|XMMFicathon Fic: Gitania, Kurt/Logan NC-17
||[Jul. 18th, 2005|06:50 pm]
Rating: NC-17 (slash).
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Kurt seeks out a rough redemption.
Written for: excoriate
Character/pairing request: Kurt/Logan
Specific Request: Slash preferred, but friendship fic is fine. I'd love some sort of religious angst on Kurt's part, but it isn't strictly necessary.
Warnings (if any): OMC, make-up on boys, rimming, outdoor sex, violence, religious angst.
Beta: lonelywalker and ion_bond
Kurt mumbled a quick prayer to St. Sarah, and to St. Michael, too, for good measure. He promised novenas, fasts, anything, if he got out of there alive. Still, the saints knew it was Kurt's game, his rules. If it killed him -- the choice would be his.
"You hear me?" A flat-faced kid said as he yanked Kurt up by the collar. He smacked Kurt hard across the mouth. Kurt's lip, already swollen, split open like over-ripe fruit. "You're a demon. An aberration of God."
"You have no idea," Kurt smiled, flashing white pointed teeth smeared with blood. His head throbbed. They had slammed him to the ground and his forehead had cracked against the concrete with a nauseating thud. He was dizzy and disoriented; he wasn't sure he could teleport now even if he wanted to.
They had grabbed him less than two hours after he had left Xavier's -- right outside the church. Three of them, teenagers, but big with shaved heads and nothing better to do on a Wednesday evening than beat up freaks. They had dragged him to a nearby playground, knocked him down on the deserted basketball court, and started their work. The playground was edged with forest. Kurt stared into the trees. It was nice –- the tears in his eyes made the leaves sparkle. He loved the woods.
France, fifteen years earlier. There was a smell of woods and sea in the hot summer air. Kurt followed the sorrowful sound of guitars and violins to the square in front of the church. It was early in the evening but a large crowd had already gathered. No one gave Kurt a second look -- everybody knew him and the gadje -- the tourists -- probably just assumed he was wearing some Gypsy carnival costume. It had been three days since they had arrived in Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer from Munich. Three days in the midst of the family, savoring the meals, the fights, the reconciliations, the gossip and scheming, the catechisms and the heartfelt conversions that always followed.
But that night he wanted to get away from the caravans. He wanted to join the festivities at the old fortified sanctuary which squatted, bristling with candles, on a small hill in the center of the village. Half a dozen large tapers, some as tall as Kurt, framed the doorway, listing in their iron stands. The warm yellow dance of their light was reflected in the sky, enflamed orange by the setting sun. The people in the crowd, especially the old women, prayed fervently, pressing their hands towards the sky, tea lights balanced in their palms; "look at me, look at me" they seemed to say with every gesture.
The church was packed; Kurt knew there was no way he would be able get in. He listened to the babies screaming as they received their baptisms, their angry cries ringing out over the sounds of mothers scolding and cajoling. His earliest memory was being presented to her in that same church; gripping a thin white candle with his fist and another with his tail. Barely five, he had been so shy, worried that he'd frighten her. He had prayed that with her black skin she'd understand the plight of the peculiar. His mother shoved him forward and he tripped closer toward her -- the saint, their saint. He peeked back over his shoulder at his relatives who gestured at him impatiently. Finally, he turned to glimpse up nervously at the patroness of the gypsies; her brown eyes seemed so soft and kind, they had dissolved his fear. He touched the hem of her gold robe and whispered, "St. Sarah-la-Kali pray for me".
One of the thugs landed a hard kick in Kurt's stomach, bringing him abruptly back into the present. He tried to stand which sent everything spinning. The laughing teenagers tilted, their leering faces seemed surreal and sinister. He had to end this one way or another. He wasn't even sure what he was waiting for. Certainly not the roar of a motorcycle engine. Or Logan busting in, blades out, like something from a Steve McQueen movie.
My hero, thought Kurt, and he laughed bitterly. He sat with his back against the rusty basketball pole, his laughter dissolving into choking from the exhaust fumes. A little blood bubbled from his mouth. He pulled a Kleenex from his pocket and pressed it against his lip and watched while Logan scared the bullies away.
