At least he went to bed fulfilled.
That's what I thought when I stared out at nothing in the night, hearing the faint breathing of an Englishman. I roll over, try to avoid stealing his sheets... wait. There isn't anyone here to complain anymore. Right.
Bobby, you're going senile.
At least he fell asleep that night knowing there was someone petitioning to be in his bed.
I'd say sharing, but we weren't. He hoarded, and I hoarded, and the only thing we shared is the feeling of alone that Remy left us with.
God I miss Remy.
When I ran away, when I told him I wasn't going to be a part of this 'thing' we had... I think he was actually upset. I think he thought we were together, in those spaces beyond the telephone and the mattress. It always came down to who snuck back to their bedroom at night though. And if there was anything else, we wouldn't be sneaking.
I'll ignore, for now, the time we stopped sneaking, too.
So. The room is mostly dark. I'm just about ready to fall asleep. I wish I was already, but there's that akwardness in the bed because I keep thinking if I roll over, I'll kick someone. I wriggle around under the blankets, trying to make my bed my own. I stop my foot at the center line, then push it across the barrier. Foot, meet where Pete was. Knee, you're lucky Remy isn't there anymore, you might have just caused him a hell of a lot of pain.
Even in nightmares, I don't dare trespass on someone else's territory. Not even my little toe.
See, I've figured it out. I was just drunk enough on-- something, each time, to forget where I was. And I was just sober enough to recognize that I shouldn't have been there.
My name is Bobby Drake. I'm an addict.
Pete snores. Pete snores cutely, if you must know, even though I'm sure he'd never admit it. When he does, his chest rises and falls, and the little curly hairs wave in the breeze. His chest was bare, the sheet crumpled up beneath him instead.
He's a blanket stealer. I'm too weary to try and get it back.
I want to put a period after all these things I do. I announced I liked men. Period. I killed a bad guy by accident. I've been in therapy with Hank for the mental bruising of killing a man. Period. I was fucking Remy. Period.
Now I'm not.
See, this is the place where the grammar of our bodies ends up telling the truth. There isn't any boundary here.
I fucked Pete Wisdom last week, too. Pete and Remy had a three -- four -- month stand last year. It ended because Pete left him. I came here because I wanted--
I came here because. Period.
I've decided I'm not going to come back to Pete again. I'm going to stay home, and apologize to Remy, and try and feel something other than dead and hopeless and day-old-smoke hanging around my clothes. I can do that, once and a while. Decide something and make it stick.
That's all it was, feeling Pete's breath and feeling my sweat and hearing our snuffing breath. Deciding something and making it stick. And having it stuck to me, just so I don't forget it.
You'd think I was sulking. Or upset. Or just sad, the bone-weary sad that so many people get when they're in something so unfailing.
Nah.
I remember, when I was ten, I loved hiding behind the couch and playing with my GI Joes. They used to do all sorts of--
Well. When I wasn't playing with my GI Joes, I used to think about my day. Maybe cry a little, when I was upset. You know. Behind the couch was always the place I used to go and hide and find that space inside me where the pity hid.
The fact that GI Joes have removable uniforms didn't have anything to do with the fact that I was hiding. Anyway. There's no couch around here that I fit behind, and so I put that hiding inside again.
But yesterday, I realised that sometime between London and last year, I lost the map. I don't have that thing left. I think Pete sucked it out of me. Or maybe I burnt it out of myself when I dropped the match on my hand. Or froze it outta that guy that fell off the building. Or something.
It's gone, anyway.
Good riddance.
"What, it can't be a mental attraction?" This is Hank. My buddy. The guy I tell everything. A few weeks ago, something happened on a mission that they want me to talk about, so that it doesn't overwhelm me.
I don't remember what the guy's eyes looked like, but Hank wants to know I'm okay. I'm okay with that. Hank's my friend, and a good guy.
My current psychiatrist, too.
We're talking about a man. I don't have to give him a name. I don't really even have to give him, or me, a face. I think Hank doesn't want me to find something useless and temporary again.
But this nameless, faceless man has my attention. Maybe he's a vision in a magazine. Maybe he's eating breakfast upstairs. It doesn't count, and I don't count the times I've thought about him.
I'm attracted to his body. This is the point, today.
"Sure, I want to ravish his mind. But I'd rather ravish his body first." This is me. Talking about... Well, talking about ravishing. And talking about someone. And talking about anything that I want to. Freud called it free-association, or so Hank says. He tries to make sure our 'sessions' are professional, but I always lapse into thinking Hank's just my buddy again.
"You can't do both at once?" Hank's voice is gentle.
I start to say something, but stop. Twirl around in my computer chair. And this is me, Bobby Drake, who seems to like doing that. Talking for a little bit, and then changing his mind, that is. That's me.
