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femmedelalune (![[info]](http://www.journalfen.net/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} femmedelalune) wrote,@ 2008-02-26 23:59:00 |
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X-Men, 18, Jono/Remy
Title: Sensory Deprivation
Rating: 18
Warnings: slash, spoilers up to Messiah CompleX (and rough for New Warriors)
Summary: Jono has been persuaded to return to the mansion, but his appearance has been making it hard for him to fit in. Remy has been rejected by his peers (again). Written as a series of drabbles from alternating points of view. Just more than a PWP.
He feels like everybody is staring at him, all the time. All the fucking time. Of course they are. He looks like Apocalypse. He looks like someone who’s seduced and slaughtered them, over and over, made pawns of them, fucked them up.
He hides in the old boathouse, most of the time. He’s only here because Jubilee asked him, and because Paige looked so fucking depressed, and because Emma said she might find a use for him yet.
He’s here because GenX was the last good thing to happen to him, and it was a long time ago now.
Fuck.
He can feel everybody’s eyes on him. It makes his skin crawl. They wonder if he is still Sinister’s man. They wonder about him and Mystique; there is a rumour that he had her, in Rogue’s shape.
It’s true.
He can hardly stand himself. It feels like Antarctica again. Many of them won’t even look at him. He is going to have to work so hard to earn their trust again, and he is so tired now. He has done it so many times before.
He goes to the boathouse, his boathouse, and hopes the energy will return to him.
Jono is smoking, looking out over the lake. He has let his guard down, and his ridiculous visage is plain to see. Blue lips. Red eyes. Grey skin. Even alone, he hides inside the collar of his coat so he doesn’t have to look at his reflection.
Gambit is a naturally silent man, and Jono jumps so hard he drops his cigarette in the water when he realises he’s there.
Gambit stares at him for a moment, and Jono stares back.
With the faintest twist of a smile, Gambit hands him a fresh fag, and lights it with his powers.
Remy isn’t sure who the boy is. Some relation of Apocalypse, obviously, but he’s never seen anyone quite that... related. He guesses that even being a horseman doesn’t get you all the information. There are friends of Jean Luc’s, after all, who don’t know that Remy is his son.
He wonders if he should warn people, but the boy has an X-communicator pinned to his coat. He hides in the thing, wisps of smoke rising like a warning before the eruption. There’s something more familiar about the eye-only view, but Remy still cannot place it. Some X-kid, he thinks. Ex-student.
He thinks Gambit might be looking at him, but those eyes are almost as hard to read as his own. He’s grateful for the cigarette, though. Not his usual brand.
“S’got... cloves?” he asks hesitantly.
Gambit grins, and nods.
“Had some chocolate ones once. S’awright. Menthol’s a bit shit, though,” Jono offers. He doesn’t even know why he’s bothering. The guy’s an X-Man, and X-Men don’t talk to ex-kids like Jono.
But he’s down here, alone. And he didn’t leave when he saw Jono. That’s something like kinship, right there.
“I am sorry I made you jump, homme,” Remy says.
The boy is making an effort, so Remy returns the favour. His accent is very strong, but he is talking to him, and that is enough to make it worth trying to understand.
“We have not been introduced, non?” he says, deciding to own up to the fact that he has no idea who he is speaking to. “Remy LeBeau.” He offers his hand.
The boy takes it, almost shyly. His hands are swathed in gloves. “Jono Starsmore,” he says. He adds, “I was wi’ Generation X.”
“Ah, wid Jubilee,” Remy says. Jono nods, and turns back to the lake.
Smoking in silent company is easy, and the best way to smoke. Jono pulls down the collar of his coat a little, so he can take the cigarette from his lips and blow smoke into the crisp autumn air. It curls, and hangs in the stillness, until being looped by a lazy smoke ring.
Jono smirks. Show off.
Gambit is clearly a poser, and Jono’s known that since he first heard of the man. But it’s part of his profession, and Jono can’t begrudge that. Making the easy things look hard and the hard easy, that’s the trick to it.