The whole thing seemed ridiculous to Kurt but he had to admit Logan with his broad shoulders and long loose arms was a pleasure to watch in movement, power pulsing off him, pure violent grace. Logan seemed to be making some effort not to kill anyone. The fight was a strangely quiet business, little slapping sounds, thuds, groans, grunts. Even three to one, the kids didn't stand a chance and they knew it. One boy turned and ran into the woods before Logan could even get off the bike. The big, flat-faced kid took a swing but Logan blocked it and slashed the thug's forearm with a flick of his wrist. The boy squeezed the gash on his arm and stared dumbly at Logan. Logan spun around to face the last of the three teens who was throwing punches at Logan's head. The teen landed a lucky punch to Lagan's chin. Logan retracted the blades and punched the kid in the chest. The kid fell flat and lay there panting and rasping. Logan stood over him.
"Go home," Logan said, his voice calm. He stood there coolly as the boys ran off. But when he looked up, Kurt saw the ferocity in his eyes, dark and fierce. Drunk on the fight.
That summer evening in southern France. Kurt scanned the crowd; his eyes locked on a tall lanky boy wearing jeans and a denim jacket. The boy must be proud of the jacket, Kurt thought, to wear it in the heat. The boy's shirt in the fading light looked like a bright red slash across his chest. He was smiling hugely and dancing wildly, his eyes mad. Glue, Kurt assumed, or more charitably, just the thrill of the crowd, the music, and the candles -- the dji. Kurt also felt its effect. He did a back flip to catch the boy's eye. There were gasps and applause from the people around him but he had only wanted one person to notice. He had glanced up and found the boy looking right at him and grinning the way Kurt had hoped -- lasciviously.
Michel was his name and like most of the gypsies in Southern France he was brown and blond with athletic limbs and long hair that dreaded up in the back. His smile was addictive and made Kurt so dizzy that when the boy took his hand and led him down to the beach Kurt didn't said no. Michel was camping there with his family. Together Kurt and he drank wine from plastic water bottles in a cramped camper while Michel's sisters slept around them.
"Wait," Michel said quietly, twisting around to dig through his sisters bags. He turned back and leaned toward Kurt, cupping Kurt's chin with one hand and holding an eyeliner pencil with the other. Kurt pulled away. "Don't worry," whispered Michel. "This is Gitania, the land of the gypsies. Anything goes."
He lined Kurt's eyes with black and used a dark red lipstick on his lips. He snatched a handful of heavy beaded scarves from an open suitcase. "Come on," he said, grabbing Kurt's hand. He led him to the water's edge. The sound of the ocean rushing in and out filled Kurt's ears and merged with the sound of his own pounding heartbeat. While Michel tied a scarf around Kurt's waist like a skirt, Kurt peeled off his shirt and nervously dug little holes in the sand with his tail. Michel draped a scarf over Kurt's head like a veil, stepped back, and gasped, his breath heavy, hot, and smelling of wine, "Kali!" Kurt's skin was black there in the dark.
They kissed, the water soaking their feet, glass beads pressing into Kurt's bare skin. Kurt could hear the shouts of the old men playing boule just a few yards away. Their court was lit up like a carnival, the brightness of the floodlights so close made it seem all the blacker where Kurt and Michel stood. Michel freed his cock and stroked himself. Kurt's lined eyes widened as he watched the other boy.
"Go down," Michel moaned, "On your knees, understand? It's a kind of praying."
"But if I'm St. Sarah, you should pray to me," said Kurt, his voice was breathy, it sounded almost reverent. Michel opened his eyes and nodded, his shaggy blond hair falling into his face.
"Ok, but you after, all right."
The next day Kurt woke up with a splitting headache, the blinding sunshine making him squint and groan, the heavy smell of incense making his stomach churn. He had rushed to the church to follow the procession from inside the dusty undercroft down to the beach. Every year on the her saint's day, the Roma carried St. Sarah-la-Kali's statue to the sea to remind her of her itinerant past and ask her grace for her fellow travelers. The serene little statue looked like an overdressed child's doll wrapped in gold robes of silk and satin. Kurt blushed purple remembering the feel of satin scarves rubbing his skin. Kurt walked with the crowd, each step sinking and slipping in the sand. All around him, he heard the familiar shouts -- some of supplication, some of advice to straighten out the platform so Kali wouldn't fall -- along with the constant singing and clapping. But all Kurt could think about was Michel and the shape and skill of his mouth. And it didn't help that Michel had stood not twenty paces away, surrounded by his endless supply of sisters, smirking and casting glances at Kurt, his body pressed tight in the throng.
