So we're finally here. This is my first fanfic, inspired by the events just after the Banshee arc in Ultimate X-Men. I encourage constructive criticism and if anyone has any concerns that they would like to discuss, feel free to PM me. In the future I'll try to keep my author notes as limited as possible, and instead will regularly update my profile with news regarding this fic.

Warnings:Sexual themes, violence, strong language, angst, spoilers for Ultimate X-Men and slash(however I do not intend to have this fanfic become especially graphic and nothing explicit will be written).

Disclaimer: I do not, in any way, shape, or form, own anything from the X-Men(their characters, their powers, etc;) comics and the only thing I hold the rights to is this idea. All characters belong to their respectful owners back at Marvel.

With all that being said, please enjoy!

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At six-thirty in the morning, Peter woke up in bed. The room was still dark but through the window he could see the silhouettes of buildings outlined by the slow approaching sun. He lay there until the lingering stars were reduced to pale nothings in the dawn sky, it was time to go.

In his metal form, Peter stood over seven feet tall and weighed just about five-hundred pounds. So easing himself out of bed was an ordeal, even when he wasn't trying to be quiet. The springs groaned under his weight, loud enough for the people downstairs to hear him; it was no wonder that the body next to him began to stir.

"Peter," the man groaned drowsily and lifted his head to glance at the black clock on his bedside table. "What're you doing?"

Peter turned around and looked at the man while he buttoned his pants. He had a nice head of dirty blond hair, a nice pair of blue eyes and a nice lean body. "I...I have to go," Peter answered while he searched the floor for his shirt and jacket.

"Go?" the man breathed and reached for a pack of cigarettes that were resting on the night table next to the clock. "What do you mean go?" While he lit up, he looked at Peter with a moody expression, his right eye absolutely aglow with... something.

Peter closed his eyes and smiled weakly. "I must leave, my friend. I am needed else-"

"Friend?" the blond man interjected while he got off the bed to stand naked in front of him. "Don't call me friend.Not after last night."

Peter left the hotel at seven o'clock with both hands in his jacket pockets. He was impervious to the cool morning air and only wore it for coverage- not that he had much to worry about. At this time in the morning only leftover dealers, junkies and working girls from the night before roamed the streets. Nobody was there to threaten him, and he was safe to walk through the city.

At seven thirty, Peter arrived back at Emma Frost's school and walked into the dorm room that he shared with Jean-Paul. It was brighter than the hotel room had been. The walls were painted eggshell white and there was minimal clutter on the walls: another clock, something that has been haunting him lately and a few pictures of friends from the X-Men and his sister, Illyana.

Jean-Paul was in bed under a heavy blue comforter and twisted in an uncomfortable looking way. After the overdose, his legs had become anything but useful, dead weight anchoring him down. They were lying mostly flat, but his upper body was twisted around and facing out the window. Peter knew better than to try and move him. Jean-Paul had always been a prideful young man, it was something that Peter found attractive, but he knew that it would only make him bitter.

But as Peter took off his jacket and socks, he felt another pang of guilt and looked back at Jean-Paul. Peter regretfully sat on the foam mattress and lay on his side. With one hand he touched Jean-Paul's hip from under the covers and pushed until his legs were parallel with his shoulders.

Peter stilled afterwards; he was wary when Jean-Paul stirred and even bit his lower lip fretting the loss of his stealthy return but soon, he relaxed. Rolling onto his own back, Peter closed his eyes contently. He had a full night away and still managed to get home without being noticed.

Unfortunately, on the other side of the bed where Jean Paul lay, his eyes remained open, staring out the window.