. Like there weren't plenty enough human supremacist groups to counter them in hate and bigotry.

Jonothon Evan Starsmore, codenamed Chamber, stopped staring at his ceiling and got up to pace the room. Black bandages covered his face, hiding him from the world beyond and viewing it with cynically old brown eyes. He'd had old eyes before his mutation, but now they seemed ancient and bitterly angry. And tired. Fatigue lurking behind the defensive anger, kept there by force of will that kept him walking when he'd rather lie down, kept him fighting when it would be best to give up. Because he wouldn't give anyone of them more reasons to pity him.

He put his hand on the door and opened it, knowing he wouldn't sleep tonight. Slow resentful burn of rage nestled under his bandages, draconic coils nestled through his ribcage, blunt arrowshaped head lying where his heart should be and teeth cunningly tucked away until times of stress. When it would open its mouth and gnaw on him, blind flaps of skin over where its eyes should be, and gnaw, and gnaw away inside him. They didn't get it, anyone else. Ange had gotten a fringe of it, just a fringe...and that was enough for most times, but at others...it wasn't enough. And the dragon woke up and sawed serrated teeth across his backbone, jarring his already shattered nerves.

Outside now, he walked blindly across the grounds, anger keeping him warm enough. Grass crunched quietly under his feet, crisp with night ice. If he'd had a mouth to breath through, lungs to breathe with, his breath would be coming in quiet puffs of smoke. In his head, the only place he had left to him, he started to compose a song. Shit, and he knew it, but still...he'd used to be in a band. Before everything. Main singer, lead guitar and songwriter. They'd even had a couple of gigs. That paid. Rather then the 'oh, we 'ave ter do Paul's bruvver's 21st because 'is mum puts h'us up sometimes and feeds us h'on occasion so we'll be doing h'it fer nuthin'.' Yeah, sod that.

He sang it to himself, visualising the strum of the guitar against the background, the beat of the drums. Bit of keyboard? Nah. Stick to the basics. Sides, if yer can't play it, then don't write fer it. While he was a crack guitar player and alright on drums, he really could not play keyboard for shite.

The darkness inside, it feeds within

A hole so deep, it swallows you whole

A despair so black, you trip and drown

A life so bleak, you bleed from your wrists

I know what it feels like, feels like this

Life so fucked up you can't imagine anything else

This is the norm, the normal existence

Shattering glass, black eyes and late night trips to a doc

I know what it feels like, feels like this

A scream inside aching to get out

Burning your throat, making you soul sick

Anger wrapped draconine curls around your heart

I know what it feels like, feels like this

And I'm falling, falling once again

I don't know my friends

Sitting looking at peaceful smiling death

I know what it feels like, feels like this

Existence slipping through my fingers

Time's running out like whisky from the bottle

Everything's fucked up beyond all recognition, situation normal

I know what it feels like, feels like this...

Accidentally projecting, flavouring it with the bitter tired anger he carried around with him everyday. Dragon wrapped around his bones and weighing him down. A flare of light as someone flicked a lighter's flywheel into spark, cupping it to a cigarette and sending high cheekbones into almost carved existence. Jonothon turned and red on black eyes regarded him cautiously, wary of their intrusion.

"Gambit 'eard y', homme."

And now Gambit can bleeding well sod off! Jonothon snapped. Slight recoil as the older mutant slid a silvery lighter into the pocket of the well-worn duster and stepped backwards, cigarette dangling from the corner of his soft looking mouth. Sorry, I just...snap sometimes. Like a fox wiv me paw in a trap, yer know? Sorry.

Two sorrys in one night is far more then enough, but he'd always felt that something was inherently wrong in a group of people who could leave a man behind who would have died for them, put himself in defence of them often enough and then judge him for being naive and tricked. Judge him worthy of a slow death and then when he comes back, cold shoulder him and make him cower away like he'd been the one to do wrong. So, Jonothon said sorry. Because it sure hadn't been said often enough to the man in front of him.

"Alrigh', homme...Gambit understand what dat like. So, what brings y'out 'ere late a'night, in th' cold?" Gambit asked Jonothon quietly, slender fingered hands shoved deep into pockets.

Could ask the same of yer, Jonothon shot back. Thought you'd be in bed, like everyone else.

"Ah, ah, Gambit asked the question first, mec," Gambit shot back.

Mec? Wot the bloody 'ell is that? I'm out fer a walk since I couldn't sleep. 'Appy?

"An' what could be keepin' y' from yo' sleep, jeune mec?" Gambit asked quietly, before drawing back on his cigarette, holding it steady between two fingers.

Things, Jonothon said curtly. Not willing yet to go, to shut Gambit out again. Gotta question fer yer, cobber.

"Y' c'n ask, Gambit mebbe no ans'er," the red eyed man said softly, cigarette coal lighting up his demonic red eyes. They glowed ever so faintly in the dark, Jonothon noticed. Like embers. Fire...he felt strangely drawn into them, his flares trapped underneath the black bandages he wore for everyone else's protection against surges he couldn't control. Yet. He clung to that faint, faint hope. Least Gambit could hide his flames with a pair of dark glasses. Jonothon was stuck with wearing the bandages and looking like a burns victim. The dragon's teeth grated along the inside of his ribcage, what was left of it.

Wot's yer real name? So far, everyone's just called yer 'Gambit'. Less they're being nasty...like miss hoity toity wiv 'Swamprat'. She's a skunk, least that's wot she reminds me of. And it ain't just the stripe neither.

Gambit chuckled slightly. "Je m'appelle Remy LeBeau. Why d'y' compare la belle Rogue to a skunk, homme?"

She looks sweet and innocent...right until she stamps her feet and blasts yer with a snootfull of stink musk, Jonothon said without hesitation.

"Oh? And where would a city b'y like y' learn so much of skunks?" Gambit asked, pulling Jonothon out of the habitual sullenness he wrapped himself in, like his black bandages. Another layer to keep the world out. Away. Safe from getting hurt by him...or hurting him.

Learnt enough not to get sprayed again, Jonothon said adamantly. Gambit chuckled, voice low, sexy (Sexy?!) and dark. Oh no. Not going there again...since it ended up so well last time. Asked a guy, got slammed. Asked a girl, blew her into a wall when she suprised him with a kiss. Relationship, bad. Jonothon started to move away. There was a hand on his shoulder, bidding him stay.

"It's a long walk back t' th' mansion, and there is no one waiting up f'r y', is there, homme?" the Arcadian asked carefully.

No. Jonothon shook his head, eyes caught by Gambit's like a mouse before a cat. Apt comparasion, a cat to the sultry thief. All long and limber, seemingly without bones, coiled power under an unassuming coat and air of faint superiority. Except Gambit had somehow lost that sense of a God among lesser mortals Jonothon had noted when he'd seen Gambit before Antarctica...

