Remy and I had ice cream yesterday.
No, honest.
He took me out for ice cream. I kept his cold while we walked around a hot New York downtown day. He was really in town to do a drop, or a pick up for something or other -- I don't remember or care to -- but he said that, baring those five minutes, we could have the afternoon off. For ice cream.
And I kept his cool.
I asked him about the 'new biz'. He didn't answer. He asked me about my girlfriend. I told him that I took her out on a date, and then didn't call again. I think he was a little smug about that -- yes, Mr. Smooth and Cool, once I've tasted you, nothing else seemed to fit.
But then, he was a little sorry for that, at the same time. Smug and sorry. Smooth and cool. Remy LeBeau.
I'm never going to be able to eat ice cream again without thinking of all those commas in our steps through Central Park.
So, it was really, really hot. And we took off our shirts -- no big deal, you must understand. He brought a knock-out looking chick to the mansion the other day, Jackie something, so it's not like he wants me for sex. And I can handle Remy eating ice cream, with no shirt on.
Remy told me how, in the middle of the night and dead drunk, Pete and him ate ice cream. Somehow, I couldn't see it.
Some why, I didn't want to.
I changed the subject, went on with the minutes and seconds passing us by. The grass bent in the wind, cooling the sweat off our bodies nicely. We sunbaked. We sweat, and we napped.
I could have kept our bodies cool, as well as the ice cream. But there's something reverential about Remy sweating in the middle of Central Park. It fits into a movie. It's a card, dealt to me, and I wasn't going to give it up.
And then, and then. We had hot dogs. I froze mine, and he made a joke about sucking on popsicles that shape. I tried to laugh. Remy bought me a pair of really dumb looking sunglasses, bright pink rims and sparkles on the side.
I didn't get it. I told him so.
He said, "See, cher? Nothing'll be too bright now."
I put them on, made a face, and stuck them in my pocket. He grabbed my hand, suddenly and without warning -- I don't think he knew that he was going to do it himself. There was so much between our hands that I couldn't start to describe it even if I wanted to.
I clung to his palm. He said quietly, "See, y'eyes are covered. An' th'only thing people see is th'sparkles. Instant camouflage. Get it?"
I get it.
It's his gift to me. We aren't okay. And we aren't in love -- those bridges that we thought burned, I know now, we never crossed them in the first place. But he bought me sunglasses. And ice cream.
Sunglasses and ice cream. I'm thinking of getting him a deck of cards with naked women on them; each one'll have red hair. See, he might not get it, but I'll sure feel better when he charges all those chicks, and they burn up in the atmosphere.
Some bridges, like girls with red hair, he burned a long time ago.
See the joke? Burned, bridges, burned, insulted?
And I'll buy him some popcorn. Maybe we'll go on vacation... all the other X-men don't get it. I see them watching us, and they're wondering whether we're fucking. I'm wondering whether we're fucking myself.
Maybe I'll buy him some restraints. Put it on the Prof's credit card. I'd love the bill that came in for that. More than that, I'd love them all to see the bill for that. That's bringing up stuff from the past, isn't it? But. All joking aside, I don't think that I want restraints.
And I don't think Remy'd be into that. Not anymore.
There's a lot of 'not anymores' between us, but I think they're starting to matter less. Because, slowly, I'm learning what to do to put in some 'nows'. And they're what count. The day before, the month, the whole lifetime that started a year ago, or maybe longer...
'Y'jus' cope, Cher.' That's what Remy said. So. That lifetime? It's not now.
Now is laying under the covers, waiting for the phone to ring. Looking forward to the phone ringing, God. I don't remember the last time I felt that. Now is not counting sheep. Now is another Sunday night, with training in the morning and a session with Hank at lunchtime, and a possibility for an attack.
Now is my mirror, talking back to me.
But, see. The phone hasn't rung... there's no attack... there sure aren't any sheep dancing around my room. But I can fix one of those fluid instances, at least.
I pick up the phone, dial with shaky fingers. I'd forgotten. There's an us again.
"Oui?"
"... hey."
"Hey."
"You asleep?"
"Non. You?"
"Non."
He chuckles at my horrible accent. "Bobby, there's no way y'gonna ever be able t'speak French, cher. It's jus' not possible."
