Mortimer is unable to meet Victor's gaze for days. He figures he should be able to, knowing he'll find no pity there, but the stunning purple and gold and red patterned tile he'd noticed a thousand times before is just so fucking fascinating.

Three days after the failed possible suicide attempt- he still wasn't sure if that's even what it was- he went back to the gym. It's the one Sabretooth uses; not that he needs to, Mortimer thinks with a quiet snort. The man is all muscle and raw power and everything he wants to be. He wonders if Sabretooth has ever wanted to change anything about his looks while he sets up a rack of weights.

Mutants he doesn't know come and go and Mortimer keeps on lifting, trying to wear himself out. Nothing on the schedule. Nothing to think about. Nothing to keep his mind from wandering to Sabretooth and death and drugs and the orphanage and-

"Been in here a while?"

Sabretooth.

Toad racks the bar and stares at it. "Maybe. I don't know," he admits, "came in at seven."

"It's nearly nine."

"Oh," smooth, he chastised himself.

"Hungry?"

"Not really."

"Lying sack of shit," Sabretooth grouses, getting that much more irritated when Mortimer doesn't look up. There's no banter. So Sabretooth fills the silence; "They had a feast tonight." He doesn't even wait for the other to respond. "You should have seen Fatass eat. Had a whole damn bird by himself."

The ends of Toad's mouth quirk just a little bit, even as he sits up, hands between his thighs on the bench in front of him.

"That kid could eat someone out of house and home."

"Is everyone a kid to you?"

Sabretooth watches Toad not watching him. Intentionally looking everywhere but the big blonde.

"Yeah. Shit, you're all babies. Even the boss-man," Victor says with a small smirk. "I'm gonna ask you again," he says, walking around to lean on the racked weights, closer to Mortimer. "You hungry?"

"Is 'yes' what you want to hear?"

Brown hair blocks Sabretooth's view of the other's expression, but he's sure it's an unpleasant one. The longest parts of his hair come down to just past his chin. He's growing it out, Sabretooth muses, because of my comment. He feels a little bit of pride, then anger as he returns to the moment at hand.

"I want the truth, you brat," he said, holding one clawed hand up in an impatient gesture.

"I don't know. I don't really feel hunger anymore," Toad said, trying not to shake. He figured taking the pressure off of his overworked arms would help stop the quaking in his shoulders, the occasional pectoral spasm. It didn't.

"Then how do you know you need to eat?" Sabretooth asked, his voice a half growl.

Mortimer flinched when he felt fingers on the back of his neck, and almost missed the question. Too-warm fingers on sensitive, moist skin. When the fingers withdrew, he glanced at Sabretooth through his hair, watching the other lick his fingers clean. "I get headaches," he answered quietly.

Sabretooth scoffed. He leaned over the bar and pressed his lips to the back of the other's neck. He kissed, maybe; it was a harsh, rough thing that would bruise someone without a healing factor- it would probably leave a bruise on Mortimer for a few hours. Then the tongue flicked out, making Mortimer's shivering increase tenfold. The long thing wrapped a quarter of the way around his neck and molded perfectly to every bump and curve of his skin and muscle. Fingers of hands that nearly covered his entire face pressed to his temples, and Toad really, really wanted to see how Sabretooth was positioned. He couldn't be comfortable, leaned over the rack like that.

"Do you have a headache now?" Sabretooth almost snarled against the skin of Mortimer's shoulder.

"No," Mortimer responded breathlessly. How could he, he thought, with meaty, wonderful, hardened fingers caressing him just so.

The fingers moved away, one set at a time, for Victor to suck on them. Mortimer figured he should have been disgusted by spit-slick fingers pressing back to his temples, but he wasn't. He couldn't be, lost in the sensation of the sorriest excuse for a temple massage ever.

"Still need to eat," Sabretooth drawled, face pressed to Mortimer's hair for a moment. "C'mon ya little shit," he said, pulling away. "Fatass was asking about you during dinner, like I would know where you were."

Mortimer groaned at the loss of contact. He blinked a few times. "You found me, didn't you?"

"I guessed. I didn't know you'd be here. I don't care enough to remember your schedule," Sabretooth said, ambling slowly toward the door. The words tasted a little too sweet, admitting that he might care just the slightest bit, but that could also be Toad's sweat, he figured.

The fact that Freddy had asked about him made Mortimer's skin tingle pleasantly. Well, pleasantly in places that Sabretooth hadn't slobbered on. But perhaps there too, in a different way.

"Come here," Sabretooth ordered. "Don't make me move you myself. It won't be a... Pleasant experience."

Toad got to his feet without thinking about how he just followed orders.

"Coming out shirtless?" Victor teased.

Mortimer mumbled under his breath and looked around for the shirt he'd discarded. He slipped it on and it barely held on to his shoulders. It was too big, a relic from before he lost the weight. A glance at the towering blonde showed that he was amused, a little intoxicated, and Mortimer turned his gaze to the floor again. He followed Sabretooth by watching his boots.

He found himself in a dining room; the table still a mess with the remnants of the other's supper. In one place, the dishes had been pushed aside, a few broken from their rough treatment, to clear a space for one solitary plate, a fork and a glass of water.

"Eat," Sabretooth ordered.

Then Mortimer finally looked at him.