"So, come up to the boathouse wit' moi," Gambit continued, jerking a head at the boat house, which Jonothon was faintly surprised to see not a hundred metres from them. So, he nodded and followed the slender shoulders covered by the long trenchcoat back to the boat house, the thief's place of self-imposed but community enforced exile. Jonothon tried to think the last time he'd even seen the auburn haired man back up at the mansion. He didn't attend meal times...so he couldn't even say if the thief came up to the house to eat. He hoped the man did. He'd been skinny enough before.

Yeah, this is 'ome away from 'ome like, Jonothon commented wryly as he stepped inside. His boots thumped noisily compared to Gambit's silent tread. At least that hadn't changed. The thief had always been able to scare the bejesus out of anyone except telepaths...and the Wolverine. No one could sneak up on him. He was insanely terrifying with a wicked bad temper as well, which meant no one wanted to surprise him either. Like wot yer've done to th' place...

"Merci," Gambit said gravely, a hint of sardonic humour that well matched Jonothon's own gleaming in his eyes. "Well, Ah was gonner get moi some coffee...but dat would be rude."

No, go ahead, Jonothon said. It's nippy out. Yer probably cold. The teen roamed further into the building, sitting down on a tattered couch and stretching out with a long armed stretch. Mind if I take me boots off?

"Non, go ahead, make yo'self at 'ome," Gambit said. Jonothon leant up to undo the laces on his boots before putting them on the floor with a quiet thud, a counterpoint to the soft movement in the kitchen as Gambit made coffee. He was soon back and sat down on the other end of the couch. Jonothon closed his eyes slightly as the older man sipped from his coffee. "What made y' decide t'wander down 'ere when y' couldn't sleep?" he asked with frank curiosity.

Just wanted to get out...sometimes, it's too crowded up there. Miss the basement I 'ad at Emma's, I do, Jonothon sighed.

"Difficult t'come, 'tit?"

Little bit...Gen X has scattered. 'M not sure where Ange is...Jubes stays here most times...when she can wangle it. And I'm 'ere. They're the ones I care to keep check on, like to know where they are. Everyone disappeared like leaves to the wind, seems like. He closed his eyes tiredly, feeling the emotional fatigue weigh him down.

"Gambit know what dat like. Sometimes, y' can't 'elp it, just 'appens." The quiet sounds of the other man drinking the hot coffee. Jonothon breathed in the scent of it. He'd always loved the smell of coffee, liked his black and bitter and hot enough to burn his mouth. Usually the only thing he could stomach before noon, if he was up before then and if he wasn't, he wanted it to help soothe away his hangover in the afternoon. He missed that. Missed smoking. Clamped down sharply on the talking, the singing, the kissing...keep it on the light, unimportant stuff. Don't want for those things which hurt like a dull blade shoved right through the skin you still have left when you think about them. Jonothon relaxed again as Gambit started to talk about New Orleans, or N'Awlins as it sounded drawled through the Cajun accent, the long humid summers and the good times to be had on Bourbon Street...nights as a thief, days slept away.

With the quiet hum of accented Cajun patois in his ears, Jonothon fell asleep.

He woke up, curled around a pillow, the soft scent of clean linen in his nose and an arm curled around his stomach, sleeping breath warm on the nape of his neck, the little that wasn't covered with bandages. Jonothon froze slightly in shock. Gambit had put him to bed and then crawled in after him? Was touching him? Volountarily? Couldn't be...just touch hungry and in his sleep just reached out for the warm body that was there...

The Brit closed his eyes and fell back to sleep, deciding not to worry about it. Gambit opened his eyes shortly after and cuddled slightly closer. Too long, this isolation he'd been trapped in. And something about this...no, not a boy, despite what he'd been calling him last night, this...youth called to something inside him. Probably the part that had refused to lie down in the snow and die quietly like Rogue had left him to do, and then had made him come back and face the people who had left him there, and still thought they had been right to do so, or ashamed of themselves and unable to face him through guilt. No matter the reason, the feelings at the mansion had forced him out. And now...he had this bitterly angry, resigned young man in his bed...When Jonothon woke up, Gambit decided, he'd just tell him the couch wasn't comfortable to sleep on and this was the only bed. That decision made, Gambit fell back to sleep.

Jonothon woke up again later, to see Gambit's red on black eyes watching him with sleepy curiosity. He decided that tagging Gambit as a cat was a very worthwhile assessment. But was this cat just playing with him cos he was bored? Morning.

"Afternoon, act'ly, homme," Gambit corrected in a smooth voice.

Wot, really? Jonothon suddenly remembered something. Bloody hell. I had a Danger Room session with Scott this morning. He's gonner be fucking livid that I missed h'it. He sat up in bed, throwing his legs over the side. Gambit watched with amusement as Jonothon ranted.

"Jean told him where y' were, and he called here. I told him y' were sleep. He raved for a bit, then I 'ung up."

Dead, I'm so dead. Deader then the bleeding graveyard shift. Dead as a sodding doornail. He's gonner *kill* me.

"No, he won't," Gambit said with assurance. "He'll just take it on me, but what is new bout dat, eh? Nuthin'. Same old, same old. Ah, c'est la vie." He reached out and rested a finely boned hand on Jonothon's wrist. "Lie back down and rest. Gambit think y' need it, cher."

Oh, Jesus... Jonothon moaned, sliding back down onto the bed. He closed his eyes, putting a hand over his face, then peering at Gambit through slightly parted fingers. Which brings to mind nother question. Wot the sod am I doing in yer bed with yer innit? Bit odd, iffin yer ask me.

"No other bed in da place, mec," Gambit said easily. "And both of us are a bit too long to sleep on t' couch comfort'bly."

I see. Jonothon nodded. So, wot are we doing? Yer need breakfast or summat, mate?

Gambit thought about averring, then nodded. "Well, it would be lunch now, mon ami." Jonothon chuckled slightly, which Gambit decided was a most singular sensation but one he thought not many people had been privy to. They got up and went downstairs to the kitchen. Jonothon poked through Gambit's CD collection while the other man hunted through the cupboards for something to eat. Nothing was found, not surprising...when was the last time he went up to the mansion to get supplies? He realised with a slight shock that he couldn't remember, and the cup of coffee last night with Chamber had been the first for a long time. "Look like da pantry is awful bare, ami. Ah think we will need to venture t' wrath of our Fearless Leader."

Lead on then, MacDuff, Jonothon said, raising a hand in a half hearted salute.

"And cursed be who first calls, nay, enough!" Gambit finished the quote as Jonothon pulled his boots on and started to do up the complicated array of straps and buckles. Gambit put on some sneakers and grabbed his trenchcoat.

Yer know old Bill? Jonothon said in a bit of surprise. Gambit chuckled then nodded as they set off across the lawn to the mansion.

"Of course. Ah like drama, and Shakespeare's plays are tres bon. He knew la vie, dat man."

Which one do yer like best? Jonothon asked as he opened the back door. Me, I like The Tempest.

