DISCLAIMER: These characters are not mine; they belong to The Man. Damn the Man.
The introductory piece, by the way, is a chunk of lyrics from the song "Warm
Ways" by Fleetwood Mac
SUMMARY: Gambit/Pete Wisdom "Smokers of the World, unite!"
WARNING: Graphic display of wholesome m/m fun
ARCHIVE: No prob, but I'd like to know where it's going
NOTES: In response to a request from our dear Devo/Glam, to fill a debt made by a teeny
Gambit/Northstar snippet posted to a message board many moons ago . . Also, I'm quite
aware that at some points I switch tenses, I don't know why I do, but I do.
FEEDBACK: Oh, please. Anything. Alestar213@aol.com
Sunrise
by Alestar
sleep
easy by my side
into
gentle slumber you can hide
i
i'm waiting for the sun
to come up....
"Remy?"
"Remy, we're here."
Dark lashes flutter against an unshaven cheek, and Remy Lebeau awakens to a sea of grey
and the unpleasant smell of sulfur.
He is sprawled uncomfortably in a seat of the Blackbird, staring out the window at an
uninviting Scottish morning. His neck screams in protest as it rights itself from the hour
of cramped sleep, and his head is pounding from nicotine withdrawal.
Sacre Mere, but Gambit hated flying.
Behind him, Nightcrawler prattles on about something- "Kitty's been in a black mood
ever since . . "- as he helps Hank unload the equipment that is the reason they've
come here. Whoever woke Remy up had already vacated, and he is the last one besides the
two on the plane.
As he stands, his muscles complain, which makes the rhythmic torture in his head even
worse. Nightcrawler takes notice of him then, and gives him a friendly grin.
"Guten morgen! The others have already gone in. You can go ahead and take your bags
third floor, sixth door on the left. Make yourself at home, Meggan's making a big
breakfast!"
Remy resists the urge to curl his lip at the teleporter's early morning cheer as he grabs
his bag from the luggage compartment and heads off the plane.
"T'anks."
* * *
The delicious smells wafting from the kitchen as he comes through the door and the fact
that they merely accentuate his more acute thirst for a cigarette combine to form
something disturbingly akin to aversion therapy, and he is grateful, not for the first
time, for the anti-nausea pills that Hank had prescribed for him since returning from
Antarctica.
Two minutes flat, and he is coming back down the long flight of stairs, having
successfully found his room and deposited his bags. He saunters into the kitchen, which is
now filled with X-Men and X-cousins. Grabbing an extra chair, he weighs the basic human
need for food against the vice for nicotine, and smiles ruefully as he turns down Meggan's
offer of a plate of scrambled eggs. The anticipation felt at unwrapping the fresh pack of
Reds is almost erotic, and he is breathing hard by the time he brings the cylinder to rest
between his lips. //And dey say ya can't come home again . .//
The lighter had made half the journey to his mouth when the Scottish-tinged screeching
began.
"Are ye daft, man? Ye cannae smoke in here! Whadda ye think this is- some sort o'
bleedin' lounge? I swear, you and tha' Wisdom are intent on drivin' me out o' my wits! Go!
Ye can smoke on the balcony, where *he* does! Ye bleedin' conspirators . . "
Moira MacTaggert continued mumbling inanely about people plotting to drive her insane
("as if I weren't almost out of the picture anyway") as Remy skidded dutifully
out of the kitchen and up the stairs in search of this heavenly sanctuary they called
"the balcony".
After following several dead ends, and more than a few embarrassing walk-ins, Remy was
thoroughly disgusted with himself, all non-smokers, brown-haired geneticists, and the
whole goddamned nation of Scotland, especially the island parts. He was just about ready
to say, fuck it, out o' sight, out o' mind; when a cool draft caught him in the middle of
a long corridor. He followed it to its source, and out onto a wide, stretching balcony.
He heaved a silent sigh of relief and placed the abandoned cigarette once more to his
lips. This time, his lighter made it all the way; and the first deep breath is like
discovering a new intimacy . .
