[RPF] cold brick windows (James/Michael)
Title: Cold Brick Windows
Author: restlesspuppy
Pairing: Mcfassy, James/Erik
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slight dub-con, RPF, character bleed issues and angst! D: Somewhat AU in that James is unmarried.
Word count: 4, 638~
Summary: When Michael becomes far too invested in his role as Erik Lehnsherr, James begins to worry.
-
“It’s not just friendship.”
Michael says it matter-of-factly, like he’s discussed it before and James knows he probably has. Matthew was adamant enough about their on-screen chemistry, and any doubts he might’ve had about whatever they could call Charles and Erik had faded into insignificance long ago. Probably around he same time he’d met Michael.
“There’s too much there. It couldn’t be.”
“What do you think it is then?” James asks him, drawing his fingertip over the rim of his short martini glass.
Michael shifts in quiet thought, but James doesn’t think he’s really thinking at all. They’re sitting in his hotel room, on break for the time being while Jen and Nick shot their scenes together in the makeshift CIA complex. Michael-mixed martinis in hand, they had perched precariously on the stools by the mini-bar.
The room itself is rather dull looking, brown and white and cream and bland. With paintings of lighthouses made to look unique when James knew identical ones hung in his room adorning the faded walls. The couch is leather, and James hates leather couches. Opted immediately for the low barstools and hidden his chagrin when Michael had joined him without so much as a blink.
“Love.” Michael says, and James looks up.
“You think they were in love?”
“‘corse. What was that quote I read again…? Ah…” He frowns again, lowers his glass to the glossy bartop and drags a hand through his hair, “‘Bookends of the same soul’, that’s it!”
“You’re shitting me.” James grins up at him.
“Scout’s honor. It was in Magneto’s bible.” He places a hand over his heart as he says it, grinning widely, and James just chuckles. ‘Bibles’ as Kevin had called them, everything they’d needed to know about their characters for the movie, and James didn’t remember reading that one in Charles’ pile.
“They are in love.” Michael corrects, a moment later. His smile fading. “It makes a lot of sense. Erik’s been alone all this time, he’s figured he was the only one with a mutation and then for him to meet someone like Charles…”
“Someone just like him.” James nods.
“It fits in there. It works.” Michael lifts his martini, his gaze flickers - something odd glints in his sea-green eyes that James almost misses, “I’ll play it in if you will.”
So, they do.
-
Matthew doesn’t have a word of objection to offer, lets them bleed through into their roles and watches as they film their scene over a set game of chess with faint pencil-markings on the checkered board, telling them what to move and when.
James teeters on edge, feeling oddly exposed under their dim lighting with the electronic fire at his side and Michael’s heavy gaze fixed upon him. He’s memorized his script ten times over and yet he feels as if it’s escaping him because the minute Matthew calls for ‘Action’ Michael disappears. The kind edges to his eyes vanish and the faint promise of wrinkles (from smiles) evaporate completely, his shoulders stiffen, his brow sets firm and deliberate and he clenches his jaw each time James shifts.
His eyes look dark and his voice falls several octaves. He doesn’t laugh when James stumbles over his lines the first few takes, he grits his teeth and shifts and fixes his eyes on the chess board between them, it’s worrying. When this started, he had laughed, they had joked and talked and it had been effortless. But here - here it was like he was beside someone completely different. A darker, unkind version of Michael that James didn’t think he would particularly like.
The minute the scene is done, Michael leaves. He stands and makes a swift exit without glancing back and James thinks he might chew through his bottom lip - has he done something to irritate the older man? He sincerely hopes not - runs through what he could have done in those brief hours they’d spent apart last night and aside from borrowing Michael’s shaving cream (which he had returned) he comes up empty handed.
Instead, he sends a short text a half hour later, worrying himself grey over what he hopes is nothing.
‘Need to take the edge off? Martini’s at yours?’
His reply comes no more than a minute later.
‘Sure. Come in 5.’
-
Michael seems back to normal.
They laugh and joke and James confesses his dislike for leather couches and trousers and basically anything leather at all because it’s just an odd statement to make, aesthetically speaking.
“Sitting on dead animals bugs you?”
“Not as much as wearing them does.”
Michael guffaws at him, points out his leather shoes and James promptly slips them off. They’re drunk. It isn’t hard considering the mini bar is utterly overstocked (James thinks it must have been topped up overnight), and he doesn’t think about how much he’s swallowed down until the room feels too warm and a flush creeps up his neck.
“Reckon we did well today.” Michael says.
“Yeah.” James blindly agrees, half aware of what Michael is saying. “Everything was alright?” He swallows, looks up at Michael.
“Yeah, yeah. I just… y’know.” He waves a dismissive hand, “Clicked.”
“Clicked.” James repeats, eyes slipping somewhat out of focus.
“Yeah.” Michael drains his glass in a swift swing, “I feel like… I dunno. Like… Erik took over.” Then he grins, chuckles, “Fuck. That sounds insane.”
“No.” James smiles weakly, “It makes sense.”
-
He studies his reflection for a long time.
He looks like Charles. Like Matthew had said he wanted Charles to look. Like the sketches of Charles Xavier had presented, clean-cut with a mischievous glint to his too-blue eyes. But he didn’t feel like Charles. That glint was missing. All that stared back at him was a scholar in a cardigan.
He presses his fingers through his hair and breathes a sigh through his nose, fogging up the glass as he straightens his collar. He’s nervous now. Worried he’ll lose Michael over like he had last time. Irrational - most likely. He knows.
But if that’s so true, why is it eating him up on the inside?
-
His fears are confirmed almost immediately. Michael doesn’t speak with him on set, doesn’t say a word that isn’t scripted and just watches James in this predatory way that makes him almost wish he was a telepath so he might peek into those thoughts, and see if that same odd darkness that has swallowed his Michael up has claimed his thoughts too.
Yes, his Michael. James wants him back. It makes their scenes feel hollow and empty when he remembers the tense silence that had followed each take.