"A Midsummer's Night Dream...a tale of midsummer madness, of lovers, magic and lunacy under t' moon," Gambit said semi-seriously as they entered the kitchen, Jonothon's boots scraped roughly over the welcome mat to knock some of the dirt off them and Gambit stepping through silently. "And Ah also believe quite strongly in l'amour."

Love is a fool's delusion, made up to sell Hallmark cards, Jonthon said bitterly, fingers rubbing over the bandages just below his nose. Gambit raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment as he started to move about the kitchen to get something to eat. Yer sound like Christian from the Moulin Rouge. And wot did love get him?

"What didn't it get, mebbe more t' question, mon ami," Gambit said, then changed the subject fluidly. "So, do y' play t' guitar?"

I've been known to. Jonothon sat down in one of the chairs, sprawling inelegantly in his black jeans and leather jacket. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at it a little.

"Ah thought they were guitar callouses on yo' hands," Gambit said as he sat down to eat. Jonothon raised an eyebrow at him and extended a hand, turning it palmside up.

Admiring me feelers? Gotter have good hands to play guitar well. Always fraid I'm gonner wreck 'em on a mission, but it would be just bout par for the course if I did. Everthing bollockses up round me.

"So young t' be so bitter," Gambit murmured, then concentrated on his lunch. Jonothon's fingers tapped distractedly on the table before the thief stood, stowing his plate in the dishwasher.

Come on up to me room, I'll show yer me one true lady, Jonothon said suddenly, not even sure why he said it. Just not wanting Gambit to go just yet, he guessed. A slow smile stretched over Gambit's face.

"Ah would be honoured, mon ami." They walked up to Jonothon's bedroom, surprisingly, the mansion seemed empty. Until they met Logan in one of the corridors. Jonothon stared at Logan calmly, and Gambit lowered his eyes slightly. The stocky older man just lifted an eyebrow at them both.

"Wondering where ya'd got to, Chamber. Cyke's in a godawful snit, ya know."

Fell asleep down in the boathouse, Jonothon said briefly. Why he'd been down there was his own business. Logan nodded at him slightly, before sharp eyes drifted upwards to Gambit's face.

"Good to see you round again, Gumbo. Training session soon, alright?"

"O' course, mon ami," Gambit said gravely. Another nod, and then Logan went off to do whatever it was he had been going to do. Jonothon started walking towards his room again.

Thought he was gonner pop the claws when I saw 'im first. Glad he didn't.

"Moi aussi, mon ami. Moi aussi."

And there yer go speaking Frog again, Jonothon complained goodnaturedly. He pushed open his door and entered in. Gambit's first thought was that there was an awful lot of black in the room. Cast iron bedframe, black sheets, black edged in wherever Jonothon could put it. Some band posters. He put a finger on the curve of one of the men's jaws in a picture and traced it.

"'Oo is this?"

That? Oh, that's Kurt Cobain, from Nirvana. That's a Pearl Jam poster and ah, Warren Zevon.

"Ah do not think Ah have 'eard of any of them..."

Well, Nirvana's broke up. They did after Kurt shot himself in the head with a shottie, Jonothon said bluntly. Zevon's dead, I'm pretty sure, and Pearl Jam are still kicking around and making albums.

"Ah see..." Gambit nodded slowly, noting the faint trace of wistfullness Jonothon edged his words with when he spoke of the singer who had killed himself. "What do they sound like, cher?"

Nirvana's grunge rock, Pearl Jam's rock, a bit Goth sometimes and Zevon's like, ballad rock, Jonothon said. Wait, I've got some clips I downloaded on me PC. He sat in the computer chair and leant down to turn it on. Out of Jonothon's line of sight, Gambit took the time to admire the curve of neck shielded by black bandages that was presented to him, the line of the body that flexed so effortlessly. The teen's fingers danced over the keyboard as he put in his passwords and then opened up the media player with a click of his mouse. This one's called Drain You, it's Nirvana. He tapped his fingers on the surface of his desk as Gambit listened carefully. An almost nasal voice, backed with guitar and drums, singing of rather depressing things. This is Better Man, by Pearl Jam. A song he could relate to, Gambit noted to himself. Jonothon put on another song, this time by Warren Zevon. See, I like 'im. He's got all the dark songs, then he 'as this. Raspberry Beret. Gambit chuckled openly as the male singer sang about a girl who wore a raspberry beret and when it was warm, didn't wear much more.

"Thought y' were goin' t' show moi what y' c'd play, homme," Gambit said after Jonothon played him a few more clips. Jonothon ran his fingers through his hair, looking strangely vulnerable for a few moments, before nodding decisively and getting up. He went to his wardrobe and opened it, pulling out a black guitar case. Gambit could see a lot of black clothes hanging up in there. He would place bets that the teen's underwear was black too. Down boy, he scolded himself as he watched Jonothon get his guitar out of the case and arrange it lovingly across his lap, fingers stroking the smooth wood and steel strings affectionately.

I like to write me own songs...they're shite and I know it, but I like them anyway. Jonothon glanced up at Remy, tuning the guitar by ear. A few more minutes of soft strumming, before he started to play properly, telepath voice in Gambit's head, soft and husky. The theif would have placed bets that the boy had been a smoker when he still had his body intact.

Don't tell me to feel any better then I do

Don't tell me, life's not so bad

I been there, I lived that

And I gotta tell you if there's one thing I've learned

It's that

Life's a bitch

And then you die

Doesn't seem to be much more then that

Yeah, life's a bitch

But hey, life's like that sometimes

I should be dead

Sometimes I wish I was

I can't help but cover my face

There's a hole where my heart should be

But that don't mean I don't feel

I'm a telepath

But I can't use that when I'm out in public

Do you have any idea how that frustrates me?

And the ONE thing I KNOW for sure

It's that

Life's a bitch

And then you die

Don't tell me to feel any better then I do

Don't tell me, life's not so bad

I think I may know more then you do

And I think I may have lived my time

Because my rage is never sleeping

And I don't dare spend my time weeping

For what I've had, and what I've lost

And everything that goes between

A living death and a life that's lived

I know which one I'm existing in

Pity me and I'll tell you

Sod off, don't you even fucking dare

Because I know my life

I live it

Fuel my fire, stoke my rage

Rattle the bars on my lonesome cage

Caged wolf watching

Howling in my head

Sometimes think I'd be better off dead

Because, life's a bitch

Life's a bitch

Life's a bitch, and then.

You.

Die... Jonothon let the last chords of the song trail off, fingers moving slowly.

"Y' rather angry, homme," Gambit observed quietly.

Think I have a right ter be. Jonothon kept his head down and played some more chords idly. Fucking hate being pitied, Remy, so don't yer bloody dare.

"Ah do not pity y', mon ami," Gambit said softly. Jonothon nodded slightly and they started talking about music.