Remy remembers Jono now; a boy with half a face, punching Warren. C’est magnifique. And then Weapon X, and something had happened to him. And then M-Day.
While Jono is clearly insecure about his looks, and Remy can understand why, he carries the remains of self-confidence in his posture. Once upon a time, he was conventionally attractive, and knew it. He was Cool. Remy can guess the kind of music he listens to, and the beer he drinks, and know that Jono has at least one tattoo, hidden under there.
He is struck by a sudden compulsion to find it.
Remy is looking at him in a vaguely predatory fashion and Jono wonders how long it’ll be before the guy attempts to fleece him. In a friendly way, not doubt, but Jono doesn’t appreciate being made to feel stupid.
He’s getting pissed off at something that hasn’t even happened, and it’s no wonder he’s so fucking lonely here if he’s reacting to fights he’s only rehearsed in his head.
He forces the scowl from his face.
“I had a friend from St Louis,” he says. “Always meant ta see that part of the world.”
“But not after Katrina?” Bitter response.
“No. He... died. Didn’ really wanna go, after that. Katrina killed his pa, though. Glad he wasn’ around for that.”
Remy feels a little bad for judging the boy so quickly, but he’s used to that condescending pity people always use because it wasn’t their home.
“Dat’s rough,” he says. “Remy’s sorry.”
Jono snorts at him. “That always bugged him, the third person thing you do,” he says.
Remy looks across the lake, frowns. There hadn’t been anyone to teach him to speak, not until Fagan’s Mob, so he’d worked it out himself.
He surprises himself be saying this aloud.
Jono is surprised by the intimacy of this revelation. There’s a stung pride behind it, but he can’t regret what he said now. There’s a flutter of butterflies in his stomach.
“Yer English is prob’ly better than mine,” he says, “by mos’ people’s standards.”
Remy laughs. “R- I don’ understand most of what you’re saying,” he tells Jono, grinning.
“Prob’ly not missing much,” Jono says. He’s smoking filter now, but he’s unwilling to stub the cigarette out. It would end something good, and, fuck, he’s so desperate for it. Company.
Remy must be desperate too, to put up with him.
Remy takes the butt out of Jono’s mouth with nimble fingers, and replaces it with another, lighting it again. Jono allows himself to fall back against the deck with a satisfied sigh, and Remy smiles at him, knowing he can’t see. He lies down next to him, shoulder brushing his. The boy doesn’t move away.
“How many o’ those have you got?” Jono asks him.
Remy checks. “’Nudder five,” he says. “Last us a time yet, eh, homme?”
“Mais oui,” Jono says lazily. Remy suspects this is almost all the French the boy knows, from his accent. He appreciates it.
They run out of cigarettes, but do not move. The sun begins to set. Jono has taken his coat, gloves and scarf off. He always feels a little cold now, without the fire inside him, and it’s second nature to hide his skin from his own eyes, but he was hoping for some contact with Remy.
Jono supposes that dating someone you can’t touch is going to do odd things to you. Himself, he’d stop touching everyone - he doesn’t like physical contact outside of sex and fighting - but Remy presses against him like he doesn’t know he is.
Jono is a warm pressure against his side. He can feel bare flesh; hand against his hand. Touch is so rare it almost arouses him, but he forces the impulse away. He has so few friends here now, he cannot afford to sabotage something with potential just because the last time he had sex, it was with his girlfriend’s mother.
Jono’s hand moves, and his fingers curl around Remy’s. When Remy looks at him, he is staring up at the sky, but his thumb rubs circles on the back of Remy’s hand. Remy squeezes back, and edges a little closer.
Jono’s stomach is doing flip-flops, and he can’t believe he’s doing this. Flirting. With Remy LeBeau. As though that name weren’t a fucking warning in itself.
