There's this world of romance that nobody's ever quite explained to him. He knows about love, or sort of does. It's the thing that ties you to other people, makes you miss them. Makes you come back to them even when you just fight and hurt and leave again. Makes somebody come out of the house and hug you something fierce ten minutes after they called you every filthy thing they could think of and publicly wished you'd never been born. So: love, but not necessarily healthy. Familial.

He can remember his parents together, at least in the sort-of way that accounts for most of his childhood. Long, hard looks at each other that he could never decipher. Brushes of his hand across her shoulder on the way out the door. But everything he can half-honestly name as affection happened between his father and his father's men. Huge-armed, full-body hugs in greeting, playful wrestling, attention to moods and wounds. He remembers his father vaulting the kitchen table and bolting outside to wrap himself around some cousin in greeting, while his mother lurked like a ghost in the door.

He guesses it's the sort of thing that marks you.

What's really telling, though, is that just about everything he knows about sex, and the human part of it they call romance, he learned from television. And considering he's the one who points out to Shatty that TV is this distorting mirror that it doesn't pay to look into too closely, that's probably a Bad Thing. But you make do. During his occasional quiet times with the Right, he'd curl up in a corner and shiver and watch whatever daytime dreck he vaguely thought might help him. Mostly soaps. In Spanish, when he could get them. What he got out of that was a sort of soft-focus approximation of desire. Rooms filled with candles, roses on beds, the occasional white horse to sweep someone away on.

Later, he went hunting for things he thought might teach him better. Girl movies, because Terry had a lot of them stashed in the den. Art-house style romances. Porn, eventually.

With the result that he's got the mechanics down, but the inner workings of courtship are a pretty strange mess whenever he peers at them. The fact that he's gotten himself laid a couple of times in spite of his ineptness is nothing short of a miracle. Even then, he managed it mostly by re-working himself in his father's image. Big steps, big gestures, extra force behind them, nothing post-coital if he could possibly help it. He remembers hitching home after the last time, wide-eyed and not-shaking, sick at the smell of this stranger all over him.

He came inside with his jacket and both arms wrapped around himself, slipped past the den and stared in for a second at Shatty and whatever he was watching. Wanted to go in and didn't. Went off to shower instead and ignored the soft, "Julio?" that carried down the hall after him.

He stood under the shower that night and tried to think of *anything* that he could use to patch up this thing he didn't know. He remembered visiting Westchester and meeting Scott and Jean Summers, but he also remembered watching them and realizing how much of what they had was based on their psychic link. Something he wasn't ever going to have. He'd watched Cable and Domino together, but he was just about bright enough to figure out that whatever they were doing probably wasn't something you wanted to imitate.

What he's learned about love from Cable and Dom comes down to a single story, the one from when they were staying with the X-Men about the infirmary and the gun. He remembers it because he was the one who got to watch it from the end of the hall. Morning after X-Force's latest bust-up, too damn early. He would've rather been sleeping, but his back teeth were floating, and he thought if he walked softly enough, with his eyes on half-open, that he could make it to the bathroom and back without ever having to really wake up.

He did blink, though, at Cable and Dom facing each other down in the hallway. Cable in sweats and a t-shirt, Dom in flannel pants and wife-beater. Pyjamas, or their nearest thing to it. Cable's hand heavy enough against the wall that he had to be in six kinds of pain.

What he heard was, "How bad?"

"I'll live."

"That's not what I asked you."

"Ribs're touchy. I'll be alright." Pissy Cable-voice that dripped with whatever the Askani version of *fuck off* was.

"Have you been to the infirmary?"

"Nope."

"We'll go now."

"I'm *fine*, Dom."

"We're going *now*." Emphasized with a wave of the gun she must have had stuck in the waistband of her pyjama pants.

"Dom . . ."

"Now." Levelling the gun at him.

"I'll be fine."

Cable was in the process of straightening -- too slowly for a man who was actually OK -- and trying to turn when she shot him. Through the fleshy part of his human arm, very cleanly, in a way that had to hurt like a motherfuck. You could tell especially from the sheer volume of the not-English words Cable howled at her. While she ripped his shirt and used it as a bandage and hauled his ass down to the infirmary. Where she got to be right because Cable'd ruptured something fairly important with the broken ribs, and Dr McCoy figured it would have killed him in a couple more hours.

He knows that Domino's still not sorry about that, and that Cable hasn't forgiven her, and anyway that love's closer to what he learned from his father's men than to what he learned from his parents.

At night sometimes Rictor sleeps curled up and tries to imagine how another person could possibly fit around him.