Later that afternoon, after they'd been talking for most of three or so hours, Gambit started making noises about going down and leaving. Jonothon reached out and touched his arm.

Stay.

"Everyone is coming home..." Gambit closed his eyes briefly. Rogue. He didn't want to see her.

Yer need ter eat. I know yer don't have no food down there. Gambit looked at Jonothon, sighed and gave in gracefully to the stubborn look in Jonothon's eyes.

"Alrigh', homme."

I wouldn't let no one say anything, yer know, Jonothon said. The way they've treated you is bloody awful.

"Ah deserve it, mon ami. Ah got t' Morlocks killed, moi."

Bullshit. Yer were tricked inter it and and then they judged yer for being young and stupid. Fuck that. Anyway, let's go get yer summat to eat, cobber. Jonothon put his guitar away carefully. He left the room and Gambit followed him, shaking his head.

"Y' trust this easy normally, homme?"

Nah, not me. I'm a distrustful suspicious Cockney, mate. But I'm also like that little terrier that is loyal as all get out and hangs onto things till e's dead. I'm a mongrel bred, and I like it like that. See, not many people get me. Yer seem to, yer and Ange. Yer more or less the only one's that 'ave. Or bovvered to. Jonothon's boots sounded noisily on the stairs as they headed downstairs. Yer also one of the very few people I've let listen to me play.

"Then Ah am honoured, mon ami," Gambit said quietly.

Right, 'ere we bloody well go. Jonothon entered the room where the X-men usually ate their meals. Most of them were there, he shared a sideways glance with the Wolverine and ignored Jean's slightly shocked look. Telling yer, mate, Kurt Cobain was a fucking god on the guitar.

"He's still dead, homme," Gambit said as he entered behind Jonothon. Rogue's eyes glittered and Jonothon glared at her.

Mebbe, but he's still one of the all time greats. After all, Bill's dead and he's still the best.

"True, mon ami." Gambit looked around at the assembled people. "Jono convinced me Ah should eat. If this is a problem for anyone, Gambit will leave."

The sod yer will. Jonothon's head came up, nostrils flared slightly. Gambit placed a gentling hand on his shoulder for a moment.

"Ah'd say it's a problem," Rogue said.

Pipe down, miss le Pew and go wash the skunk musk off yer mouth before yer talk again to me mate like that, Jonothon sneered at her. Rogue gaped slightly. Grow the *fuck* up, get over yer bitch and sit the fuck back down. Yer left him to die, and he didn't. How very fucking inconsiderate of 'im fer yer. Because he makes things messy, being walking and breathing an' all. Rogue's eyes and mouth opened wide. Jean got up from her seat to say something. Scott looked blank, but then he always did, eyes hidden behind the visor. Bobby glanced from person to person. Hank looked more then slightly troubled, and Logan just grinned to himself slightly. Gambit looked distressed, gazing at Rogue, then back at Jonothon begging him to keep a rein on his temper which had just flared like an oil soaked rag touched to a flick of a match.

"How dare you!" Rogue hissed.

"Jonothon," Jean started.

Fucking hypocrites, the whole bloody lot of yer. 'Ow fucking dare yer judge him? Yer've all got blood on yer hands, some innocent, some not. Jonothon's eyes blazed. And yer left him to die in a frozen wasteland. No easy death, oh sod no. Death by exposure and cold.

"Mon ami, s'il vous plait, stop," Gambit whispered.

"You weren't there," Hank began quietly.

And yer a doctor, McCoy. I don't even understand how it was possible fer yer to do that. Hank's eyes looked pained and Bobby stood up.

"You weren't there, Chamber. You don't know-"

I know enough. I also know I wouldn't leave a team mate to die, like yer all seemed to. Jonothon looked at Logan. Talk to yer later, Wolverine. Seems like there's this stink 'ere I can't get out of me nose. Logan waved a hand slightly as Jonothon turned and took Gambit from the room firmly. Raiding the pantry, and then leaving.

"Y' really shouldn't have done dat, mon ami. Y' shouldn't have spoken to them like dat..."

Yer know wot? Fuck 'em. I'm that angry I don't care wot they think. Never cared wot Rogue thought in the first place, fucking disappointed in McCoy-

"M. Bete does his best, homme."

He didn't do his best by you. Jonothon whirled and glared at Scott who had followed them. Sod off and fucking die.

"Chamber, please calm down," Scott said. His visored eyes went to Gambit who flinched back slightly. "He said some things that did need to be said, Gambit. What we did...was unforgivable, and the way we treated you after you came back compounded the problem." Gambit stared at Scott in disbelief. "Would you like to come back in and eat?"

"Non, Gambit does not think dat would be a bonne idee," Gambit said quickly, eyes flicking towards the door.

If he goes back, I come in as well, Scott, Jonothon warned. And I'm already pissed.

"I understand that," Scott said. "Would you both like to come back in?"

"Mebbe another day, oui?" Gambit said, already moving towards the door. "Coming, Jono?"

In a tic, mate, Jonthon said, eyes on Scott. I need to talk with the team leader bout making up my missed training session.

"D'accord," Gambit agreed, then disappeared back to the boathouse. Jonothon looked at Scott.

Yer finished eating so we can walk and talk? Think while some of the things should be heard by others, some of them shouldn't and miss Skunk will 'ave her lughole to the door if she thinks she can get away wit' h'it.

"Of course, Chamber," Scott said. Jonothon nodded and they walked out into Storm's garden. The younger man sat on a garden bench and looked around, smoothing his hands over the black, faded denim of his jeans. And then proceeded to tell Scott in his rough accent exactly what he thought about what the X-Men as a team had done to Gambit in Antarctica. Then he continued on to the present day.

Yer do realise he doesn't eat? More or less at all? Think about the last time he came up for a meal. Can yer even remember? He 'as no food in the boathouse, I know, I've seen. Yer meant to be in charge, yer should be taking care of all yer team members, not just some of 'em. Jonothon stared into the impenetrable quartz of Scott's visor. Anyway, I'm going now. And he got up and left Scott sitting alone in the fragrant tranquillity of Storm's garden to go to Gambit's place of exile.

Since Jonothon had now made his opinion of the state of affairs at the X-Mansion very well known, he found himself mostly ignored. That actually rather suited him. Left him time to compose his music and talk with Gambit. Something was happening there...a slow dance around what he was beginning to think they both wanted. Weeks passed, broken occasionally with battles with whatever villain of the day presented themselves as opponents. Nothing particularly difficult, really.

Then one day he came home, opened his e-mail box and found an e-mail from Paige. His heart twisted and he felt dizzy as he read the first few lines, then deleted it. Why? Why would she write to him, ever? She'd never understood him...and he'd never really understood her. That's more or less why they failed. She didn't know pain, and he knew too much of it. So he got up and went down to the boathouse, guitar on his back.