The man has a bit of a reputation, after all. Funny, because ask anyone if they’d ever seen him with anyone other than Rogue, and the best they could come up with was his fucking wife. You just didn’t get between those two, even when something else had.
But he wanted to.
He turns to look at Remy, and those target eyes are staring right at him. For once, he doesn’t want to hide.
The boy is nervous, and Remy is just lapping it up. His own nerves evaporate in the face of it, and he roles onto his side, slinging an arm across Jono’s waist. Jono flashes a smile at him, and licks his chewed lips.
Remy’s fingers worm their way under Jono’s sweater. They tickle his taut stomach, trace his sharp hipbones, tug the errant line of hair that descends under his pants.
Jono’s stomach trembles under his touch, but his eyes are steady, and fixed on Remy’s. When he smiles this time, it lingers, and he leans up to kiss Remy.
Remy tastes like the cigarettes they’ve smoked, and Jono supposes he does too. Tastes. Such an overlooked sense. He groans into the cajun’s mouth, and Remy’s hand tightens convulsively on his hip.
He tangles both hands in Remy’s jacket, and pulls the older man on top of him. He kisses with a ferocity he rarely gives vent to, bruising and biting. When Remy’s mouth slips from his, he fastens onto his neck, and sucks. Remy’s fingers fumble with the button of his jeans, and he lifts his hips to shuck them off quicker. His own hands tug at Remy’s belt.
Remy bites Jono’s ear, and thrusts against him. He kicks Jono’s pants down, and squirms out of his own. He has to pull away to take his shirt off, and Jono watches him hungrily. When he reaches for Jono’s t-shirt, though, the boy turns shy.
“I don’...” He doesn’t seem to know how to explain it. “Jus’ leave it, okay? Everything else is awright.”
Remy wants to object; he wants to feel every inch of Jono against his skin, but he sees that if he pushes, then he’ll get nothing at all. He kisses Jono again, and it’s all forgotten.
Jono wishes he could take the shirt off, but he can’t stand to look at that mark, forced onto his body. Remy lets him off, though, and that talented tongue makes its way back into his mouth. He moans around it, and grinds against Remy.
His cock rubs against Remy’s, and it’s electric inside of him, and he hasn’t had sex in so long, and he’s not sure, he’s just not sure, how long he can last, and Remy’s hands are everywhere, and there’s sweat despite the cold night and the friction and Remy’s mouth on his and he just
Jono comes with a strangled cry, and Remy loves the feel of someone else’s come against his flesh, of someone coming underneath him, of being able to do that to a person. No pretexts, no subtexts, just sex. Jono wanting him. Wanting Jono.
Jono’s mouth, everywhere. Rolling Remy over, finding his way on top. Mouth working down his chest, teasing his nipples, licking up the drying semen. His dick.
Jono sucks him clumsily; he knows the theory but has had little opportunity to put it into practice. Enthusiasm soon makes up for this, and Remy is coming down his throat.
Jono lies on top of Remy, mouth sore, lips cracked. No gag reflex, and that’s something about Akkaba he never intends to think about. He’s trying not to nuzzle Remy; he’s not a cuddler, but he’s cold and sleepy and he just got laid. Remy is still running his hands up and down Jono’s body, as though he’s still expects to have this touch taken away from him. Jono kisses Remy’s neck, just for the taste.
“Right pair,” Jono yawns, “we are.” He doesn’t explain this further.
He realises, a little distantly, that his trousers are sinking into the lake.
Sex on the jetty has its inconveniences, and one is that most of their clothes found their way into the lake. It’s cold, and Remy hates cold. Jono is warm, and doesn’t seem to mind sharing, but it’s not going to be enough, no matter how much Remy enjoys their mutual nudity.
Jono mumbles grumpily at being displaced as Remy sits up. Remy strokes his hair. It’s dark now, and he can see his breath in the air. A faint well of panic stirs in his chest.
Jono props himself up on Remy’s shoulder, gestures towards the boathouse. Remy nods.
