Feathers in the Snow
And wanting something warm and moving
Bends towards herself the soothing
Proves that she must still exist.
~Neutral Milk Hotel
Empathy and sympathy are two entirely different things, and Warren Worthington (the third) knows this. He also is keenly aware that Remy LeBeau's presence in the mansion is driving everyone to the cold he so distinctly feels. Warren isn't so certain that Remy wants everyone to feel his pain, but he knows why the heater has gone up, why Logan, usually so good with the first few snowfalls of the year, is digging out sweaters. But no one goes looking for Remy, he hasn't emerged from his room since staggering back to the mansion, tiny and starved and worn and crying for Sanctuary. Charles is too forgiving, and every time Warren closes his eyes he feels the wounds in his wings that would never heal, he knew who had caused them. He knows they had left him to die. No one will come out to say it direct, but they know, when they left the Gambit behind, they didn't expect him to come back.
The television tells him that they will get three inches of snow, at the least, and it patters silently against the window. Warren no longer flies in the snow, so he makes his way towards the kitchen, thinking to get himself something warm to drink and stretch his wings outside.
There is a light on in the kitchen already, and the constant drip of a coffee pot. A long, skinny body stands, his back to Warren, sifting through a liquor cabinet. Warren shudders, his wings ruffle, that familiar ache at their base, the loss, the anger. Black coffee gets mixed with sugar, with brandy, poignant and thick and strong, and long legs turn him, push himself onto the counter, and he sips at the strong mixture. He sees nothing, despite preternatural knowledge of his surroundings, of his place in the world, Remy sees nothing, and Warren knows this. His half closed eyes are darker than dark, shadowed by unruly auburn hair and gaunt features, deeply chiseled. The charm, the relentless sleazy charm he constantly gives off is gone entirely, all he can feel from the tall boy was biting cold. Too cold to survive.
Perhaps those short bursts of pity are his charm in effect. Because as soon as he brushes it away the anger comes back, the knowledge that this boy, barely a man and already a murderer, this boy had gotten Warren's wings ripped clean from his body, they are only just hardly back. He still can't fly in the snow, in heavy rain. He still cannot fly for long. He has this anger inside him, this rage that takes form when he doesn't know. He's surprised he hasn't already killed Remy. That damned charm, makes him feel for the boy, the boy almost killed him. And the boy makes him feel his cold.
Warren fills his own mug with coffee, cream and sugar. It's warm in his hands, steam fading up towards his face. He doesn't look at Remy, and Remy doesn't look at him. He isn't entirely certain Remy knows he is there. There is no companionship in their silence. But it isn't awkward either. It is as if they are both alone in the room. Remy has skinny hands, long hands, they entwine with each other around the coffee mug, it smells strongly of the brandy he laced it with. He is shaking. He brings the coffee mug again to his lips, that lovely, full pout of his lower lip brushing the rim of the mug. Warren cannot stop watching him, not for lack of trying. That damned charm of his, the Gambit isn't allowed to be a human. He doesn't need anyone's pity, he isn't even supposed to be alive. Warren hasn't seen him out of his room since Charles let him back in, but he admits the boy has to eat sometime. At least, Warren figures, he has the good sense not to do it with the others.
"Remy real sorry he hurt something beautiful." His voice is soft, barely above a whisper, thick laced with a Cajun accent.
Warren takes his coffee and leaves, standing in the doorway, in the snow, to allow his wings to feather out, spread as they couldn't inside the mansion. He slowly becomes aware of someone standing behind him, turns to see Remy, bending into himself, hands cupped against his face to light a smoke.
"Filthy habit."
"Have to 'ave a few vices in life, homme."
Warren sighs, shakes his head, turns away from the smoke. He doesn't dignify Remy's habit with his own comments. He knows Remy's vices, sex and cigarettes and liquor too strong, often straight from the bottle. He knows his own vice for beautiful women, for flight, even when it will get him seen, attract anti-mutant sentiment. Tentatively, despite the liquid falling snow weighing him down, he takes to the air. He thinks he hears Remy, softly, "mon dieu" against the smoke, but he wants to convince himself the other man, boy, what have you, is not important. In the air, it ceases to matter, in the air, he is one with the world, a cathartic experience, wholly necessary in every fiber of his being. The beat of cold air against his wings is thrilling, means all to him, But he cannot fly far, he should not even be in the air, letting the snowflakes melt into his wings, cold, they were still sore. He lets himself back down to earth, gently, tucks his wings behind him. The Cajun still watches, his cigarette has burnt down to the filter. Warm light from the door flickers over Remy, but he is not a part of it, he is a part of this cold, snowflakes peppering the shoulders of his brown trenchcoat, demon eyes, the warmth of the mansion does not, cannot touch him.