Remy chuckled quietly at he processed this, his umpteenth comparison of smoking to sex in
as many days. This was really getting pathetic. //What's de matter, boy? 'S not like you
was gettin' any while you was wit' Rogue, right? So what's new?//
He saw this thought branching into roads he didn't want to go down right now, so he shut
it down, and concentrated instead on the lightening horizon. He could see off into the
ocean, covered with mists, and the sun poked out from behind with only enough light to
give the scene an eerie, still look. "No real sunrise," brooded Remy aloud,
"Jus' cold, wet, and grey."
"I don't know," came a voice from behind him, "There's a lot t'be said for
cold and grey."
Remy spun, and took in a dark-haired man who was holding a comrade pack of cigarettes. He
was propped lazily against the door frame in a disheveled suit, and his eyes were slow and
syrupy and indifferent, with a tiny gleam of humor. He looked like he'd just jacked off at
a shareholders' meeting. //Dere you go again, boy. Jus' shut up 'bout it.//
"Mebbe," Remy said, "But I done had twenty men's share o' cold and grey.
Give me a *real* sunrise."
The Jack-Off Man //Ya stupid son of a bitch, stop it!// moved around to lean against the
railing next to him, and opened the pack of an unknown brand. He expertly tapped the hind
of it, smoothly coaxing forth one slender cigarette. Placing it in his mouth, he began
patting down his pockets in search of a lighter.
Remy, in a swift fluid motion, produced his own and held it lit a few inches away from the
other man's face. Jack-Off Man bent down, giving it a few initial puffs, and then shot
Remy a nod of thanks. Remy turned his head back toward the horizon, but watched out of the
corner of his eye as the first deep breath was drawn, and Jack's lids fluttered shut as
that first cloud of pleasure and relief coiled through him.
//Discovering a new intimacy . . //
Remy shook himself, like a wet dog, and said, "Moira put down de iron curtain for
you, too?"
Jack made a face as he exhaled a long stream of smoke, "Na. That bloody lunatic cow
can fuck 'erself," here he gave Remy an ironic half-grin, "I come out here for
the sunrise."
Remy laughed at this, shrugging, and said, "One man's treasure . . "
Jack gave a small nod. "I suppose so," he extended his hand, "Name's Pete
Wisdom." Remy's eyebrows lifted in surprise. He had actually started to think of this
man as Jack.
Remy's look of confusion didn't go unnoticed. "S'at surprise you?"
Remy tried to hide his blush as he shook his head no. "No, I just . . I, uh, t'ought
Pete Wisdom was someone else." He took the offered hand, "Remy Lebeau."
The other man chuckled. "Christ, a Frenchman."
"A Cajun, act'lly," said Remy with a grin.
Ja- Pete waved his hand dismissively. "Doesn't matter. Ye've the same bleedin'
ancestors. Ya cheese-eatin' surrender monkeys."
Remy laughed outright at that. "Mebbe so," he said, "But we be makin' up
for dat wit' od'er . . attributes."
"Oh yeah, like what? Watering down beer and pissin' on the corner?"
Remy made a face of mock indignation. "Hey, now, dere was jus' dat once. Sacre mere,
an et'nicity make one or two mistakes, an' all o' a sudden dey got demselves a
reputation."
"Ah, don't complain. Y'might've been jipped, but you also got some unfair in the
other direction. You frogs get all the women."
"Ha! Now *dat* one we deserve."
"I'll bet. Don't see how you Frenchies could be doin' anything too special."
Now, some questions have been received by the brain so often that it doesn't even bother
to notify its owner, but simply falls to the default response. You know, when a casual
acquaintance asks you "How are you?", you immediately answer, "Fine. And
you?" Well, the same goes for one who's been asked all his life by beautiful women,
"So, is it true what they say about French men?" His brain falls to default. It
is this same automatic response system that makes Remy answer,
"Yeah? You curious?"
Both men looked up, startled.
Remy looked away hurriedly, blushing, and stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette.
"Look, I, uh, better get back down to de X-Men. It- it was nice talkin' to ya. See y'
later." He avoided looking back as he practically ran back inside and down the
stairs.
Still on the balcony, Pete lit his second cigarette and, with a knowing smile, turned back
to his sunrise.