Remy is tense, and Jono’s not quite sure why. He’s too sex-addled to puzzle it out right now, either. And horny. He’d forgotten this feeling, sex begetting sex. He sucks on Remy’s fingers as the man breaks into the boathouse.
There’re blankets in here, and a sofa, and a kitchenette. There’s a bathroom, towels, and even spare clothes. There’s even a fireplace that Remy seems determined to put to use, in a slightly manic way.
Once the fire’s lit Remy begins to relax again, and Jono lets him slump around him in return for letting Jono give him another hickey.
The next day, Remy is sore and bruised all over. He has been licked, kissed, sucked and chewed on almost every available inch of skin. Jono had eventually fallen asleep with Remy’s fingers still in his mouth, sucking contentedly.
Jono hadn’t been persuaded to take the t-shirt off, but it has been reduced to a rag now, just covering what Remy gathers Jono hadn’t wanted him to see. It doesn’t bother him more than the rest of Jono’s appearance did, but he remembers a time when he couldn’t face his own reflection without sunglasses, and accepts Jono’s quirks without comment.
The next day, Jono is sore and bruised all over. He has been stroked, caressed, grasped and clutched on almost every available inch of skin. He had woken up to find Remy still holding his arm, a man not inclined to spoon but desperate not to lose contact.
Jono understands that Remy has a problem with cold; every time the fire dipped he’d break off, not matter what, to build it up again. Eventually, Jono had buried the man in blankets, and promised to keep him warm as energetically as possible. Remy had kissed him, and said something in French.
Their clothes are lying in a very wet pile outside the door of the boathouse. Nobody is around. Remy brings them in and lays them out in front of the fire while Jono attempts to make coffee from a jar at least five years old. He smashes it against the counter with obvious relish, and breaks chunks of coffee into the mugs he’s found. Remy watches the steam rising from their clothes, and wraps the blanket more tightly around his shoulders.
“Yer... yer wanna do this again some time?” Jono asks nervously.
Remy smiles. “Mon ami,” he says. “Oh yes.”
Title: Sensory Deprivation
Rating: 18
Warnings: slash, spoilers up to Messiah CompleX (and rough for New Warriors)
Summary: Jono has been persuaded to return to the mansion, but his appearance has been making it hard for him to fit in. Remy has been rejected by his peers (again). Written as a series of drabbles from alternating points of view. Just more than a PWP.
He feels like everybody is staring at him, all the time. All the fucking time. Of course they are. He looks like Apocalypse. He looks like someone who’s seduced and slaughtered them, over and over, made pawns of them, fucked them up.
He hides in the old boathouse, most of the time. He’s only here because Jubilee asked him, and because Paige looked so fucking depressed, and because Emma said she might find a use for him yet.
He’s here because GenX was the last good thing to happen to him, and it was a long time ago now.
Fuck.
He can feel everybody’s eyes on him. It makes his skin crawl. They wonder if he is still Sinister’s man. They wonder about him and Mystique; there is a rumour that he had her, in Rogue’s shape.
It’s true.
He can hardly stand himself. It feels like Antarctica again. Many of them won’t even look at him. He is going to have to work so hard to earn their trust again, and he is so tired now. He has done it so many times before.
He goes to the boathouse, his boathouse, and hopes the energy will return to him.
Jono is smoking, looking out over the lake. He has let his guard down, and his ridiculous visage is plain to see. Blue lips. Red eyes. Grey skin. Even alone, he hides inside the collar of his coat so he doesn’t have to look at his reflection.
Gambit is a naturally silent man, and Jono jumps so hard he drops his cigarette in the water when he realises he’s there.
Gambit stares at him for a moment, and Jono stares back.
With the faintest twist of a smile, Gambit hands him a fresh fag, and lights it with his powers.
Remy isn’t sure who the boy is. Some relation of Apocalypse, obviously, but he’s never seen anyone quite that... related. He guesses that even being a horseman doesn’t get you all the information. There are friends of Jean Luc’s, after all, who don’t know that Remy is his son.