He stumbles over another line and Matthew calls a brief time out to adjust the lighting, the sun is beginning to set and it’s glaring into the camera (apparently) and Michael runs his fingers through his hair, flexes the muscles in his jaw and watches James from the corner of his eye.
“Michael,” James says, softly, “are you alright?”
Michael doesn’t look at him, presses his palms together and glances up at the sun.
“Hey.” James steps forwards, reaches out and takes the thick material of his dark turtleneck between his thumb and forefinger and only then does Michael look at him, at where his hand perches, his heavy gaze lifts to meet James’ a moment later, and that’s not Michael. That isn’t Michael staring down at him.
It’s Erik.
-
It begins to worry him when they drop past the hotel’s bar for icy beers together and Michael still feels out of reach - detached from him. James wants to call him back, makes idle conversation, dropping the older man’s name in more than he should merely to see a flicker of him in those hooded eyes but none comes. Michael remains distant and dismissive.
Though he tugs one of the high-stools out for James when he goes to sit, he orders for James, and he pays for James. He barely says two words at all, and drinks two tall glasses of beer, eyeing the shiny metal tap, wordlessly.
“Michael, we’re off set.” James says, after the agonizing silence becomes too much. “You don’t… don’t need to do this anymore.”
He sees Michael swallow dryly.
“I know what it’s like. Trust me.” James continues, “H-Had the same problem with Robbie when we did ‘Atonement’ to be honest with you.” He tries to grin, but Michael’s lips remain set in a firm line. He remembers it well, the rage that had swallowed him whole from the inside, the burning need for Keira’s smiles that had almost churned and spat him out a charred remnant of himself, but he’d been alright. With some roles, things did get difficult.
“You’re not Erik.” He says, shifting to face Michael in his stool, “You’re Michael bloody Fassbender and you’re honestly fucking scaring me.” He reaches out again, and touches the older man lightly on the shoulder and if his words hadn’t pulled Michael’s attention, then his touch did.
He shifts under James’ touch, turns his head to look at him, breath ghosting over James’ fingers. There’s another tense moment that makes James feel like a false acrobat, balancing on a thin rope but Michael lets out a short gust of air, and his shoulders relax and so does James.
He’s back. He thinks. Thank christ.
“I’m sorry.” He says, after a moment, rubs a hand over his lips and draws in a deep breath, but offers nothing more.
“It’s alright.” James moves his hand back to the bar, “First role you’ve had like this, isn’t it?” He asks, lifting the remainder of his beer to his lips and it’s flat and sour-tasting but his tongue feels dry.
“Yeah.” Michael says, shortly.
“Don’t blame you.” James adds. Shifting, relaxing.
“Too much to work with,” Michael murmurs. “and you…” he trails off, swallows again.
James casts him a sidelong glance, confused. “and I what.. ?”
Michael shakes his head, “Made it feel too real.”
James blinks, and then comprehension dawns on him. Character bleeding can be difficult, sometimes permanently damaging. When thoughts and emotions you know aren’t typically your own begin to settle and take residence inside your mind in a manner that makes them their own portion of your subconscious. Such as what had occurred with Robbie. He had become such a prevalent part in James that he still struggled with parting from those he loved. From his family, his closest of friends. Even though he knew it was nothing to fear, it did little to change anything.
He wonders what that must be like, for Michael. How much could be bleeding through, how much could be dwelling and growing and pulsing inside him with such a strong personality, like Erik Lehnsherr… and it’s unsettling. It’s… worrying. But he refuses to allow his concern to show. This is Michael. With talent that James honestly envies. He says nothing for a moment longer, before he really begins to understand.
“Did you… were you…?” he tries not to grin, tries to take it lightly, “You were playing out the love card, weren’t you?”
“It’s not funny.” Michael says, shortly.
“You even…” He lets out a single, breathless laugh, “Do you still…?”
“Do I what?”
James shifts on his stool, bites his lower lip like a schoolboy with a secret. “...are you still in love with me?”
Michael’s shoulders sink, and he keeps his gaze fixed upon the bar, drawing his fingertips along the grains of the wood, as if he’s trying to curl in on his own quiet shame. “It’s nothing. It’ll go away eventually.”
James blinks at him, eyes widening, he says nothing for a moment. Opens and closes his mouth several times, chews on his bottom lip and settles for; “I see.” Though his smile fades immediately once he sees how serious Michael is, and he goes to stand, “Maybe… I should go.”
“No.” Michael says, immediately, looking up again, “Stay. Have a drink.” He pushes his half-filled glass of scotch over to James and calls the bartender over for another for himself. James swirls the amber liquid once around, watches it catch and settle and lifts it to his lips. He’s never been a scotch fan, but the burn is satisfying. Numbing around the edges.
“Good, isn’t it?” Michael grins, and James wonders if that’s Erik, too. Up until now he’s never seen Michael order straight scotch.
“S’ok.” James offers. Watches as Michael downs his own swiftly, and he stops him from ordering another. “We need to be on set tomorrow. You remember what Matthew said to Lucas when he showed up hungover.”
“I’m fine.” Michael assures him, “I’m not sloshed, look.” He holds out a hand, as if to show James he’s steady, but James slides from his stool.
“C’mon. You smell like a brewery floor.”
“I can walk.” Michael protests, but he leans on James as they head for the elevator, James almost forgets their floor number but punches at level twelty-two while he struggles for Michael’s key card. He’s half pressed into the corner of the lift, and half pressed into Michael. His thigh touching the length of the older man’s through his jeans and he’s warm and solid there. James looks up once he recovers the card from Michael’s (Erik’s) jacket pocket.
“His clothes.” He says, lowly.
“It helps.” Michael says, toneless.
“Get rid of them when you change.” James’ voice is soft.
“It helps.” Michael repeats, voice a growl, and James tries to shrink away from his hold, is he back?
“He’s not you.” James repeats, leaning into the corner of the lift. Shoulder pressing into the mirror.