"I want to blow his mind, not have him think about me blowing his mind."
I don't know where that came from. Hank inspires things. Like a free tongue.
Freud was right.
"When you say--"
"All I meant is that I wanna impress them. Him. I think."
Hank's a good psychiatrist. He sits still in his chair, and doesn't look at me too deeply, letting me just talk. I remember doing this a lot way back in the day, when I was upset as a kid. He's never looked at me funny, and he's never had a problem knowing when not to offer a Twinkie as consolation, to just listen and not touch my shoulder in comfort, either.
But today, he's more than that, too. He's here making sure I'm okay, and he's doing it for a professional reason.
Not that he wouldn't care anyway. I know that. We sit there for a minute. I say quietly, "If I said I was dreaming about him, but it was just once and a while, what would it mean?"
He doesn't study me at all, just looks with soft blue eyes. I wish I'd fallen for Hank, I really do. He would always look at me with just that gaze, and I could handle that without kissing him. Right now, he's having a problem keeping it professional. But that's because he cares about me too much.
Maybe I should suggest that I talk to someone else. Just for a while. He needs a break, maybe, from everything. Actually, he does look a little frazzled around the edges. It's on the edge of my tongue, and I'm on the edge of my seat, ready to stand up, when he asks me, "Who?"
"Both of them."
But, my head whispers, there are three faces. Who is this both?
Hank either knows, or isn't ready to ask. He puts his glasses down, and a hand on my knee across the gap between us. Outside, somewhere else, someone has problems that they can't deal with, and I'm overwhelmed, suddenly, by the feeling that these grounds invoke. This home. He asks, "Are they nightmares?"
I can't look at him. His hand is warm. I'm grateful that he knows without me telling him I need a friend. But. The gates to the driveway are shut. I can tell without seeing them. I say, "Sometimes."
He nods. "And the other times?"
I look at my watch, and then at the clock on the wall. I should adjust it sometime. "Sometimes I think... I might--"
I'm swimming in all these things I can't control, and the only thing I can feel consciously is a worry that I might have been looking at my watch and thinking it was the wrong time. I calculate in my head what time it is in London. I calculate how many minutes since I thought about death. I calculate. I've always been an accountant, now I'm just adding up life on a different tally sheet.
He pats my knee. I reach an arm out to hug his neck, and he pulls me in. I remember what it was to be a kid. He strokes my back comfortingly, and I say clumsily, "I'm... just... Just. Thanks, Hank."
He says softly, "Of course, Robert."
"When I went to London, I didn't have enough time to see Big Ben. I was in London, and I just... didn't see it."
Hank nods slowly. "You didn't think to?"
This is bad form, for a psychologist, suggesting something to the patient. But that's okay, even Hank's not perfect. We've moved away from psychiatrist. It's been a month since the Incident. And I still have to think of it with capital letter, like if I do, it'll keep having importance.
Because it should have importance. I killed someone. I, Bobby Drake, I killed someone. I took the life from someone else. See why I should keep the capital letter?
So. But Hank asked me a question. I frown, as if in thought. I know what my answer is, in a mechanical way. "I didn't, I guess. I guess I wasn't thinking clearly."
He nods, encouraging me to go on. The clock on the wall ticks away hours that he should be working on Legacy, and I feel guilty. Maybe someone else will die because of me, because I'm keeping him away from his work. People we know have Legacy, Bobby, so you should let Hank get back to work.
I continue. I tell him, "But I'm not that frustrated about it. Sure, I wish I could have seen it. But it's not a big deal."
He smiles at me. "I suppose not, Robert, but there are... things, we do for the wrong reasons."
I blink. He keeps that smile fixed in place, and I feel I've let out some great secret, hearing him say that. Without realizing it, he's read what I've got written in my mind.
It's far too familiar. I didn't ever want to hear that from someone else's mouth. I say, "I should let you work."
"I'm alright with it, Bobby. Some very important things have happened to you recently. And you're very important to me. Moreover, friend, it's important to me that you're alright."
I smile at him. He's really a good guy. Suddenly, I'm really not feeling well. He frowns at me, worried, without indicating any disapproval whatsoever. I still don't know how he does it. He puts a hand on my shoulder, and I swallow. "I'm okay, Blue. Just dizzy."
"Are you eating enough?"
I start to say, 'Sure!' but I'm not really sure. "Maybe. I guess so."
He squeezes my shoulder, and smiles at me. "I'd hate to think you were suffering on account of something I could help with, Robert."
I nod. I fiddle with a pen. "I'll have something to eat after this." He looks at me warmly, and I'm overcome. I chuckle. I can't help it. "You know what? I know how easy it must be for people to fall for their psychologists, now."
He smiles at me even wider, and says gently, "I'm quite fond of you too, Bobby."