He wonders if he should warn people, but the boy has an X-communicator pinned to his coat. He hides in the thing, wisps of smoke rising like a warning before the eruption. There’s something more familiar about the eye-only view, but Remy still cannot place it. Some X-kid, he thinks. Ex-student.
He thinks Gambit might be looking at him, but those eyes are almost as hard to read as his own. He’s grateful for the cigarette, though. Not his usual brand.
“S’got... cloves?” he asks hesitantly.
Gambit grins, and nods.
“Had some chocolate ones once. S’awright. Menthol’s a bit shit, though,” Jono offers. He doesn’t even know why he’s bothering. The guy’s an X-Man, and X-Men don’t talk to ex-kids like Jono.
But he’s down here, alone. And he didn’t leave when he saw Jono. That’s something like kinship, right there.
“I am sorry I made you jump, homme,” Remy says.
The boy is making an effort, so Remy returns the favour. His accent is very strong, but he is talking to him, and that is enough to make it worth trying to understand.
“We have not been introduced, non?” he says, deciding to own up to the fact that he has no idea who he is speaking to. “Remy LeBeau.” He offers his hand.
The boy takes it, almost shyly. His hands are swathed in gloves. “Jono Starsmore,” he says. He adds, “I was wi’ Generation X.”
“Ah, wid Jubilee,” Remy says. Jono nods, and turns back to the lake.
Smoking in silent company is easy, and the best way to smoke. Jono pulls down the collar of his coat a little, so he can take the cigarette from his lips and blow smoke into the crisp autumn air. It curls, and hangs in the stillness, until being looped by a lazy smoke ring.
Jono smirks. Show off.
Gambit is clearly a poser, and Jono’s known that since he first heard of the man. But it’s part of his profession, and Jono can’t begrudge that. Making the easy things look hard and the hard easy, that’s the trick to it.
Remy remembers Jono now; a boy with half a face, punching Warren. C’est magnifique. And then Weapon X, and something had happened to him. And then M-Day.
While Jono is clearly insecure about his looks, and Remy can understand why, he carries the remains of self-confidence in his posture. Once upon a time, he was conventionally attractive, and knew it. He was Cool. Remy can guess the kind of music he listens to, and the beer he drinks, and know that Jono has at least one tattoo, hidden under there.
He is struck by a sudden compulsion to find it.
Remy is looking at him in a vaguely predatory fashion and Jono wonders how long it’ll be before the guy attempts to fleece him. In a friendly way, not doubt, but Jono doesn’t appreciate being made to feel stupid.
He’s getting pissed off at something that hasn’t even happened, and it’s no wonder he’s so fucking lonely here if he’s reacting to fights he’s only rehearsed in his head.
He forces the scowl from his face.
“I had a friend from St Louis,” he says. “Always meant ta see that part of the world.”
“But not after Katrina?” Bitter response.
“No. He... died. Didn’ really wanna go, after that. Katrina killed his pa, though. Glad he wasn’ around for that.”
Remy feels a little bad for judging the boy so quickly, but he’s used to that condescending pity people always use because it wasn’t their home.
“Dat’s rough,” he says. “Remy’s sorry.”
Jono snorts at him. “That always bugged him, the third person thing you do,” he says.
Remy looks across the lake, frowns. There hadn’t been anyone to teach him to speak, not until Fagan’s Mob, so he’d worked it out himself.
He surprises himself be saying this aloud.
Jono is surprised by the intimacy of this revelation. There’s a stung pride behind it, but he can’t regret what he said now. There’s a flutter of butterflies in his stomach.
“Yer English is prob’ly better than mine,” he says, “by mos’ people’s standards.”
Remy laughs. “R- I don’ understand most of what you’re saying,” he tells Jono, grinning.