“It’s working for me.”
And it’s likely true. Michael’s performance has been spectacular, and it’s what concerns James the most.
“So… you’re still…?” He ventures, blindly. Uncertain why he even wants to know.
Michael faces him, presses a hand to the mirror and looks down at him and James avoids his gaze. Doesn’t want to look up and meet with that same unfamiliar burn. His stomach twists and churns as he feels a hand rest on his waist.
“Look at me.” Michael whispers, voice no more than a rasp.
“Michael--”
“Look at me.”
His tone isn’t one to be disobeyed. James looks up, and Michael has gone again. There’s no kindness there, there’s nothing warm or familiar, the bloke that loves horses and fedoras and pancakes is gone. James swallows. Reaches up to settle his hands on Michael’s shoulders as the lift crawls slowly up to their level. Tugs him closer, gently, as if he’s trying to pull Michael out of Erik and bring him back.
“Don’t tease me.” Michael warns.
James lets out a shuddering breath that ghosts over Michael’s throat. “I’m not.”
Michael’s hand drifts up from his waist, his fingertips ghost over the soft line of James’ cheekbone and he doesn’t look away from those steely eyes. They’re standing so close that James is breathing the burning scotch off Michael’s breath, and the leftover mint and tobacco from his cigarette and the gum he’s tried to wash the stench away with. It isn’t Michael. It’s not Michael. It can’t be Michael and yet James can’t even be sure who closes that distance between them. But their lips touch, it’s soft, and unyielding, and gentle. A taste, if nothing more. But Michael surges into him immediately, that hand bracing him against the mirror while the other presses down to hook around the small of James’ back to tug him against Michael’s chest and he shivers, shudders. Doesn’t fight against it.
It’s vicious, at first. James isn’t sure what else he’s expected, (because it isn’t Michael, maybe if it was, that hold wouldn’t be bruising, those lips would be curved up into a gentle smile after an idle joke, but it’s not Michael, it’s entirely Erik and he’s all teeth and force and taking without hinderance).
Michael draws back with a soft groan. “You’re using me.”
That. That is entirely Michael. James can tell. His hold on him loosens, his tone is softer, lighter.
James’ hands ball into fists. “No. I’m not.”
The elevator reaches their level with a dull ding! And Michael’s arm tightens around him again, hauls him from the corner and drags him into the white-wash hallway.
“Do you know what it’s like to be kissed by someone who loves you?”
It’s Erik again. This is getting easier. James can almost pinpoint the moment Michael shifts back into him. As if it’s like a defense mechanism. As if he… doesn’t want to be here.
“What?” James breathes, as Michael draws him up to the wall opposite the iron-wrought doors.
“You don’t, do you?” Michael’s weight presses into him, holds him in place and James’ hands wind loosely around his biceps, the keycard still in his grip.
“I don’t--” He starts, but Michael cuts him off with another fierce kiss.
“Is this what you wanted?” He growls into James, drawing back and looking down at him.
No. He thinks furiously, No, no, no. But all that leaves him is, “W-We can’t do this here - Michael--”
“You don’t know what it’s like. It’s why you’re here. You’re wondering,” His hand ghosts down lower, over James’ side, “how much I must love you. Want to know how it feels?” He rolls his hips forwards, and James’ breath leaves him with a soft sound, it thrills him, “Want to know what he’s like, don’t you? You’ve thought about it.”
James has no answer because Michael’s (Erik’s) words have spoken it better than he could have hoped.
“I’ll show you.” Michael’s hand presses over the lip of his trousers, settles over the unmistakable tent beneath his belt and James squirms.
“No. Don’t… don’t want to do th-this if you’re not you, Michael.”
“Yes. You do.”
“Michael--”
He hasn’t the chance to say anything more because Michael withdraws from him with a wide grin James knows isn’t his own, his hand takes James’ wrist, elegant fingers curling around the sleeve of Charles’ cardigan as he drags him down to his room, snatching the keycard from James’ fingers and swiping it to grant his entry. He whirls James in before him, and closes it with a sharp snap after him.
“This is a mistake, Michael.” He says, voice shaking, as he backs slowly away from the older man.
“It is?” Michael lowers his gaze pointedly to James’ crotch and the younger man’s cheeks only flush a brighter pink. Michael catches his waist and swoops down to claim his lips in another heated kiss. It’s gentler than the last, yet no less demanding. Michael holds him close, hands splayed out over James’ hips, fingers dipping gently beneath the waistband of his trousers, and James can’t withdraw. Responds entirely into the kiss, a false logical hope filling him that if he gives Erik everything he wants, he’ll get Michael back. Their kiss breaks off as Michael’s fingers begin fumbling with his cardigan, tugging the buttons through their holes and shucking the heavy wool from James’ shoulders.
“Michael--”
“Shh. It’s all right.” Michael soothes him, pressing a patronizing kiss to James’ lips as he sets to work on his shirt instead.
“If you regret this in the morning you can’t blame me.” James whispers, and Michael chuckles - and it’s him. James surges up for another kiss the moment he realizes and Michael responds. Gently, assuredly, pressing the sleeves of his shirt down past his wrists and onto the floor, working his belt loose next. It’s him.
The moment his arms are free James tucks them beneath the cotton-polyester of the ridiculous turtleneck, desperately seeking skin and Michael doesn’t pull away until James’ belt is loose and his trousers pool at his feet. He breaks away only to tug the turtleneck and singlet from his frame and he leads James out of the tangle of his pants. Rather than the bed, he settles for the leather couch he knows James hates.
“It’ll make you like it.” He grins at James as he sinks down, stops James from following him to tug his briefs down, only then does he hook his fingers around the younger man’s pale hips to guide him onto his lap. James is self conscious, wonders how he must look to Michael (who is all lean muscle and unblemished soft skin and long and perfect while he’s pale and pasty with dark freckles, and he’s hard, curved and soft-pink into his belly). The leather creaks under James’ knees and he winces.
