Clash McFassy & Charles

by Ebyru

The lines between James/Charles are blurred, and he starts to lose himself in his character. Michael realizes this and tries to snap him out of it, but ultimately can't fight his urges.

James ruffles his hair, shaking away the Charles persona he's been so in tuned with for the past few months—on and off of course. Instead, he reconnects with the skin of a character he knows much better; his own.

Stalking toward the bathroom—where he can find the mirror of his hotel room—he stares at his reflection for a long moment. A smile plasters itself on like a kid in a candy store.

James.

I am James. I am James McAvoy, not Charles Xavier.

Not the long-time friend of Erik Lehnsherr.

But the co-worker and friend of Michael Fassbender.

James repeats this until the mess of a hairdo and dark circles below his eyes begin to make sense again. This wasn't the first time a scene had caused him to meld so well into the character that he had to fish his true identity out in the end.

And probably it wouldn't be the last time.

It feels good to just relax, be free of doubt and the insecurity of falling out of character, and he loves to say and think what he truly wants to. James loves to be the genuine person that he is, not some concocted doctor from a comic book.

At least that's what his mind says, his heart isn't so sure it agrees yet.

center-/center

The days that follow progress without any problem, perhaps because he has a break, or perhaps because Erik—Michael—is busy filming on his own (and far from where James can be influenced to slip back into Charles). Whatever the case may be, he is glad to have clearness of mind and of soul, even if for but a short while.

When one encounters a character like Charles—so full of hope, so powerful, so wise—it's often hard to go back to being just a regular, old actor who can't really do anything exceptional, besides acting. James sighs, back in front of the mirror of his hotel room, pointing at the man across from him—himself.

"Why can't you be more like Charles?"

He immediately laughs; James is unsure as to why he would fathom being an orphaned mutant with too much inside (literally) information about ieveryone/i around him. Why would he want to trade his wife and child for something as insignificant as a mutant ability and brilliance?

James pulls his shirt off, guiding his fingers through his hair, making them messier than they already were. His facial hair is beginning to grow in again—you know, that five o'clock shadow thing—and he likes how it makes him look oddly like an old teenager. He smiles.

"You love Michael."

James shakes the image of the older man's face free of his mind. The voice shatters his short-lived happiness. Low and surprisingly calm, he knows it belongs to Charles. Indeed, ihe/i plays Charles, but this Charles is even more real than he could ever hope for him to be.

Michael is a co-star, a friend—a good friend, in fact—but he could not compete with the love he had for his family waiting for him, miles away.

Charles's voice breaks through the thought of his loved ones back home.

"Yes, imiles away/i." And the English accent does nothing more than draw out the truth in that statement. The guilt of leaving them behind sinks in deeper than he'd like it to; why hadn't he brought them along, just this once?

iI love Erik, therefore you must love Michael./i

How could that make sense in any world? James rolls his eyes; he must be insane if he's answering the taunt of someone who does not, will not, and cannot exist. Even worse is that it's a man he has helped to add depth, realism, to.

James shakes his head, frightened more than he's willing to accept, as he turns the tap on to splash some water onto his face. Then, almost as though he knows what's coming, though he can see the future (as a hidden bonus to his character's mind reading abilities), the reflection standing in front of him is no longer the same.

Mortified, disturbed beyond belief, a version of himself but not his actual self, is staring back at him with lips curled in an inviting fashion and arms crossed.

Words cannot ibegin/i to describe the feeling of this loss of control.

With some semblance of silence, James scans the man who peers at him expectantly. It has to be Charles, can't be anyone else, as paranormal as it sounds. He has a blazer on, dark grey slacks, his hair slicked back and nothing but pale skin on his face. No hint of facial hair, not a strand out of place, no indication of mischief behind his gaze; nothing about him reads James in the least.

He's lost his identity.

Suddenly he can't breathe. He's gasping for an answer, for help, for someone to wake him from this nightmare, but most of all for iair/i. His throat is closing up, the muscles tensing, everything inside locked in a hold threatening to persist until he accepts that he wants to be Charles, if only to be with Erik.

Or so the reflection tells him between gasps and coughs.

"Admit it," Charles says, uncrossing his arms to lean his hands against the sides of the mirror. "As much as I want to be with Erik, you want to be with Michael myriads of times more."

One of his hands leaves the border of the reflection. Charles's fingers begin to pass through the mirror—tantalizingly slow, James thinks—and appearing on the outside, just at the level of James's eyes. "You know this is good for both of us."

James attempts to protest but Charles's hand is on his throat all too quickly, squeezing, holding back what little air was actually still flowing through successfully, and he wants to die rather than give in to this imaginary thing. But, that would mean giving up on Anne Marie, his child, Brendan. And even Michael.

Charles's grip loosens.

At first, James isn't quite sure why, and then there's a train wreck of thoughts crashing through whatever resistance he had left. It's more than he can bear to acknowledge (especially after what he's just been through): he doesn't want to leave Michael behind, perhaps most of all.

It scares him, more than the thought of dying. When he finally gathers enough strength to look up, the person in the mirror is shirtless, beads of sweat all over his face on the verge of falling, and absolutely terrified. James is back and Charles is gone.

But he can't help but panic when he wonders ihow long/i he will be free of the intruder this time.

center-/center

James awakens in the middle of the night in a cold sweat; he realizes the terrible fact that he has but one day left before he must return to set and continue being Charles. Anxiety seeps in followed by shivering, pacing around his bed, and some much obliged swearing.