Kurt had looked up at Kali; her brown glass eyes glittered. Kurt felt bodies pressed all around him. Skin and sweat and sweet Kali staring down, but now her eyes were hard -- accusing. It buzzed through him suddenly, exhilarating and sickening. It ran from his gut through his groin to the tip of his tail. The shame.
Now, Salem Center, Westchester County, an ocean away from his old life. More than an ocean away -- a great deal more stood between now and then. Life had just been happening to him lately -- completely out of his control. One minute poised to leap from a trapeze, every move planned and perfect. And the next, on the verge of stabbing a stranger. It had just gotten more confusing from there. Now he lived surrounded by strangers. And there was Logan, another stranger.
"How'd you find me?" said Kurt.
"How d'ya think?"
"He told me you were at the church," said Logan, extending a hand to Kurt. "I tracked you down from there."
Kurt took the proffered hand and allowed himself to be pulled up until he was standing pressed very close to Logan. Kurt wondered about the professor -- if he really knew what was in Kurt's mind he must be a sadist of sorts -- to send to fetch Kurt the one person who kept driving him away.
"I have to go to confession." Kurt said, letting go of Logan's hand.
"Just go with someone," Logan didn't move. He stayed close, practically pinning Kurt in place with his presence. "A bunch of the kids go every Friday with Summers."
"I prefer to go alone," said Kurt. He noticed tiny bloodstains on Logan's white shirt. Little splatters of blood -- not Logan's, someone else's.
"Your funeral, Bub." Logan patted Kurt lightly along the ribs.
"Nothing's broken," sighed Kurt. He pushed Logan's hands away. He was sore all over, especially his sides, but he knew the bones were fine.
"You sure?" said Logan.
"Yes, nothing broken there at all. Nothing you can fix," Kurt said. Kurt studied Logan's face. Logan looked neither angry nor overly concerned, just annoyed. "I'm sorry I caused you trouble. I just wanted to be alone." Kurt added quickly. Kurt's whole life had been congested and observed. Everywhere crowds watched his every move, held their breath with every leap he made, gasped when he slipped and sighed when he landed safely on the ground. He loved it, loved showing off, loved the attention. Alone was new.
Logan pressed his thumb hard against Kurt's lip until Kurt winced. "Why didn't you 'port? There's no way they should have been able to touch you."
"Absolution," said Kurt, smiling.
"You're one fucked up elf," said Logan, moving his hand from Kurt's lip to touch his cheek.
The hairs stood up on the back of Kurt's neck. His stomach did flips which always reminded him of his adolescent technique for picking up boys. "Not fucked up enough," he said, stretching to press his swollen lips against Logan's. Kurt closed his eyes and saw Logan fighting, arms outstretched, blades gleaming. A gesture like an embrace. He opened his eyes and saw Logan staring, kissing him back with eyes open. Logan pulled out of the kiss and rubbed a hand nervously across his mouth.
"You want that? Here?" said Logan.
"Sure. No one's around, obviously," said Kurt, his voice sounded strained. He tried to relax, to act coy, snaking his tail around Logan's calves. "Unless you think the professor can see."
"It doesn't work that way -- I don't think," said Logan, looking around warily while Kurt's large hands deftly unbuckled his belt. Kurt reached inside Logan's jeans, stroking him, finding him not quite hard but heavy. Kurt licked Logan's neck and Logan started pulling off both their shirts. Skin was important to him. Skin touching skin. It was late summer, warm enough. Kurt's heart raced when he felt his bare chest flat against Logan's. Kurt's skin was sticky with sweat and gritty from rolling on the ground. Logan's was cool and slightly sweaty too.
Logan yielded his body to Kurt easily enough -- every time. But nothing else, even a casual conversation was impossible to get out of him. They'd fucked half a dozen times, and still Logan was a stranger to Kurt. But that was all right, Kurt preferred sleeping with strangers. It was easy and selfish. Simple.
"What do you want?" said Logan, untangling himself from Kurt.
"Nothing. Skin," moaned Kurt. "I don't know." Logan was beautiful, tall and heart-breaking. He just wanted him -- the Wolverine, devoted, dangerous. Nevertheless, it felt so contrived every time. Wrong.