“Fucking on a dead animal seems a lot more realistic, hm?” Michael presses his kisses to James chest as the younger man laughs once.
“Once upon a time.” James murmurs, because didn’t he hear something about that while filming ‘Becoming Jane’?
Impatient, worried he’ll lose him again, James rises up on his knees and presses forwards, bracing himself with a hand on Michael’s shoulder, breath hitching as his cock presses into the seam of Michael’s trousers and he grinds down, hears the older man’s raspy breath hitch. There’s a clatter, and Michael is fumbling at the low table beside the couch and his hand comes back with a no-name brand condom packet and what James assumes is lube. He wants to ask why it’s so close, so on-hand, but decides not to. Doesn’t think knowing how far Michael’s character research extends could be a particularly good thing.
“You want it like this?” Michael murmurs, into James’ chest, lips skimming over a pert pink nipple, and James just quivers softly in response, “Want to ride me, hm?”
James says nothing still, digs his fingers a little firmer into Michael’s shoulder as he hears him chuckle.
“Do you?” Michael demands and James doesn’t know anymore. Can’t tell if the rasp in his voice is arousal or Erik.
“Y-Yes.” He breathes. Closing his eyes, shame curling in his stomach as he hears Michael squeezing out some of the lube onto his fingers. Because then a cold touch between his cheeks has him gasping, jerking slightly as Michael prods for entrance. He meets with little resistance.
James has thought about this and he catches on.
“Done this before, haven’t you?” Michael’s voice is tinted with pleasant amusement, he slips in a second finger beside the first, crooking and scissoring, stroking James form the inside, and all the younger man can do is keen softly, press back into them as they barely brush his prostate. “Thought about me? How I might feel?” He presses in a third and James’ head tips back and he moans prettily, red lips parted.
“I can show you that, too.” He withdraws his hand, leaves James panting wetly, reaching down to grip himself in a loose fist for some semblance of relief, he shifts up on his hips, presses closer to Michael as he feels the older man tugging down his trousers, tearing open the condom to slide it on.
He still doesn’t know. It’s as if the line between Erik and Michael has become too blurred for him to distinguish. As if they’re one in he same, battling against one another for James or Charles when it’s really only James.
Michael’s hand grips his waist in a hold that’ll leave bruises behind as he tugs James forward that last inch, his other grips himself at his base, positions himself at James’ dusky entrance and then he’s pressing inside. James drops his brow into the bend of Michael’s neck as he sinks down, swallowing him up into a greedy warmth inch by inch, and it’s nothing those fingers could’ve prepared him for. He’s almost glad he’s gotten no proper glance at Michael - it would’ve done little to help. It burns, aches, he sobs once into Michael’s skin, blunt nails biting into his shoulder as he takes him.
“That’s it.” Michael hums, gently, petting James’ flank like he’s a spooked animal. “Slowly.” He offers, and James thinks maybe, it’s him. Maybe. Doesn’t dare a glance up to see, isn’t sure he can. Michael’s hips jut into his backside, and he’s thick and hot inside James. All he can do is roll his hips forwards, gently. Once, twice. Testing himself, before he rises up, barely an inch, to press back down again. He takes it slow, feels Michael’s hands pressing along his sides, murmuring wordless encouragement as James sets their rhythm. One that is evidently too slow for Michael’s liking. His hands perch upon James’ hips, and his own begin snapping upward to meet each thrust.
James fists himself desperately, trying to detract from the fading pain, as he presses down sharper and sharper until the leather creaks under them and the awfully lewd slapping of skin-on-skin fills the pale room, and he lifts his head then, eyes still closed, gentle sobs wrenching themselves free each time he presses down on Michael, he trembles with each stroke, half-formed murmurs seep through his teeth and his hand clamps down over Michael’s shoulder, and yet, it’s still not enough.
Michael shifts up, arms winding around James’ narrow waist and he draws off the couch, James weight falling entirely onto his cock as he lowers them down.
“Michael - what’re you--” James starts, breathless.
Michael presses him to the rough, off-beige carpet and resumes their rhythm immediately, pressing James’ thighs wider, settling them around his waist and fucking him literally into the floor, James arches up, cries out, the rug burns into his back, into his elbows, his hips, but Michael is brushing over his sweet spot with every stroke, and it’s blissful. He’s seeing white. Twitching and jerking and keening brokenly for more.
“Look at me.” Michael hisses again, and James opens his eyes at last.
Michael is looking down at him with dark eyes, pupils blown so wide there’s nothing but a thin ring of green-blue-grey staring down at him. His teeth are bared slightly, his hair hangs in a loose curl over his brow and his hips stutter and jerk and his grip tightens impossibly painfully and he comes with a hoarse cry. Curling himself over James, keeping his eyes locked on James’, and it’s all the younger man can do to follow after him. Coming in thick jets over his abdomen, over his hand, gripping himself. Almost reaching his collar.
“Kiss me.” the older man demands from him, remaining where he is so James has no choice but to struggle up on red-raw elbows to reach for a kiss and he does so without protest because it frightens him, it’s not Michael staring down at him.
It’s Erik.
-
He makes James stay. Coaxes him into the bed and wrings another orgasm out of him onto the mattress, fucks James on his knees with his chest pressed to the younger man’s rug-burnt back, and whispers “Charles.” into his ear as he comes, fast and hot inside him.
James leaves the minute the sun creeps over his eyelids through the soundproof windows, he scrawls a note upon the hotel-issued notepad with it’s matching pen and leaves it on his pillow before he wordlessly slips out. Every inch of him aching and screaming in protest and yet he regrets none of it.
-
When he wakes, Michael feels the mattress next to him, sluggishly remembering the night before, though it’s hazy, lust-and-liquor filled. He remembers enough, and a scrape of paper reaches his questioning fingers. The sheets are cool and only the faint smell of hair product in the pillow indicates that it had ever ben occupied.
He squints at the note, there’s only a few words scattered there;
‘Come back to me when you’re you.