I don't remember Remy ever giving me that look. I don't remember Pete ever giving anyone that look. But--
But. I look at my watch. It's in the PM. Evening. The date tells me that it's been a month since someone died because of me. Two weeks since I went to London, and didn't see Big Ben, or anything new. Almost three months since I last slept with Remy. Over eight, maybe seven, since Remy and Pete last fucked.
No, wait. There was that suspected one-night stand. Six months. No. Five. Maybe. I wrinkle my nose.
Hank resumes the position of psychologist, and quirks an eyebrow. I chuckle again, and hold up my watch. "Know what time it is?"
He looks at me long and hard, and I have to push my eyes back down to the floor.
This time, we're grocery shopping. Hank said, last week, that our 'sessions' needed to change pace to grow. He said that everything needs to change pace to grow. I picture myself, as a little tulip with a big problem, roots barely making it.
Each time, I can't help but giggle to myself. If I could explain to Hank why it was so funny, I think I'd feel better about it. I wish--
"Do you think-- is he okay?"
Hank picks up a can of green beans, with what looks like a green Friendly Giant on the label. While he's considering his answer, I'm quick to crack, "Who likes green beans, anyway? We're really living with some weird mutants."
He pushes the cart down the aisle, and I have to hop out of the way so he doesn't catch my toes by accident. I wonder if you can cut off someone's toes with a shopping cart? Probably not unless it was really heavy. Or the toes were really soft.
"Who?"
He says this while bent over the eggs. He seems inconspicuous, leaning there. The door to the fridge holding the eggs is fogging up, and I wanna draw a happy face in it.
Oh, nah. "Who, what?"
Hank sighs. He places a dozen large eggs in the basket, and I think about making an omelet for dinner. He turns back to me, and I pause, surprised by the-- something, in his gaze. I'm transfixed, wary, and weary. Am I now a bug under glass to him, too? I shake it off easily enough. This is Hank we're talking about.
But he asked who. Who indeed. It was polite. Hank knows me, inside and not out -- only not in that way, because that would just be... anyway. So he knows my mind inside and out, and so he knows me well enough to know that if I'm worried about a man, it's always Remy.
Unless it's not.
I say, "I think he's okay. But, you know. Just curious about some insider opinion."
"Why would I have more information as to the well-being of Remy LeBeau than you, Robert?"
He says it with a smile, but... but. I grate my teeth, and smile back painfully. "Well, y'know. I'm not really an insider anymore."
Hank pushes the basket on. With a thoughtful face, he asks suddenly, "Were you ever an insider, Robert?"
A flash, a sense-memory, of Remy grinding himself into me so painfully that his hipbones bruised my lower back, breaking me from the inside out, floods through me. I shiver, then it's gone. After a second of pulling myself back together, I chuckle. "I didn't know you had it in you to tease about sodomy, Blue."
Hank grins, and this time it's genuine. I don't see that hint of-- something, anymore. Good. "I wasn't, precisely. But that will do well enough."
I chew on my lip, toss a box of Cheerios in with our food. "I... he was hard to talk to."
Remy LeBeau never inspired an easy confidence between us, but there were things that needed to be said, and he never said them. I always wanted to ask him why he never said them, since we both knew what they were. Hank says, and it cuts me, "If it was easy to talk to him, Robert, you wouldn't like him so much."
I fidget. I don't really want to admit to liking him still. It means I'm kinda cowardly, not trying to fix things. But, more than that--
"See, he wasn't the only one hard to talk to, though."
This time, I'm not in my bed when I start crying.
But see, I'm in the next best place, because Hank's letting me cry on his arm. So, not all's lost. I don't have my privacy or my blanket, but I do get a Hank.
But, I don't have a Hank. I'm just borrowing him from his work.
I whisper into his fur, "Do you think-- did that guy have a family?"
Hank strokes my head, being what he is best. Kind. And all of a sudden I'm transported to a life ago on some Bobby-esque calendar I can't even read, and remembering Remy stroking my hair in exactly the same way.
And then, of course, I picture Remy doing that to Pete.
And I get a little hard in the groin. And a lot hard elsewhere; what a pretty heart, Bobby, hard as diamonds. I sniffle, and wipe my eyes on my sleeve. "Thanks, Hank."
He replies quietly, "I'm worried for you, my friend." I hug him tightly, and he adds, "You aren't known for your tendency for hysterics, Bobby, and everything else aside, this had been a difficult year."
Yes. A difficult year.
But onward, Bobby. Dry your eyes. I'm reminded, again, of something about Remy; the way he looked utterly bewildered when I told him I was ending it.