He comes downstairs tonight, then, not because he's looking for romance in his life or for even clues about how to find it, but just because he's lonely. Finds Star where he always is, locked in front of the television like it's some kind of communication device with the mothership or something.

If he hasn't kicked the TV addiction yet, at least Star's picked up some of the etiquette of watching with other people. He knows to look up and acknowledge company, to either hog the couch if he doesn't want company or scootch if he does. Rictor's even seen him share the remote. That once.

"Where's everybody?"

"I believe that Theresa 'dragged' Tabitha to a movie. Tabitha did not seem terribly enthusiastic; she argued about what they would see while Theresa pulled her out the door."

Rictor nods and drops himself onto the couch. He's stopped noticing that Star always scootches over for him. "Everybody else?"

"I don't know. I have only seen Tabitha and Theresa."

"You're a regular society page, you know that?"

"Julio?"

"Never mind."

It doesn't matter, particularly. The current whereabouts of Jimmy and 'Berto are less important than the current abundance of extra couch pillows and the nachos he can steal from Star with fairly minimal effort. Just by folding himself over his own lap and grabbing while Star's absorbed in whatever significance the current car ad has.

Salsa. Life is good. He finds an unbroken chip and dips it into the jar, making the triangular top circle like a fin.

"Man goes in cage. Cage goes in salsa. Sharks in the salsa. Our shark."

The silver look he gets in answer is truly bizarre, and it's all he can do not to choke on the chip while he tries to laugh and keep breathing.

Goes back to watching whatever this is. Something with a lot of angry police officers with deep personal problems that make his look like suburban teen angst. Not what he'd think Shatterstar would like, because in the back of his mind, Star's addiction relies on fast images, strings of commercials or music videos, or anything else that doesn't keep the same shot for more than fifteen seconds. His concentration's striking only because it doesn't synch with his incredibly short attention span.

Still licking salsa juice off his back teeth when he's rearranging himself and he ends up leaning on Shatty's folded legs. Looks up and discovers that Star's actually watching him and not the TV. With that look that says he's about to ask something profoundly disturbing, except that instead he just adjusts himself and lets Rictor settle back against him.

It's a measure of the weirdness of his upbringing, he supposes, that this feels normal. Shatterstar's big arm under his head while he just lays there against another man's body and watches television.

He isn't sure exactly when Star's hand curls up around his head to play with his hair, but as long as nothing's blocking his view, he can't think of a reason to complain. And it feels good. Friendly.

Door slam. Thumps in the hallways, and then, "Shatty-man!"

Roberto. Which makes Rictor want to straighten up and get out of this . . . whatever it is. Slouch in the opposite corner like he should be. But Star's other hand settles on hip to hold him down, and the fingers in his hair never stop moving. And after a second he realizes that no one can seem him over the back of the couch, and as long as he doesn't move, he might as well not be there at all.

Then Jimmy, more softly. "Hey Shatty. You seen Ric anywhere?"

"Hmmm? Oh. No."

"OK. Thanks."

More pounding, eventually upstairs and moving away. Rictor rolls onto his back and stares up into the silver-eyed face above him. "Amigo, you *lied* to them!"

"Are you not the one who tells me I should not always obey the rules so strictly?"

Rictor snorts, "Si, but . . ." And stops, because he doesn't know 'but what.' Stays where he is instead of rolling back to watch the screen, just tilts his head now and then to catch a glimpse of whatever's going on. He's surprised at how warm he is, lying like this, like he's been wrapped up in something. Not sure whether to arch like a well-fed animal or fall asleep.

The hand that was on his hip before he moved is on his belly now, rubbing gently against his t-shirt. Just absently, as far as he can tell. Star's attention is so focussed on the TV that the rest of the room might as well not exist. And it's not really anything, just an extra little pleasure circling his navel, and as long as he doesn't comment on it, it doesn't really matter.

They hit an hour-mark somewhere in here, because the program changes. News. Ten o'clock, or maybe eleven; he doesn't know what channel they're watching. Screen-flicker while Star channel-surfs, looking for cultural content. Settles in to some kind of god-awful scifi thing with cheap special effects. Scary only because it looks a little too much like their life sometimes.

And just sound for a while, because Rictor's happy to close his eyes and listen to the room. If he falls asleep like this, it'll be OK. It wouldn't be the first time he's fallen asleep in front of the TV, and if Star doesn't wake him and make him go to bed, Domino will sometime in the course of the night.