"Hey! I could take voice lessons, maybe move to Paris and wear a beret!"
He laughs again, and it's warm. "There's jus' no way."
"Well. Maybe I'll move to Paris anyway."
"Y'ever been there? Nothing but dirt and Frenchmen."
"And what's wrong with dirt and Frenchmen?"
I wince at the slight pause. But he recovers, comes back. "Y'know, Holland or Germany have much nicer countryside, an' more polite. Or Belgium, if y'must have y'Frenchmen."
I have to ham this up. "I must have my Frenchmen! Oui! Bring zem to me!"
"Y'think you can handle another Frenchman?"
There is ice, where once there was none. I have to tread carefully; the one thing I've learned, rock solid, is that Remy LeBeau is not a man unlike all the other men. Kid gloves, Interesting Specimin, Way to Become Cooler, none of these fit when dealing with him. I say quietly, "I don't really know how to handle the one I've only half got."
"He doesn' know how t'handle you, either."
See, this is an honest conversation. "Do you love me?"
It's out before I can help it. "I--"
"That's an 'I dunno'."
"... yeah, it is."
"But that's okay."
It's like the sunshine suddenly found it's way into his face and voice. I can picture him, picturing this. "Yeah, it is." A sudden gasp, choke, and he blurts, "D'you love me?"
I look in the mirror.
"I think so."
His breath releases in a big whoosh, crackling along the phone line. "Okay."
I pause. He waits for me to gather the words. There are a lot of them, and I don't want any to escape. Each thing I say to him feels like a piece of literature all of it's own. Each curve of sentence, each flushed expanse of paragraph feels like it must contain history in the making.
There's that 'Remy LeBeau is something more than this' ideal.
Sometimes I go back over conversations we've had, and think to myself, 'These are invisible phantoms you're seeing, there isn't anything else.' And I think, 'You don't know what you're doing here, or there, or anywhere.'
And I think, 'This is more than ordinary.'
It's the last one that seems to get me.
The moon's just a sliver in the sky. I'm sinking, down into my covers. But. The here and now: I want to force more out. I say, "This is a new day, right? A fresh start. And I'm thinking. With the trip to London and the laughs and not being able to smile. But I invented my own indifference." I take a breath, look away from my own face. "Because, and it took me a long time to admit it, everything I did just sought your attention."
He gulps. "I'm comin' over, cher."
This is now. I'm laying in my bed, wishing we had some ice cream. I tell myself, 'You're not going to sleep with him.' I use the image of Hank to keep myself to that -- my therepist would flip. I want to look at Remy's face, and not ache.
It's going to take a while, what with all these haunting things. But it'll be okay. I think. We'll cope, right? Because we can't do anything else.
He opens the door, moves to sit on my bed, and then stops. I gesture, an almost greeting, almost permission, and he sits down. My feet are weighed down. My comforter is still the same blue.
I realize that we're two grown men, sitting in the dark. I realize that this probably isn't any good for staying away from him. I realize that I'm too warm under the covers.
I start to sink again, and he puts a hand on my shin. "Hey, cher," he says softly, "What's wrong?"
It feels like he just sang out the sum of me.
"I dunno."
"Y'don't know, or y'don't wanna tell me?"
"Both, neither--"
"--S'alright, cher. Let's jus' keep it simple."
And yet, we've never managed before. I answer, "Okay. Then let's put the light on, okay?"
"Y'got it."
An unwelcome yellow glow floods the room. I lay back against my pillows. I feel like we're playing out a scene from some great movie, but I haven't seen the last page of the script. "How is this supposed to end, Remy?"
He smiles, a little bitterly, a whole lot encouraging. Maybe the bitterness is mine. "End? I don't think it does."
And no, it never seems to. I smile back at him, let the sheets fall away from my chest. He scoots up a little farther -- just close enough to be a comfort, not close enough that I can smell him. He asks quietly, "Y'doin' okay, Bobby Drake?"
If Bobby Drake's doing okay, I'm not the one to know. We parted ways, a while ago -- and I blink, thinking that this, this is an important realization. I look in the mirror, see no one familiar, look back at Remy. What can I say to that now... what could I ever say to that?
"Yeah, I'm alright."
~end~