“Prob’ly not missing much,” Jono says. He’s smoking filter now, but he’s unwilling to stub the cigarette out. It would end something good, and, fuck, he’s so desperate for it. Company.
Remy must be desperate too, to put up with him.
Remy takes the butt out of Jono’s mouth with nimble fingers, and replaces it with another, lighting it again. Jono allows himself to fall back against the deck with a satisfied sigh, and Remy smiles at him, knowing he can’t see. He lies down next to him, shoulder brushing his. The boy doesn’t move away.
“How many o’ those have you got?” Jono asks him.
Remy checks. “’Nudder five,” he says. “Last us a time yet, eh, homme?”
“Mais oui,” Jono says lazily. Remy suspects this is almost all the French the boy knows, from his accent. He appreciates it.
They run out of cigarettes, but do not move. The sun begins to set. Jono has taken his coat, gloves and scarf off. He always feels a little cold now, without the fire inside him, and it’s second nature to hide his skin from his own eyes, but he was hoping for some contact with Remy.
Jono supposes that dating someone you can’t touch is going to do odd things to you. Himself, he’d stop touching everyone - he doesn’t like physical contact outside of sex and fighting - but Remy presses against him like he doesn’t know he is.
Jono is a warm pressure against his side. He can feel bare flesh; hand against his hand. Touch is so rare it almost arouses him, but he forces the impulse away. He has so few friends here now, he cannot afford to sabotage something with potential just because the last time he had sex, it was with his girlfriend’s mother.
Jono’s hand moves, and his fingers curl around Remy’s. When Remy looks at him, he is staring up at the sky, but his thumb rubs circles on the back of Remy’s hand. Remy squeezes back, and edges a little closer.
Jono’s stomach is doing flip-flops, and he can’t believe he’s doing this. Flirting. With Remy LeBeau. As though that name weren’t a fucking warning in itself.
The man has a bit of a reputation, after all. Funny, because ask anyone if they’d ever seen him with anyone other than Rogue, and the best they could come up with was his fucking wife. You just didn’t get between those two, even when something else had.
But he wanted to.
He turns to look at Remy, and those target eyes are staring right at him. For once, he doesn’t want to hide.
The boy is nervous, and Remy is just lapping it up. His own nerves evaporate in the face of it, and he roles onto his side, slinging an arm across Jono’s waist. Jono flashes a smile at him, and licks his chewed lips.
Remy’s fingers worm their way under Jono’s sweater. They tickle his taut stomach, trace his sharp hipbones, tug the errant line of hair that descends under his pants.
Jono’s stomach trembles under his touch, but his eyes are steady, and fixed on Remy’s. When he smiles this time, it lingers, and he leans up to kiss Remy.
Remy tastes like the cigarettes they’ve smoked, and Jono supposes he does too. Tastes. Such an overlooked sense. He groans into the cajun’s mouth, and Remy’s hand tightens convulsively on his hip.
He tangles both hands in Remy’s jacket, and pulls the older man on top of him. He kisses with a ferocity he rarely gives vent to, bruising and biting. When Remy’s mouth slips from his, he fastens onto his neck, and sucks. Remy’s fingers fumble with the button of his jeans, and he lifts his hips to shuck them off quicker. His own hands tug at Remy’s belt.
Remy bites Jono’s ear, and thrusts against him. He kicks Jono’s pants down, and squirms out of his own. He has to pull away to take his shirt off, and Jono watches him hungrily. When he reaches for Jono’s t-shirt, though, the boy turns shy.
“I don’...” He doesn’t seem to know how to explain it. “Jus’ leave it, okay? Everything else is awright.”
Remy wants to object; he wants to feel every inch of Jono against his skin, but he sees that if he pushes, then he’ll get nothing at all. He kisses Jono again, and it’s all forgotten.
Jono wishes he could take the shirt off, but he can’t stand to look at that mark, forced onto his body. Remy lets him off, though, and that talented tongue makes its way back into his mouth. He moans around it, and grinds against Remy.