* * *
After the congregation at breakfast, everyone dwindled off, partitioning off to do his or
her own thing. Kitty had carted Ororo and Logan into town, and Hank had locked himself in
the lab with Moira. Others had scattered in different directions to be by themselves;
whatever you could say about the skies, Scotland was a great place to brood. By noon, the
big house was largely abandoned.
Remy was one of the scattered. He'd left the house just after stuffing himself with
pancakes and some salty monstrosity called "haggis". He had come down the cliffs
to sit and watch the sky as it began to get some color. With the mists rising off of the
ocean to join with the clouds, a veil of light behind, it was almost pretty. Maybe Jack
had something with these skies . .
Remy laughed aloud as he realized he was still referring to Pete Wisdom as
"Jack". It fit him, somehow. "Pete" had a sound to it of something
wholesome, something come off the Mississippi, someone who got up at the crack of dawn and
headed down to the factory in order to support his ailing mother. Definitely not the man
from the balcony. And "Wisdom", that certainly didn't describe him either.
Not that Remy was particularly an authority on wisdom today. He was letting his hormones
control him like some damned teenager. He'd always been a little bit . . restless, but
ever since Antarctica, he couldn't get it out of his mind.
And the hard part was that it made sense.
Out there, on the ice, dying in the middle of a sea of spiteful white, Remy had *needed*.
Not many people ever experience true need, and Remy certainly hadn't, until then. He had
needed, and there had been no one there to give, to help. He had been alone, for the first
time in his life. Truly alone. That kinda thing makes an impression on a man, and even
when the icy hand lifts, the cold remains.
And it does. Remy looks out on the blurred ocean and shivers.
//Dese people come an' go, but dere presence isn't felt. Dey're ghosts, or maybe I'm de
ghost. I wanna feel dem. I want dem to feel me. To touch me. I want *him* to touch me.//
//Why, Gambit? Why dis one mean so much to you? 'Cause he jus' happened to be in de right
place at de right time? He just de one what happened to catch your eye today?//
//No.//
//It's his eyes. Dey got de same haunted look I see ev'ry time I look in de mirror. He's
seein' de ghosts. He's felt dat freeze. He *knows*.//
//An' he needs like I do.//
* * *
Anyone who had been impressed by the size of Meggan's breakfast was reduced to mute stares
at the sight of dinner. From table's end to end, piled high, was every shape, size, and
variation of sheep-themed entree imaginable. Hank proposed that the net weight of the food
was more than likely greater than that of the guests.
About half way through the meal, Ororo had somehow peered into Remy's mind and vocalized
the question that had been plaguing him all evening.
"Where is this Peter Wisdom? I have not seen him since we arrived. He *is* here, is
he not?"
All eyes shot towards Kitty Pride. She remained looking down at her plate for several
moments, then she looked up and said, "He likes to keep to himself."
"Because he knows better than to show his face, the coward," grumbled the large
Russian.
"Piotr," Kurt lightly scolded.
Once again, Ororo asked Remy's questions for him, "Why would he not . . 'show his
face'?"
"Did he hurt you, Kitty?" came a growl from Logan, whose eyes had narrowed to
slits.
"No, no," Kitty assured, "Nothing like that. I just- well, we decided that-
we, uh, need time." It sounded unconvincing even to Kitty's own ears.
"Oh, I am sorry, kitten. I did not know," said Storm.
"S'okay."
A few moments a respectful, uncomfortable silence were held before Hank relaunched into a
verbose description of his day.
* * *
After dinner, there was still a mound of food left; though, to their credit, Logan and
Colossus tackled it valiantly.
Remy excused himself early and slowly retraced his steps to the balcony. Reaching the
doorway, he looked out and saw Jack occupying the same spot he had been this morning,
except now looking out over the setting of the sun instead of the rising. The absurd idea
that he had been standing this way, in the same spot, all day occurred to Remy; but, no,
he had changed clothes at some point. Or at least the shirt; it's blue now, which catches
the darkness of his eyes, his hair. He looks damn good.
As Remy watched, Jack finished off the butt he was nursing and withdrew a new one. He
reached into his pocket, fishing out a matchbox, which turned out to be void of all but
its remaining stubs. Just as this morning, as though they were going through familiar
dance steps, Jack began to pat down his pockets in search of another light.
