Xerxes Break has always been an observant person. He has a tendency to focus on the wrong things, that's all. And he sees when Reim starts to act off.
Reim's a nervous person, yes, but he's also very upright about how he feels. When he gets flustered, he goes all-out: Xerxes doesn't normally see him try and pretend he's calm when he's out of his element or happy when he's stressed out of his mind.
There are times, though…
"You really like those dresses, don't you?" Xerxes asks once, at a party. Reim has a wont to stare after the ladies—not their bums, mind, but their garments.
At the question, Reim frizzles up like a cat. He ducks his head, then looks away. "Dresses?" he asks.
"Those over there," Xerxes says. He points them out, and Reim reaches around to yank his hand down. "Don't pretend you haven't, Reim."
"I won't pretend—I'll tell you very plainly."
Xerxes chortles at him. "Oh, pshaw," he says. "What's this, Reim? You can tell me, you know? Do you like dresses that much?"
Reim only gets that look on his face, eyes dead set on the wall. "They're rather nice, that's all," he tells him. And that's all he'll say on the topic.
It's November. Storm clouds run up and down the sky like so many miles of driftwood, and the snow on the ground has gone slushy. There hasn't been any rain of late, but the melted snow gushes down the gutters, and a damp smell takes the Rainsworth estate by surprise, then lingers like a sickness. Since Oz and company's trip to Lord Barma, Xerxes and Reim have gotten back on hand-wiggle-'meh'-noise terms. Xerxes has come to return Reim's coat—he finds Reim more a bundle than a person, though, curled up along his bed like a spent pillbug.
Xerxes hovers for a moment. Then he slumps across the side of the room, drapes Reim's coat over, and turns. Reim hasn't looked up at him, so he addresses the bed: "you all right there, Reim?"
Reim groans at him.
Xerxes doesn't like unhappy people. He's never of any help to them, and hates to feel useless. He recognizes that he has a responsibility to Reim as his friend, though, and he clomps over to his bedside against his better judgement.
Xerxes kneels down beside his bed. Reim has his head braced against his knees. He looks tense enough to spring apart.
When he still refuses to look at him, Xerxes sighs.
"What do you need, Reim?" he asks, because he doesn't know what else to say.
Reim doesn't make to move.
"I'm fine," he says at last.
Xerxes laughs at him. He knows he should probably be nicer than that, but he can't help himself. "Reim," he says, and he reaches out to pat Reim's hand. "You look like you've had a hernia."
Reim grumbles at him. "I said I'm fine."
"You're not. And I'm asking you what I can do to help."
Reim pulls away from his fetal position, and Xerxes wonders whether he's embarrassed. Xerxes has rarely seen him so vulnerable. "Get me a glass of water," Reim says.
Xerxes raises an eyebrow. Reim doesn't go on, though, so Xerxes moves to comply.
By the time he gets back, Reim has gone.
Reim's a desk man, but he'll leave his rooms when ordered. He's assigned a spot on a mission to keep the company's records straight. Xerxes accompanies him, and Reim's of a good mood until, well.
Pandora's not usually one to dote on their officers, but Xerxes and the others are lucky enough to snag a spot at one of Reveil's smaller hotels. They have to share, of course. Xerxes and Reim are paired together because Reim's the only one who can stomach Xerxes' antics—their other roommates are a pair of sub-par officers with small brains and big mouths. They yack for hours over a pack of cards, but only when they mention "unarians" does Reim's face go pale: "they're dogs, all of them," an officer says. He flips an ace down against the table, and his friend gripes at him. "I mean, you try to be civil, you do, but the buggers keep tryin' to get at you, right? Even after you tell 'em no, I'm not the sort."
"I dunno," the other says. He stares at his own cards. "Even they've gotta' have low standards to go after you, Sol."
"Shut up."
The other officer rolled back his shoulders. He sets his own card on the table. "No, I get where you're at."
"Sure."
"Yeah, I do. Just need to come home earlier from Delaney's, that's all, before the queers come and try and chat you up."
"And hump me up the ass."
The other officer kicks him under the table. Where he's seated on a side chair, Reim sets his papers aside, and peels the folders off the armrests.
"I'm going out," he says.
The officers look up. "What? Now?"
"Why not?" asks Reim. He starts for the door.
Xerxes watches, and wonders whether or not he should follow. There's that look on Reim's face again, like his teeth are clamped hard enough to split the bone.
He decides to stay put. He'll catch Reim later, when he doesn't look like he's swallowed a horse.
Reim takes good care of his books, but he's also a lover of bookmarks. Xerxes likes to pick through them when he's bored. There's a book on Reim's top shelf, squeezed behind two binders, that seems more loved than the others. Reim's away, on business for Barma, so Xerxes goes ahead and grabs a stool. He knows that Reim has a soft spot for poetry, but all the same he's somewhat surprised by the passage he finds:
"Publish my name and hang up my picture as
that of the tenderest lover,
The friend, the lover's portrait, of whom his
friend, his lover was fondest,
Who was not proud of his songs, but of the
measureless ocean of love within
him—and freely poured it forth,
Who often walked lonesome walks thinking
of his dearest friends, his lovers,
Who pensive, away from one he loved, often
lay sleepless and dissatisfied at night,
Who, dreading lest the one he loved might
after all be indifferent to him, felt the
sick feeling—O sick! sick!"