He stared, confused, mildly irritated. He searched Sabretooth's face for any sign of what this meant. He told himself not to react to the sweat on his palms, not to wipe it on his shorts, not to clench his fists.

"Believe it or not, it was Fatass' idea. He said someone should take you some food, but fuck it. You're the type who would rather eat at a table like a human, and it's less work for me, so pick up the fork and stuff your face, you skinny little bastard." Sabretooth stuck his pinky in his ear and twisted, scratching, cleaning maybe. His brow was scrunched in mild annoyance and his other hand was in his pocket, but he didn't seem likely to fly into a homicidal rage at the moment.

Mortimer picked at strips of turkey and pierogi and some sort of bun-thing and wondered if it was a holiday. He ate breaded, fried green-beans with a small smile and a quirked brow. Sabretooth seemed content, standing by the sink, so Mortimer just ate. He consumed everything on the plate and downed the glass of water.

When he went to the sink to refill it, Sabretooth leaned over to bury his nose in the soft hairs at the base of Mortimer's skull, under the growing top layer, nudging it up since it was too long to ignore. Mortimer tensed, stopped, leaving the cold water running. The burly blonde was making a purring noise in the back of his throat, one hand coming to rest on Mortimer's hip.

"Sa~bretooth," Toad whispered, flushing at the crack in his voice.

"Shh," Victor hissed, still nuzzling. "I must be out of my mind," is what Mortimer thought Victor said, but wasn't too sure, as the other's words were just a growled garble of consonants.

Shaky green digits found the hand at his hip. The fingers around the delicate, jutting bone tightened, like they knew Toad was going to pry them away. It was almost painful, but Mortimer bore it, running the pads of his fingers down Sabretooth's wrist. He felt out the veins that bulged out of the back of the other's hand, the dips between metacarpals, the large, knobby knuckles. He soothed the pads of his fingers over the length of Sabretooth's, the hair there soft, fading just before the second knuckle. Victor's fingers were massive; four of Mortimer's just barely covering three.

He moved down to the other's nails, mindful of his own as he felt out the rough cuticles, the jagged, bumpy planes of the nails and their broken or rough tips. Mortimer grimaced at a particularly bad break with a chunk missing, and chuckled to himself at his absurd desire to give the other a manicure.

The jostling movement pressed Victor's lips against Toad's spine and he gasped, gripping the glass hard. He was surprised he didn't break it. He was surprised he didn't startle Sabretooth away when he forced his fingers between the ones on his hip, when he caressed and tugged on the taut skin there, so different from his own webbed pleats.

He stilled when the lips pressed more firmly, sucking in air desperately, but trying to keep his chest from rising too much. He kept himself from pushing back into the touch.

"Not here," Mortimer whispered. He let out an exasperated sigh when Sabretooth stood up straight. He turned with Sabretooth's hand as it pulled away, not wanting the contact to end just yet.

But it did. The contact ended and Sabretooth stepped back.

"Wa-"

"Your room, then," Victor said, taking a few slow steps toward the archway leading to the hallway.

"I have to- to clean up this mess," Mortimer said, his lips drawing down in a frown as he glanced from the blonde to the table.

"Fuck it. Leave it."

"But, it's kinda what I do," Mortimer shot back, gaining a bit of nerve.

"Someone else will get it. There's a lot of," Sabretooth paused to think of a word, "a lot of other bootlickers around here."

"Bootlick- Hey!" Confusion turned to irritation in a split second, and Mortimer put the glass in the sink then turned off the water.

Sabretooth chuckled, warm and deep and he put both hands in his pockets. The tug of his fists in the fabric only served to outline his erection, but the blonde didn't seem to care.

"Yeah, I think I like that a little better than 'Jumpy'. You're 'Bootlicker' now," he said with a wide, lopsided grin.

Mortimer followed a chuckling Sabretooth to his own room, grinding his teeth.

With the door shut behind them, Victor sat on Mortimer's bed like he owned it. He kicked off his boots and sprawled out while the other watched.

"You comin'?"

"You're not fucking me," Mortimer warned, splaying webbed fingers on the rumpled sheets.

"I don't have the coordination for that right now," Sabretooth said, licking his lips afterward. "I barely got my damn shoes off. It's been a couple months since the clinic, so, I'm gone right now."

"Then what?" Mortimer asked, putting one knee on the bed. His arms quivered as he tried to support himself on them.

"Then lay down, sleep off the food cramps and let me keep the high goin'. That's what."

"Food cramps," Mortimer groused and huffed through his nose, but laid down anyway, with his back to Sabretooth. One thick arm wrapped around his torso and pulled him close.

The blankets and pillows were all bunched up in one corner, so Mortimer's only option to rest his head was Sabretooth's bicep. It was silently offered, and he took it. Lips and tongue found the back of his neck yet again, and Mortimer was surprised that he didn't feel as violated this time. He couldn't have been sweating that much, but didn't voice his thought. He didn't want the half-assed embrace to end, not when the beast of a man was letting him trace the knuckles of the hand on his stomach and rest his head on the python of an arm. He felt comfortable. He'd question the feeling later.

Sabretooth dozed off, face buried in stringy brown locks. Mortimer snickered at the way Sabretooth growled and snorted in his sleep and wondered if his sweat was giving the other trippy dreams.