It is 7 am when he finally calms his nerves enough to stop shivering and lie down somewhat peacefully (if feeling like your skin will be invaded at any moment can be considered peaceful). He grabs one of the extra pillows he had dropped to the ground (lack of space), sliding it between his thighs and embracing it, as he would have Anne Marie.

When he begins to drift in and out of sleep, the picture of her smile (he keeps stored in case he's homesick) comes to the surface of his thoughts. James expects for it to soothe him but instead it sends a jolt of pain coursing through him and nestling in the core of his very being. He ignores the aching beneath his skin, imagining his wife holding his hand while their son plays with a colourful toy.

The pain reappears, this time intensifying as he endures; struggling to keep it in mind. A sinking feeling comes over him like a forest fire, burning through him with every second he tries to continue imagining his family, rather than someone ielse/i.

James rolls onto his back, holding his head; he can almost hear his skull splitting in two over what he stubbornly pushes deep into a corner of his mind.

"We both know," The voice snaps him out of the pain for a moment. James jumps up, still holding his head, searching for the culprit. No one in sight. "You love Erik more than those other two."

James wills the voice away, screams when that doesn't work. "Shut up!" He breaks down inside, tears falling from his eyes like drops of rain sliding down leaves in a forest. "Shut up! I can't fuckin' take this, shut the fuck up before I kill you!"

Silence.

Almost afraid to believe it, James glances around his room quickly. He lies back down when he finds nothing too alarming, nuzzling into the pillow, this time more like an infant seeking comfort than a man providing it for his wife. James doesn't want to relax just yet, can't put his guard down even when he intends to; the fear is still lurking, concealed, waiting for him to be at his weakest.

But before he knows it, he's asleep.

center-/center

James is woken up by frantic, uneven knocks at his door. The kind of knocking you would do if you thought the person in question was in the middle of an some unbearable thing, or –simply—idying/i.

For whoever is banging, it seems likelier to be the latter.

Limbs still disobedient and tangled between pillows and blankets, James crashes to the floor, cursing under his breath.

"Thank god," Michael says from behind the door. "I thought something happened when you stopped answering for a few days."

James's heart leaps, skips a beat, does a somersault in his chest, and finally bursts into flames. Michael was worried—about him—just because he hadn't replied to a few text messages. It's silly, but so damn sweet that he wants to just start filming right away so they can be together again.

"Sorry," He answers finally. "I've been feeling a bit—under the weather." James feigns a cough, clearing his throat, and putting on his best sick voice. "Don't think you should come in right now." Who knows what would happen if he did.

"Oh," Michael answer, his voice low, small, unsure. "I'll see you tomorrow at the set then. Right?"

James can't get over how insecure he sounds. "Definitely."

The rest of the day goes on without any iincidents/i, if they can be attributed such a non-threatening term. He almost died last night, all because of the character he will have to slip into—again—tomorrow.

Shit.

center-/center

The warm jet of water from the shower head feels good against his aching skin; he's sure he has a fever and should probably rest more, but the faster he finishes filming, the faster he can return to his family. And that's the best encouragement he's had in a while.

James hums softly, sliding his fingers through his hair, untangling the thin locks slowly with the water. Anne Marie didn't care if he brushed his hair or not, or if she did, she certainly didn't voice her opinion out loud (which he was thankful for).

He feels clean, relaxed, enough to leave the safety of the warmth, so James turns off the tap pushing the shower curtain aside. Avoiding the mirror as he steps out of the small space, he wraps a towel around his hips, and doesn't bother to look up when he exits the bathroom.

"Ah," Michael starts. "I guess I should have waited outside." He covers his eyes playfully, the brilliance of his shark-like teeth threatening to blind James through the crack between his palms.

He shrugs away the thought, checking just how secure his towel is before responding. "Yeah," James holds it in place, just to be iextra/i sure it doesn't fall. "Is something up? I thought I'd just meet you downstairs like usual."

Michael waves a hand dismissively, quickly pulling his dark brown hat off to cover his face instead. "I just wanted to hang out a bit more before we started serious work." James didn't realize he was smiling until he heard the word 'serious' and nearly broke his jaw from the resulting grin.

"I forgot to check," James walks around the bed where Michael is sitting, to the dresser where he has some briefs and undershirts. "Is it the scene where I help you turn the satellite, or something more challenging?"

Michael scoffs, pulling at James's towel teasingly. "It's not that serious," He peeks from behind his hat as James's elastic band snaps in place, safely at his hips. "You're right though, it's that one where we both shed a lonely tear."

The taller man hops off the bed, stretching and pushing his hat on nonchalantly. "One tear isn't so hard, is it?" James slips the undershirt on, his gaze shifting to Michael, his head tilting slightly.

"That's if you don't make me laugh," he announces after a moment. "You really just make me want to play in comedies for the rest of my life."

The subsequent laugh cracks through the air like lightning. "Glad to hear that buddy. Same to you." Michael leans in to slap James's ass gently. "Nice underwear. I'll be waiting downstairs."

He meant to laugh, meant to smack his friend's ass in the same way to prove their camaraderie was a two-way street. But instead, James could only smile nervously as he watched Michael leave, his body turned in a way that would prevent the older man from seeing the bulge at the front of his briefs.

"See," The voice broke through James's thoughts. "I told you; you like him."

center-/center

James arrives downstairs in full character, minus the accent. Michael exhales happily when he sees the shorter man come through the doors. "Hey buddy," He places an arm around him—not any differently than usual—and continues. "Thought you were sick again. You seemed kinda pale when I left."