Warren shakes his head again, changes his focus away from the other man. That charm, whether he is thinking about it or not, that charm radiates off of him, makes Warren begin to care for him, sympathize with that deep cold. He slides past the taller man, into the mansion. A hand brushes against his wings, caresses them. Remy's fingers, calloused and gentle at once, that tender scratch, he knows how to touch a man. Warren freezes. This isn't anything he was expecting, but he doesn't know what it is he expects from the boy. A feather looses itself into Remy's hand, and Warren lets it go, he has to, leaves Remy standing outside in the snow, cold as he has ever been.
Warren tries not to think about Remy smoking outside, but he cannot. He cannot get the boy out of his mind, unsuccessfully. He imagines the boy trying to avoid the cold, holding himself in that brown jacket, battered, still too skinny. Warren wonders if the boy subsists entirely on brandy and coffee, cigarettes. He tries not to feel for him, but it is inevitable. He can feel the boy's cold.
"Come back inside."
"Don' lemme' smoke in 'dere."
Warren rests his hand on the boy's shoulder, leads him inside. Remy lets the cigarette fall from his fingers into the snow, follows Warren blindly. This is his angel, his savior, bringing him into the warm. This is a guardian angel, this is a protector, someone who should hate him, brings him something good. Something finally good, in this world of bad and hurt and cold. This is someone he should hate, someone hates him, someone left him to die. And yet, Remy knows, someone good, who can give him something good, something he needs. He just has to make the Angel know this. Remy sinks against the wall in the doorway, holds himself, lets his eyes fall shut. He knows the Angel is still there, he can feel his presence in the room clear as those perfect white wings. Clear as the voice that called for his death, too long ago, too recently. Clear as cold.
He can feel everything the Angel can, conflicting desires, to protect and to leave to die. Remy knows what the Angel wants, and what he doesn't want to need and his body telling him that this should not be as real as it is, but he is embracing the man who harmed him, they both are. Remy is warm, for the first time he can remember, truly warm in this man's arms. He doesn't know if he called for this, if his power reached out pulled the Angel to hold him, but he doesn't mind at all. He wonders what the Angel gets out of the embrace. His hands link around the Angel's back, below his wings, his head on his shoulder, taking him in. Angels smell like cinnamon, Remy supposes. At least this one does. And this one is the one that matters, the one that is holding on when everyone else has given up on Remy. He smiles into the warmth of his Angel's body, for now, he is his, his Angel, someone to protect him.
He needs someone like that.
The Angel releases him, backs away. Whatever they had, it has worn off and there is nothing again between them. Remy laments the loss, he wants nothing more than those arms around him again. He needs this warmth, he needs the Angel again, he needs to be touched, to be loved. And there is an Angel here, now. Remy reaches out for him.
The Angel turns away from him. "Don't use that charm on me, Gambit," and he begins to walk into the hallway, further into the warmth of the mansion, the place Remy is apart from. He has lost his name to the Angel, he has never heard his given name fall from the Angel's lips, perhaps he never had it at all. Always Gambit, Gambit the thief lord of no allegiances and fewer morals, sleazy and sneaky and callous in his disregard for every life that is not his own, this is who he is for the Angel. Who he has to be for the others, keep a personality abrasive to keep people out. A traitor so they can feel better about abandoning him in the cold place. A villain so she no longer has to love him. So he has no right any longer to love her. So he must look for the care from others, from this Angel who has abandoned him unable to enter the mansion any further, they made it clear without words that he was not of this place. Who he doesn't always want to be.