When Xerxes goes blind, he knows he won't be alive for Reim's next birthday. Thusly, he has to scrounge around for a holiday that occurs on a sooner date: "'Morning, Reim," he says, on the fifteenth of March. "happy Everything You Think is Wrong Day."
"What?"
"Happy Everything You Think is Wrong Day," he says again, and with his gift tucked under his shoulder, he pops onto the top of Reim's desk. "It's a holiday."
"Get off my desk. And says who?"
"People. And me."
Reim scoots his papers out of the way so Xerxes won't crush them. "Why are you here, Xerx?" he demands at last. "And what have you got under your arm?"
"A gift."
Reim narrows his eyes at him. "A gift."
"Yes, Reim. Have you gone deaf?"
"No, but hang 'round long enough and I'll go worse than that."
"Very funny." Xerxes pushes his present towards Reim's chair. "Now open your present before I decide you aren't worth the trouble."
Reim huffs at him, but he doesn't argue further. Xerxes hears the rip of paper, then a soft pop as Reim pulls the lid off his box.
Xerxes waits.
Reim pulls his present out of the box with a silken rustle. "How did you—?"
"Carefully," Xerxes says. "Don't worry."
"Xerx."
"It was necessary," Xerxes persists. "If I had to go to Yura's party with you looking about at everyone's fancy dresses like a lovesick sailor, blind or no, I would've had a stroke."
Reim pulls the dress fully out of the box. He unfolds the material. "It's beautiful."
"And hopefully black," Xerxes says.
"Yes."
"Good."
Reim doesn't speak for a while after that. Xerxes tries not to feel too out of place. He supposes that he can still pass this off as a gag gift, but he doesn't want to. "Reim," he says at last. "Are you all right?"
"Thank you," Reim says.
Xerxes starts, then grins a bit. "Oh, dear," he teases. "Are you crying?"
"No."
"My my, you are!"
"I'm not."
Xerxes only claps him on the shoulder. He leans back on his desk. "Happy early birthday, Reim."
Xerxes, tussled up against the bed sheets, feels the room go quiet. Oz has closed the door behind him, and he and Reim are alone. They probably have a good couple minutes or so before they have to head back to Sablier with Lady Sheryl.
Xerxes' legs hurt.
"You ready to go then, Reim?" Xerxes asks from the bed. He doesn't bother to turn to face Reim—he knows he won't be able to see him.
Reim hums at him. He's leant up against a side wall. "As ready as I'll ever be."
"Grand."
They don't move.
Reim thinks for a moment. Then, he gathers himself: "Xerx," he says. "Could I, um."
"Yes?"
"Never mind."
"No, no," Xerxes says. "Do go on, Reim."
He feels Reim look away. "You'll laugh."
"Maybe."
Reim takes that as a go-ahead. Xerxes can almost see him roll back his shoulders:
"I like men."
"Ah."
"I don't—" Reim pauses, then proceeds with caution: "I'm male, most of the time, also. But there are days when I'm female." He coughs. "Genderfluid. Don't expect you to understand."
Xerxes pulls himself around on the bed. "Reim."
"Yes?"
"Come here."
Reim stares at him. He seems to consider the offer, then pads over to the bed like too much noise will scare Xerxes away. Xerxes feels the bed dip, and he reaches out to pull Reim down. He slings an arm over Reim's shoulder, and tugs him close.
Reim tenses up, but when Xerxes doesn't make to move away, he seems to loosen. More than that, he buries his face against Xerxes' chest—he brings his hands up to curl them between their chests, and Xerxes cups his palms about his own. Xerxes scoots closer, and rests his chin atop Reim's head.
"I'm glad you told me," he says.
Reim doesn't respond. He squeezes Xerxes' hands.
Xerxes smiles.
"What pronouns do you prefer?"
"'They' works," Reim says. "They, them, the lot."
"Sounds good."
"You'd better not die on me today," Reim tells him. He—no, Xerxes amends, they—rests their head further back against the bed. "You're not allowed."
"Understood," says Xerxes. He kisses them on the cheek—perhaps because he knows he won't be able to for much longer—and they lay like that until Sharon comes to collect them.
What think you I have taken my pen to
record?
Not the battle-ship, perfect-model'd,
majestic, that I saw to day arrive in the
offing, under full sail,
Nor the splendors of the past day—nor the
splendors of the night that envelopes
me—Nor the glory and growth of the
great city spread around me,
But the two men I saw to-day on the
pier, parting the parting of dear
friends.
The one to remain hung on the
other's neck and passionately kissed
him—while the one to
depart tightly prest the one to remain in his arms…
Notes: oh heyyyy why are all my things angsty by the end? Oh, well. The poem "Live Oak, with Moss" was written by Walt Whitman. Also yes, Everything You Know is Wrong Day is actually a thing XD