What didn't he notice? James is, frankly, touched that Michael could see such subtle fluctuations in him.

"You love him," Charles's voice whispers annoyingly.

iNo, I don't/i. James tries to convince himself more than his stubborn character. He does, he really does, just in a friendly way. It has to be a friendly way, can't be anything else. His family is everything to him and jeopardizing that for a relationship with a man, who is simply a friend, is ridiculous.

His wound is reopening and Charles doesn't hesitate to take over the wheel, steering James body for his own selfish purpose down a winding road leading him to what—Charles thinks—can only be bliss. "Steering me into hell," James shouts at the Brit.

But it's too late, he's lost control.

Charles wraps an arm around Michael's waist, beaming up at the smirking man. "I'm fine, I assure you." And the English accent permeates through the words without James's consent. James growls, trying to warn Michael, but is unable to get through to the oblivious man.

Michael squeezes at the shoulder where his hand is pressed. "Nice! Already in character." James just nods, unaware of how to switch it off and answer of his own will, with his own way of speaking.

They begin to walk toward the mansion where their scene will be, and James (Charles?)—he doesn't know who he is at this point—resists the urge to just run back to his family now, the movie but half complete. Maybe it's a mixture of both of their feelings.

Michael looks down at him, his face stretching with the intensity of his smile. "I have a confession to make-"

James cuts him off, pushing Michael back gently, surprised he has any control at all. "Can it wait?" His heart is already beating so fast, it might stop before he even hears said confession.

Michael leans down, his face close, too close. "Nope. It can't." His warm breath hits James's skin, soothing, seeping into each pore. Why does he smell like heaven? "I brought us here too soon, on purpose of course."

James opens his mouth to protest a declaration of love that doesn't come. "Oh," He's kind of disappointed, actually. Or is it Charles who is disappointed? "Is that it?"

"Yeah," Michael squints, pulling at James's cheek softly. "Did you think I'd ask you to marry me or something?" His laugh goes on for a long time.

Long enough for James to wonder if he's a witch, because only witches cackle that well. There must be a wart somewhere, even if it isn't on his face.

"I'm not a witch, James. And I don't have any warts." Michael snorts, pulling the younger man in for a bear hug. "I just wanted us to hang out a bit, missed you these past few days."

First of all, James thought that witch comment was inside his head. Secondly, it's not okay to admit so cutely, so adorably, that you miss one of your guy friends who you were only apart from for a couple of days. Finally, why does Charles allow him to take over at the most inconvenient of times? Not cool, not okay.

"Alright," Charles squeezes back lightly, then pulling away from the hold. "What did you have in mind?"

"The accent," Michael smacks his leg, laughing. "Are you gonna keep it the whole time?"

James wants to implode, rip his skin off, anything that could get Charles out of him. But any of those options would only cause problems, frustration, itears/i. "I will," Charles forces James's lips to move upward. "Is that alright with you?"

Michael just nods. He snaps his fingers after a second, probably remembering what he wanted to do, James thinks. "Come 'ere." He runs over to a table with two chairs and a subtle, fluorescent green cooler underneath.

Charles's expression is awry, bordering on indecent, and it is so involuntary (obviously) that James can't stop it—even when Michael is blushing. The older man chuckles, swinging his hand through the air like he's trying to physically chase the look away.

"You're married," Michael is still blushing despite how comfortable he sounds. "A look like that could cause a divorce." His laugh is sincere, innocent; all the things James wishes he could get back to right now.

All he's been doing is lying, hiding his emotions, living in fear of what he wants. But it is definitely inot/i for nothing. Suffering never is for nothing.

"Oh, come on." Charles jogs over to the table, energized by the compliment. "I'm sure you have ladies falling all over you, yes?" He plops down on the chair closest to the cooler, reaching in to grab two beers.

Michael takes one from Charles happily; their fingers brush, but momentarily, and James feels as though his pants are going to explode again. And of course this is when Michael decides to say something lewd.

"But I always wondered how it would be with a man like you in bed," A flush begins to creep over his strong features. "I mean it."

iHe loves us too./i Charles, stronger than ever, is back, and making so much goddamn sense that James finds it hard to even expect to put up any kind of fight.

James looks away, still present of mind (he hopes), still the master of his body (he doubts), because he wants to answer that with another lewd comment, but he won't. He refuses.

"I don't—" James clears his throat, his pants stretching against him below the table. "—think there's anything to brag about." Charles mumbles something about James being a pussy and James just threatens to leave if he doesn't shut his mouth. Right the fuck now.

Michael is laughing again, in the way that makes you feel special and horrible all at the same time. He's a bitch of a man, truly. A beautiful bitch though, so it makes it all tolerable.

"Now I'm a bitch?" He pretends to lunge at James, his hands stopping short, instead petting the perfectly coiffed hair style.

Why did things keep coming out by themselves? Charles. It had to be him, couldn't be anything else. James pinches his thigh, trying to push out the crazy by force.

"So," Charles pops his top button open, unbeknownst to James. "Is there something you want to talk about?" The words are his own, the actions—not so much.

Michael hums, pretending to scratch his head pensively. "Nope," He chuckles softly. "How 'bout we talk about how smooth your chest looks? Why did you open the button?" He smiles, a laugh hiding behind it.

Charles wants to seduce 'Erik'; he makes it loud and clear when he unbuttons another from the top. James is not a pushover, though he can be too nice sometimes, so he's not about to let Charles just throw away his marriage for a few intense minutes of sex.