- J.’
Author: restlesspuppy
Pairing: Mcfassy, James/Erik
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slight dub-con, RPF, character bleed issues and angst! D: Somewhat AU in that James is unmarried.
Word count: 4, 638~
Summary: When Michael becomes far too invested in his role as Erik Lehnsherr, James begins to worry.
-
“It’s not just friendship.”
Michael says it matter-of-factly, like he’s discussed it before and James knows he probably has. Matthew was adamant enough about their on-screen chemistry, and any doubts he might’ve had about whatever they could call Charles and Erik had faded into insignificance long ago. Probably around he same time he’d met Michael.
“There’s too much there. It couldn’t be.”
“What do you think it is then?” James asks him, drawing his fingertip over the rim of his short martini glass.
Michael shifts in quiet thought, but James doesn’t think he’s really thinking at all. They’re sitting in his hotel room, on break for the time being while Jen and Nick shot their scenes together in the makeshift CIA complex. Michael-mixed martinis in hand, they had perched precariously on the stools by the mini-bar.
The room itself is rather dull looking, brown and white and cream and bland. With paintings of lighthouses made to look unique when James knew identical ones hung in his room adorning the faded walls. The couch is leather, and James hates leather couches. Opted immediately for the low barstools and hidden his chagrin when Michael had joined him without so much as a blink.
“Love.” Michael says, and James looks up.
“You think they were in love?”
“‘corse. What was that quote I read again…? Ah…” He frowns again, lowers his glass to the glossy bartop and drags a hand through his hair, “‘Bookends of the same soul’, that’s it!”
“You’re shitting me.” James grins up at him.
“Scout’s honor. It was in Magneto’s bible.” He places a hand over his heart as he says it, grinning widely, and James just chuckles. ‘Bibles’ as Kevin had called them, everything they’d needed to know about their characters for the movie, and James didn’t remember reading that one in Charles’ pile.
“They are in love.” Michael corrects, a moment later. His smile fading. “It makes a lot of sense. Erik’s been alone all this time, he’s figured he was the only one with a mutation and then for him to meet someone like Charles…”
“Someone just like him.” James nods.
“It fits in there. It works.” Michael lifts his martini, his gaze flickers - something odd glints in his sea-green eyes that James almost misses, “I’ll play it in if you will.”
So, they do.
-
Matthew doesn’t have a word of objection to offer, lets them bleed through into their roles and watches as they film their scene over a set game of chess with faint pencil-markings on the checkered board, telling them what to move and when.
James teeters on edge, feeling oddly exposed under their dim lighting with the electronic fire at his side and Michael’s heavy gaze fixed upon him. He’s memorized his script ten times over and yet he feels as if it’s escaping him because the minute Matthew calls for ‘Action’ Michael disappears. The kind edges to his eyes vanish and the faint promise of wrinkles (from smiles) evaporate completely, his shoulders stiffen, his brow sets firm and deliberate and he clenches his jaw each time James shifts.
His eyes look dark and his voice falls several octaves. He doesn’t laugh when James stumbles over his lines the first few takes, he grits his teeth and shifts and fixes his eyes on the chess board between them, it’s worrying. When this started, he had laughed, they had joked and talked and it had been effortless. But here - here it was like he was beside someone completely different. A darker, unkind version of Michael that James didn’t think he would particularly like.
The minute the scene is done, Michael leaves. He stands and makes a swift exit without glancing back and James thinks he might chew through his bottom lip - has he done something to irritate the older man? He sincerely hopes not - runs through what he could have done in those brief hours they’d spent apart last night and aside from borrowing Michael’s shaving cream (which he had returned) he comes up empty handed.
Instead, he sends a short text a half hour later, worrying himself grey over what he hopes is nothing.
‘Need to take the edge off? Martini’s at yours?’
His reply comes no more than a minute later.
‘Sure. Come in 5.’
-
Michael seems back to normal.
They laugh and joke and James confesses his dislike for leather couches and trousers and basically anything leather at all because it’s just an odd statement to make, aesthetically speaking.
“Sitting on dead animals bugs you?”
“Not as much as wearing them does.”
Michael guffaws at him, points out his leather shoes and James promptly slips them off. They’re drunk. It isn’t hard considering the mini bar is utterly overstocked (James thinks it must have been topped up overnight), and he doesn’t think about how much he’s swallowed down until the room feels too warm and a flush creeps up his neck.
“Reckon we did well today.” Michael says.
“Yeah.” James blindly agrees, half aware of what Michael is saying. “Everything was alright?” He swallows, looks up at Michael.
“Yeah, yeah. I just… y’know.” He waves a dismissive hand, “Clicked.”
“Clicked.” James repeats, eyes slipping somewhat out of focus.
“Yeah.” Michael drains his glass in a swift swing, “I feel like… I dunno. Like… Erik took over.” Then he grins, chuckles, “Fuck. That sounds insane.”
“No.” James smiles weakly, “It makes sense.”
-
He studies his reflection for a long time.
He looks like Charles. Like Matthew had said he wanted Charles to look. Like the sketches of Charles Xavier had presented, clean-cut with a mischievous glint to his too-blue eyes. But he didn’t feel like Charles. That glint was missing. All that stared back at him was a scholar in a cardigan.
He presses his fingers through his hair and breathes a sigh through his nose, fogging up the glass as he straightens his collar. He’s nervous now. Worried he’ll lose Michael over like he had last time. Irrational - most likely. He knows.
But if that’s so true, why is it eating him up on the inside?
-
His fears are confirmed almost immediately. Michael doesn’t speak with him on set, doesn’t say a word that isn’t scripted and just watches James in this predatory way that makes him almost wish he was a telepath so he might peek into those thoughts, and see if that same odd darkness that has swallowed his Michael up has claimed his thoughts too.
Yes, his Michael. James wants him back. It makes their scenes feel hollow and empty when he remembers the tense silence that had followed each take.