*"Y'can't jus' end somethin', Bobby. Not wit'out an explanation, neh? S'not
fair."*
*"But I--"*
*"But y'what."*
Period. Notice the period, not question mark, when Remy says that to me. I walked out of his room. I went back to my own. This is sometime -- there goes that Bobby-esque calendar again, I'm not sure of the date aside from the fact that I wanted pancakes for dinner, I wore my blue tee-shirt because Remy told me I looked good in it that day, and I dreamed about the guy falling off the building and then being eaten. But this is sometime during this bad Bobby-esque year.
It's a period. Finality. He didn't call me again.
I hug Hank, hard, and whisper, "Thanks again." He nods. I've stopped crying by now, and I grin, a little embarrassed. "I'll have to pay for your dry cleaning bills if we keep this up."
He doesn't grin back. He murmurs, "I'm very worried about you."
I wish I could just get him to look at me normally again.
"Remy."
"--Bobby."
He can't look at me. He's been fairly absent of late, ever since I went to London, actually. He doesn't approve of who I've become, but I had the best teachers. He went away, to hump a metaphorical mirror.
Imitation, and all that. I must still really like him.
We stare at each other. I wonder wildly why I even thought he'd been thinking about me at all, whether he approved or disapproved. Why this wonderful, game-playing man would even think twice. We're frozen together, and if it was a portrait, we'd have a Bobby and Remy moment. And beyond the frame, of course, everyone would be able to sense that other stuff. That, hidden stuff.
There's an awkward pause, and an inconsequence of style, as he moves past me. If he's jerky, fluid, Cajun, or hesitant, it doesn't matter, because he's still going to be moving. Away.
I say to his receding back, "I'm sorry, Remy."
He turns around, uses those eyes to wash over me, and I'm not even sure what I'm seeing. I, I don't have any presence here. I could be a ghost, reflected in a mirror. I could wash away.
That isn't very Bobby-esque. I can feel the differences walk between us, and I want to ask which Incident caused them. Remy doesn't look that angry, and I think I might have a rare chance to ask him what I've been wanting to for a long time.
So I say quietly, "How do you deal with it?"
I'm not sure what I'm asking about. I'm not sure whether there's an answer, or whether Remy, of all people, would have it. He's got the experience, and a doctorate on the subject of-- whatever I'm thinking about. I wait for what he has to say. I listen to the sounds that my unfamiliar voice makes.
He says quietly, and it's always quietly, here, "Y'jus' do. Cher."
I think that endearment is his gift to me.
We part. I have to look in the mirror of my room, when I make it back amongst the sobbing, to check and see what kind of reddish tinge it's given my eyes.
It's chilly. I have a bunch of flowers in my hand, white ones. I don't know what kind. Hank helped me pick them out. I'm gonna put them on the grave of that guy. Normally, when I think about him, he doesn't have a name, because I have a problem seeing him in my mind. Memory fades.
I'm trying to complete the grieving process. I'm trying to lay my guilt to rest. I'm trying to finish a cycle that Freud could have probably named, and Hank's tried to explain to me, and I've been just ignoring.
"I don't know if I should say words, or something."
Hank's hand is firmly on my shoulder. He doesn't realize it, but it's making sure I can't just walk away. He replies, "Whatever comes to mind, Robert. I'm the only one able to hear you."
I nod, and bend down to put the flowers on the grass. I don't think I know what I want to say. And even if I did, I wouldn't be able to voice it. I know I owe this man more than I can give him back, and his family an infinite more than I owe him. It's all about the math, but as good an accountant as I was; I can't calculate the scales for what I'm supposed to say to make everything better.
I say instead, "Sorry." It's something he deserves from me, my regret, my apologies. And so I say it.
But I mean it for someone else.
We walk on the grass, back to the car. I remember him falling, vaguely. I don't even remember quite what he looked like. I should be feeling more guilty, because I can't quite remember what he looked like, but then I remember Remy, telling me how to cope: you just do. And so I nod to myself, and shrug to everyone else, and... Deal, okay. I can do that.
I tell Hank, "I think I'm okay, now."
He doesn't answer.
We drive home. I think to myself, and nothing seems to add up. I feel the weight of guilt, and it's pressing down, but I can sort of forget about it, off and on. I think I grieve for the loss of something in me; not grief in a pure sense, for the only thing I lack is the desire to feel the sensations again.
I want to grieve. I want to lay that man to rest, but there's only me standing in the way.
I want to lay Pete to rest, but there's only me standing in the way.
Out the window, I see my home looming up in the distance. Hank's driving. We're both fairly quiet. The grounds are quiet, the house is quiet. My room is quiet.
That's because I'm not living in Remy's room anymore.
But he's waiting for me, in a corner of my room. He's smoking. I don't even ask him to put it out. He holds an arm out, and then withdraws it halfway, takes a puff. I halt, take a step forward, halt again.
If I could count up the number of times we've been in this frozen moment, I think I'd know the answers.
Instead: This is me, I think to myself. This is me. And this is us.