Didn't say anything to Gambit, just sat down on the couch and played. Not speaking, not singing, just letting his guitar cry between his fingers. Mournful and low, edged as always with a taste of anger. The thief sat and listened, cigarette dangling from his fingers, smoking it quietly.

'M so tired of this shit, Remy, Jonothon said eventually, putting his guitar down and resting his head in his hands. God, I'm just so tired. Gambit got up and Jonothon glanced upwards at his somehow found friend in the mansion, two outsiders on the edges of the team. He'd taken what his appearance made him already and wore it like armour, flaunting it in the face of the world. Gambit though...was meant to be in the world, part of it, living life joyfully without care. Almost without volition, his hand went upwards to touch Gambit's face, fingers stroking along the curve of that ridiculously full bottom lip. Gambit stared at him and Jonothon jerked his hand back like he'd been burned. Sorry. I'll, ah, go. He got up and grabbed his guitar, burning with humiliation, cruelly curved teeth scraping along his bones and stoking it. Gambit stopped him with a gentle hand and kissed his forehead, Jonothon's eyes startled and wide under his lips.

"Stay."

Orright. Jonothon slowly put his guitar down, wary eyes on Gambit's as the other man smiled slightly. So...

"Still running, cher? Even in yo' own 'ead?"

I happen to be very good at running away from stuff like this. Or blowing 'em ter pieces with one misplaced flare. Gambit ran his fingers down Jonothon's face, the tips catching slightly on the edge of the bandages. The teen almost flinched back but Gambit's hand held his head in place.

"Calm down, cher. Nuthin' like dat gonna happen." Gentle hands cupped either side of his face and then lips pressed down on his bandages, indenting them where, if he was even slightly normal, he would have had lips to kiss back with. The sheer unfairness of it slammed him in the gut for a moment, before hands were working to get his jacket off. The leather hit the floor, and Jonothon let Gambit lean him back into the couch. Suddenly afraid eyes met red on black as the black t-shirt was discarded but nothing happened, nothing paused despite the tight black bandages that covered his body. "Tres bon, cher..." Gambit purred in his ear, hands sliding across the slick surfaces that covered Jonothon's chest.

Yer...yer don't mind? Jonothon arched and moaned as teeth nipped sharply at his shoulder.

"Oh, non, cher. Not at all." Gambit leant up and shrugged his shirt fluidly off his body, knees to either side of Jonothon's hips as he arched slightly to drag the material over his head. "I think y' tres joli, cher."

And that means wot? Ah, fuck! Jonothon's hips thrust up helplessly as Gambit rocked against him, smiling a devilishly sexy grin.

"Means y' pretty, cher."

Remy, I...ahhh, god! Jonothon's eyes rolled back in his head as slim fingers slid down the front of his pants and stroked him gently. Gambit's plan of action to distract him from his own habitual self loathing seemed to consist of making him forget his own name, which offered frail hope for remembering his train of thought. It seemed rather sudden that both their pants were gone and Jonothon's hands hung onto Gambit's back desperately. Bloody hell! Oh god, oh please...

"Cher...tu est tres mignon...bon dieu!" Good to know he wasn't the only one affected to the point of incoherence as they touched and their bodies slid against each other. Jonothon slid his calloused fingertips across Gambit's nipple and was rewarded with a low moan, so he did it again, rolling the hard nub between his fingertips lightly. So close...he could almost feel it sparking through both of them and then Gambit's hand slid firmly over his cock and he arched his back and came.

Remy!

"Amour..." Gambit thrust hard into the groove between Jonothon's leg and hip and climaxed, moaning in soft Cajun patois about how good it felt to be with Jonothon, how beautiful he was, how much he loved what they'd just done together. They lay together, fluids cooling on their stomachs and Gambit's mouth pressed into the hollow beneath Jonothon's ear, legs intertwined and Jonothon's hand rubbing abstractedly over the whipfine musculature of Gambit's back.

We should move, or we're gonner stick together, and that's never pleasant. Gambit chuckled in the telepath's ear, darting his tongue out to lick along the shell-like curve softly before nipping with teeth that were far more feline they had right to be. Jonothon squirmed lazily as Gambit dragged his fingers through the puddled whiteness on his stomach just below the black bandages and then licked the slender digits slowly, savouring.

"Y' taste bon, amour." A last lick to remove any last trace of whiteness and then Gambit got up, pulling Jonothon to his feet. Snickering slightly as the telepath stumbled over his own discarded boots and fell into him.

Ha bloody ha ha. Bite me.

"If y'insist." Gambit then spun Jonothon around slightly and sunk his teeth into the curve of ebony covered shoulder.

Yeowch! Wot are yer, a bleeding cat?!

"Non, non. Just a t'ief. C'mon, we need a shower, homme." After all, what point is there in just showering. You get dirty, you need to wash, which somehow ends up that you both get dirty again which leads to another wash...Jonothon decided he could easily use up three, four hours bathing with Remy easy. Not wasting, just using. Hands tangled in auburn hair and rubbing the black bandages along the curve of a slim neck, gasping and moaning as slim fingers busied themselves elsewhere. Doing some busying of his own with his hands in Remy's elsewheres. He grinned to himself, yeah, he could cope with that. Easily.

They settled on Gambit's bed, both naked except for Jonothon's bandages, being quiet together. They were both good at that. Jonothon ran his fingers gently through Gambit's wet, silky hair and thought silent thoughts, before he started composing. Again. Gambit nudged Jonothon's side with a finger.

"What y' thinking bout so loudly, cher?"

Song. Get it right later. Jonothon slid a hand down Gambit's toned stomach and the other man arched upwards with a mumbled exclamation. Needless to say, Jonothon spent the night in the boathouse with Gambit.

Walking back up again the next morning, he wished he could smoke. Wanted the familiar soothing comfort of the nicotine laden smoke and something to do with his hands. Guitar on his back and slouching in thought as he plodded up to the kitchen door and opened it. Bobby was eating and chatting noisily with Storm, who merely looked mildly amused as she more daintily ate her own breakfast. He glanced at them before starting to continue on.

"You play the guitar? How cool!" Bobby exclaimed, fork poised between his mouth and his plate. Scrambled eggs, Jonothon's nose told him without need for visual confirmation with the yellow and white goop that Bobby was eating. Something about eggs had always turned him right off eating, even smelling them. Jonothon shuddered slightly in distaste.

Yeah, wot of it? Slightly defensive, but his music was just that, his.

"Like, would you play for us? Storm would love to hear it, I'm sure, wouldn't you Storm?" Bobby frantically nodded at the white haired woman whose amusement became more apparent.

"Why not? A morning serenade with our breakfast. Only if you want to, Jonothon."

If I'm not in trouble, it's Jono. Or Chamber, Jonothon said almost snarkily. And at the moment, the only person I'm playing fer is Remy. Scuse, I'm tired, need me sleep. And he left, Storm's eyes just slightly wide and Bobby's mouth hanging open in shock. Not that he'd refused, because they already knew he was a private, uncommunicative person with a nasty temper, but that he was playing for Gambit, and he wouldn't play for them.

