Fic: Gods Aren't Supposed To Cry
E-mail: violet147@yahoo.com
Rating: PG/Maybe a tad PG-13.
Warnings: Boy on boy. As usual.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Pairings: St. John/Magneto
Summary: "John knows that guys aren't supposed to cry."


John knows that guys aren’t supposed to cry, but he can’t help himself. Sometimes he thinks the pain is going to swallow him whole, so he has to cry, so he doesn’t end up being swallowed. He used to hate himself every time he cried, because crying is weakness and John Allerdyce is many things but not weak, but he’s at the point now where he can’t even berate himself over it anymore.

It’s all falling down around him, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Everything’s falling, everything he never wanted to admit to himself. The exasperation of the terminal blindness that runs rampantly at the school, the fear of going too far, the frustration of wanting to be beyond everything, the anger of remaining stuck below, the pain of a love that could be returned but by choice is not…it’s all coming down on him, it’s all forcing him to look at himself, and John really hates mirrors.

Even the tears, which aren’t just tears anymore, they’ve turned into sobs, are no comfort for him. Even they are scalding hot, and sometimes John wishes that not everything in this world is hot or cold, black or white. He covers his face with his hands and sobs, even though when he pulls his hands away, his face will be bright red from the heat. And he knows now that he will never have the opportunity to be cooled down, especially after what he’s done, especially now that he’s gone and Bobby’s still there.

The bedroom door creaks as it opens, and John immediately turns toward the wall, pressing his hands harder onto his face. He simply stares as he hears footsteps, and he says nothing as the bed sinks under the added weight. “It’s never what we want, is it?”

John looks at the hand on his shoulder. “No,” his voice is choked as he says, and he turns his head away, ashamed, for now the weakness has been verbalized, and he feels so shamed.

“Are you crying?” A sob escapes, and John covers his hand with his mouth, like that will make it go away. He can almost feel the warm smile, beating its rays into his back, and he just wants to crawl up into something and stay there.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Sorry about what, my boy?”

John opens his mouth, but all he ends up doing is throwing his hands up in the air, as if to say he doesn’t know, and he tilts his head back, the tears running down past his cheeks and onto his shirt. Suddenly there’s a hand on his face, and he closes his eyes, savoring the caress. It’s been a long time since anyone’s taken the time to notice that he’s a whore for the human touch. It’s been a long time since anyone’s even taken the time to actually look at him instead of through him. “Because gods….” He trails off.

“Aren’t supposed to cry?” A rich, soft chuckle, and suddenly John’s tears are being kissed away, and he can’t help but bask in the glow of such a smile. “Even gods such as us feel pain and sadness. There’s no shame in letting it go through the tears. As long as you let it go.” There’s a slight chiding element, and John can’t help but smile a bit through his tears. “Let it go, John. Don’t let it swallow you.”

John’s eyes widen, and he’s given a knowing, very warm smile. “Don’t look so surprised, my boy. You don’t have to be like Charles in order to know what others are thinking.” A soft, loving kiss is bestowed on John’s lips, and Erik pulls back, still smiling. “Gods are always aware of what’s going on in people’s heads,” he says, placing his hands on each side of John’s face. “Especially in the heads of those they love,” he adds.


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