James finally breaks through, relieved, even if only for a brief moment. "It's getting kind of warm," He takes a sip of the cool beer, glancing up at the blue sky above. "But this certainly helps. Thanks, man."

Michael nods, tilting his beer toward James's. "Cheers." He swallows, his Adam's apple stopping midway through, then jumping back in place. "Your accent's gone."

James wants to practically drop to his knees and thank every deity he can think of, but that would be rude, weird, awkward. "Yeah," he says it as calmly as he can muster. "I got sick of forcing myself."

There's an odd sound, like a mixture between disbelief and relief, but James ignores it because he doesn't know what exactly that means.

Michael puts the beer down, crossing his legs. "So," He dips in his jacket pocket for sunglasses, sliding them on with ease. "What have you been up to?"

The smile he's wearing is strangely rewarding for James; he seems genuinely interested in everything pertaining to his ireal/i life. Charles scoffs because, of course, he'd rather talk about himself to Erik and about mutant bullshit that doesn't really exist. Yet, at least.

All the while, Michael is waiting for a response patiently, and James can't really think of a way to bring up wanting to have sex casually with a friend. So he doesn't. "Nothing much. Just watched T.V., read, you know."

Michael nods like he's too cool for life and pats James on the shoulder. "I know what you mean," He pulls back, leaning into his chair. "But I also couldn't concentrate on my scenes 'cause I couldn't wait to do another with you."

James looks down at his hands; he's trembling. He's so happy that he's fucking trembling, what is wrong with him? Charles returns. His presence makes itself known through every inch of James that is lusting after Michael and fighting the guilt back—which happens to be all of James unfortunately.

"Aww," Charles places his hand on Michael's shoulder. "I've been counting down the days between our scenes, actually." James wants to kick Charles, wants to kick himself. It was truer than he'd like to think.

Michael can do little more than grab James's hand and squeeze it warmly. "I feel your love buddy." And that heartbreakingly beautiful shark-like smile is back and he wants to eat him up, or rather be devoured by those teeth.

If he could, which he can't. So they just chat casually until the cast and crew arrive minutes later.

center-/center

They're done for the day and Michael couldn't look more energized if he tried.

James is feeling the backlash of Charles's control, and this is when Michael suddenly dashes toward their golf cart like usual. He doesn't want it to be obvious that he's struggling with some inner demons, literally, so he grasps at any remaining energy and—all at once—James is in the cart first.

"Where did that come from?" Michael grins, elbowing James from the back seat. "I was sure I had you again this time."

James is so tired, he ilets/i Charles take over, and Charles doesn't expect it (How the fuck could you be caught off guard, you demented freak?) and they end up swerving, smashing into the back of a car, with Michael now in the front seat with a horrible gash on his leg.

"Ow, fuck," Michael holds his leg, trying to stop the blood from dripping on the white fabric at the bottom of the cart. "Where did you learn to drive—fuck" He catches a glimpse of the damage done to the very, very expensive car in front of them and uses his abundance of energy to escape. Injury or not, he could have been a great quarterback.

"Michael-Hey" James sighs, running after him in the same idiotic, guilty manner. "There are cameras everywhere you twat. They'll know exactly who did it anyway." And though he knows Charles is the one who referred to Michael as a 'twat' (because he has a major hard-on for Erik), he allows it, too tired to resist anymore.

center-/center

Somehow, in between running away and having to run back to pay for the damage, James ends up in Michael's room.

It's much more lively than his own; a lot of colours, candles, and even some furniture he's sure the hotel didn't provide (a furry carpet, wow). James looks over at Michael, who is bandaging his leg, just to make sure he didn't say it out loud again.

Seeing Michael hurt like that makes him seem so much more vulnerable than he lets on, and James likes it, in an admiring way of course. Or maybe he's so used to Charles putting thoughts like that in his head that he knowingly allows them to drift through without any sort of 'interruption'.

Michael waves a hand. "Don't worry, I'll just be one more second," And he pulls out a pair of pants in his dresser, slacks you would think, but they turn out to be jogging pants.

James is still watching—or maybe Charles is forcing him to, it's all a blur—and Michael looks up, slowly, purposefully, with wide eyes that say 'ireally?/i'. But strangely, he doesn't mean it in a bad way; he is asking if James wants to see or if he's in so much of a daze he doesn't realize he's watching Michael change.

James takes it as his cue to turn around and whistle (like that ever helps). "How is it feeling? Not too bad I hope. I'm truly sorr—"

"Oh stop," And Michael is there, so close he can almost feel the skin of his chest leaning against his back. "I shouldn't have raced you when I knew how off you've been lately." James has to step forward, needs some kind of space before he does something he will regret. However, Charles doesn't let him, instead doing the opposite and having him lean against the taller man.

Michael doesn't touch him, doesn't move away either. "Close enough there, James?" And his laugh is kind of like a lion's roar when he's embarrassed about something, James thinks. It is funny though, because they've been this close before, they've touched and hugged and cuddled, but never in such a private setting.

"Sorry—I" James turns around promptly, his hands stretched out to create some kind of distance. But Michael tilts his head, confused, and the younger man can't remember what exactly he was going to say.

"Stop apologizing." That magnificent smile of his which requires sunglasses reappears, and James can never prepare for it; his face responds almost instinctively with a similar expression at every occasion. "That's better." Michael is pleased at least.

But he feels weird and dumb and utterly useless when Charles takes this moment to push James's hands forward and against Michael's chest, surprising both of them in the process.