Sitting up on his bed later, there was a quiet knock on the door. Jonothon put his notepad and pencil down and went to answer it, already knowing who it was. Gambit. Come in, luv. Tilted his head to receive the kiss he knew he was getting and let the thief of his heart into his room. Not that he'd told anyone, including himself yet, that the Cajun had stolen his heart. Fucking, he could just about cope with. Love? Not on the cards...yet.

Keeping secrets in a house full of telepaths, and someone with a nose like the Wolverine's is strictly impossible, as Jonothon soon learned. Gambit listened to his irritated cursing in the privacy of a bedroom and then slid a hand to touch him and shut him up. It seemed to work well, for both of them. Betsy just smirked slightly at them both, and kept out of it anymore then that. Jean wanted to meddle, in a mothering way. Scott knew of course, thanks to his wife but Jonothon really wished he'd keep his quiet comments about what was good for the team to himself. Had it been good for the team when Gambit and Rogue were knocking boots and fighting on a regular basis? Everyone had seen how well that ended up. Both for the team and both people involved. Rogue had gotten...darker. Crueller. And Gambit was really a shadow of the man he'd been when he'd first come to the mansion, though flashed of the debonair charmer shone through on occasion, as Jonothon liked to think, thanks to him. Logan didn't care, knew, but didn't care and wasn't going to get involved. Xavier had been mostly gone, and therefore not a problem.

There was a quiet awareness of Jonothon and Remy's relationship at the mansion, softly known but not spoken of. Most were unaware of the deeper turn their friendship had taken, and while some objected even to the friendship, more would object to the sexual and romantic leanings the friendship had taken of late. Jonothon glanced at Gambit as they headed down the ramp of the Blackboard, knowing the older man had taken a few hard knocks in the last battle. Yer alright, pet? he said privately.

"Je suis bien, mon ami, bien," Gambit assured him with a murmur, and a nonchalant wave of his hand.

Yer sure now...?

"Oui, oui." Gambit looked up as Logan put a hand on his shoulder, also looking at Jonothon.

"You two feel like joining some of the others and me down at Harry's for some pool?"

Warning yer, Wolverine, I'm real good at pool, Jonothon said, a spark of interest gleaming in his eyes. He couldn't drink, but he could play pool like a shark. Gambit shrugged.

"Give moi time to catch a shower, homme, and Gambit be ri' wit' y'."

"Great." Logan nodded at them both and left. Jonothon looked at Gambit, and shrugged slightly before going to shower alone.

The ride to Harry's in Logan's jeep with Hank and Bobby, besides himself and Gambit was talkative but pleasant. The night was fine, and Jonothon managed to beat Logan at pool, but only by one very lucky shot. Bobby voted Jonothon new champion of the pool table, for displacing Logan as number one pool shark.

Lunnon, used ter hang out in pubs a lot. Played a hell of a lot of pool, sometimes for money, sometimes just fer fun, Jonothon volunteered.

"Miss it?" Bobby asked quietly. A bruised hurt showed in Jonothon's eyes for a moment.

All the bloody time. Yer miss wot yer had before the ice? I miss wot I had before the bandages. Anyways. Jonothon shrugged fluidly, bluing the tip of his que. Whose up fer another round? Silenced for a moment, Bobby nodded and leant over the table to gather up the balls so they could start another round. As the night progressed, Jonothon found his balance growing more unsteady. He rubbed his fingers over his nose softly, closing his eyes for a moment. Gambit laughed at something Hank had said before drawling an impudent rejoinder. Felt almost like he was drunk. But since he couldn't drink, he couldn't be drunk...could he? Weaving slightly from side to side, Jonothon went over to the booth that the X-Men who weren't playing pool were sitting in. I think I'm drunk, the Brit said with honest confusion in his telepathic 'voice'. Someone bumped into him heavily and Jonothon spun slightly, eyes wide before he was pushed again and sat down heavily on his butt on the ground. Bollocks.

Understandably, most of the X-men roared with laughter to see the usually composed, distant Chamber knocked to the ground by people he should have seen coming. He glared up at them from the floor.

Fuck yer and the horses yer rode in on. He raised two fingers in a slightly obscene gesture, then took Bobby's hand to get to his feet again.

"I've never heard of a telepath reacting to other people like this," Hank said with curiosity, eyeing Jonothon like a particularily interesting new specimen. "Have you not been in this situation before?"

After this, Jonothon flicked his fingers towards his bandages, didn't like going into public places. And then I was at Emma's. If Sean's gonner drink, he 'as to do h'it far away from us h'impressionable young'uns. Least, I think that's Emma's reasoning. Though other then Artie and Leech I don't really see who she 'as to protect from the 'evils of alcohol'. Jonothon made qoute marks with his fingers. This is the first time I've been round people who are drunk.

"I believe this will require more experimentation," Hank said.

"Yo' just saying that as an excuse to go to Harry's," Gambit chuckled. Hank smiled slightly.

"If Jonothon does not mind..."

Less I'm in trouble, h'it's Jono, Jonothon corrected automatically. But 'alf the fun in getting wasted is the drinking yer do ter get there! I've been so gypped.

"Gypped?" Gambit inquired, just a trace of a slur in his words.

Jewed, cheated, Jonothon said. He sat down in the booth and rested his head on his hands. Bugger, I need a smoke. He held up one hand, and waggled his fingers slightly. Need summat to do wiv me 'ands. I'd say mouf too, but don't 'xactly 'ave that no more. He drummed his fingers on the table, eyes going abruptly distant. Dah ni dah nah dah, meet my normal, meet my norm, embrace your own descrying descent, you know it hasn't happened yet, but I know it will, you know for once I'm right, best give up without a fight...need a pen and paper for this runs clean from me head. Long fingers patted down the pockets in his clothing, and finding nothing, Jonothon rubbed his head along Gambit's shoulder like a cat. Yer got one of me notepads, pet?

"Non, Gambit do not," the theif said, knowing there were startled eyes on them both...well, from everyone except Logan.

Bollocks. I 'ave a quest then, a most holy and sacred quest. To find some paper and a pen so I can write down me damn song fore I forget it.

"I did not know you composed, Jono," Hank said, ignoring for the moment where Jonothon's hand was on Gambit's leg.

Lot people here don't know bout me.

"He plays guitar too!" Bobby said. "Except he wouldn't play for me and Storm, he just walked off." He sighed slightly in dissatisfaction.

Bite me, Jonothon said succinctly. Worst comes to worst, I can write on the napkins. Have before, can again. He took a pen out of his jacket pocket and clicked it open before grabbing some napkins where they were placed near Logan. The older mutant ignored him and drank from the bottle of beer he held in one hand. The pen scribbled quickly over the paper, Jonothon pausing at times to finger guitar chords in the air before nodding and continuing on.