His cock rubs against Remy’s, and it’s electric inside of him, and he hasn’t had sex in so long, and he’s not sure, he’s just not sure, how long he can last, and Remy’s hands are everywhere, and there’s sweat despite the cold night and the friction and Remy’s mouth on his and he just
Jono comes with a strangled cry, and Remy loves the feel of someone else’s come against his flesh, of someone coming underneath him, of being able to do that to a person. No pretexts, no subtexts, just sex. Jono wanting him. Wanting Jono.
Jono’s mouth, everywhere. Rolling Remy over, finding his way on top. Mouth working down his chest, teasing his nipples, licking up the drying semen. His dick.
Jono sucks him clumsily; he knows the theory but has had little opportunity to put it into practice. Enthusiasm soon makes up for this, and Remy is coming down his throat.
Jono lies on top of Remy, mouth sore, lips cracked. No gag reflex, and that’s something about Akkaba he never intends to think about. He’s trying not to nuzzle Remy; he’s not a cuddler, but he’s cold and sleepy and he just got laid. Remy is still running his hands up and down Jono’s body, as though he’s still expects to have this touch taken away from him. Jono kisses Remy’s neck, just for the taste.
“Right pair,” Jono yawns, “we are.” He doesn’t explain this further.
He realises, a little distantly, that his trousers are sinking into the lake.
Sex on the jetty has its inconveniences, and one is that most of their clothes found their way into the lake. It’s cold, and Remy hates cold. Jono is warm, and doesn’t seem to mind sharing, but it’s not going to be enough, no matter how much Remy enjoys their mutual nudity.
Jono mumbles grumpily at being displaced as Remy sits up. Remy strokes his hair. It’s dark now, and he can see his breath in the air. A faint well of panic stirs in his chest.
Jono props himself up on Remy’s shoulder, gestures towards the boathouse. Remy nods.
Remy is tense, and Jono’s not quite sure why. He’s too sex-addled to puzzle it out right now, either. And horny. He’d forgotten this feeling, sex begetting sex. He sucks on Remy’s fingers as the man breaks into the boathouse.
There’re blankets in here, and a sofa, and a kitchenette. There’s a bathroom, towels, and even spare clothes. There’s even a fireplace that Remy seems determined to put to use, in a slightly manic way.
Once the fire’s lit Remy begins to relax again, and Jono lets him slump around him in return for letting Jono give him another hickey.
The next day, Remy is sore and bruised all over. He has been licked, kissed, sucked and chewed on almost every available inch of skin. Jono had eventually fallen asleep with Remy’s fingers still in his mouth, sucking contentedly.
Jono hadn’t been persuaded to take the t-shirt off, but it has been reduced to a rag now, just covering what Remy gathers Jono hadn’t wanted him to see. It doesn’t bother him more than the rest of Jono’s appearance did, but he remembers a time when he couldn’t face his own reflection without sunglasses, and accepts Jono’s quirks without comment.
The next day, Jono is sore and bruised all over. He has been stroked, caressed, grasped and clutched on almost every available inch of skin. He had woken up to find Remy still holding his arm, a man not inclined to spoon but desperate not to lose contact.
Jono understands that Remy has a problem with cold; every time the fire dipped he’d break off, not matter what, to build it up again. Eventually, Jono had buried the man in blankets, and promised to keep him warm as energetically as possible. Remy had kissed him, and said something in French.
Their clothes are lying in a very wet pile outside the door of the boathouse. Nobody is around. Remy brings them in and lays them out in front of the fire while Jono attempts to make coffee from a jar at least five years old. He smashes it against the counter with obvious relish, and breaks chunks of coffee into the mugs he’s found. Remy watches the steam rising from their clothes, and wraps the blanket more tightly around his shoulders.
“Yer... yer wanna do this again some time?” Jono asks nervously.
Remy smiles. “Mon ami,” he says. “Oh yes.”
