multiple_mania (multiple_mania) wrote in 12monthsfuture,
multiple_mania
multiple_mania
12monthsfuture

Date: Winter 2008
Characters: Jamie Madrox
Summary: Some times, it's easiest to keep his own company. Others....it makes it all the more complicated. {warning: sex}
Status: Complete

At first, it had been for the sake of appearances.

Candice had told him not to let himself be lonely and truth be told, he couldn’t stand the look on her face that she never quite managed to hide. So he’d started making them. Would have them there for when she came over, to show that he wasn’t quite as broken as she thought. As he was. To keep her from worrying about him, because even that small gesture brought shame.

Until one evening after a particularly grueling mission, when he came home like every other night to a dark, silent apartment and he started to think he’d go insane from the quiet. He’d clapped his hands, the sound harsh and jolting in the stillness, and like that, he had another person to fill the space.

On some levels, it felt like a betrayal, to take any sort of comfort. But the rational part of him, at least what was left of it, knew he wouldn’t be able to stand the silence much longer without swallowing his gun. And so he allowed himself to have their company. It wasn’t asking too much if he was asking it of himself.

At first it was only for an hour or two. Sometimes he’d make just one, sometimes many, until the apartment was crowded with bodies, eating, drinking, sleeping, talking, training. Until one of him laughed. It’d felt like a condemnation and he’d taken them back as quickly as he could, curling up on the couch and swallowing back tears that wouldn’t fall.

But he didn’t wait long before bringing them back.

It was a kind of narcissism he’d long resigned himself to, enjoying their presence. Having someone there who’d know the jokes that would make him smile, however fleetingly. Who would brush familiar fingers through his hair and share his sadness. And so a few hours began to stretch into days, sometimes weeks.

One of him, the one who would trace circles absently in his palm and who could manage to cook without setting the alarm off, he kept longer than the rest. The one who he’d watched dozing on the couch and asked quietly to come to his room, so he could sleep with warm arms around him again. Just for a little while.

The one who’d touched his face, so softly, thumb tracing his cheekbone, fingertips brushing his throat. The one who’d promised to take care of him and had made him smile, leaning down to brush his lips over his jaw. Who’d taken that same mouth lower, breath ghosting over the hollow of his stomach, the sharp relief of his ribs. He’d laid there, breath caught in his throat as his eyes traced whorls on the ceiling plaster, fingers tightening in cotton sheets.

A protest stuck in his chest, unwilling to break free as his mirror image knelt between his legs.

He’d borne the marks on his hips the next morning, on his throat and inner thighs, shamed and silent under the scalding spray. Legs spreading as his self slipped a hand between them, teeth biting his lip until he broke the skin. Soft, needful noises buried themselves into the tile, sticking there in unspoken, unforgiving reminder, even as he found release by his own hand 

He’d beat his fists against a thin chest until he was pressed into the mattress, a mouth muffling his sobs. Three damning words and he was sick, so sick for doing this, for allowing himself this relief. They’d hate him if they knew and they’d have every right to, but he needed it more than words could describe.

Needed to feel love even if it was at his own making.

 

  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic
  • 0 comments