Not moving from the door, Remy snaps my lighter to life, and the sound causes Jack to
turn. He regards the intruder silently for a moment before walking over and bending down
to the lighter. In order to steady the flame, he holds onto the taller man's hand, and the
warmth of it strikes all the way down to cold, cold marrow.
Once again, the nod of thanks. But he doesn't move away. He merely props himself against
the opposite side of the doorway, and stands there, and lazily draws his cigarette to his
mouth and down again.
Remy retrieves his own pack, and his last cigarette, and joins Jack in the comforting
repetition. They stare out at the setting sun, and Remy finds it amazing how much more he
appreciates the beauty of it than he did this morning. Even the light from it seems . .
warmer.
But apparently Jack doesn't think so. Remy sees him shiver out of the corner of his eye.
"Cold?"
He turns then, looks at the other man, and slowly, deliberately, brings his cigarette to
rest between his lips, and takes a long, deep drag. He exhales a billowing chain of smoke,
never once taking his dark eyes off of the crimson in front of him.
"Frozen."
The heart catches in Remy's chest. Jack holds his eyes for one second more, and then turns
again toward the sunset. It's amazing how the orange light changes his face. He looks so
much younger than he had by the morning sun. He looks vulnerable. He looks scared.
"You may not think much o' these skies, Lebeau, but they're a whole hell of a lot
better then the ones we have where I come from. It's always cold there, and grey. There
may not be much sun here," he says as he turns to face Remy fullfront, with
heart-breakingly world weary eyes, "But it's more tha' what I'm used to."
They are still positioned on opposite sides of the door frame, and it takes Remy only one
step to cross the distance between them.
"If you t'ink dat's nice, den some o' de ones I seen would run you over." Remy
lifts his hand, almost to the other man's face, and hovers there. "Dey're beautiful,
and de warmth of 'em could keep you for a t'ousand years."
They stood this way, in this almost caress, for a few moments, and when Jack spoke his
voice was rough, husky. "A thousand years, eh? I don't think I'd need that long. I'd
settle for a day. A night."
Remy moves his hand down, still hovering a breath away, but he can feel the heat from
Jack's body, and he knows that Jack can feel the heat from his. Down, down; to his
shoulder, down his chest, to lite over his hip. Feather-light whispers. Mon Dieu, he needs
this.
He brings his hand up again, following the same trail, to linger in front of Jack's chest.
There, over his heart, Remy rests his hand; and the sudden heat of it sends an electric
current through the other man, as a small sounds escapes him.
Slowly, Remy moves his hand over to the strict line of buttons and, with his one hand,
undoes the top one. At this, Jack's eyes fly up to meet his, and they catch there. Remy
watches the dark pupils dilate as he moves to the next button, and the next.
When he has gone as far down as the tucked-in shirt will allow, he slips a hand in. At the
first skin-to-skin contact, Remy's eyes flutter closed and he lets out a small moan.
This is when he feels the first breath of hot air against his face. Without opening his
eyes, he leans into that warmth, and finds his mouth pressed against an equally needful
one.
The kiss begins slow, not hesitant, but savoring; the intimacy of unhurried tongue against
tongue.
//Like molasses//
When Remy's second hand, however, joins the first against the hotness of Jack's skin, and
they begin to roam, it transforms into a wholly new creature.
This is a completely different kind of need.
Remy reaches down and wrenches the shirt from the confines of the slacks, and the blue
shirt falls to the ground, leaving Jack's chest vulnerable to exploration. As his long,
tapered hands continue their graceful pilgrimage, his mouth moves southward, from Jack's
zealous mouth to his arching neck, where it plays for a little while before continuing its
journey downward.
//Careful, Remy, take it slow. You always much too fast wit' de men. Remember, dis is as
much for him as it is for you.//
Dipping low, Remy sweeps his mouth across Jack's chest, just the tip of his tongue leaving
the tiniest trail. Reaching his nipple, he draws it into his mouth, smiling against it as
Jack's back arches into the caress. Taking the tiny nub between his teeth, he calculates
just how much pressure it would take to get Jack to make some noise. A cry from above, and
Remy allows himself to add one more notch to his self-confidence as a lover.