Logan grabbed Kurt's hand and led him off the blacktop over to the grass. "Lie down," he said removing the rest of his clothes. Kurt lay on his back. Logan stood over him naked, the sky spread blue and cloudless behind him. His cock was now quite hard. The sun was low in the sky, almost hidden by the trees, but it wasn't setting. It was still bright. Kurt turned his head sideways so he could look into the woods. Logan kneeled and grabbed Kurt's wrists, stretched his arms out and pinned Kurt to the ground.
"What do you want?" Kurt asked Logan without looking at him.
"I don't know what I am. How can I know what I want?" Logan released Kurt's wrists and moved to pull Kurt's pants down his narrow hips.
"You don't know who you are, who your people are." Kurt kicked and twisted to free his legs and tail. "You don't owe anyone anything. Nothing's expected of you. You're free."
"It still sucks," said Logan trailing, his hands all over Kurt's naked body. Savoring him. Kurt was lying in the grass, itchy, grimy, sore, but thrilling at the pleasure of Logan's rough hands.
"Yeah, I guess so," Kurt sighed and closed his eyes. The sunlight slanting through the trees left linear ghosts on the back of his eyelids. He remembered the candles casting their flickering orange patterns on the white-washed walls at confession that afternoon. The priest there had whispered his soft absolutions. "This is your home; the Church is your home." Kurt preferred the skinheads with their less conflicted justice. "Die, freak." A simpler faith.
"It's you who makes this choice," the priest had said. "It's you who chooses not to be forgiven,"
Logan followed his hands with his tongue. He licked a path down Kurt's stomach following the scars, bypassed the cock, mouthed the balls quickly and then pushed Kurt's legs up and apart and plunged his tongue deep into Kurt's salty sour opening.
Kurt buried his hands in Logan's thick curly hair, tugging on the tufts. Everything slipped away like sand beneath his feet. Everything he knew before made no sense now. This was a way to forget. To forget how the saints that used to breathe, used to gaze at him with glittering warm eyes were now all cold and dead.
Logan slid up Kurt's body. He pressed his cock against Kurt and waited there, paused on the threshold. Kurt was silent and still, his eyes huge and wide. He waited while Logan rocked in and started fucking. Kurt relaxed into the wrong-feeling rightness and did his best to forget everything prior to that moment.
He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to know who he was. What'd he'd been -- what he'd lost. He didn't need to be reminded where he came from, what he owed people, what was expected of him. He wanted this mindlessness. This pounding, singeing delight which surged through him, arching his back, curling his tail. He grunted and twisted his hips. His own cock was grinding against Logan's stomach, slipping and sliding in time with Logan's thrusting. He felt his orgasm mounting. Two, three thrusts more – and there it was the moment without breath, without thought. And after, always the mingled feeling of bliss and guilt. He felt like Sarah-la-Kali pulling the nails from Christ's feet. It made her a saint but also a thief.
How could he expiate the sin but keep its scars? How could he repent when even the guilt was its own pleasure? Half the fun, he thought bitterly, as Logan continued pounding. "I love my sins," he whispered. How could he feel sorry?
"You love yourself as a sinner," the priest had told him. "You love the loneliness."
"Teach me how to not want."
"It's not the wanting," the priest had called after Kurt when he slammed out of the confessional and went to find his absolution in the streets.
Logan grunted and shivered and came. Stopping suddenly, he collapsed on top of Kurt, who enjoyed the wet, sticky weight pressed against his chest. After a few minutes, Logan rolled over and lay on his back. The sky was orange now and the light was dimming all around them. To Kurt it seemed as if the darkness from the forest had started seeping out and was overwhelming everything around it.
They dressed in silence, both glowing in surreal late summer sunset. Bird songs sounded loud in the awkward quiet.
"Come on," said Logan gesturing to the motorcycle.
"Where?" said Kurt, following.
Kurt thought about his childhood in Hamburg, stomping around the Karolinen railroad tracks in nothing but a dirty tee shirt, his tail whipping – snap -- through the smog. He thought about the Munich crowds that gasped and held their breath every time he leapt from the edge of a platform a hundred feet up. He thought of late May by the sea, and of Sarah-la-Kali and her cold eyes.