He isn't sure quite when Star's hand shifts a little and slides under his t-shirt to rub at his skin, but he's aware gradually of the hairs on his belly following the path of that calloused palm. If he moves with it, just a bit, that's only the warm-animals response asserting itself. And maybe a bit because it feels so good. Even better when it slides up his chest and then down to push a little at the waist of his jeans. Pushes and pushes and finally edges under the waistband, just an inch the first time. A little farther on every pass, getting deeper into the rough hair underneath. Elastic catching on the rough edges of Star's fingers.

Not at all sure when he got hard, but he definitely is. And it's got to be obvious. One more deep pass and Star's hand is going to be at least damp when it re-emerges. All that bare skin to cover before the hand goes back, and when exactly did his shirt get rucked up so far?

"Madre de Dios, amigo . . ."

"Shhh." Just a quick brush of the moving hand against his mouth, a warning to be quiet. He gets a flash of his own body-smell on that hand, which shouldn't be nearly as intense or arousing as it is.

Tilts his head just a little to confirm that Shatty's hard, too. Pressing the denim out, close to his cheek. Close enough that he can rub against it without really changing position. While that hand on his body works under his jeans again and brushes his cock, and stays there for a couple of very serious extra seconds. One long, blunt finger deliberately rubbing the head.

"Dios . . ."

"Do you need me to help you be quiet?" A genuine question, not a warning. Silver eyes locking on his own. He shakes his head. "Alright."

He's aware of the extent to which he's cradled against this man. His whole body. Arm under his neck, hand just brushing his face, shoulders across thighs. While the other hand unzips his jeans and pushes his underwear out of the way and pulls him gently into the air. And strokes him. Just a palm, then just four fingers flattened together. Against the shaft. Against the root, the head. Instant of agonizingly wonderful pleasure while there's pressure between his cock and balls.

Star's sort-of-free hand keeps just brushing his face. Brushes his hair when he turns to rub his face against that hard-on lurking at the edge of his vision. Soft, teasing gestures that end up being more tender than Rictor expects them to be. While the other hand gets very businesslike around his cock. Holding him firmly, stroking him hard and very fast. Every rub of a callous against him jacking up his spine and every nerve in him.

So he concentrates on breathing, and not making as much noise as he really wants to. Just releases all the screams as hisses through his teeth. While his hips twist around after that hand and his weight moves farther back towards his shoulders, letting him push *up*, into that touch, just desperate for it.

Rub of something perfect and almost-sharp against the big, too-vulnerable vein on the underside.

"Jesu Christi . . ." Very soft, but impossible to swallow it. Not while his hips jerk convulsively, almost tearing his back out of alignment, and Star's catching his semen very precisely in the palm of his hand. Then reaching with the same hand to grab one of the paper towels that were serving as napkins for the potential salsa mess and wiping himself off. Then back, with the formerly-wet, warm hand resting on Rictor's belly while silver eyes stare friendly-curious down at him.

He scootches down, shifting his head enough to free Shatty's other arm, and the hand that's been teasing him all this while is suddenly there, against his mouth. So easy to just open his mouth and kiss the palm.

"Madre de Dios, Shatty . . ."

What he gets is a quick, surprisingly shy smile. A moment's pause. After which Star raises the kissed hand very carefully and presses it to his cheek.

He has to get up. Can't *see* like this. Fuck the television, but he can't see Star either. Curls himself upright using all the abdominals Cable insists on him developing and turns to look at the man beside him. Gets a faceful of big-eyed, hesitant almost-embarrassment before registering that in this particular moment, Star's eyes are startlingly blue. So: wired-up and emotional, and -- for whatever reason -- not hard anymore.

Star gets a look at him and goes almost flying off the couch. Doesn't stop until he's got his back to the curtained window, both arms around himself, staring in what has to be embarrassment at Rictor. Who gets up and comes after him. His shirt slides back towards his belly while he moves, but never quite settles into its original casual hang. Finds himself pacing across the den, towards the man staring at him. Steps in close, one hand on Star's hip, and lays the other against his belly. Slides it down, under his jeans, until he's sure that Star's current lack of hardness has nothing to do with revulsion and a lot to do with a pair of jeans that are going to need washing.

He doesn't think TV's ever featured a first kiss quite like this one. In the screen-lit dark of the den, with his pants open and his soft cock still hanging out, against a guy who just creamed his jeans. Whose hands come up to cradle his head in the middle of the kiss, but more hesitantly than any big-jawed soap actor could ever manage. Startlingly human, and tentative, and passionate like you can't capture on film. Realizing like Rictor's realizing that it's actually possible to love another human being like this.