By this time, Jack's hands have abandoned their stubborn posts at his side and migrated to
Remy's hair, alternately clutching and caressing. They follow the auburn trail when it
continues southward, until its owner rests on his knees.
Remy tongue tarries at Jack's navel for a moment. His hips buck forward almost
imperceptibly in a subconscious gesture of impatience. Remy smiles.
//He's ready.//
Beginning at the ankle, Remy runs his hand up the cloth-covered legs, stopping just before
the bulge; and, dropping his head, he runs his tongue along its outline. Above him, Jack
releases the great breath he must have been holding. Remy looks up and catches the eyes of
the other man.
Holding this gaze, Remy slowly lifts his hand to the zipper and draws it down. With little
effort, Remy coaxes the slacks off of his hips, and they fall to the ground, joining his
shirt. Leaning forward, he nuzzles Jack's erection through the tight briefs, and is
rewarded with a small, throaty noise. Remy shudders. Anymore noises like that, and he'll
have to seriously reconsider this whole self-control thing.
As it is, Remy wastes no time in coercing the briefs to the same fate as the slacks. Once
he has, the heat from Jack's body hits him like a tidal wave, and Remy revels in it,
taking Jack into his mouth in one graceful motion. Jack gasps, and his hands in Remy's
hair tighten.
Remy works in this place like a master, a Renaissance painter. He wets the member with
smooth velvet lips; then uses his tongue to hit all the pressure points. All the while,
the only coherent thought that Pete Wisdom, panting above him, is able to form is that he
will never again be able use the term "cocksucker" as an insult.
Egged on by the encouraging noises from above, Remy's hands soon join the foray. Moving to
massage the overheated sac with one hand, the other begins a steady pump at the base of
Jack's cock. The hands can only keep this up so long, however, before being forced to move
to Jack's hips, to somewhat control his sporadic bucking, which builds to a fever pitch,
and then ends with one final violent thrust before exploding into Remy's mouth.
They remain like they were for several moments, Jack catching his breath and Remy letting
him, before Remy pulls away slowly and stands up. He is completely clean except for the
Cheshire cat grin on his face. He pulls his lover to him in a deep kiss, and Jack's mouth
is flooded with his own taste.
Remy's mouth is gentle and soothing, but it cannot hide the pressing need there. The
assimilation of this leads further to the realization that Remy is still fully clothed.
Shaking off his sated lethargy, Jack sets to work rectifying this.
First the shirt, button-up, thankfully, which they kick into the steadily growing clothes
pile. They linger here a while, long enough for Remy to become rock-hard and to get a
marked roughness to his voice, before moving on to the old, beat up jeans. These also
stayed for a while, with much through-denim teasing and husky-voiced promises. By the time
they reach the blue bikini briefs, at which Jack smirks and Remy shrugs and laughs, Jack
has been restored to a state of sufficient hardness.
The wind from the sea has picked up, bringing a cold breeze, but the two men feel it not.
The warmth of each sustains the other, and the heat continues to mount. The kiss breaks
only as Jack begins to drop to his knees, but is stopped by Remy.
"No, cher." Another deep kiss. "We gonna do dis, we do it complete."
At this, Jack's eyes darken impossibly further. "Whatever you say . . cher."
With a small chuckle, Remy leans in for another kiss, this one knowing and lazy and sweet.
Their hands come together, meeting and wrapping, a mating within itself; and they are
pulled close, solid chest against solid chest, urgent hips against urgent hips.
Jack breaks away from the kiss first, moving his mouth to his lover's scratchy chin to his
sensitive neck, where his work earns him a soft moan, to his strong shoulder. He continues
his path to Remy's back, tonguing the edge of his shoulder blade, and working his way up
to the nape of his neck, biting playfully. Still maintaining a mouthhold on his neck, Jack
wraps his hands around Remy's hips, pulling him against him, letting his hardness be felt.
Remy does nothing to suppress the groan.
This out of him, Jack's hand slips over the elegant hip to take hold of his partner's
ever-rising cock, milking out another moan, while the other hand dips along his back,
traversing the valley along his spine. The hand continues down, past the small of his
back, to the gentle slope of his ass, and down still.