The taller man's hands are still firmly on his hips like a questioning woman, but his eyes flicker in and out of something idangerous/i, James notices. His hands are so content with the warmth of the toned chest that he can't seem to pull them away, even if Charles might be letting him do so.

"This isn't," Michael chuckles quietly. "You know, weird at all." And he's fighting back another laugh. "Especially for me." James can't look him in the eye. Then, Charles is back, his will—beyond a doubt—ten times stronger than James's, and he wills the nervous man to cooperate.

"Here," The boisterous man gets the bright idea of mimicking James, thinking it to be some kind of game. "That's more fair, right?"

And James means to laugh the tension away (and of course pull away), but Charles just makes him slide his hands lower down instead.

His fingertips dance along Michael's ribcage, following them on a path to his abdomen, his thumbs circling his navel. James can't bear to look him in the eye when he finally stops at the edge of form-fitting jogging pants, so he just closes them, defeated. That turns out to be a huge mistake because it's one of those things that vastly improves the experience, plus it looks like he's so turned on he can't keep his eyelids from falling shut. It's not entirely false.

James's fingers linger there, but Charles makes it clear (as day) that he intends to isee/i just what this is doing to Michael. Continuously driving him, steering him down a road he doesn't want to take, he finally looks up at the face of the man who's been awfully quiet the entire time.

"James," Michael's eyes are dark as night. "I don't know what's happening—" He sounds like he's out of breath, like he's been holding it the entire time. Maybe he has been. "I really, really want this. But—you—your wife—" And James can see that he's shaking, just itrying/i to hold himself back.

James's hands are still low on Michael's waist, still in wait for Charles's command because he has no more willpower; his supply ran out back when they raced to the golf cart.

But what's worse than Charles taking over his body, worse than his weakness being the cause of it, worse than the guilt he feels coursing through him every instance of every day that he misses Michael when they're not together, worse than how Michael is practically pleading for James to have him, is how little of a fight he's been putting up this entire time against Charles.

"You want him," Charles sounds like a snake slowly, hungrily, swallowing down his prey. "Admit it."

The words are bubbling up in his throat, fighting to come out, and Michael is not helping with the way he seems like he could cry if told the wrong thing. "I want—" James tries to swallow the last of the words, but they break through like he's being strangled, and he can't breathe since they are the cause for his suffocation. "—this—you—inow/i."

And that's all it takes; Charles is in full throttle, driving Michael into the nearest wall.

Michael is happy to oblige, happy to let James be in control if it means he can have some—any—kind of release for what he's been keeping locked away for so long. Unbeknownst to him, is just how little self-control James is going to have because of the strong influence that Charles has diluted into his bloodstream.

"James," He still sounds like he's on the verge of tears, this time tears of joy at least. "I've been trying, so desperately, to see you as just a friend," Charles is at his neck, feeling the words dissolve into his lips with each new kiss. "But I just can't, I refuse to any longer."

And James is surprised at how coherent the older man can still be, despite the throbbing heat down below.

Charles hushes James and continues, his fingers drawing the string of the grey jogging pants, pulling them low enough to see those delectable hip muscles that every girl (and now James will gladly join the club) craves to see on a man. Somehow between the movement and that flash of skin, James loses a second of time, and Michael's shirt along with his own is absconded with and discarded to an unknown corner—where his eyes care not follow—because now there's more skin to look at and—"Mmmm."

Michael reciprocates with a small sound, like a giggle but manlier (not really), clearly enjoying the moan that is ripped from James's vocal chords (all thanks to Charles), and presses his hips into James's, demanding more than he's been getting.

One should not be fooled by his whining and wiggling and pleading for more, because his hands are feeling, drinking in every naked inch of James's body that Charles has compelled him to show. So far just the shirt, he thinks; he hasn't been able to tear his eyes away from the bulge in Michael's pants long enough to look down at his own iproblem/i.

Charles drags James's mind back, pulling him from that thought so he can continue to devour Michael with all five senses—at the same time, if possible.

James is 100% in agreement because what follows is so fucking infectious Charles doesn't need to push; he's not resisting.

Charles is a man who knows what he wants and how he wants it, and doesn't stop sucking and nibbling along enticing collarbones, squeezing at a firm and tanned ass, kissing in a way that makes such disgustingly perverse and indecent sounds, that Michael is practically coming in his pants. James would have it no other way.

"Wait," Michael can't breathe, can't keep his heart from pounding, nor his cock from aching, but he tries, for just a moment. "Wait, I can't—too much—let me, let me—god," Charles is licking at his lips, his fingers still avoiding the area that needs the most attention. He lets the frantic man know he's doing it on purpose by dragging his fingers across and down each thigh, repeatedly.

James almost feels bad but Charles won't let him because the isounds/i, those sweet, sweet sounds Michael is making are so insanely obscene and desperate that it's worth torturing him for a bit longer. Charles is definitely getting the better of him.

Without warning Charles is at chest level, enjoying the taste of sweat and lust on Michael's skin, lapping his tongue over everything he can reach, especially those beautiful bits of flesh Michael calls his nipples. James is already too close, just knowing how close his partner is, and he lets any strand of control he had left over slip away and into Charles's grasp.

He realizes too late it's probably a mistake to free his mind, but he doesn't care enough to worry.

"Lower," Michael's voice cracks in the most sensual way. "Please, give me something." And it's amazing how Michael still sounds so sweet even though he's probably leaking below his jogging pants.

James's cock twitches underneath his slacks and Charles takes that moment to drag his blunt nails over Michael's length, tugging the jogging pants down eagerly. The older man shudders from the sudden coldness of the wall and the air hitting his cock; he turns his head, his cheek pressed to the wall, just lying in wait.