So he follows the Angel into the mansion further, into the warm light where everything is still cold when it shouldn't be, that constant, deep cold radiating from inside him, would never go away, he doesn't think. He has to follow the Angel, and this is all he knows and all he wants to know, to forget thinking and remembering and attach himself to another, who will care for him. Who has to care for him for fear that no one will. He catches a fallen feather, from the Angel's retreat, brings it to his face, it is soft, ethereal. It is warm. Remy cups it in both hands, holding onto that warmth. He approaches the Angel, cupping his fallen feather, holds it out to him.
"This yours, ain' it?"
The Angel nods, sighs, but doesn't take the feather. He doesn't want to touch Remy, for fear of his charm affecting him again. Remy knows this, he doesn't try. He needs the touch, more than anything he needs this touch, but he doesn't try. He stands before the Angel, vulnerable and nothing of the self he shows. There is no bravado, there is no charm, no sleaze, no swagger of confidence he betrayed to the others, his shell. His devil's eyes meet the Angel's blue, and all the Angel can feel is Remy's cold. Very suddenly Warren Worthington is aware of that deep, unrelenting freeze that they subjected him to, to clear their consciences of causing his real death, none of them intending him to be here now, among the living. Warren never intending to see the amoral thief ever again. And yet, now, he stands before him, as cold as death and as weak as a child. He has gone to Hell and not come back yet. He needs this contact, even so if Warren hates him, wishes only for his pain, his suffering to match the suffering Warren holds for Remy's decisions. Make Remy feel the hatred and pain and loss that Warren has suffered for his wings, the all encompassing brutality that is the Archangel.
He reaches out and brushes his fingers against Remy's hand, the one that holds the feather so close. Remy lets the feather fall slow to the ground, Warren's hand runs over the other man's, no charm and no mask, cold and fragile and sad and broken by everything that he has seen, Rogue is still fazed by it, can't be with him, leaves him alone and Warren knows this. He holds one of Remy's hands in his, traces the lines of a thin, pale wrist, the underside of golden skin, "I should hate you," he whispers into the palm of the thief's hand.
"You do, don't you?"
"Not right now."
He kisses the palm of Remy's hand, lays himself bare. His eyes meet the man's, and there are no more barriers between them. His lips trace up to the inside of his wrist, reverent, gentle. To share his warmth with this man who needs it so badly. Remy's loose hand drifts into his hair, lets the blond strands lace themselves in his fingers, leans forward to rest his face against where this hand is, so close to the Angel, the one he needs so badly. He can't let this moment pass. His light kisses drift against his arm, cradling that one place he has taken, his head drifts to rest against Remy's chest. He holds the Angel, lets the Angel hold him and kiss his arm, his wings flutter around them both, holding Remy closer than he can. Flickers of auburn hair trace against wingtips, there is a hollow of warmth, of companionship, built into this place inside the Angel's wings that has everything he has craved. Almost seamless, their lips meet.
Remy tastes like brandy and cigarettes, spicy, like the land he has come from. His mouth is generous, drawing on his tongue and pulling the Angel into the kiss, the Angel holds his arm, fingers digging into the cold flesh as Remy uses the tip of his tongue to play the sensitive bits of the Angel's mouth, a gentle suck on his tongue, long eyelashes flutter against the Angel's cheekbone, he kisses deep, a thick undercurrent streaming to and from them through every point of touch. His legs slide around the Angel's, he adjusts to hold Remy around his waist, pulls the slender, younger man down to rest Remy in his lap. Remy sighs into his mouth, ecstatic. He cradles the back of the Angel's head, still playing the tongue expertly, his kisses are trained. Heat rises off the Angel's chest and caresses Remy, drawing him deeper in, making him arch against the other man, his grip tighten. And Remy cannot break the kiss. To do so would lose this warmth and delicate peace they have established. He thinks, vaguely, that to lose that would be akin to dying.
The Angel carries him in his arms, touching his hair fondly and whispering nonsense words to him of love and lust. He knows not where they are going, but when he is released there is something soft and warm underneath him, like falling into feathers, and the Angel's lips are above him and they kiss again, sweetly letting their lips map the surface of their faces. He feels the Angel's hand brush away his hair, his lips run over his forehead, a smile touches them that Remy feels. He sighs deeply, contented by the warmth and the attention he is being paid. All he wanted, to be touched, to have another body care that he had lived.