He stumbles over another line and Matthew calls a brief time out to adjust the lighting, the sun is beginning to set and it’s glaring into the camera (apparently) and Michael runs his fingers through his hair, flexes the muscles in his jaw and watches James from the corner of his eye.
“Michael,” James says, softly, “are you alright?”
Michael doesn’t look at him, presses his palms together and glances up at the sun.
“Hey.” James steps forwards, reaches out and takes the thick material of his dark turtleneck between his thumb and forefinger and only then does Michael look at him, at where his hand perches, his heavy gaze lifts to meet James’ a moment later, and that’s not Michael. That isn’t Michael staring down at him.
It’s Erik.
-
It begins to worry him when they drop past the hotel’s bar for icy beers together and Michael still feels out of reach - detached from him. James wants to call him back, makes idle conversation, dropping the older man’s name in more than he should merely to see a flicker of him in those hooded eyes but none comes. Michael remains distant and dismissive.
Though he tugs one of the high-stools out for James when he goes to sit, he orders for James, and he pays for James. He barely says two words at all, and drinks two tall glasses of beer, eyeing the shiny metal tap, wordlessly.
“Michael, we’re off set.” James says, after the agonizing silence becomes too much. “You don’t… don’t need to do this anymore.”
He sees Michael swallow dryly.
“I know what it’s like. Trust me.” James continues, “H-Had the same problem with Robbie when we did ‘Atonement’ to be honest with you.” He tries to grin, but Michael’s lips remain set in a firm line. He remembers it well, the rage that had swallowed him whole from the inside, the burning need for Keira’s smiles that had almost churned and spat him out a charred remnant of himself, but he’d been alright. With some roles, things did get difficult.
“You’re not Erik.” He says, shifting to face Michael in his stool, “You’re Michael bloody Fassbender and you’re honestly fucking scaring me.” He reaches out again, and touches the older man lightly on the shoulder and if his words hadn’t pulled Michael’s attention, then his touch did.
He shifts under James’ touch, turns his head to look at him, breath ghosting over James’ fingers. There’s another tense moment that makes James feel like a false acrobat, balancing on a thin rope but Michael lets out a short gust of air, and his shoulders relax and so does James.
He’s back. He thinks. Thank christ.
“I’m sorry.” He says, after a moment, rubs a hand over his lips and draws in a deep breath, but offers nothing more.
“It’s alright.” James moves his hand back to the bar, “First role you’ve had like this, isn’t it?” He asks, lifting the remainder of his beer to his lips and it’s flat and sour-tasting but his tongue feels dry.
“Yeah.” Michael says, shortly.
“Don’t blame you.” James adds. Shifting, relaxing.
“Too much to work with,” Michael murmurs. “and you…” he trails off, swallows again.
James casts him a sidelong glance, confused. “and I what.. ?”
Michael shakes his head, “Made it feel too real.”
James blinks, and then comprehension dawns on him. Character bleeding can be difficult, sometimes permanently damaging. When thoughts and emotions you know aren’t typically your own begin to settle and take residence inside your mind in a manner that makes them their own portion of your subconscious. Such as what had occurred with Robbie. He had become such a prevalent part in James that he still struggled with parting from those he loved. From his family, his closest of friends. Even though he knew it was nothing to fear, it did little to change anything.
He wonders what that must be like, for Michael. How much could be bleeding through, how much could be dwelling and growing and pulsing inside him with such a strong personality, like Erik Lehnsherr… and it’s unsettling. It’s… worrying. But he refuses to allow his concern to show. This is Michael. With talent that James honestly envies. He says nothing for a moment longer, before he really begins to understand.
“Did you… were you…?” he tries not to grin, tries to take it lightly, “You were playing out the love card, weren’t you?”
“It’s not funny.” Michael says, shortly.
“You even…” He lets out a single, breathless laugh, “Do you still…?”
“Do I what?”
James shifts on his stool, bites his lower lip like a schoolboy with a secret. “...are you still in love with me?”
Michael’s shoulders sink, and he keeps his gaze fixed upon the bar, drawing his fingertips along the grains of the wood, as if he’s trying to curl in on his own quiet shame. “It’s nothing. It’ll go away eventually.”
James blinks at him, eyes widening, he says nothing for a moment. Opens and closes his mouth several times, chews on his bottom lip and settles for; “I see.” Though his smile fades immediately once he sees how serious Michael is, and he goes to stand, “Maybe… I should go.”
“No.” Michael says, immediately, looking up again, “Stay. Have a drink.” He pushes his half-filled glass of scotch over to James and calls the bartender over for another for himself. James swirls the amber liquid once around, watches it catch and settle and lifts it to his lips. He’s never been a scotch fan, but the burn is satisfying. Numbing around the edges.
“Good, isn’t it?” Michael grins, and James wonders if that’s Erik, too. Up until now he’s never seen Michael order straight scotch.
“S’ok.” James offers. Watches as Michael downs his own swiftly, and he stops him from ordering another. “We need to be on set tomorrow. You remember what Matthew said to Lucas when he showed up hungover.”
“I’m fine.” Michael assures him, “I’m not sloshed, look.” He holds out a hand, as if to show James he’s steady, but James slides from his stool.
“C’mon. You smell like a brewery floor.”
“I can walk.” Michael protests, but he leans on James as they head for the elevator, James almost forgets their floor number but punches at level twelty-two while he struggles for Michael’s key card. He’s half pressed into the corner of the lift, and half pressed into Michael. His thigh touching the length of the older man’s through his jeans and he’s warm and solid there. James looks up once he recovers the card from Michael’s (Erik’s) jacket pocket.
“His clothes.” He says, lowly.
“It helps.” Michael says, toneless.
“Get rid of them when you change.” James’ voice is soft.
“It helps.” Michael repeats, voice a growl, and James tries to shrink away from his hold, is he back?
“He’s not you.” James repeats, leaning into the corner of the lift. Shoulder pressing into the mirror.
“It’s working for me.”