It's definitely a sight every human being should be allowed a glimpse of once in their lifetime.

Charles is laughing because—silly James—that was actually funny and poetic, and neither of those elements belong in the bedroom really. Michael jerks his hips toward James who is –somehow—kneeling in front of the rock hard cock of his co-star, and praying that he doesn't go to hell for enjoying this so much.

Then Charles senses James's lack of assertiveness and helps him along some more. There goes his head; sucking and teasing with his tongue. Then comes his fingers; stroking a strong thigh, a soft stomach. Michael struggles to keep his hips still with James's lips so warm, so abruptly on him, and sucking him off at a maddening pace. But he succeeds, to James's relief, despite how disheveled and breathless he is.

James's tongue curls experimentally around the head of the pulsating cock, testing out the taste of Michael's pre-come to see if he likes it. Charles certainly does; his tongue lathers the tip, dipping into the tiny slit, and trying to suck out all he can without taking a breath.

James is alive however, and lets Charles know that if he doesn't let him breathe, there won't be much more fun with Michael—er, Erik—to be had.

Charles pulls back, settling on rolling Michael's balls in his hand like dice, cradling them and jerking along the slick shaft with his other hand. James wants to make a comment about Charles being a juggler, but it's all blown to the wind when Michael decides he needs to stop moaning by himself and shoves James down against the carpet.

"My turn," Michael's attempt to sound seductive isn't a complete failure, except for the fact that when James's thigh brushes against the head of his cock he has to pull away, his back arching for a few seconds. "God, I didn't think I was that close."

At least he admits defeat.

Charles returns and feels better than ever because all he has to do is sit back, his arms crossed behind his head, and enjoy. James isn't totally against the idea. He does wince at the thought that they have more things in common than he expected.

Charles lifts his hips for Michael to pull his pants down, throwing them in another corner of the room. There's an undignified sound and James isn't sure whether it came from Michael or himself. Charles says it's Michael, so he believes him.

"What was that sound," James finally whispers between gasps, because Michael can't decide between nibbling on the head of his cock and bobbing up and down the shaft. "Were you expecting something bigger?"

Michael hums, letting go of the slick skin with a popping sound. "Shall I re-enact it?" His voice is so velvety and brimming with confidence that James doesn't know if he nodded, or shook his head. Michael grins, deciding he'd rather taste all of James instead of just the tip, and continues bobbing up and down like his life depends on it.

"No," Charles breaks through the intense pleasure in James's gut. Michael is taken aback as well, letting the throbbing member fall from his lips ungracefully. "Not alone. Together. Let's come together."

Best idea all day.

"Sure," And Michael is already sitting up, guiding James up to face him. "Like this?" James and Charles nod unabashedly. Michael smiles, taking hold of James cock and placing gentle kisses on his neck. "Touch me then."

Charles doesn't need to be told twice; his callused, all-knowing fingers coil around Michael's cock—like you would a fierce animal—jerking it mercilessly fast. (Not that you jerk animals off, ever.) It's too fast, James warns his abductor, because Michael can't keep up and his own grip on James's cock is loosening. Not that it really matters though, because James is already drifting off into the clouds, flashes of white impairing his sight of Michael's tense face as he strains to keep himself from coming first.

"Close—" Is all that Michael manages to say before he's spilling into Charles's hand (which is still merciless, by the way), his chest almost caving in from the gorgeous growl that follows.

James moans; his own sounds higher and more sporadic as he reaches the edge between madness and bliss. Michael, although a mess himself, succeeds in holding them both up until they are both emptied and filled at once.

Charles nods triumphantly, disappearing in a flash as he often does, with no hint as to when he'll return again. But James has a feeling that he might never return, and somehow it scares him.

"That," Michael presses his forehead to James's, letting his clean hand comb through the damp hair at his neck. "Was fucking amazing, man." And he's glowing, just like mothers do during pregnancy.

"Yes," James looks around for something to wipe his hand on so he can touch Michael more intimately. Michael points to the sheets, a smile growing larger with each second. He smiles back, wiping his hand quickly, pulling the sheet down for his friend to do the same. "That was really—perfect."

Michael hums his agreement, leaning his head against the wall. James looks around the room; it's bigger than his own, cleaner, nicer, but they only ended up using a tiny fraction of the available space. How ridiculous.

"I know. It's nice, right?" Michael's eyes are closed, his voice deep with satisfaction and sleep.

James gapes, a questioning look in his eyes. Who was the mind reader? Him or Michael? Not that it should really bother him considering how close they've been the past few months.

Feeling the mood slip back into a friendly atmosphere, James's heart beats more regularly, more healthily. He scans over Michael's sweat covered body for a moment—which he wished he hadn't because he's feeling hard again—and notices that the bandage is hanging on with just one corner.

He points at the lean leg. "I can fix that for you." He can, he's excellent with first aid (especially now that the tension has passed).

There's a grumble but nothing else, and James stands up slowly. It hits him that he's still naked when he gets to the medicine cabinet, and he doesn't know why it took him so long, or why—even after realizing—it doesn't bother him.

When he returns with medical tape and disinfectants, Michael is falling asleep, his head tipping to one side. James feels strangely maternal and, rather than waking him up by screaming something shocking, whispers: 'I love you, but I can't carry you. Please get up for me.'

It doesn't surprise Michael, but it's startling to his own ears, and he feels guilt begin to grab at his soul all over again.