"So, what y' writing, homme?" Gambit asked finally. Jonothon's face lifted and Gambit wondered uneasily if he should have asked that question as his lover's eyes gleamed wickedly.

A song, mate. Just a song.

"Gonna sing it for us?" Bobby said, then flinched as Jonothon's eyes turned into deadly glares. "I didn't mean it like that! I, oh man!"

"Bobby, my compatriot, I do suggest you stop talking before you dig yourself in deeper to this hole you have just begun for yourself," Hank said. Bobby nodded.

"Forget I said anything! Anything at all!"

Not hard to do, most of wot yer say is pretty forgettable. Bobby gaped for a moment at that, then Jonothon put the pen back in his pocket and slid the crumpled scrawled over napkins away in his jacket. Bored now. He rubbed his bandages along the curve of Gambit's neck, half closing his eyes. Let's go, luv. 'M bored now. Don't want to sit and listen to Icey mouth orf neither.

"Explain! Explain the PDA's!" Bobby exclaimed, eyes wide.

"Oh, shut up, Popsicle," Logan grumbled. "You didn't know?"

Th' Doc does, Jonothon almost singsonged, dark amusement running through his voice. Went and saw him, didn't I? And so did Reeeemy.

"Y' are a danger to y'self when y'drunk, amour," Gambit said as Jonothon started to snicker, one hand sliding up the thief's shirt. Bobby stared as Gambit's eyes flared for a moment and Jonothon snickered again. "Arrete-la, cher. Get y' home."

"You can't be serious!" Warren hissed, eyes blazing with hatred. "You, how can you even, touch, him! He's a murderer! He'll bring you down to his level, cover you with filth!" Gambit flinched backwards slightly and Jonothon moved almost before anyone saw it, one foot on the table helping him up and over then kicking Warren neatly under the jaw with the other boot. As the man fell back for a moment, dazed, Jonothon put all his weight behind a punch to the face, connecting solidly.

Yer don't say shite like that bout 'im! I'll fuck yer up real good, Wings! See if I don't! Jonothon turned and snarled as Logan pulled him back by his shirt in a coltish flurry of limbs and back down into his seat. One heavy boot still manages to connect again with the side of Warren's face, making Jonothon laugh in triumph. Born and bred in Lunnon's gutters, I was always th' underdog, and I learned how to bite and t' fight, t' hate and t' stand up, because I am a rat wiv me back to the wall, fighting fer me life and yer better believe I'll sell it dear ter yer, blood sweat and tears fer it, mostly mine but some of your'n, cos I be a Londoner street child born and bred, wake up, break up, don't you want to watch me fuck it up? Warren held one hand to his eyes, glaring with the other as Jonothon sang, tone almost gloating and smug. The Brit barked a sort of laugh and did a drumroll on the table with his hands. Logan was almost grinning as Hank started to fuss over Warren and get him out of Harry's. The altercation had gone mostly unnoticed by the other people in the club. A hand came down heavily on Jonothon's shoulder and he looked up into the blank visor of Scott's shielded eyes.

"I think you should go home, Chamber."

Sod yer, Jonothon replied, returning his attention to where it had been before...making Gambit squirm slightly and appease his own suddenly possessive nature. C'mon, I want to dance. He grabbed Gambit's hand and tugged him up from the seat, amused red eyes watching as the teen totally ignored Scott's reprimanding tone.

"Oui, cher, but Gambit don' think this the best place for it, d'y?"

Nah. So, let's go, let's go! See everyone back at the mansion. Jonothon waved, then placed his arm around Gambit's waist. Bloody 'ell, am I ever *wasted*.

"I think we noticed, homme," Gambit chuckled, then gasped as Jonothon's guitar calloused fingers slid under his shirt then down into the waistband of his pants. "Are y' trying to make me lose control, cher?" he whispered as they left, Jonothon's hand making it hard to think.

Mmmm, yeah. Seems like. Jonothon's tone was slightly smug as he ran his fingers down the faint dusting of hair that led down Gambit's stomach to his groin. Want yer to fuck me, I do. We 'aven't actually done that yet. And then I think, I could fuck *you*, which we 'aven't done either.

"Dieu!" Gambit turned and pulled Jonothon into an alley, kissing and rubbing against him like a cat in heat. "Cher, y'know what y' saying?"

Ain't like yer gonner pop me cherry, Rems, I ain't a virgin. Course I know. Jonothon put his hands on Gambit's hips and ground deliberately into the other man's crotch, gaining a startled moan and biting kisses along his neck where it was covered by bandages. Yer wanner?

"Alors, oui! Vraiment, mon amour, mon cher," Gambit purred, latching white teeth into Jonothon's earlobe and tugging lightly. "Y' sure?"

Wanted to, fer a while. Just didn't have the balls to bollocks wot we had going, Jonothon admitted. Gambit's hands stilled for a moment on Jonothon's hips, resting his forehead against the other man's shoulder.

"Let's go home."

Gambit called a taxi, not wanting to deprive any of the X-Men within of a ride home and not wanting to call them out of the pub either. Sweet delayed urgency in the backseat as the cabdriver solidly ignored the moans, gasps and hushed reproaches in Cajun, Jonothon limiting his ‘voice’ to Gambit alone. Husky psi-voice detailing what he wanted, what he needed, what they would do together. Because they loved, and were loved in return. Murmuring softly in Gambit’s mind while calloused fingertips pinched and stroked, jean covered legs sliding along leather, palms smoothed across silk, bandages rasping gently over skin and driving him insane.

“Y’ goin’ kill moi, amour, mon cheviller noir,” Gambit gasped, arching up into a wicked slide of Jonothon’s hand.

Well, wouldn’t want to do that. Like yer heart beating, thumpthump, like it does. Devious laughter as Gambit opened the door as the cab pulled up, throwing money at the driver and dragging Jonothon out of the car. Eager, mate?

“W’t d’y think, toi mechante mec,” Gambit almost growled, pressing Jonothon into the wall and restraining those devilishly clever hands above the teen’s head. Which gained him a startled little moan and an eager upwards thrust of the thin hips.

Yes, Remy, please, fuck me, oh god, please... Gambit chuckled a darkly amused laugh and bit at Jonothon’s neck.

“Soon, p’tit, soon.”

Bloody hell, yessssss...

Making it into the boat house somehow, someway, staggering oddly as Jonothon’s drunkenness and forgotten reflexes with how to deal with it when he got like that providing amusement and frustration to them both. Dropping clothes across the ground, coats first. Larger heap of Gambit’s trenchcoat next to the dully gleaming blackness of Jonothon’s biker jacket. Cream silk shirt and a black cotton t-shirt. Black boots with a complicated looking arrangement of straps. A pair of good shoes. Lying askew on the floor, laces not quite undone. Black jeans, one leg fully turned inside out just near the bedroom door. Dark brown leather pants lying akimbo while two pale bodies, one wrapped round with black fell on the bed with a creak of springs.