And it’s likely true. Michael’s performance has been spectacular, and it’s what concerns James the most.
“So… you’re still…?” He ventures, blindly. Uncertain why he even wants to know.
Michael faces him, presses a hand to the mirror and looks down at him and James avoids his gaze. Doesn’t want to look up and meet with that same unfamiliar burn. His stomach twists and churns as he feels a hand rest on his waist.
“Look at me.” Michael whispers, voice no more than a rasp.
“Michael--”
“Look at me.”
His tone isn’t one to be disobeyed. James looks up, and Michael has gone again. There’s no kindness there, there’s nothing warm or familiar, the bloke that loves horses and fedoras and pancakes is gone. James swallows. Reaches up to settle his hands on Michael’s shoulders as the lift crawls slowly up to their level. Tugs him closer, gently, as if he’s trying to pull Michael out of Erik and bring him back.
“Don’t tease me.” Michael warns.
James lets out a shuddering breath that ghosts over Michael’s throat. “I’m not.”
Michael’s hand drifts up from his waist, his fingertips ghost over the soft line of James’ cheekbone and he doesn’t look away from those steely eyes. They’re standing so close that James is breathing the burning scotch off Michael’s breath, and the leftover mint and tobacco from his cigarette and the gum he’s tried to wash the stench away with. It isn’t Michael. It’s not Michael. It can’t be Michael and yet James can’t even be sure who closes that distance between them. But their lips touch, it’s soft, and unyielding, and gentle. A taste, if nothing more. But Michael surges into him immediately, that hand bracing him against the mirror while the other presses down to hook around the small of James’ back to tug him against Michael’s chest and he shivers, shudders. Doesn’t fight against it.
It’s vicious, at first. James isn’t sure what else he’s expected, (because it isn’t Michael, maybe if it was, that hold wouldn’t be bruising, those lips would be curved up into a gentle smile after an idle joke, but it’s not Michael, it’s entirely Erik and he’s all teeth and force and taking without hinderance).
Michael draws back with a soft groan. “You’re using me.”
That. That is entirely Michael. James can tell. His hold on him loosens, his tone is softer, lighter.
James’ hands ball into fists. “No. I’m not.”
The elevator reaches their level with a dull ding! And Michael’s arm tightens around him again, hauls him from the corner and drags him into the white-wash hallway.
“Do you know what it’s like to be kissed by someone who loves you?”
It’s Erik again. This is getting easier. James can almost pinpoint the moment Michael shifts back into him. As if it’s like a defense mechanism. As if he… doesn’t want to be here.
“What?” James breathes, as Michael draws him up to the wall opposite the iron-wrought doors.
“You don’t, do you?” Michael’s weight presses into him, holds him in place and James’ hands wind loosely around his biceps, the keycard still in his grip.
“I don’t--” He starts, but Michael cuts him off with another fierce kiss.
“Is this what you wanted?” He growls into James, drawing back and looking down at him.
No. He thinks furiously, No, no, no. But all that leaves him is, “W-We can’t do this here - Michael--”
“You don’t know what it’s like. It’s why you’re here. You’re wondering,” His hand ghosts down lower, over James’ side, “how much I must love you. Want to know how it feels?” He rolls his hips forwards, and James’ breath leaves him with a soft sound, it thrills him, “Want to know what he’s like, don’t you? You’ve thought about it.”
James has no answer because Michael’s (Erik’s) words have spoken it better than he could have hoped.
“I’ll show you.” Michael’s hand presses over the lip of his trousers, settles over the unmistakable tent beneath his belt and James squirms.
“No. Don’t… don’t want to do th-this if you’re not you, Michael.”
“Yes. You do.”
“Michael--”
He hasn’t the chance to say anything more because Michael withdraws from him with a wide grin James knows isn’t his own, his hand takes James’ wrist, elegant fingers curling around the sleeve of Charles’ cardigan as he drags him down to his room, snatching the keycard from James’ fingers and swiping it to grant his entry. He whirls James in before him, and closes it with a sharp snap after him.
“This is a mistake, Michael.” He says, voice shaking, as he backs slowly away from the older man.
“It is?” Michael lowers his gaze pointedly to James’ crotch and the younger man’s cheeks only flush a brighter pink. Michael catches his waist and swoops down to claim his lips in another heated kiss. It’s gentler than the last, yet no less demanding. Michael holds him close, hands splayed out over James’ hips, fingers dipping gently beneath the waistband of his trousers, and James can’t withdraw. Responds entirely into the kiss, a false logical hope filling him that if he gives Erik everything he wants, he’ll get Michael back. Their kiss breaks off as Michael’s fingers begin fumbling with his cardigan, tugging the buttons through their holes and shucking the heavy wool from James’ shoulders.
“Michael--”
“Shh. It’s all right.” Michael soothes him, pressing a patronizing kiss to James’ lips as he sets to work on his shirt instead.
“If you regret this in the morning you can’t blame me.” James whispers, and Michael chuckles - and it’s him. James surges up for another kiss the moment he realizes and Michael responds. Gently, assuredly, pressing the sleeves of his shirt down past his wrists and onto the floor, working his belt loose next. It’s him.
The moment his arms are free James tucks them beneath the cotton-polyester of the ridiculous turtleneck, desperately seeking skin and Michael doesn’t pull away until James’ belt is loose and his trousers pool at his feet. He breaks away only to tug the turtleneck and singlet from his frame and he leads James out of the tangle of his pants. Rather than the bed, he settles for the leather couch he knows James hates.
“It’ll make you like it.” He grins at James as he sinks down, stops James from following him to tug his briefs down, only then does he hook his fingers around the younger man’s pale hips to guide him onto his lap. James is self conscious, wonders how he must look to Michael (who is all lean muscle and unblemished soft skin and long and perfect while he’s pale and pasty with dark freckles, and he’s hard, curved and soft-pink into his belly). The leather creaks under James’ knees and he winces.