The taller man uses the wall to maneuver himself to the bed, his eyes closed until he feels the soft blanket and mattress. He drops on the edge, his eyes blinking the sleep away so he can say goodnight properly. James takes that time to shuffle off and get their pants, helping Michael to lie back when he slips him into the comfortable jogging pants.

"One second," James jumps into his own pants, smiling up at Michael while he wiggles in the last bit. "Okay. Push your pants up so I can fix the bandage."

"You'd be a good doctor," Michael says between yawns. But his eyes reveal that he means it in a rather explicit way. "Don't you think?"

James blushes, disinfecting the wound, ripping a few fabric bandages open and covering the wound. "If you say so. But it's time to sleep now."

Nodding off, he doesn't wait to hear that before he begins to follow the order naturally. James smiles, a painful smile, and leaves the room without saying anything else.

center-/center

James doesn't get any sleep, instead he paces back and forth in his hotel room, wondering how he ever let it come to this. Who would believe him if he said that a fictional character—whom he plays in a movie, by the way—took over his body and forced him to perform lewd acts with his friend and co-worker? No one; they'd think he was either a liar or insane. His guilt agrees.

He couldn't even forgive himself, so why would his wife forgive him even in the least?

James rushes into the bathroom, thinks that if he can somehow force Charles to reappear, he won't have to deal with the fear, with the pain, all on his own. But Charles doesn't show up, doesn't even try to, doesn't make anything easier for James because that would be the right thing to do, and Charles is nothing but everything that is iwrong/i with the world.

His walls start to close in, moving him into a dead end where his choices are to either man up or run away.

center-/center

Fear is a strong emotion he repeats as he waits for the telecom to announce the plane he's boarding.

It's nauseating how little courage he has, how easily he can just throw everyone and everything away. It's sickening to the point where he wonders how he got through all these years without just slitting his wrist or jumping off a building: he is such a fucking coward.

He looks up at the screen where the flights are displayed, wondering how it could get to this demented point so quickly.

James glares at his own hands, so weak, so fragile, still shaking even though he's escaping his problems instead of facing them. The ticket in his right hand is colourful, bright, with 'Auckland, New Zealand' written in bold letters just below the time and date.

It sounded like a good idea at the time (plus he is drunk): New Zealand is nature-filled, it's supremely far away, and kind of reminds him of Scotland. But it was bought on a whim, and now he doesn't know what the hell there is to do in New Zealand except avoid trees during a thunderstorm. (Did you know trees massively outnumber people over there?)

So he's drunk—which usually helps, but it's not—and he's nauseated, and he has a headache, and he's scared, and he's bored because his flight is delayed. And not to mention the guilt of it all, which is the reason he's going through any of this bullshit in the first place.

Suddenly there's a loud, indescribable voice that shouts "Now boarding for Auckland, New Zealand."

center-/center

Michael is panting when he arrives at the airport, sweat staining his white shirt, front and back. He glances around one corner of the terminal; no sign of James. He glances around the other; still no one who even looks remotely like him.

He finally plops down on a seat, wondering how he let a married man into his bedroom. How could he do this to a friend, a co-star, to James?

He knew better; he knows he knew better, but his heart wouldn't listen to what his mind was saying and he let himself be carried away on an unforgettable, but heartbreaking ride into oblivion.

Michael looks up at the flight list screen; James's flight is already boarding, but he doesn't know that because he thinks James is going back to his wife to beg forgiveness.

He lets his head fall between his hands and cries. He's ruined a marriage, ruined James's life, ruined their friendship, ruined the movie (which they haven't finished yet), ruined ieverything/i with just one night with the man of his dreams.

A sigh comes from behind him and he jumps, wiping his eyes before turning around. It's James, or at least it looks like him, but it doesn't smell like him, and Michael is trying his best not to kiss him or hug him or do anything inappropriate because everything is so fucked already.

James burps, a bottle of whisky in his stronger hand, and a baseball cap in the other (gift shops are always fun). "Michael," He puts on his cap, gesturing for Michael to get up. "You and I—We-" And he covers his mouth, feeling more nauseated now that he's looking at the accomplice to the crime, the solace of his heart. "—Are going to finish that movie and fix everything."

center-/center

When they arrive back on set, Michael pretends he doesn't know where James was, and James says he was sick because of a hangover—which will be true.

They promise to find a solution once filming is over. And that's what they do.

But Michael looks so dashing in his turtlenecks (he really likes them), and James is so drunk most of the time that he begins to blur the lines between reality and fantasy, letting his sins persist for as long as they have to be on camera together.

Michael can't resist James even when he tries, even when he knows it's going to end with tears.

center-/center

After the final shot in the final hour of the final day of shooting, Michael and James are nowhere to be found.

They are in James's room this time, holding hands because, well, this might be the last time they ever do it, and Michael asked so politely that James couldn't turn it down.

Michael apologizes first, which surprises James because he knows that it's really and truly all his fault.

"No, no," He slaps the back of Michael's hand gently. "Don't you dare apologize, I'm a grown man, I knew all along what I've been doing. I should have never dragged you down with me." His heart is aching, but he knows it has to be said. "I do love you though, honestly."

Michael is starting to tear up, pretending like it's just his eye itching. James doesn't say anything about it, doesn't laugh either; he knows if he does he might start blubbering like an idiot. "So, now what?" he finally manages to ask.

James squeezes Michael's hand to get his attention back. "Now," The older man takes a deep breath. "You go back to your wife and son, and we go back to being just friends. And nothing else." He dips his head, like he's not sure if that's what he wants, like he's asking for permission to keep being bad. He blinks away the tears. "Right?"

