Serious
"There must be
fifty ways to leave your lover."
~ Paul Simon
I spent so much time touching him while he was sleeping, waiting for him to roll over and say, "I don't think I should come back, cher," that I managed to be completely startled when I said it instead.
We were laying in the dark, staring upward, sweat drying between us, and I said, "I don't think I should come back, cher." He did roll over and look at me like I'd envisioned it, though. Eyes large, but not with surprise. "I almost always keep talking," I said reassuringly, after a few moments of silence. "I mean, I know that's not, um." I half-pointed to him. "But I do."
Remy shook his head and barked a laugh-- he propped himself up on an elbow and reached over me to get his cigarettes out of the bedside table drawer, chest brushing against mine. He pulled back and lit up.
"Howdja end up here, Bobby?" he said.
I thought about saying something about the hallway, something about my parents, but I didn't feel like hearing him say, "Dis's serious, Bobby," so I thought about the question. How had I ended up here? And here, being in bed, with him-- or here, being in the position to say something about shoulds to Remy LeBeau?
"I wanted to, um." I blushed, and I knew that he probably saw it, through the dark. But there was no way for me to say 'I wanted to touch you,' out loud-- not even to girls, where I knew I was already being stupid about everything, not even in the dark, not ever, and not now.
But Remy, man. He is so not me.
"Y'wanted to sleep wit' me."
"Yeah," I said. I laughed a little. That pretty much defined the how of everything. "I mean--" and I gestured at him again, as if to say, well, yeah.
"How long?"
"How long did I want to sleep with you before we did . . or how long did I think I would sleep with you when I . . thought about it, before?"
Remy exhaled, grinning. "Eh-- de first."
"Um," I said, smiling self-consciously and shrugging. "I guess, since summer. August. Since Storm's birthday party."
"Dat's specific. What was I wearin'?"
"The navy slacks, and the purple shirt. Lavendar. --But it wasn't. about that."
"Y'sure? Lavendar shirts are known t'have dat effect on heret'fore straight men."
I laughed and shook my head. "Tell me about it. But, no. It was . . we were all kind of post-partying, picking up, and you . . you told this joke that nobody got. Something about a lobster and a rabbi. You spent, like, five minutes trying to explain it, and when it finally clicked, they were all just kinda, 'You're weird, Remy.' And you just shrugged and smiled and were just like, whatever. And I thought." I fell quiet and looked at him for a long moment. I was sitting up by then, in the bed beside him, with the blanket pooled around both our waists. He smoked, and looked at me while I looked at him. "I thought-- I like him."
Remy smiled around his cigarette and looked down at the blanket. He said, "Looks like y'gotchy'self an official kink, Robert."
I laughed. "I dunno about that. Scott tells bad jokes all the time, and he doesn't do anything for me."
"Mebbe it works in tandem wit' de shirt."
"Yeah, that's probably it."
There was a little bit more silence then. Then I said, "Y'know, me and Rogue almost had kind of a thing," for no reason. Remy exhaled a stream of smoke which settled over the dunes of bedspread like desert fog, and raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. While you were in that coma, after kissing her when the world was ending. You remember-- we were all in Seattle together."
Remy frowned and shook his head a little, but he said, "I remember. Y'all wen' road-trippin'."
"Yep. I took her to meet my parents. I told her you were a jerk, and to forget about you."
"Dat was nice a' you," he said.
"Well, I mean--" I shrugged apologetically. "You were this cocky guy who hit on everybody and never told us anything about himself, except to say, like, 'Remy, he like to play rough' or 'back in de bahYOU, we train wit' dee alliGAYtah.'" Remy blew out smoke, chuckling. "And everybody's always been really protective of Rogue. I mean, even me, who never talked to her before your coma thing. So you, you were the bad guy."
I looked over at him sharply. "I mean-- I don't mean . . " My hand found his left one and curled around it-- he didn't look at me, kept smoking, but he squeezed reassuringly and nodded.
"So, um . . I thought me and Rogue might have this thing. But she was all, crazy, and I was, y'know. with the. pretty gay." Remy pulled his hand away to light another cigarette, but it came back, and I tugged on it.
"Hey," I said. "If Joseph hadn't come along and Rogue hadn't gotten over you-- would you be with her now?"
Remy said, "If Scott owned a purple shirt, would you be wit' him?"
I must've made a really awful face, because he smirked. "Yeah, okay-- slightly differen' situation, I know."
"Try totally, completely different, man."
He chuckled and took a drag off his cigarette, and we sat quietly for a few minutes.
"Did you, um," I said, when his leg bumped mine. "How'djou end up here?"
He grinned sideways at me. "Dis is my room, Bobby."
I smiled. "This is serious, Remy."
"Oui."
He reached over me again, hair trailing over my arm, to stub his cigarette out on the bedside table. He settled back down against the pillows, hand still folded casually in mine. And neither of us said anything else after that.
me