“Lube, cher?” Gambit whispered, rocking his hips against Jonothon’s and feeling that delicous friction. Knowing his lover did as well.

Gahhhh...this is *yer* bedroom, yer know. Bedside table. Top drawer. Would yer get the fucking slick so we can fuck now?

Gambit chuckled slightly and leaned over Jonothon, incidentally pressing their hardened lengths against each other, rummaging for the tube of lubricant while the teen below him whined, begged and moaned, hips thrusting upwards helplessly in search of further friction. Found it, slim fingers closing on it and bringing it to light thankfully. “Y’ trés bon, mon chevalier de nuit...” Flipping the lid, Gambit looked down at Jonothon with smouldering devil eyes in an angelic face. Jonothon reached up and stroked his fingers through the fine auburn strands hanging down over one eye, brown eyes so dark they were nearly black.

Remy... Jonothon arched his back and spread his legs invitingly. Gambit finally moved from his lustful staring to take the cap off the tube and squeeze some of the cold gel onto his fingers. He nipped at the bandages on Jonothon’s neck, other hand trailing down his chest before he took advantage of Jonothon’s sprawled open posture and slid one finger into him.

Bloody hell! Jonothon threw his head back against the pillows, breathing in deeply through his nose. So good, luv...more, please, more. Want yer to ter touch me please fuck me god please I want yer so bad, darlin’...

“Je desiré tu,” Gambit murmured, eyes glowing at the flood of words he’d brought from Jonothon. Carefully, he slid another finger into his lover, scissoring them slightly apart. He bucked and arched his back, spreading his legs wider and exposing himself to Gambit’s eyes. “J’enculerai toi, mon cher. Y’are so bon...trés joli, mon chou...” A third finger and Gambit closed his eyes briefly. He was so hot and tight around his fingers...like a finely sewn leather glove...

Jonothon closed his eyes briefly, feeling the stretching burn from Gambit’s fingers. And then ah god, yes! Slim fingers nudged his prostate sending stars flying behind his eyes and through his mind. Yes! Fucking do that again! Gambit paused, then rubbed his fingers over the spot again more purposefully.

“Like that, cher?”

Fuck me now, yer bastard! Jonothon demanded, writhing on the bed in frustrated want. Gambit chuckled and licked slowly across the flat plane of stomach below the last bandage. Jonothon nearly screamed. Fucking cocktease! Gambit grinned again, crooking his fingers and making Jonothon swear again very whole heartedly.

“Ah think this is what’s called topping from the bottom, eh, cher?”

The only response he got was a glare, followed by: I’m pushy. Fuck me *now* or I’m gonner kill yer.

Gambit slid his fingers out and pressed the head of his length against Jonothon’s opening gently. Jonothon hooked a leg around Gambit’s and pulled him closer, inside himself. They both moaned and Jonothon closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his lover fill him completely. Take him. Complete him. “Oh, mon amour...”

S’good, Rems...want yer bad, I do.

“Y’ve got moi, mon couer.” Gambit slid out slowly, then thrust back as Jonothon’s hips rose to meet him. “Ah, cher!”

Not gonner fucking break, pet, fuck me! Jonothon’s hands clawed down Gambit’s back, leaving red marks on pale skin. Gambit sucked in a breath and started to move harder and faster. Moans and hisses, punctuated by words of love, filled the air. Jonothon started slightly as Gambit supported himself on one hand and reached down between them to slide his fingers around Jonothon’s length, moving his hand in time with his thrusts. The teen moaned loudly, eyelashes fluttering darkly against his white skin as he started to give in to the building orgasm. Gambit thrust harder, nudging his prostate again and Jonothon cried out as he came, eyes glowing with ecstasy. The bandages seemed to light up from the inside, throwing dark shadows across Gambit’s face.

“Amour!” Gambit couldn’t hold back at the feel of Jonothon’s climax around his length and came into his lover, red eyes glowing in the semi-dark of his room and fingers tightening in the sheets. He nuzzled Jonothon’s neck as they lay together and they both eventually fell asleep, twined around each other and sated for the moment.

The next morning, Jonothon set off for the mansion so he could get a change of clothes, humming merrily in his head and walking just a bit strangely.

“You seem happy this morning,” Storm noted, sipping from her cup of herbal tea. Jonothon’s eyes gleamed.

Yeah, just a bit. Got very well fucked last night, good times all round, hey? Anyway, I need to change.

Leaving the usually calm weather witch behind him with her mouth hanging open in shock, Jonothon went up to his room. Still humming and being obnoxiously happy. He showered again and changed before grabbing his guitar and heading to sit out on the lawn. Bobby zoomed down from an ice slide and then changed back to his human form.

“Wow, are you happy? Isn’t that against the laws for Goth types?”

Well fucked would be a better assessment of my mood. If yer gonner hang around, yer can shut yer bloody cakehole and sit there quietly like a good boy. I need to concentrate.

Bobby closed his mouth and sat down, ears pricked as Jonothon opened his guitar case and took out his guitar. He ran his fingers over the strings, tuning them slightly before he started to play. An easy, somehow wistful tune. But one that was filled with undertones of darker desires, more adult themes then suggested by the opening melody line.

Sometimes life feels all the same

You feel like pressing fast forward or rewind

To find the good times to come or already gone

But I don’t need to with you

Because even when I’m walking through the flames

All I can say is your name

And I don’t care if I burn

Because your eyes remind me of the flame

Anger’s an ember I gripped in my hand

To taste my own pain, keep the world away

You took my hand and made the ember a bonfire

Wrapped us in an intensity that’ll never die

Because fire’s alive and I’ve been dead

You found your way into my heart and my head

Your touch like a wildfire in my veins

Make me burn so I forget my name

Because even when I’m walking through the flames

All I can say is your name

And I don’t care if I burn

Because your eyes remind me of the flame

And it doesn’t matter to me what people say

I’d still love you anyway

Because you make me burn for you

And I know you burn for me

Because even when I’m walking through the flames

All I can say is your name

And I don’t care if I burn

Because your eyes remind me of the flame

Because you burn like a flame

Because you burn like a flame...

“Holy shit,” Bobby finally whispered. “This is real, isn’t it?”

Very. Jonothon looked up, having almost forgotten that Bobby was there. His eyes flicked over to the bushes. Yer can come out now, Wolverine.

“Goddamn teeps,” Logan grumbled.

Actually, I could smell yer cigar. Jonothon’s tone was smug. Think Jean’ll go mother hen on us next?

“Perhaps I trust you both to be adult,” the woman’s voice came quietly from behind them as she walked across the grass. “I do not think I need to tell you to be careful. You two already have been, I know.”

Jonothon nodded, and turned his attention back to his music, free of sorrow and of pain. Notes dancing out from under his fingers as he sang about love...

The End.