Remy lets out a hoarse cry and gives a small buck at the first slight pressure against his
perineum. With a soft laugh, Jack settles him with a series of small kisses along his
shoulder, and presses on, until he passes the tight ring of muscle. Now Remy is the one
panting; and he throws his head back to rest on his lover's shoulder. Jack takes this
opportunity to run his teeth along the sensitive neck.
Jack begins to move his finger where it lies, back and forth, in time to the pumping of
his other hand, still resting on the other man's cock. Encouraged by the breathy moans of
his partner, Jack stretches him, giving another slow, firm finger, and increases their
tempo.
A rhythm begins to build and, in those spaces between the choked "mon dieu"s and
the blinding flashes of pleasure, Remy's fevered mind slips from one metaphor to another.
It settles finally on the scene in front of him, the suddenly breathtakingly beautiful
sunset over a dusty sea. This orange ball of fire has become huge, it fills up the sky.
It's coming toward them. They're going to die, but, oh, it's so warm. Maybe that's what
death is like, this final consumption by fire. The dream of dying fills Remy's mind and he
revels in it, dying with this man's hands on him, in him; and it's so warm . . .
And then Remy is coming. His body tenses and his hands shoot out to grasp his lover's
arms, one in front and one behind, doing nothing to prepare him for the quakes that claim
his body. Jack meets Remy's mouth in a rough kiss as he continues to pump, milking him
dry.
When the man in his arms goes slack, Jack stops his work on the exhausted member, but
continues the rhythmic motion of his other hand. He brings his hand, now covered with the
milky white substance, into the fray, and inserts a third finger, this time covering the
opening with sufficient lubrication.
Attempting to accommodate his partner, Remy bends, slightly, at the waist; and the sight
of this, a beautiful, sweaty man bending for him, makes Jack's already straining erection
harden to impossible levels.
"Jesus . . . Remy . ."
"Do it, Jack. I'm ready. Sacre Mere, 'm ready."
Needing no more encouragement, Jack guides himself to the waiting opening and plunges in
to the hilt, to the tune of Remy's sharp keen of lust. With his own cry, Jack's eyes screw
closed as he looses himself in the incredible velvet warmth. So warm . .
After a moment, the thrusts begin slowly, each wrenching a line of unintelligible French
from Remy. The momentum builds swiftly, however, and he is forced to cling to the balcony
railing for support as his lover crashes into him, over and over.
The pleasure grows and ricochets, and the furnace between them brings the metaphors
screaming back, but nothing, nothing, suits the heat of the man inside him. The delicious,
mind-twisting friction, the strong hands holding his hips in place, the incredible sounds,
like choked cursing, coming from behind him. No sunset or sunrise could be compared to
this; and not the heat of a thousand deserts nor the scalding tip of any embered cigarette
could thaw him like this.
//Ah.//
//Dieu.//
And strong arms wrap around him as the incredible man behind him finds release, and the
screaming of his name brings him to the edge and over. The world crashes down on him in
waves, and there is an eternity
before
he finds himself draped in a wrinkled blue dress shirt with his head resting against the
warmth of his lover's thigh. He is laying on his back, the pile of discarded clothes
cushioning him from the cold flooring, as Jack sits, propped against the railing, smoking
and watching him silently.
Remy sits up and moves against Jack until he is once again sufficiently nestled into the
warmth. Jack tenses at first, apparently having already distanced himself in the few short
minutes of Remy's unconsciousness, but gives easily, moving to accommodate him. He
hesitates for a moment, and then offers Remy the greatest offering he can think of, a drag
off his cigarette. Remy accepts the simple gesture with gratitude, greedily taking the
smoke into his lungs.
"T'anks, cher."
Jack gives a quiet chuckle, making his chest shake slightly beneath Remy's head.
"Just answer me this."
"Yeah?"
"What're you gonna tell yer friends?"
"I don' know. Same t'ing you're gon' tell yours?"
"And that is . . ?"
"De truth. Dat I was watchin' th' sunrise."
"But the sun hasn't risen yet."
"Not yet, mon cher, but I'm not goin' anywhere. We got all night."
Another soft laugh, and Jack runs an affectionate hand through Remy's hair.
"Okay, fair enough. One more question."
"Yeah?"
"Who is Jack?"
~END~