James can't look at him, pulls away from the touch, turning his back to Michael. "Right." But he knows he's not let go yet. He can't; it's still so unfinished, so ripe.

He turns back and they kiss so passionately he can't breathe, but they do little more than that.

center-/center

James keeps his word, for the most part. He goes back to live with his family, doesn't tell Anne Marie anything about what's happened with Michael, but he knows, as does she, that something's changed. He doesn't volunteer information, and she doesn't ask for any because she loves him and she's willing to forgive him for whatever he's done.

James feels so grateful for being married to her that he spends almost all his time—when he's not working—answering her every whim and making her laugh with all the corny jokes he keeps for her ears, and hers alone.

However, once in a blue moon, when Michael and James have some kind of event or party to attend (for the movie, naturally), the chemistry returns. The tension between them is so palatable that even interviewers can't help but poke fun at it.

Michael doesn't mind the attention their on-screen partnership is getting, but it is uncomfortable when James starts to share real facts about their off-screen love, pretending it's nothing but what fans would like to hear.

His heart doesn't like being the punchline to each question involving their love for each other either.

Michael understands that sometimes James is tired from living a double life, just wants the truth out, but sharing it on national television and pretending like it didn't really happen is not the right way to do it.

It starts with interviewers asking them to explain their chemistry and James responding with "I'm not comfortable discussing it because it's so true on and off screen, you know?" It seems innocent enough, except when you're one of the parties involved and you know the truth.

It does give Michael a few nightmares, but he gets over it when James texts him to say he imisses him already/i after the show.

But, as the hosts realize that questions like that provide answers that bring in ratings, they come up with even more stupid things to ask James and—like the fool that he is—he answers them without lying.

One day, when they get asked 'what superpower they would want' for the millionth time, James says he would want the power to make people fall in love—like cupid. It's so ridiculous that Michael laughs along with him, and finally answers that he'd want to fly.

James thinks it's a great idea, leaning in close, and saying that he could 'make' Michael fall in love with him and spread love all over the world. But he knows he already has Michael's heart, knows it belongs to him, knows he casts it away every time James goes back to his wife.

It's painful, but there's nothing to do but laugh. The show must go on, at everyone's expense.

The last straw, the finally blow that makes Michael want to either kill himself or murder James, is when he tells an interviewer that they've 'had sex four times'.

Michael knows, James knows—hell, James's wife probably knows too—that it's absolutely true, and that one of those times was during the filming of X-men: First Class.

The only positive point he can think of is being glad that he wasn't next to him when James decided to throw all caution, all care, to the wind and be a complete and total douchebag because it would have ended bloody. Bloody and tear-filled, and the iworld/i would know that they were fucking like the adulterers that they are.

Michael doesn't wait for a text message with sweet nothings that night; he lays it out, plain and simple: "I don't want to be a secret anymore, and since we decided you were best with your wife, we cannot be anything but co-workers. Even being friends is too much from now on."

Enough is enough.

center-/center

James stares at the words of the message for a long time. It was like being dumped, but worse because he was a friend before anything else. James can't breathe, can't get his heart out of his throat, can't get those vile words out of his mind: 'being friends is too much'.

His wife comes home with groceries soon after, dropping them on the ground when she sees James is hyperventilating, clutching at his chest. "Can't—" He gasps, grabbing onto her arm, tears welling in the corner of his eyes. "—Breathe."

Anne Marie just holds him close, rocking him, repeating that he'll be okay. She knows; she's taken enough classes on how to deal with panic, first aid, and how to tell the difference between physical and mental breakdowns. She was the one who taught James everything he knew, why he could treat Michael so easily that dishonorable night.

She knows this has to be completely psychological, if only from the way his eyes are burning into her soul like he's begging for her forgiveness all over again. Anne Marie nods, knowingly, and James can almost breathe normally again.

center-/center

James curses the day he ever met Michael Fassbender.

What was innocent and playful at first turned into dark, secretive romance. And where was Charles a year later? Nowhere to be fucking found. Good riddance, and yet, James would like to smash his skull in a few times for good measure. What was he saying? He had to have lost his mind to really believe that a make-believe character was the cause of all this devastation.

It feels like déjavu as he's looking up at an ugly, pathetic screen, waiting for his flight to show up so he can get as far away from Fassbender—Fassbender and not Michael, because they are no longer on good terms—and all that misery as he possibly can.

James is glad he isn't drunk this time, relieved that he knows this is exactly what his rational mind is telling him to do. Not a drop of whiskey, cognac, gin, vodka—anything—in his system, and he knows this is the right decision beyond a doubt.

He contemplates the thought for a moment; that might be a sign of insanity, actually. It doesn't matter at this point really, the bright, nauseating (even though he's not drunk) ticket is back in his hand and he wants it there.

centerRegretnotwhat you have done, only what you have not done./center

Anne Marie is back from the bathroom with their son Brendan, and James smiles at her, getting up to take their child into his arms, kissing his forehead softly.

A different, but equally obnoxious voice yells over the intercom: "Auckland, New Zealand now boarding."

"Perfect timing," James kisses Anne Marie on the cheek, close to her ear. "Time to leave, darling."

She smiles, gracefully he notices, and James lets her walk in front while he picks up his carry on, his son in his other arm. He takes this time to whisper in close to his son, so only he can hear: "Don't ever fall in love with more than one person. It only hurts everyone in the end."

-End