Hard, angry drops of rain are beating a firm staccato against the windows, and Bobby Drake knows the mansion grounds will be wet and muddy when Cyclops takes them out on the morning run.
Like yesterday, Jubilee will be sporting the bright yellow raincoat, complaining bitterly all the way. Remy will be sulking because the cigarettes refuse to stay lit in the rain.
Bobby doesn't mind the morning runs, though. Westchester is often foggy and wonderfully chilly in the mornings -- and there's nothing quite like sneaking behind a towering oak tree, St. John pressing his mouth against Bobby's throat, warming the skin with his breath.
Never matter the soggy shoes sinking down in the mud, awkwardly trampling on fallen leaves and chestnuts. They simply concentrate on the act of kissing and touching that is made even better by the illicitness of it, that they've managed to escape Cyclops' watchful eye to do this.
Hands sliding down his stomach and under the soaked sweats, sticking to flesh like a second skin. The cold drops of water trickling down his upturned face, the rough surface of the cortex against his back. St. John's hand covering his mouth to keep him from crying out, clenching his eyes shut as he falls, his insides turning as liquid as the rain.
Sometimes he thinks that night can't end soon enough, with mornings like that.
It's still hours away before dawn, but Bobby is content as it is. He couldn't ask for more, really. Comics and a bag of pick'n mix easily accessible from under the bed, with pieces of soft fudge and cinnamon sweets that stuck to your fingers like candy floss. And a pillow that was warm and just the right combination of hard and soft.
Said pillow moves. It's a remarkably noisy pillow, snoring softly.
But it's the best pillow yet.
Bobby Drake. Content. Pillow.