“Fucking on a dead animal seems a lot more realistic, hm?” Michael presses his kisses to James chest as the younger man laughs once.
“Once upon a time.” James murmurs, because didn’t he hear something about that while filming ‘Becoming Jane’?
Impatient, worried he’ll lose him again, James rises up on his knees and presses forwards, bracing himself with a hand on Michael’s shoulder, breath hitching as his cock presses into the seam of Michael’s trousers and he grinds down, hears the older man’s raspy breath hitch. There’s a clatter, and Michael is fumbling at the low table beside the couch and his hand comes back with a no-name brand condom packet and what James assumes is lube. He wants to ask why it’s so close, so on-hand, but decides not to. Doesn’t think knowing how far Michael’s character research extends could be a particularly good thing.
“You want it like this?” Michael murmurs, into James’ chest, lips skimming over a pert pink nipple, and James just quivers softly in response, “Want to ride me, hm?”
James says nothing still, digs his fingers a little firmer into Michael’s shoulder as he hears him chuckle.
“Do you?” Michael demands and James doesn’t know anymore. Can’t tell if the rasp in his voice is arousal or Erik.
“Y-Yes.” He breathes. Closing his eyes, shame curling in his stomach as he hears Michael squeezing out some of the lube onto his fingers. Because then a cold touch between his cheeks has him gasping, jerking slightly as Michael prods for entrance. He meets with little resistance.
James has thought about this and he catches on.
“Done this before, haven’t you?” Michael’s voice is tinted with pleasant amusement, he slips in a second finger beside the first, crooking and scissoring, stroking James form the inside, and all the younger man can do is keen softly, press back into them as they barely brush his prostate. “Thought about me? How I might feel?” He presses in a third and James’ head tips back and he moans prettily, red lips parted.
“I can show you that, too.” He withdraws his hand, leaves James panting wetly, reaching down to grip himself in a loose fist for some semblance of relief, he shifts up on his hips, presses closer to Michael as he feels the older man tugging down his trousers, tearing open the condom to slide it on.
He still doesn’t know. It’s as if the line between Erik and Michael has become too blurred for him to distinguish. As if they’re one in he same, battling against one another for James or Charles when it’s really only James.
Michael’s hand grips his waist in a hold that’ll leave bruises behind as he tugs James forward that last inch, his other grips himself at his base, positions himself at James’ dusky entrance and then he’s pressing inside. James drops his brow into the bend of Michael’s neck as he sinks down, swallowing him up into a greedy warmth inch by inch, and it’s nothing those fingers could’ve prepared him for. He’s almost glad he’s gotten no proper glance at Michael - it would’ve done little to help. It burns, aches, he sobs once into Michael’s skin, blunt nails biting into his shoulder as he takes him.
“That’s it.” Michael hums, gently, petting James’ flank like he’s a spooked animal. “Slowly.” He offers, and James thinks maybe, it’s him. Maybe. Doesn’t dare a glance up to see, isn’t sure he can. Michael’s hips jut into his backside, and he’s thick and hot inside James. All he can do is roll his hips forwards, gently. Once, twice. Testing himself, before he rises up, barely an inch, to press back down again. He takes it slow, feels Michael’s hands pressing along his sides, murmuring wordless encouragement as James sets their rhythm. One that is evidently too slow for Michael’s liking. His hands perch upon James’ hips, and his own begin snapping upward to meet each thrust.
James fists himself desperately, trying to detract from the fading pain, as he presses down sharper and sharper until the leather creaks under them and the awfully lewd slapping of skin-on-skin fills the pale room, and he lifts his head then, eyes still closed, gentle sobs wrenching themselves free each time he presses down on Michael, he trembles with each stroke, half-formed murmurs seep through his teeth and his hand clamps down over Michael’s shoulder, and yet, it’s still not enough.
Michael shifts up, arms winding around James’ narrow waist and he draws off the couch, James weight falling entirely onto his cock as he lowers them down.
“Michael - what’re you--” James starts, breathless.
Michael presses him to the rough, off-beige carpet and resumes their rhythm immediately, pressing James’ thighs wider, settling them around his waist and fucking him literally into the floor, James arches up, cries out, the rug burns into his back, into his elbows, his hips, but Michael is brushing over his sweet spot with every stroke, and it’s blissful. He’s seeing white. Twitching and jerking and keening brokenly for more.
“Look at me.” Michael hisses again, and James opens his eyes at last.
Michael is looking down at him with dark eyes, pupils blown so wide there’s nothing but a thin ring of green-blue-grey staring down at him. His teeth are bared slightly, his hair hangs in a loose curl over his brow and his hips stutter and jerk and his grip tightens impossibly painfully and he comes with a hoarse cry. Curling himself over James, keeping his eyes locked on James’, and it’s all the younger man can do to follow after him. Coming in thick jets over his abdomen, over his hand, gripping himself. Almost reaching his collar.
“Kiss me.” the older man demands from him, remaining where he is so James has no choice but to struggle up on red-raw elbows to reach for a kiss and he does so without protest because it frightens him, it’s not Michael staring down at him.
It’s Erik.
-
He makes James stay. Coaxes him into the bed and wrings another orgasm out of him onto the mattress, fucks James on his knees with his chest pressed to the younger man’s rug-burnt back, and whispers “Charles.” into his ear as he comes, fast and hot inside him.
James leaves the minute the sun creeps over his eyelids through the soundproof windows, he scrawls a note upon the hotel-issued notepad with it’s matching pen and leaves it on his pillow before he wordlessly slips out. Every inch of him aching and screaming in protest and yet he regrets none of it.
-
When he wakes, Michael feels the mattress next to him, sluggishly remembering the night before, though it’s hazy, lust-and-liquor filled. He remembers enough, and a scrape of paper reaches his questioning fingers. The sheets are cool and only the faint smell of hair product in the pillow indicates that it had ever ben occupied.
He squints at the note, there’s only a few words scattered there;
‘Come back to me when you’re you.
- J.’