The heat of skin on skin contact is maddening. Remy arches into it, before he becomes aware that his clothes have been undone and Warren, the Angel, perhaps his angel, is running his hands down his torso feverishly. He doesn't dare kiss the Angel again, for fear he might burn in this incredible heat. He doesn't try to open his eyes and prove this all a dream in that cold place, he never returned home. He believes this might be heaven, or hell so cruel to give him everything he wants and allow him to throw it all away for doubt. Too frightened to believe in heaven. Warren wants for him to open his eyes again, he wants to see the demon's red, they frighten him and thrill him all at once, prove that he is loving something more than a man, something more than the Gambit, something that deserves it. His lips seek skin, cold from somewhere deep inside, the core of this man that has suffered through so much, who can still pull a callous, flirtatious smile when offered the attentions of the other mansion inhabitants. His lips seek for bared skin, he undoes a button down shirt to reach a thin, muscled chest, affected by the starvation of being left in the ice and cold, starvation and torture Warren had called for, and now tries to repent in every kiss, every trail his fingers leave moving towards his hips. He has become passive, something Warren didn't expect, something he didn't want, but doesn't altogether mind. Remy's hand traces down the back of Warren's neck, gently, a featherlight touch, the only move that he has made since Warren carried him to the mansion bed he called his own. The touch sends lightning down Warren's spine, he arches, pulls off his own shirt and throws it aside, holding his body to Remy's, giving him his heat, sharing with him what he can to repent for what he lived through. What Warren thought he had wanted, until he came downstairs that late night, wanting to stretch his wings. He has become an Angel in true, an Angel to this man, he wanted to be the first time he donned the costume and flew out the window. A savior.
He kisses Remy gently, runs his lips across his face, eyes closed. Every heaving breath presses their bared chests to each other, every move of hand touches skin. Warren wants to be closer, he wants to be inside the man, he has forgiven him entirely for the loss of his wings, he wants to be forgiven for wishing his death. He undoes the front of Remy's jeans, slides his hand along the waistband of underclothing, traces the firming shape underneath. Remy swears something in French, something Warren doesn't understand and doesn't need to, all it means to him is "yes, take me."
He lays Remy nude out underneath him, lets the thief watch while he pulls off his own jeans, exposing himself, takes Remy's long fingers and encourages their glide down his body, quivering hard, Remy feels the heated, frantic pulse of his heart, draws on that heat, knowing soon he will have it in his own body, take it all from the Angel, leave him with only his sorrow and his love.
The Angel is a gentle lover, touches and kisses and slow rolls of his hips inside Remy. He sighs, whispers nothings, nonsensical patois of love and lust, between lavishing kisses on the other man, quickly warming, gripping his hands along the Angel, moaning what he wants, unsure of what language it is in, if any, if the Angel understands him at all. He can feel the Angel's wanting, everything he needs is met by his lover, every sensation returned twofold. Kisses are openmouthed and wet, Remy's tongue works its way inside the Angel's mouth, his hands making their way down his back to cradle his hips as they work their way in slow rolls, moving himself inside, so deep and tight, Remy can feel his Angel's reactions, coursing through his body as though they are his own. He holds the Angel tight to him, grips his hair as climax speeds towards them both, overtakes their bodies all at once, the Angel's becomes his, a single cry in two voices, their sorrows and pain exiled from their bodies in these few moments where everything simply is. He dares not to release the Angel into the world, he dares not hardly to move, to cease being a part of him, feeling his heartbeat against his skin as it slows, as the real world returns to the two men, as sleep overtakes the Angel. Remy reaches out for him, feels no desire for him to leave, merely places his head to the space between this Angel's wings, warm and firm and so very real.
Warren wakes sometime later, knowing there is someone else in his room. He shifts, opens his eyes hazy, the Gambit's slender body is silhouetted by the predawn glow in open bay windows. He sits in the windowed doorway, the cherry of a cigarette giving his face its distinct shadows. He cannot be a villain, he is merely a boy, a boy singing to himself, finally at some semblance of peace with a world that doesn't want him.
"Yes to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands. With all memory and fate, driven deep beneath the waves- let me forget about today until tomorrow…"
His song trails off as Warren sits beside him.
(03-24-2009)